#alexia x reader

Online, the fans were completely split into two teams. Half of them thought you had come solely to support Clara, your younger sister, while the other half suspected you were there for Alexia, your rumoured girlfriend. 

None of them knew you were there for both.

It was Clara's first time playing in a Champions League final, and since your parents were far too "busy" to make it to the game, you had made sure she would have someone cheering for her in the stands. At the same time, it was the first opportunity you had ever had to travel and watch Alexia play anywhere other than Barcelona.

Two birds, one stone.

When the final whistle blew, you were in the stands wearing a Guijarro shirt. The shirt had been a very strategic decision on your part.

Alexia and Clara had both suffered absolute meltdowns at the mere thought of you wearing the other's number and name. There was no chance you were subjecting yourself to the humiliation of a half-and-half shirt either, so you had ended the argument by picking up Alexia's phone, texting Patri yourself, and asking if she could sort you out a shirt with her name on it.

Clara had retaliated by making sure you could hear Traitor by Olivia Rodrigo playing from her room for three days straight. It was, indeed, torture.

Alexia, meanwhile, had pouted and declared that you were officially banned from kissing, hugging, or holding her hand until you came home with a shirt with her name and number eleven on it. 

You did not cave. 

She lasted four hours without kisses, hugs, or hand-holding. You didn't mention it when she finally folded. You just smiled into her hair as she pulled you in, both of you pretending the temporary ban had never happened.

Your plan had never been to go down onto the pitch for the celebrations. 

You didn't want fans spotting you and Alexia together, which you knew would happen the second you were within a few meters of each other. You had told both Ale and Clara that beforehand, and they had agreed, after, of course, being babies about it.

But then the fans began to leave the stadium, the medal ceremony things were dismantled piece by piece, and the red and blue ribbons settled in the turf.

That's when you saw it.

Across the pitch, Alexia was laughing with her mum and uncle, tucked between them as if she were a little kid. A little further, Cata was wrapped up with her girlfriend and parents. Pina was surrounded by her mum and cousins, all of them talking over each other.

And then there was Clara. 

She stood all by herself, a gold medal hanging around her neck, quietly watching everyone else. It was long past the moment when teammates were celebrating with each other; now they had all turned toward their own families. And Clara's family consisted entirely of you and your brother, who hadn't been able to take time off uni to come. 

You felt your heart crack right down the middle, pieces of it falling in the stands. Before you could think better of it, before you could remind yourself why you had promised to stay in the stands, you were already moving towards the barrier.

You showed your credentials to the security guards, and they let you through without a second glance.

Clara didn't see you coming.

You caught her by surprise, wrapping your arms around her shoulders from behind. She gasped when she saw it was you, and you knew it was a sound you were going to carry around with you for a long time. 

She was just so, so happy.

The expression on her face reminded you of when she was younger, doing dance recitals. Back then, she would search for you in the audience because your parents thought those performances weren't worth attending. As she spun around inside your embrace, her smile looked exactly the same as it had all those years ago. Except now, with fewer baby teeth. 

You pulled her into a tighter hug, burying your face into her shoulder because, of course, she was taller than you despite being the youngest. The edge of her medal dug painfully into your sternum, but you ignored it. 

"I'm so proud of you, Clarita," you whispered, "Te quiero, mana."

"Te quiero," she replied, kissing your cheek. "Thank you for being here."

Neither of you moved for a long time, and although there were plenty of people around, talking nonstop, it felt like this tiny space between the two of you was the quietest place on the entire pitch.

"You said you wouldn't come down," Clara murmured, squeezing you even tighter. "You said we would meet back in the locker room."

"I was being silly," you said, smiling up to her as the bear hug finally came to an end. 

Your ribs were hurting. When had Clara gotten so strong?

You pulled back just enough to take the medal in your hands, turning it carefully. "I needed to see this medal up close, no?" You smiled. "You deserved it, bebé."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Don't call me bebé. I'm nineteen."

You ignored her completely as you reached up and pinched her cheeks. "Mi bebezota!"

"Urgh!" Clara groaned, trying to escape your grip. "Stop! You are embarrassing me"

A grin tugged at your lips. That was exactly what you wanted.

"People are watching, you know," she added.

People were watching indeed. Including Alexia.

It hadn't taken long for her to find you.

You obviously spotted her before she saw you; she was standing several meters behind Clara.

The moment her hazel eyes landed on you, something in her whole posture softened; a beautiful smile spread across her face even as she held herself carefully still, stiff, almost rigid. 

Her shoulders were far too straight, the professional façace held tightly in place. She, as much as you, was entirely aware of how many broadcast cameras were following her every move.

It was almost as if she were waiting for you to make the decision. 

Seeing her standing there, her temples covered in sweat that slipped down her collarbones, her face flushed from the game and from being smothered in her mother's affection, the identical gold medal that also adorned her neck....

She was pretty, and yours and the distance suddenly felt far too ridiculous to be taken so seriously. 

You patted Clara on the back when Syd and Aicha called her to take some pictures. After watching her go, you turned and started walking towards Alexia.

She smiled at you the entire way.

When you stopped in front of her, you immediately pulled her into your side. You were hyper aware of your surroundings, so you kept the gesture simple, safe and casual. 

You slid your arm around her shoulder, nothing more. You leaned in close enough for only her to hear, whispering a "mi campeona" right into her ear. Then you pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

You hear her breath hitched, the puff of air that came out of her mouth was slow and warm against your neck as she instinctively leaned into you. She squeezed your waist just a second too long, just a fraction harder than any friend normally would.

"I thought you weren't coming down?" she murmured the exact same word Clara had said only moments earlier. 

"Mhmm," you whispered, reluctantly stepping away from her, putting a more friendly distance between you. "I changed my mind."

Behind her, Eli and her uncle were watching the interaction with matching smiles.

You had met Alexia's family a few months ago, and along with the team, they were among the very few people who knew exactly what you meant to her. Something much, much more significant than her protegé's sister. 

"Hola, mi amor!" Eli exclaimed, stepping forward and pulling you into a motherly hug, completely unconcerned by the cameras around you. "I'm glad you came down! I told you, it's fun being on the pitch after they win."

"Hey, Eli," you said, smiling and kissing both her cheeks. "You were, once again, completely right." 

You turned in a slow circle, taking in the stadium, taking in everything.

"Everything feels far too big down here." You turned to Alexia. "How can you even play? I feel so tiny, like an ant."

Alexia shrugged, a soft look in her eyes. She always got those whenever you and her mom were together. 

"You get used to it and--Mama! I told you I'm not cold" she pouted.

Alexia twisted away, trying to dodge as Eli attempted to drape a heavy coat over her shoulder. 

"But you are shaking, bebé!" Eli insisted.

"I'm not shaking, mama," Alexia protested, already blushing. "I'm just–"

Before she could finish, you felt an arm suddenly land over your shoulder, dragging you slightly sideways. 

"Guapa! Hi! look who's decided to join us. Got tired of hiding in your cave?" 

Patri's voice was excited; she was always the sweetest on the team. She looked like she had been to war and back, maybe for them footballers, the Champions League final really was war.

"Hola!!!" 

Another voice came. Kika appeared beside Patri, vibrating with energy, her dark hair sticking out in every possible direction. You knew those two would party a lot tonight.

Patri's brown eyes dropped to your back, her grin widening as she noticed the name printed across the fabric.

She looked over at Alexia, raising one eyebrow with mischief. 

"Look at that, Ale," Patri teased, patting your shoulder proudly. "Your girl knows talent when she sees it."

Alexia's eyes narrowed playfully, her lips pressing into a tight, pouting line as she stared at the Guijarro shirt covering your torso. She looked at you, her eyes shining with that possessive spark you had come to adore. To expect.

Kika laughed, leaning into Patri's side. "Oh no... capi's a bit mad."

"I'm not mad," Alexia countered smoothly, though her eyes never left yours. "It's a nice shirt. It just happens to have the wrong number on it.

By the time you made it back to the hotel, Alexia had been grinning ear to ear for approximately forty minutes straight. She knew perfectly well what the two of you were going to do once you set foot into the hotel room.

The team bus wasn't leaving for the club for another hour and a half, but Alexia did not seem particularly invested in the public celebrations anymore. At the moment, she appeared to be significantly more excited about kissing your entire face.

The door had barely clicked shut behind you before her hands were on your waist.

"I'm so happy you are here, mi sol," she whispered against your lips, her voice raspy, probably from running so much and whatever singing had taken place in the locker room afterwards.

She kissed you gently at first, and then deeper, before resting her forehead against yours, breathing in slowly. Breathing you in. 

"You looked pretty in the stands," she murmured. "My favourite fangirl."

"I'm your favourite even while in Patri's shirt?" You teased softly.

"Shut up," she murmured with a breathless laugh, not allowing you to mutter another word as she captured your mouth again, sucking your tongue.

"You won't be wearing it much longer, so enjoy it while you can."

You were fairly sure you would.

Her hands settled on your hips as she slowly guided you backwards through the room. There was something confident in her steps; they were so deliberate and confident, for a moment, it was easy to forget you were in a hotel a few kilometres away from her actual home in Barcelona. 

The back of your knee bumped against the edge of the bed, and you let yourself fall onto it, with Alexia following right after.

You kissed her, tasting her champagne-tinged tongue, she felt weightless on top of you. 

Her captain's armband was still hugging her bicep tightly; of course, she hadn't taken it off. Once you had told her how much you loved it when she fucked you with it, she had started to keep it. Her heavy gold medal was still hanging around her neck, swaying between you like a pendulum.  

Alexia was exactly as good as she thought she was, completely dominant on and off the pitch. The way confidence seemed to be radiating off of her in a way that was equal parts dangerous and attractive.

Your hand travelled down to her lower back, your finger sliding beneath the waistband of her shorts to squeeze the firm flesh of her ass. You shifted under her, tilting your body just right to force her pelvis closer to yours.

"It was hot watching you play," you murmured against her mouth. 

You leaned up, caught her lower lip between your teeth, biting into it enough for you to hear a small whimper fall from her tongue. 

She pouted at you, her eyes hazy, unfocused. She was completely fixed on you, silently asking you to kiss it better.

You didn't make her wait, pulling her down once more. 

"Soy su campeona?" Alexia whispered into the narrow space between your mouth. Her voice sounded much smaller than usual, completely bewitched, and slightly tipsy. [Am I your champion?] 

"Si," you whispered, your hand clutching her ass. "Mine, only mine."

Alexia smiled and caught you in a kiss.

Her hot mouth trailed down the line of your jaw, dragging over the side of your throat. One hand guided your head gently aside as she found the hidden and sensitive spot right behind your ear, choosing to brand you there, sucking firmly until you knew it would leave a purplish mark.

A mix of a giggle and a gasp escaped you as your hand settled on her shoulders. "A hickey? Really? You teased. "How old are you? Sixteen?"

She huffed a laugh against your pulse point. "I deserved it, okay? I won the Champions League. I can do whatever I want today."

"Mhm," you hummed, tipping your head back a little further to give her entirely uninhibited access to do as she pleased. "I suppose you can do whatever you want with me, yes."

"Si?" She asked dangerously. 

Even without looking, you could feel the slow, coy smile pressing right against your jugular. 

"Uhum," you nodded as much as you could under her weight.

"Joder," she cursed, her breath hitching as the absolute submission in your voice sank in. Her hips shifted, rolling hard and against yours as she pinned you to the mattress. "Voy a correr si sigues diciendo eso." [I'm gonna cum if you keep saying that.]

She kept moving against you; it was clear that the confession made her turn absolutely relentless. She took off your shirt, leaving your torso bare. 

She pressed her body completely flush, the medal a cool contrast between your breasts, while the rough fabric of her armband brushed against your arm. Her mouth claimed yours once more, her tongue pushing deep, the taste of champagne still there. 

You could, somehow, feel her wetness through the fabric of her shorts, slick and hot.

Your fingers dug deeper into the meat of her ass, squeezing as you tilted your own body, forcing her pelvis to drag exactly where you needed. "You're so fucking hot, Alexia."

Alexia moaned low straight into the kiss, then broke it to trail her lips back to your neck, sucking another mark right beside the first.

"Mía," she murmured, voice dropping as her hips found a steady rhythm. [Mine]

Her clit was pressing and sliding against yours through layers of clothing. Her chest was absolutely perfect against yours. She nipped at your earlobe, her breath becoming faster and faster with every passing second. 

"Dilo otra vez," Alexia demanded, grinding harder. [say it again.]

You arched up to meet her, your hands roaming beneath her shirt to feel the sweat-slick skin of her back. She trembled when your fingers dug into the tense muscles there. 

"You can do whatever you want with me, baby," you breathed right into her ear. "Whatever you want, sí? I'm yours; you deserve it. I'm all yours tonight."

"Ah," she moaned, the medal clinked softly with every roll of her hips. "I want to fuck you nice and slow."

She was growing impatient with the barrier of clothes between you.

She shifted, yanking her shorts down just enough to bare herself before turning her attention to you, working at your clothes with impatient tugs until skin finally met skin. 

Finally, you were both completely naked.

When her bare pussy finally settled over yours, your folds parted wetly under the weight. She resumed the grind right away, clit to clit, moving in slow circles.

"Oh god, you feel so good," you gasped, eyes dropping to watch the way her slick coated you, it was so messy, so raw, so fucking delicious. Your eyes landed on her armband again and that only made you get wetter. "Damn, Alexia. You are fucking dripping baby."

"Joder, amor" She hissed again, her voice cracking as overstimulation hit her. "Tan mojada-" [you're so wet]

Still, she kept the pace even, riding the shared wetness, her body soft yet controlled as she chased the edge without rushing towards it. 

Her medal continues to swing between you, a constant reminder of the massive victory waiting just outside the hotel room.

Her hands slid up your arms before settling around your wrists, pinning them above your head.

"You get so bossy when you win," you manage to say, rolling your eyes. You loved it when she got more dominant.

Your head suddenly felt so heavy.

You weren't sure whether it was exhaustion, dehydration, or simply the overwhelming intensity of the day catching up with you. 

You were so overwhelmed with the way her body was touching every centimeter of your skin, how her kisses were getting sloppy and wet.

She was desperate, and you were, too. Your cunts were grinding, making a mess on both your bodies, the slickness dripping down her pussy right into yours, soaking you completely.

"I'm bossy and you fucking love it," Alexia shot back, moving her body carefully, trying not to crush you, but apply the right amount of pressure to your clit. "You are soaked, mi amor, all for me, huh"

She was, of course, right.

Keeping one wrist pinned above your head with one single hand, Alexia used the other to grip your thigh firmly, spreading it wider.

"Stay like that," she whispered while absolutely devouring your neck. "Don't you dare move."

Alexia shifted you as if you were a rag doll, moving your legs how she wanted until her cunt was aligned to her liking.

"Next time you wear my shirt, si?" she murmured, jealousy still thick in her voice as her cunt moved with yours.

She looked down at you, her eyes dark as she kept rutting against you. "Tengo mi coño pegado al tuyo, y todavía no llevas mi camiseta?" [My cunt is pressed against yours, and you're still not wearing my shirt?]

"Mhmm," you moaned. Fuck.

You were gonna cum.

"Tell me who is going to make you cum," she asked, as if reading your mind, her voice was low as she continued her movements.

The pleasure was becoming so intense, you were going to snap.

Alexia's dirty talk was way too good. Her pussy was pulsing over yours, all slick, dripping down to soak the white sheets between your thighs.

Alexia pinched your arm. "Ouch!" You gasped, caught between pain and pleasure.

"Who is rubbing your cunt? Me or Patri?"

"Y-you," you managed to say, breathless.

"Who marked your whole neck?" She asked again. "Who gets to have you naked in her hotel bed? Who, mi sol?"

The sensation pushed you over the edge right after, your body arching up into her as waves of pleasure took over you.

"F-fuck, Ale," your body was going limp, all warm as the orgasm took over. "You baby, you, always you."

Alexia, sensing your orgasm, rutted her cunt faster until she was climaxing all over you. "Oh, god–" she moaned in your ear.

She stayed exactly where she was afterwards, naked and beautiful on top of you.

Your pussies were still pressed together, warm and dripping. Alexia nuzzled lower until she found your breast, drawing the nipple into her mouth with slow and comforting pulls. 

Her tongue flicked lazily, her breath warm and even against your chest as she settled in, tasting the mix of sweat on your breast, while her fingers played with your other nipple. 

"You didn't answer my question," she mumbled from your breast after a minute.

"Ahn?" You asked, your mind far too dizzy. You hadn't even realised she was on your breast, when you did, pleasure began to grow again. "I did, no-?"

"You'll wear my shirt?" She asked, her words slightly slurred. "Next time? Please?"

"Oh," you said, nodding against the pillows, your voice still shaky from the climax, it was so… intense. You weren't sure you would ever regain all of your breath.  

"Yeah, of course. I mean…" A laugh escaped you. "After this, how can I not?"

Alexia made a pleased sound deep in her throat and kept her lips sealed around your nipple. Her body stayed relaxed on top of yours, her frame soft pressing down.

You realised it was probably the first time she felt at ease and relaxed since she woke up.

Her thumb continued to touch over your nipple, rubbing slow circles before giving it a gentle tug and roll between her fingers.

"We need to get ready for the club," you murmured eventually, your fingers threading through her now-brunette hair. "It's getting late."

She whined softly.

She sucked a little harder for a moment, refusing to lift her head. Her thumb kept playing, flicking and pinching the other nipple while her hips gave one lazy grind that made both of you shiver, your clits brushing.

"No..." she mumbled around the peak in her mouth. "Stay like this. Just a little longer."

"I can't be the reason you are late," you said with a chuckle, still combing your fingers through her hair. "It's not good for my reputation. I'm new to the Barcelona circle, the girls need to like me... they won't if I make their captain late."

"The girls will never think anything badly of you," Alexia said, her mouth finally unlatching. She rested her cheek against your chest, listening to your heart. "You are too sweet for that."

You chucked at that, staring at the beige hotel ceiling. Was it beige? Or had it once been white and simply not been cleaned properly in years. 

"Sweet? Me?" You chuckled. "Okay, maybe love really is blind."

Alexia looked up, frowning. "What? You are sweet, gentle, caring-"

You shook your head, a hint of a self-deprecating smile on your face. "I'm not bebé. I'm stressed all the time. I'm moody as soon as I wake up. I'm constantly worried about something or someone-"

"Because you care," Alexia interrupted instantly. 

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, no longer putting her full weight on you; she looked down at you with a very fierce expression. 

"You are worried all the time because you care about your patients, about your siblings…" Her voice softened slightly. "About me."

You looked at her with soft (and slightly sad) eyes. 

"I think you see me in a much better light than I actually deserve." 

"I see you just right, mi sol," Alexia said, leaning down to kiss your lips. 

"My sweet." Kiss. 

"Pretty." Kiss. 

"Gentle." Kiss. 

"Loving." Kiss. 

"Girlfriend. 

You were smiling second one. You didn't try to stop it. 

"You get too cheesy when you cum," you whispered, a sudden blush creeping up your cheeks. "It's adorable."

"I know, perdon," Alexia replied, pouting down at you without a single ounce of regret.

"I'm sorry I don't get cheesy," you murmured. "But I swear I love you just as much."

"It's okay," she chucked. "I know you love me. This is the first time you have actually taken time off for someone. That has to be true love."

You squinted your eyes, your cheeks heating up even more. "And who exactly told you that?"

Alexia chucked, leaning down to press a warm kiss on top of your blush. "Your sweetheart of a sister."

"Of course she did."

As it turned out, actually getting out of bed and preparing for the night was considerably less romantic than the books made it seem.

Once Alexia finally untangled herself from you, the two of you were forced to acknowledge the mess the sex left on the hotel sheets.

There was a large, damp stain stretched across the middle of the bed. The lingering scent of sex and slickness was mixed with the light breeze coming through the window. 

Alexia did not seem remotely concerned about the ruined sheets, instead, she just propped her head up on her hand and simply watched you with a big and proud grin on her face.

You, in response, blushed all over, immediately scrambling for the duvet, dragging it up to your chin to cover yourself.

"Stop watching me like that," you pouted, clutching the fabric tighter.

Alexia rolled her eyes and continued to smile. 

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, moving smoothly without a single hint of instability; you were certain you would be wobbling if you had been topping the way she just did. 

She walked across the room to fetch the two white hotel robes hanging by the wardrobe.

She slipped one on herself before returning to bed with the second. She gently tried to pry the duvet away from your tight grip so she could put the second one over your shoulders.

"We had sex less than twenty-four hours after we met for the first time," she teased, tugging playfully at the duvet. "Back then, you had absolutely no problem being naked around me… And now you are embarrassed?"

You rolled your eyes, holding it for dear life. 

"Back then, I was thinner. But you know what they say, happy relationships make you gain weight." Your gaze dripped over her athletic frame. "Bon… unless you are a very disciplined footballer, then apparently, you don't gain a single kilo."

Alexia's playful expression vanished instantly, replaced by genuine worry. 

"What!??" She blurted. "Are you having issues with your body? Like... body image issues?! Mi amor, you are the prettiest woman alive!"

You rolled your eyes at her dramatics. This was exactly why you hadn't said a single thing until now.

"No, I'm not having any issues," you said. "I know I'm... fine. I'm just different than when we started dating and–"

"You are, like, hotter now," Alexia interrupted, stating it so blankly and firmly as if she was merely speaking facts. 

"Huh?"

"You are hotter," she repeated. "Because you are my lovely, beautiful girlfriend now."

You smiled at her, your heart feeling warm. The poor thing was trying hard to reassure you.

Your sweet, sweet girl. "Gracias, Ale."

"No, baby, I mean it," Alexia insisted, her tone changing to something so incredibly tender and sincere it made your chest ache. "You are perfect. Your face is perfect, and your body-" 

Your grip around the duvet loosened, and Alexia took advantage, finally managing to wrap the robe around you. "And your thighs are perfect, and your tummy is perfect… and everything about you–"

"Okay, love, that's enough--"

"If I could, I would eat you whole."

You blinked at her. 

"Okay, that's literally cannibalism."

"Some cultures see cannibalism as an ultimate act of love and adoration," Alexia countered immediately.

She said it with the most profound, soft, tender and deadpan face. She was completely serious, looking at you like a proud cat that had just caught a dead bird and was offering it as a sign of love.

"Oh, okay," you said, as you reached up and patted both her cheeks. "Thanks, my love. I'm feeling much better now. I would absolutely let you eat me whole if it wouldn't result in the complete ceasing of my existence."

"Really?" Alexia asked happily, her eyes lighting up. "Would you do the same to me?"

What the hell kind of sweet talk even was that?

"Oh... yes," you said with fake enthusiasm. "Of course."

Alexia beamed, looking incredibly happy and touched that her (bizarre) feelings were being fully reciprocated. 

Relationships, however, and as sad as it seems,  were not built entirely on sex and body image conversations that somehow end up in discussions of cannibalism, you see. Most often, they were not; there were arguments. Petty and ridiculous arguments.

Like the shower.

"Okay… we really need to clean up and get dressed," you said, glancing towards the bathroom. "The bus is leaving soon."

Alexia wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder. "Let's take a shower together then," she murmured against your skin, her voice dropping to a seductive cadence.

You let out a dry laugh. "Nice try, Ale."

Alexia stepped in front of you, her face collapsing into a (guess what?) pout. 

"Mi sol, please?" she pleaded, yes, pleaded. "I love you and your body, and we love taking showers together, sí? Come on, please? Pretty please? You say I'm your champion, no? Don't I deserve to take a shower with mi amor?!"

You stared at her for two full seconds before you folded.

You always fold. It was entirely Eli's fault for creating a woman with the prettier, most stupidly devastating puppy face ever made in the world. Nobody could say no to those eyes.

"Ugh, fine," you sighed, letting her take your hand and lead you to the bathroom. "You do deserve it."

Slowly, the reality of what she had accomplished began to settle over you, a warm feeling took over your torso, a smile appeared on your face, and Alexia noticed it.

She grinned too, pushing you gently against her, one hand sliding to your robe as she backed you against the tiled wall.

She was all over you, kissing you until your knees felt weak.

You caught her jaw in your hand, and she leaned into the touch. "You really won, huh, bebé?" you whispered again, "yeah, yeah... you really do deserve it."

"Your girlfriend is a European champion," she whispered back.

She grinned again before she stole another kiss, her hips drifting a little to yours. 

"Ale, no," you gasped, pushing lightly on her shoulder. "We seriously cannot have sex again. We'll actually miss the bus, and I'm not taking an Uber to the club. That would be a proper walk of shame."

"No sex, no," she dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand. "Just a little kissing," she bargained, punctuating the statement by nipping at your chin.

"Okaaay," you said slowly. "Kissing, yes, but under the shower."

You both stepped into the shower stall. You reached over and turned the knob, settling the temperature to your preference. You waited a bit till the water completely heated up and then walked under the water, feeling it soak over you.

So warm. So perfect.

Alexia, still wearing that confident and romantic smile of hers, stepped directly behind you. Okay, maybe too could fit in a quickie and-

Alexia went completely silent behind you. Then… her eyes flew wide open. 

Before you could even register what was happening, a hand clamped around your waist, and she yanked you backwaters out of the stream of water.

"Joder! Estás loca?!!" She said, frantically wiping stray droplets of water from her face as though she had just been splashed with HCl. "The water is burning my skin! It's melting me!" [Fuck, are you crazy?!]

"That's the temperature I like to shower at!" You protested, completely bewildered by her reaction. "What is wr–"

"You are making a soup out of yourself!!" Alexia looked so genuinely horrified, you were starting to wonder if the water was really that hot. "You are a doctor, you, of all people, should know how bad this is for your skin! It's gonna fall off!"

You cautiously stuck a hand back under the stream. 

It felt oh so lovely… warm, comforting. Exactly how a shower should feel.

"You are being dramatic again, Alexia!"

"I'm not!" she said. "You want us to stand in boiling water!"

"You and Clara," you said, shaking your head. "Dramatic as hell. That's why you get along so well. Exactly the same personality."

Alexia opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it shut. Apparently, she did not appreciate the comparison to her teenage protege, and got deeply wounded by it.

In the end, the romantic shared shower never happened. 

Alexia kept her robe on and sat on the closed toilet lid while you showered, her arm crossed, pout deep in her lips. She watched you through the steam the entire time, her eyes fixed on you, refusing to look away for even a second. 

When you finished, the two of you switched places.

Alexia then proceeded to shower at a temperature that, according to her, had been specifically designed for people who weren't actively trying to cook themselves alive.

Not everything is as romantic as it seems.

You were halfway through putting on your shirt when Alexia's voice drifted out from the bathroom, muffled by the glass door and the rushing water.

"You know I gained weight, too, right?"

You paused, confused, with your arms caught awkwardly in the fabric. "Uh?"

After a second, the sound of the shower cut off.

Alexia emerged wrapped in her hotel robe, her damp hair dripping down her shoulders and right onto the wooden floor. Unlike you, she actually had to wash her hair after being on the pitch for so long.

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

You silently counted every single drop that fell.

"You said disciplined athletes don't gain weight," she explained, pulling at the collar on her robe, which seemed too tight on her; her skin was red and irritated. "I gained two kilos this season."

You stared, still confused, but then the realisation finally set in. She was still thinking about what you had said earlier. 

"Bebé," you sighed, your arms dropping to your sides ."You don't need to do that."

"Do what?' She frowned.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about,' you said, turning away from her toward the small vanity to start doing your hair. "I'm fine, Ale. Really."

"Well," she began, stepping closer. "And you don't need to do that – saying you are fine just because you don't want to talk about something."

You rolled your eyes, focusing on the mirror and and how your hair was completely inconsiderate of the fact that you had places to be tonight.

Alexia didn't like to be ignored. 

Predictably, she appeared behind you a second later. For a brief moment, the angry dog in you wanted to snap her, tell her to back off because her wet hair was soaking through your dried clothes. 

But then she rested her chin on your shoulder. In the mirror, you noticed how her cheeks were still pink from the shower. She smelled overwhelmingly like generic hotel shampoo because she forgot to pack her own, and the lightning made her hazel eyes look somehow greener.

The anger completely dissipated. You let her stay.

"I love your body," she said quietly, her eyes on yours through the reflection.

You softened even more. "I know you do, Ale."

She pressed a soft kiss against your neck, and you continued. "I never worried about that. You have never given me a single reason to, okay?" you said.

It was the truth. Alexia had always looked at you like you were the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Always. From the very first day back at her house until now. 

"You always make a point of showing it, ale," you murmured, feeling a deep need to reassure her.

"Okay, good," she said, pleased with herself. 

For a moment, you genuinely thought the conversation was over, and you could go back to fighting with your hair. But then her expression shifted, turning serious again. "So… where is this coming from, then?"

You looked away from her reflection, or tried to. A million different reasons passed through your mind, but none of them seemed serious enough or logical enough to be the actual reason behind it. 

Maybe it was the junction of it all. Maybe it wasn't just one thing. Or maybe it was just you, fighting with that universal human flaw, that dangerous voice that made it hard to feel fully satisfied with yourself. 

You shrugged, choosing the simplest answer you could find. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh, but we are talking about it," she said, delivering with certainty as if a conversation didn't always need to be bidirectional. 

You rolled your eyes again. "Alexia, the bus–"

"The bus can wait."

"It literally cannot."

She pressed a firm kiss to your cheek, then finally released her hold on you. She let the robe fall carelessly to the floor, leaving her beautiful naked body entirely free for you to look at. 

She was really an unfairly pretty woman. Then, killing your fun, she grabbed a fresh towel to dry her body off. 

"Okay," she said, drying herself and then beginning to brush her wet hair. "We'll talk while we get ready, that way we wont miss the bus."

"Oh Jesus Christ," you groaned, letting your forehead rest against the glass of the mirror.

"The faster you talk," she sang out, completely cheerful. "The faster we leave."

"You are so annoying," you sighed. "And incredibly stubborn."

"And excellent at time management," she countered, clearly proud of herself. 

"And insistent," you mumbled, though you couldn't help but smile. "So annoyingly insistent."

"I prefer the word tenacious."

You rolled your eyes at that.

You were quiet for a moment, desperately hoping she would let the silence take over and drop it. But Of course, she didn't. She was tenacious, unfortunately for you.

"It' just…" You hesitated, thinking of ways to put it. "Everyone around you is so... fit. You know?"

Alexia paused her brushing, looking at you. "What? Everyone?"

"The girls on the team," you explained, your voice dropping a bit. "Their girlfriend, your other friends… Everyone in that circle is so into the gym and everyone is so athletic and they all look a certain way."

"And what does that have to do with you and your body, amor?" she asked softly. "They are them; you are you."

You opened your mouth to give a very sharp and pragmatic answer, but the words never came. You couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Yeah, what exactly did that have to do with you? 

For once in your life, you didn't have an answer, and you absolutely hated that. You were witty, rapid thinking, you always knew what to say, but right now, you were empty of logic and words.

Alexia instantly sensed your distress, as always, she saw right through the quiet. 

"Eres guapísima," she said tenderly, putting her brush aside and walking back over to you and gently cupping your face.

You felt your cheeks warm, but she didn't stop. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead and then your chin. 

"Hermosa, preciosa," she murmured against your skin. "Perfecta. Mía."

You laughed, weakly trying to push her shoulder to hide your face. "Okay, okay, got it. You are like, super, hopelessly in love with me."

Alexia just grinned. "Something like that, si."

She locked her arms around your waist, pulling you against her and bringing her mouth close to your ear. "You will always be the prettiest woman in every room – or pitch – that I ever walk in, okay? Don't forget that."

You rolled your eyes, trying your absolutely best to look unimpressed, but unfortunately, your smile completely gave away.

☆ A/n: I really really wanted to write something "realistic" and domestic about the final, so why not with our keeping score babies? Someone asked me once what shirt reader would wear to a game, so this is the answer hehe. I got an ask a few months ago about reader feeling a bit insecure because everyone around Alexia was so fit, so I decided to add it to this fic. I'm sorry if it was too random, but I feel that keeping score reader would be a bit upset and try to hide it and I didn't want to write a whole blurb around it.

taglist: @krazyyoung @hjjc23 @putellasgirl @x-ani @l4c1f3r @ihavenolife1234 @liverpoolfan96 @natalia-alianovna-romanova84 @charlotteonpoint @vlt503 @mywomankatarina @ravenfcb @ainsley9967 @jenny0818 @fluffykitten11 @coxlong @ainoha @oohtobeagooner @justareader7 @sannyone @littlelvmb @sevenbasquiat @hella-hecka-gay @yamaris-reputation

@yellowbaseballglove @tayrausi @wlwfandomfics @joyfulthingsandwich @buzzinrusso @kenslm @aliesia @crybabysbakery @miaereen @goodloe-e @gabi-16 @wosolipa @priyajoy @rnm17 @actua11yromantic @alexialareina @96tidal @lallaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @tahastilinski @bears-05 @sasatata @lay1212 @culiculer @newyork1215 @summertime1a1 @ppppolarrrr @pb1fan @ktrout7 @steffi-209 @pickle14 @blamekris

The meeting room was full of suits. Every seat was occupied by some head of this or a lead board member of that. People whose self worth was inflated because of their equally inflated bank accounts. 

And Alexia sat at the head of that long, clean and clinical table. 

The one with the largest bank account of them all. 

Alexia Putellas, one of the most prolific names in the business world.

The 32 year old’s portfolio was large to say the least. You name it, she most likely owned it, or had a stake in it. 

The business titan owned half of Barcelona's new luxury high rises, expanding out to London, New York, and her newest addition in Tokyo.  

Not forgetting her ownership with several tech companies of course.

Ice cold bottles of Berg water imported all the way from Canada were set directly in front of each seat, along with polished to perfection Vera Wang glassware. 

It was pretentious, but it was expected. 

Diagrams flicked over the projector, numbers and percentages neatly presented for all the big wigs to see. Some would nod, pretending to be as invested as they were paid to be. Some took notes on their shiny air mac books, looking up every so often so they looked the part.

But not everyone felt that way.

Alexia’s fingers tapped restlessly against her arm chair. It was the only thing she could focus on while one of the new starters in marketing drawled on about …. well, she couldn't actually tell you what she had been talking about because Alexia hadn't actually been listening. 

Her focus had been on you. 

Because this morning you had been very distracting. 

—-------------------------

Alexia hadn't woken up to her usual 7am alarm, instead she had woken up to the warm press of your soft lips on her bare stomach. 

“Amor?” She groggily murmured, one eye sleepily opening.

“Good morning, baby.” You purred as your kisses travelled lower.

The brunette sleepily smiled as her brain woke up to what was happening. “Hmm, this is a nice way to start my morning.” She mumbled, her morning voice raspy as she stretched her arms over her head. The soft cream Italian silk sheets moved with her. 

You smiled sweetly up at her, loving the way the muscles in her stomach were already flexing to the feeling of you. 

“You looked so cute sleeping. I couldn't really stop myself.” You whispered, almost shyly. 

The room was still dark, a slither of morning light spilled in the corner of the large room, giving you some sense of sight. Not that you needed it, you knew Alexia's body like the back of your hand, every curve, every freckle was mapped out in your mind.

“I have no complaints.” Alexia hummed as you shuffled down lower, your face now in between her thighs.

Your cunt jumped with want when her large hand lazy tangled in your already messy bed hair. 

You lathered her thighs in slow, wet kisses, sucking gently on her sensitive skin just to hear her breath skip in her throat. 

Alexia had finally fully woken up now, she sat up on her elbows, wanting to fully see what you were doing to her. She watched as your naked body lay between her legs, worshiping her like the goddess she was, praying at the altar of her cunt.

Her eyes greedily took in the curve of your arse, traveling up the smooth skin of your back, watching the way your muscles moved. The tresses of your hair flowed down your spine, falling between your shoulder blades. You looked dreamlike. For a moment she wasn’t sure if she was still dreaming.

“You look so good, baby.” The brunette sighed happily as she leaned back, folding her arms behind her head, getting herself comfy for what was to come. 

Her, hopefully. 

You nuzzled your nose against her thigh giving her one last kiss before you flattened your tongue and tentatively gave a gentle lick between her lips.

“Fuck.” She sighed, her lashes fluttering from the feeling of you. 

You hummed at the taste of her. Pressing your tongue inside her, greedily lapping at the already wet fluids escaping her. 

You slowly licked your tongue from her entrance, through her folds, then gently wrapped your lips around her clit, sucking it teasingly against your tongue. 

“Baby.” The brunette whimpered, her hips already grinding into your face.

“You’re so wet already, Ale.” You smirked, looking up at your wife through your lashes.

Alexia let out an airy chuckle trying to ignore the way your breath tingled against her wet skin. “And who’s the reason for that?” 

You gave her lips another soft kiss before going back to your task.

Your hands wrapped around her strong thighs, opening her up fully for you, like she was your own personal buffet. 

The brunette, relaxed sitting back, letting you eat her out while she watched you. 

“Thats it.” She whispered before gathering your hair on one hand, pushing your face a little deeper. “Keep going.”  

You groaned, feeling the pressure of her hand on you, doing exactly what she said without protest. 

Alexia could feel her heart thumping against her chest as your tongue swirled with precision around her clit. 

God, you felt so fucking good. 

But your bliss was rudely interrupted as a blaring jingle went off besides Alexia’s head.

“Fuck.” The brunette grumbled before reaching for her phone to see who dared to call her at this early hour. “It’s Jenni.” She sighed.

But you didn't stop as she pressed the green button on her screen, and she made no effort to stop you. 

“Si?” 

You heard the familiar voice of Jenni.

“When?.... Today?” Alexia frowned, her hand still wrapped in your hair as she spoke to Jenni. 

You flicked your tongue at Alexia's clit, quickening your movements before slurping at her wet folds.

The brunette gritted her teeth watching you like a hawk as you continued to pleasure her. 

“Can’t it wait?” She sighed with annoyance. 

Even as you greedily licked at Alexia's cunt you could hear Jenni’s own agitated tone simply state a firm ‘No’

You pulled back, Alexia watched as her shiny fluids stuck messily to your chin. You sweetly smiled before sticking out your tongue, showing her just how truly wet she was.

Her bottom lip came in between her teeth as she watched her juices drip from your tongue and onto the sheets beneath you. She looked utterly mesmerised by you, her mouth gapping open, lost in the filthy sight.

Then you went back to it. 

“Fuck.” Alexia gasped, throwing her head back against the pillow.

You could hear the unmistakable, all knowing change in Jenni's tone through the phone.

‘That’s why you don't want to get out of bed.’ You heard the raven girl snigger through the speaker. 

Alexia let out a frustrated groan as she hung up, blindly throwing her phone on the bed. 

“I have to go.” She frowned before dramatically throwing her arm across her face. “I have a meeting with the board that I can’t get out of. I have to leave in 15 minutes.” 

You stopped what you were doing and leaned your head against her thigh, giving her a pout that you’d normally save for when you really needed it. 

Like the time you found a raggedy kitten on a holiday in Greece. You had begged Alexia to bring the flea ridden feline home with you. She of course had said no before the words had even fully left your mouth, but when you stuck your bottom lip out your wife never had the heart nor will power to not fold and not give you exactly what you wanted. 

That raggedy old kitten was now named Falafel and had her very own playroom. Alexia was her favourite person, not that she'd admit it, but Falef's purrs said otherwise. 

“Thats not fair.” You sulked.

“I know.” She sighed before releasing the hold on your hair.

You leaned up, Alexia’s hazel eyes watched you crawl from her shaky thighs and sat directly on her stomach before you lent down to give her a lazy kiss.

“Dios mio.” She whispered the moment she felt your wet cunt press against her tight abs.

“Thats okay, baby. We can come back to this later.” You murmured against her lips, before sneakily allowing your hips to roll against her skin. 

Her hands automatically moved to grab your hips, but you were quicker, moving off of her before she could no doubt grind you against her.

“You better jump in the shower.” You sighed dreamily as you laid back on your side of the bed.

Alexia peered over at your naked body, you could see she was having second thoughts on whether or not to go to this meeting, but you both knew Jenni would gladly drag her out by her feet if she didn't show up. 

The brunette grumbled as she left you in the sheets, seconds later you heard the shower turning on. 

She was quick as she got ready, as the CEO she was used to having last minute meetings.

Alexia was in the walk-in wardrobe as she buttoned up the last button of her shirt, grabbing her sunglasses from the side before she came back into your shared room.

“I’ll make it up to you tonight, my love…” But her words were caught in her throat as she walked into the sight in front of her. 

Your hand was between your thighs, your hair a mess of tresses over the dusty pink pillowcases as you boldly circled your wet clit.

You smirked when you heard the small whimper leave Alexia’s gaping mouth. The brunette comically looked between your legs, then your face, then back between your legs again.

“Oh, hey, baby.” You rasped, your wet fingers slick with your arousal. 

And just as she began to walk towards you her phone rang again. No doubt Jenni telling her to move her arse.

She groaned, throwing her head back before she headed towards the door to leave, knowing full well if she stepped an inch closer to you she wouldn’t be making it to this meeting. “Amorrrr, why do you do this to me!” 

You couldn't help but laugh.

The 32 year old stood in front of you. In full designer. Looking everything like the 5”8 CEO that she is. Silk shirt tucked into high waisted tailored trousers. At least 30 staff reported to her. Reported being the optimum word. They respected her but they feared her.  A room would fall into silence at just a glance from her. Analysts would break a sweat at a pointed cough, stock markets fell at the arch of her eyebrow. And here she was. Stomping her foot like a child who had been told Christmas was cancelled because of you. And some light fingering.

Maybe it was a bit mean of you but you had to keep your wife on her toes every now and again. 

The brunette looked over her shoulder at you one more time before she left and mumbled. “You wait until I see you tonight.” She warned. 

But you couldn't take the threat too seriously, not with the tantrum she just had.

“Can’t wait.” You winked cheekily before dipping a single finger inside yourself, keeping your eyes locked with hers the whole time. 

Alexia’s eyes drifted down between your legs once more before she begrudgingly left.

—---------------------------------------

Now here she was. Her mind miles away, bored out of her skull while you were at home.

Being a brat.

Alexia sighed before she discreetly pulled out her phone under the table. Her fingers automatically opened the Instagram app.

She smirked when she saw the little round pink icon of your dp lit up with a story, but when she opened it her smirk faltered, her lips parted for the seventh time that morning due to you. 

There you were, kitted up head to toe in fresh Nike, thanks to Alexia’s stakes in the brand. Your face sweaty, sporting a tight sports bra, your chest drenched wet with sweat. Your baby hair’s curling at the edges where you had just completed a work out. 

The brunette licked her before she clicked on your next story. 

Alexia closed her eyes in frustration as she looked over the new picture. It was a selfie. Close up. Your tight nipples were perking through the fabric. Your rosy pink lips were parted just like the way they were when she left you this morning, in the large king sized bed. The same cloudy eyes that looked at her with so much desire as you teasingly touched yourself. 

The throb between her legs that had barely left her came back in full throttle as she imagined your mouth. 

The way your tongue had pressed inside her, making her legs shake and back arch and–

“…Alexia?”

“Sweat.” She gently mumbled under her breath, too consumed in her thoughts to even realise she was talking out loud.

“...Erm, Alexia?”

The brunette nearly dropped her phone as her name was called again bringing her back to the real world. 

“Huh?...What?” The CEO looked around the boardroom, slipping her phone back in her pocket as a room full of eyes looked at her for an answer.

Alexia must have looked like a dear in headlights, which wasn't often. 

The new marketing girl cleared her throat a little nervously. “I-I was just asking what your thoughts were on maybe teaming up with Rosalia and h-her team? It would be great for traction on the new project.” She stuttered. 

Alexia stared at her, blinked, once, twice, completely lost. Shit. 

“I erm…” 

“What she means to say is…” Jenni came in to save Alexia, giving her a shit eating grin as she did, “she thinks that's a great idea. We’ve been wanting to work with Rosalia for a little while and this is the perfect project for that.” The raven haired woman smiled reassuringly at her young colleague. 

Alexia looked at Jenni, then back at the woman in front of her, her face looking a little less anxious at Jenni's words, but still looking at Alexia for her approval. 

Alexia knew if Jenni liked whatever idea this was then she could let it pass.

“Si, I like the idea. Well done.” Was all she needed to say with a little head nod and small smile.

The room murmured in agreement, happy that Alexia liked the idea. 

The brunette looked over at her oldest friend, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ her way.

“Shall we end it there. I think a quick coffee break would be good.” Jenni chimed, looking at Alexia, still smiling.

The room of course looked at Alexia for the go ahead. 

Alexia nodded, clearing her throat as she pulled at her shirt collar. “Everyone take 15.”

The room slowly descended with gentle murmurs as everyone began to rise from their chairs. Eager to get their caffeine fix. 

A low whistle came from the other side of the room. Jenni was standing now, her phone in her hand and that same wolfish grin on her face. “Aye, now I know why you were distracted." Jenni chuckled, showing her screen to Alexia, with your face plastered on her phone. 

“She’s killing me.” Alexia breathed, covering her face with her hands before dragging her palms down her face.

The raven haired girl threw her head back, letting out a belly laugh. “You are so whipped. I love it.” 

With a loud groan the brunette stood up from her chair, shaking her head at her oldest friend. 

“I can’t even argue with that.” Alexia admitted, softly chuckling. “I owe you a coffee for saving me.” 

“Can we go to the one with the cute barista?” Jenni wiggled her eyebrows. 

“Sure.” Alexia agreed. 

The two colleagues began to walk out the room, Jenni held open the door for Alexia as she walked out. The brunette pulled out her phone once more, smiling to herself when she saw she had a text from you.

Then she stopped dead in her tracks. 

It was a photo of you. Hair freshly washed, in nothing but an old pj top, one of Alexia’s of course. You were clearly naked from the bottom down, smiling innocently at the phone. With a simple text saying ‘miss you’

Before she could reply the heavy glass door came hurling towards her, slapping her right in the side of her face. 

“Oww! Merda!” She hissed, rubbing her now thumping head. She looked over at Jenni with a scowl, who had apparently let the door go.

Jenni smirked, holding her hands up in innocence.“Aye, it's not my fault you’re so distracted!” She smirked, walking ahead. 

Alexia rubbed her head, already feeling the lump forming and quickly wrote out a reply. 

‘Amor, you have to stop. I just banged my head, distracted by your face. Its dangerous for me x’

She can't help but laugh aloud at the reply that vibrates in her hand. 

A soft knock echoed through the apartment, followed by the unmistakable sound of the front door opening with the spare key Alexia had eventually found after loosing weeks ago.

"Y/N?" she called softly.

She knew the bedtime routine by now, knew that if she was too loud she'd be responsible for undoing forty five minutes of carefully negotiated sleep.

"We're here."

You smiled to yourself from inside the nursery, Olivia had finally settled, her favourite rabbit tucked beneath one arm.

You gently eased your hand away from where it had been resting on her back, waited a few seconds, then quietly stepped backwards, pulling the nursery door almost closed behind you.

The baby monitor rested in your hand as you walked into the living room, "She's just gone down"

You placed the monitor on the coffee table before finally looking up, Alexia was already watching you. Gone were the joggers and oversized hoodie she'd become so accustomed to seeing you in, instead you'd made an effort, nothing extravagant, just different.

A nice top and a short skirt showing off the legs, your hair done. The faintest hint of perfume, Alexia's eyes travelled over you before she could stop them, her throat bobbed. You were completely oblivious.

You smiled, "Well..." You folded your arms, "Don't you scrub up well."

Alexia blinked, it took her a second to recover, "You..." She cleared her throat, "You too." Her voice came out noticeably quieter than she'd intended.

You smiled, "Thank you."

Eli, who had been standing quietly beside the door, looked from Alexia to you, then back again, a knowing smile slowly appeared, she'd caught the way her daughter's eyes had lingered.

Alexia, meanwhile, was still looking at you, "You clean up alright yourself."

You laughed, "'Alright'?"

"I didn't want your ego getting too big."

"My ego?"

"You've been insufferable all week."

You gasped dramatically, "I've been lovely."

Eli couldn't help herself, she laughed and only then did you notice the two women standing just behind her, Alexia seemed to realise at the same time.

"Oh." She stepped aside, "I should probably introduce everyone." She pointed first to the older woman, "This is my Mami, Eli."

Eli smiled warmly, "So you're Y/N."

You stepped forward, offering your hand, "It's really nice to finally meet you."

Instead of shaking it, Eli gently took your hand in both of hers.

"It's lovely to meet you too" There was something immediately kind about her, comforting. You instantly understood where some of Alexia's softer moments came from.

Alexia turned to the younger woman beside her, "And this is my sister, Alba."

Alba grinned, "Hi."

"Hi."

"You know..." Alba looked you up and down before smiling, "I've heard quite a lot about you."

You looked towards Alexia, "You have?"

Alexia looked horrified, "Alba."

"What?"

Alba laughed, "I'm just saying."

"You two enjoy yourselves."

"We will." Alexia answered perhaps a little too quickly, Eli's smile only grew, Alexia noticed immediately, "Mami..."

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't have to."

"The point is..." She looked back at you, "...we're here to make sure Olivia is cared for if she wakes up."

You smiled gratefully, "Thank you, both of you. I really appreciate it."

Eli waved a hand dismissively, "We're very happy to help."

Alba nodded, "Besides..." She smiled towards the nursery door, "...I've been wanting to meet the famous Olivia."

Alexia immediately pointed a finger at her, "And no waking her up."

Alba looked offended, "I wasn't going to."

"You thought about it."

"I absolutely did."

You laughed, "I'm beginning to understand this family dynamic."

"Good luck." Alba said, "You'll need it being apart of the family now."

Alexia rolled her eyes, "Come on." Before either of them could embarrass her any further.

You picked up your keys and checked the monitor one last time, the steady sound of Olivia's breathing filled the speaker.

Satisfied, you slipped out the living room Alexia held the apartment door open for you, "After you."

You stepped into the hallway, as soon as the door closed behind you, Alba slowly turned towards her mother, "...They are so gone for each other."

Eli smiled knowingly, "I think they've both got a little way to go before they realise it themselves."

Inside the lift, blissfully unaware of the conversation one floor above, that her mother and sister had worked her out within thirty seconds of meeting you, you glanced sideways at Alexia, "So..."

"Hm?"

"You really don't look half bad."

Alexia smiled to herself, "Careful."

"Why?"

"You keep complimenting me like that..." She looked across at you, "...and I might start believing these famous moves of yours are real after all."

You laughed, shaking your head as the lift doors slid open, "You are impossible."

"And yet..." Alexia held the building door open for you, "...you still agreed to join me."

You couldn't argue with that, which judging by the smile Alexia wore all the way to the car, was victory enough for her.

🍼

The drive across Barcelona was surprisingly easy, you'd expected traffic, instead, you spent most of it listening to Alexia explain which teammates would be there.

"...and if Pina starts asking you embarrassing questions, don't answer."

You looked across at her, "Why?"

"Because she'll somehow make it everybody else's business within five minutes."

"So she's the gossip."

"The worst."

"Good to know."

Alexia smiled, "I've warned you."

You laughed, "I work in an emergency department, Alexia. I've dealt with far worse than footballers."

"Oh, she's worse."

"You say that like you're frightened of her."

"I am."

You snorted, "I don't believe that for a second."

"You should."

The dinner was being held in one of the city's waterfront hotels, the foyer buzzed with quiet conversation as club staff, coaches and players filtered inside.

Alexia barely stepped a foot into the reception before someone from the club greeted her immediately.

"Capitana." They smiled warmly, "It's lovely to see you."

"And you."

They glanced towards you, "You must be Y/N."

You smiled politely, "I am."

Alexia noticed your slight surprise, "I might have mentioned you."

"Might have?"

The staff member laughed, "We've heard wonderful things."

You shot Alexia a suspicious look, she very deliberately looked anywhere but at you, "I don't know what they're talking about." she mumbled.

"Hm."

The staff member gestured towards the dining room, "Your table's this way." You followed them through.

The room was elegant without being over the top, sound tables dressed in white linen, soft lighting, the low hum of conversation already filling the space.

Your guide stopped beside one of the tables, "There you are."

Alexia thanked them before pulling your chair out for you, you gave her an amused look, "Oh. You do have manners."

She looked mildly offended, "I always have manners."

"Mhmm."

"You'll see."

You sat down beside her and around the table already sat several familiar faces.

Patri looked up first, her grin was immediate, "Well" She looked between you and Alexia, "look who finally showed up."

Alexia sighed, "It has been approximately thirty seconds."

"I've been patiently waiting."

Patri smiled at you as she leaned back in her chair, "I've heard loads about you coming to this."

Alexia groaned quietly beside you, "Not you as well."

Pina looked up from across the table, "Wait" She pointed between the two of you, "This is the doctor?"

Alexia pinched the bridge of her nose, "Pina."

"What?" She smiled brightly at you, "Hi."

You couldn't help laughing, "Hi."

"Alexia said you were incredible in the hospital that day."

Your smile faltered slightly, "Oh."

Alexia noticed immediately, before you had chance to question, she smoothly changed the subject, "Pina. Food. Now."

Pina grinned, "Fine." She picked up the menu dramatically, "I wasn't going to interrogate her"

Patri snorted, "You absolutely were."

"I was going to ease into it."

You laughed quietly, Alexia leaned slightly closer, "I told you."

"You did."

"They're exhausting."

"I quite like them."

Alexia looked at you sideways, "Give it an hour."

Across the table, Mapi watched the exchange over the rim of her glass, she nudged Vicky with her elbow, "She's smiling."

Vicky followed her gaze, Alexia was and more than that she looked relaxed, comfortable, she looked different.

"You don't see that very often."

Mapi smiled knowingly, "No."

Meanwhile, completely oblivious to the quiet observations happening around the table, you picked up your menu. "So..." You looked at Alexia, "If Pina interrogates you..."

"Mhm?"

"am I allowed to interrogate you?"

Alexia smiled, "You can certainly try."

Patri looked up immediately, "Oh, this is going to be fun."

Alexia sighed dramatically, "I've made a terrible mistake bringing you."

"You absolutely have." You smiled, reaching for your glass, "And it's far too late to change your mind now."

Dinner settled into an easy rhythm, conversations crossed over one another around the table. Patri was halfway through telling some story to Mapi. Pina had somehow convinced Vicky to watch something on her phone. A coach at the other end of the table was discussing training plans.

Nobody was paying much attention to you or Alexia, which suited Alexia perfectly. She lifted her beer bottle to her lips, taking a slow sip before glancing sideways at you. "So..." She rested the bottle against her lower lip, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, "About your moves."

You looked at her over the rim of your own glass, "My moves?"

"The ones you apparently have." A slow smile spread across your face, "I'm still waiting."

You set your drink down, “I don't know..."

"You've been talking a very big game."

"I have."

"So?"

You tilted your head, "I don't think I should."

"Why not?"

"Because." You let your eyes settle on hers for a second longer than usual, "I don't think you're ready."

Alexia laughed quietly, "I'm not ready?"

"No."

She folded her arms, "Try me."

You held her gaze, then, very deliberately, let your expression soften. The teasing smile disappeared replaced by something quieter, more intent. Alexia's own smile faded almost immediately. You spoke more softly now, turned slightly in your chair until you were facing her properly.

"I suppose..." Your voice lowered just enough that it felt like the rest of the restaurant faded away. "...they're actually very simple."

Alexia rested her forearm on the table, "I'm listening."

"The first one..." You held her gaze, didn't rush it or look away. You simply watched her, long enough that she became acutely aware of being watched. "The eye contact." You smiled softly, "You don't break it."

Alexia realised she hadn't blinked in several seconds, "And?"

"And" You leaned in just a fraction, "The trick..." Your voice was calm, "You don't keep looking around the room." Your eyes never left hers, "You make them feel like, for a few minutes..." A tiny smile tugged at your lips. "...they're the only person in it."

Alexia swallowed, you noticed and she didn't realise you had, Alexia's throat tightened. It was ridiculous, nothing had happened, you hadn't touched her, hadn't even flirted that much and yet she suddenly couldn't hear anyone else. Couldn't remember what anyone else at the table was talking about, there was just you watching her, speaking quietly, like this conversation belonged only to the two of you.

"And then..." Your gaze dropped briefly only for a heartbeat, before returning to her eyes. "...you move a little closer."

Alexia hadn't realised she'd stopped hearing everyone else until the laughter around the table seemed impossibly far away.

"I even sometimes..." You lowered your voice another notch, "...touch."

Your fingertips drifted lightly across the table, barely brushing the inside of her wrist where her hand rested, just enough for her to feel the warmth of your skin.

Your finger tips traced the faintest line over the place where her pulse fluttered beneath the surface, "...sometimes."

Alexia's eyes immediately dropped to your hand, her pulse betrayed her completely, quickening beneath your fingertips. You felt it with quiet satisfaction before looking back up at her.

She watched your fingertips trace lazy patterns over the inside of her wrist, her heart was beating far harder than she was comfortable with.

"You'd be surprised..." You smiled gently, "...how much people say without saying a word.”

For a second neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. Alexia swallowed, hard, you heard it.

You smiled, "There." You withdrew your hand, "My moves."

For a moment Alexia simply stared at you speechless, then, very deliberately, she cleared her throat snapping back to reality, she reached for her napkin, unfolded it. Then, with far more concentration than a napkin had ever required, spread it carefully across her lap.

You watched her, one eyebrow lifting, "...Alexia?"

She still didn't look at you, "Hm?"

"Everything alright?"

Only then did she finally glance sideways, there was the faintest flush creeping across her cheeks. She gave a tiny shake of her head and let out a quiet, breathless laugh, "...You did that on purpose.”

You smiled innocently, "I thought you wanted proof."

Alexia held your gaze for a long second before laughing under her breath again, "I did."

She picked up her beer took an unnecessarily long drink, then looked back at you.

"...I'm beginning to think I may have underestimated you."

Your smile widened, "I did try to warn you."

"You really did."

For the rest of dinner, every now and then, Alexia caught herself absently rubbing the inside of her wrist, as though she could still feel where your fingertips had rested.

She hated how much she'd noticed something so small, she hated even more that you seemed to know exactly what you were doing.

You smiled to yourself before taking another sip of your drink, "So." You looked at her, "Your turn."

Alexia raised an eyebrow, "My turn?"

"You've criticised my technique enough."

"I didn't criticise it."

"No?"

"No." She smiled, "I admitted it was... effective."

You folded your arms, "So let's see these famous Alexia Putellas date moves then, i've been hearing so much about all these years."

Alexia laughed softly, "You want me to flirt with you?"

"I want to see if all that hype is actually warranted."

"It is."

"Prove it."

She looked at you for a long second, then, unlike you, she didn't lean closer. She leaned back, like she had all evening.

She let the silence sit, you found yourself waiting for her to speak. She knew you were, a slow smile spread across her face.

"You know..." She twirled her beer bottle idly between her fingers, "That's the first one."

You frowned, "What is?"

"Patience." She shrugged lightly, "Most people panic when there's silence." Her eyes never left yours, "They start talking."

You opened your mouth, then realised that's exactly what you'd almost done. She smiled wider and you laughed, "That doesn't count."

"It absolutely counts." She rested her elbow on the table, chin balancing against her knuckles, "You've been waiting for me to say something for nearly thirty seconds."

"I have not."

"You have."

"I was observing."

"Oh?"

"Mhm."

"What were you observing?"

You tilted your head, "Whether you actually had any moves."

Alexia chuckled, "You still sound unconvinced."

"I am."

She nodded slowly, "Okay." This time she leaned in, just enough that her perfume reached you, she lowered her voice, "My second one..."

Her eyes drifted over your face slowly to your eyes, your mouth, then back again.

"...is making people feel seen."

Your heartbeat stumbled slightly, Alexia noticed, of course she did.

"You've got this thing..." She spoke quietly. "...where every time you laugh properly..." Her eyes softened, "...your left eye squints just a little before the right one does."

You blinked, "I..."

"You also push your sleeves up whenever you're thinking."

You instinctively glanced down, your sleeves were halfway up your forearms.

Alexia smiled, "And..." She nodded towards your glass, "...when you're nervous, you always turn it a quarter turn before you take a drink."

You looked down again, your fingers were resting against the glass exactly as she'd described.

"I notice things." She said it simply like it wasn't intended to have any effect at all, but it did.

You looked back at her, "You've been watching me."

Alexia didn't even try to deny it, "A little."

"A little?"

She smiled, "Enough."

Something warm settled in your chest, Alexia reached for your hand, not taking it, just turning it over gently where it rested on the table.

Your brow lifted, "I thought touching wrists was my move."

"It is." She smiled, "I'm borrowing it."

Her fingertips brushed slowly across your palm instead barely there, not teasing, but intentional.

"You know what the difference is?"

"What?"

"You touched me to see my reaction." She looked into your eyes, "I'm touching you because I already know it."

Your breath caught, Alexia's thumb traced one slow line across your palm before letting go picking her beer back up as though nothing had happened.

You stared at her for a moment, "...That was cheating."

She laughed, "It wasn't."

"You psychoanalysed me."

"I observed you."

"You've been studying me."

"I have."

You couldn't help smiling, "That's unfair."

Alexia's grin turned almost unbearably smug, "What? You never heard of the concept of studying for tests before?" She took another sip of her beer, "So... Who wins?"

You looked at her for a long moment, then shook your head, "I don't know."

"No?"

"No." You leaned a little closer, "I think..." A smile tugged at your lips, "...we're both in a bit better at this than we thought."

Alexia had no clever reply, she simply smiled into her drink, hiding the blush that crept onto her cheeks.

You laughed quietly, shaking your head, "I'll admit..." Alexia looked pleased with herself, "...that was annoyingly good."

"I know."

"You've definitely done that before."

She feigned innocence, "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar."

"Probably."

You smiled into your drink before setting it back on the table, "I'll be right back."

Alexia looked up, "Everything alright?"

"I just need the bathroom."

"Okay."

You pushed your chair back, standing, as you stepped behind Alexia's chair, your fingertips found the back of her hand where it rested on the edge of the table. You didn't stop, you let your hand glide slowly over hers, from the tips of her fingers across her knuckles your thumb brushing lightly over the back of her hand before your fingers slipped away completely.

Alexia felt every second of it, you continued around the back of her chair, your hand gliding up her arm before settling briefly on her shoulder with a gentle squeeze, it was intimate.

You leaned down just enough that only she would hear you, "Behave while I'm gone."

"I always behave."

You laughed under your breath, "That's the biggest lie you've told"

Alexia looked up at you, smiling, you took a few steps away, turning back over your shoulder, you caught her eyes immediately.

Exactly where you'd expected them to be, still on you, your smile grew, "And now..." You tilted your head ever so slightly, "...you're watching me walk away."

For a split second Alexia looked caught, then she recovered, realised then laughed, "You set me up."

"I absolutely did."

You winked, then turned and continued walking towards the restroom, Alexia watched you go, she didn't even try to stop herself this time.

She watched until you disappeared around the corner, only then did she let out a slow breath, "...Madre mía."

She rubbed a hand over her face, your hand she could still feel it against the back of hers, against her shoulder.

She looked down at the table, then quietly laughed to herself, "She has good moves." and had absolutely no idea what to do next.

🍼

Alexia was still smiling to herself when you returned. She spotted you before you'd even reached the table, you noticed immediately, "You are." Alexia looked up innocently, "Still watching."

"I happened to look up."

"Mhm."

"Coincidence."

You laughed as you slid back into your chair, "If that helps you sleep tonight."

Alexia shook her head, smiling into her beer, "It will."

You settled comfortably beside her again, "So" You picked up your glass, "...did you miss me?"

Alexia didn't even hesitate, "No."

"Do you want to think about that answer?"

"I enjoyed the peace."

"Ouch."

Alexia shrugged, trying and failing to hide her smile behind her beer bottle, "You asked."

"I was hoping for something a little more flattering."

"You should've lowered your expectations."

You nudged her knee lightly beneath the table, "I'll remember that."

"I'm sure you will."

A comfortable silence settled between youneither of you seemed in any rush to fill it. You found yourself smiling.

"What?" Alexia asked.

"I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Very."

She smiled, "What about?"

You swirled the drink in your glass thoughtfully, "Olivia.. I miss her when I'm not with her now"

Alexia's expression softened immediately, "So do I."

You looked across at her, "You do?"

She smiled into her drink, "My life feels..." She searched for the right word. "...quiet when she's not there."

You laughed softly, "I know."

"I walked in yesterday after training and actually thought something was wrong."

"What?"

"There wasn't a tiny person trying to steal my shoelaces."

You smiled, "She does have quite the obsession lately she's also started doing this thing." Your smile grew without you even noticing. "When she's concentrating she sticks her tongue out."

Alexia immediately laughed, "I've noticed that."

You smiled, shaking your head as you looked down at your glass, "I think she's changing me."

Alexia's voice became quieter, "How?"

You took a moment before answering, "I've never been someone who wanted children."

She looked surprised, "You didn't?"

You shook your head, "I loved paediatrics. I loved Olivia, but..." You shrugged, "I liked giving them back."

Alexia laughed, "Fair."

"I always thought my life would be work because i wouldn't have time for anything else and i was ok with that as it was a career i chose."

"And now?"

You smiled to yourself, "Now I don't want to go back to work" Alexia listened quietly, "I'd spend half my shifts wondering what she's doing. If she's napped. If she's eaten. If she's learnt something new." You laughed under your breath, "I've become that person, the one who shows everyone photos."

Alexia smiled warmly, "You have."

"I showed one of the consultants twenty three photos the other day when I went in for a meeting."

"Twenty three?"

"They asked how she was."

"I don't think they needed a slideshow." Alexia laughed properly.

Another comfortable silence settled, Alexia traced a finger around the rim of her bottle, "I convinced myself I never wanted children either."

You looked at her, "You did?"

She nodded her head slowly, "Football was always..." She shrugged, "Everything. I never really let myself think beyond that and i thought maybe by the time my career ended that wouldn't be an option for me"

You frowned slightly, "And now?"

Alexia looked down at the table, "I don't know." She admitted it so quietly you almost missed it. "I didn't expect" She smiled faintly, "...any of this." Her eyes met yours again, "I didn't expect to look forward to bath time or reading the same book six nights in a row or finding tiny socks in my training bag."

You laughed, "She does put them everywhere."

"I found one in my boot."

"How?"

"I genuinely don't know."

You smiled, "I've stopped questioning it."

Alexia nodded, "Me too." Alexia slid the dessert she'd ordered for you both to share towards you, "So." You looked up, "I've been thinking. I don't think we've finished our experiment."

You rested your chin on your hand, "The experiment?"

"Mhm. Seeing whose moves are better."

You laughed, "Oh, we're still doing that?"

"We're absolutely still doing that."

You picked up your spoon, "I thought I'd already won."

Alexia looked offended, "Won?"

"I made you blush."

"I did not blush."

"You fiddled with your napkin like-"

"I was..." she interrupted, "...organising it."

"Mhm."

She narrowed her eyes, "You think you're funny."

"I know I'm funny."

Alexia smiled despite herself, "Fine." She leaned back in her chair, "Round two."

You mirrored her, "Go on then."

She didn't say anything straight away, instead, she reached across the table, not for your hand, for the dessert spoon in it.

She turned it over in her fingers, studying it thoughtfully. You frowned, "What are you doing?"

"You'll see." She scooped up the first spoonful, then held it out towards you.

You blinked, "...Seriously?"

She shrugged, "I've found sharing dessert works surprisingly well."

"You've found?"

"Mhm. It catches people off guard."

You looked at the spoon, then at her, "You feed all your dates?"

Alexia laughed, "No. Just the ones I like." The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her own eyebrows lifted slightly, you noticed, she noticed you noticing, neither of you acknowledged it.

Instead you leaned forward and accepted the spoonful.

"Well?" She asked.

You swallowed, "The dessert's good."

"I'm talking about the move."

You smiled, "It would've worked if you hadn't pre-warned me."

"It did work"

You raised an eyebrow, "Confident."

"I have reason to be."

You shook your head, laughing, "My turn."

"Oh?" You reached for her spoon, Alexia looked almost triumphant, "I knew you'd copy me."

"I'm not."

"No?"

"No."

You ignored the dessert completely, instead reaching across the table for the small dish of fresh strawberries that sat in the middle.

You picked one up by the stem. Alexia watched curiously, "What now?"

"You said your thing is catching people off guard."

"It is."

"So..." You held the strawberry out towards her, "...open up."

Alexia laughed, "You've literally just copied me."

"Have I?"

"Mhm."

"Then don't eat it." Without another word you brought the strawberry back towards yourself.

Alexia watched, still expecting some kind of trick, instead, your eyes stayed on hers, never wavering.

You smiled, the smallest, knowing smile, then, deliberately took a slow bite from the strawberry yourself, not breaking eye contact once.

Juice caught briefly at the corner of your mouth before your tongue swept it away almost absentmindedly.

You chewed, still watching her, still smiling, Alexia's brain seemed to short circuit, her eyes had followed the strawberry, then your mouth Then she realised she'd been staring, her heartbeat kicked unexpectedly hard against her ribs.

She cleared her throat, far too late, you'd already seen it.

You swallowed, "Hm." You nodded approvingly, "That's actually really good."

Alexia blinked, "What?"

You tilted your head innocently, "The strawberry."

She opened her mouth and closed it again, your smile grew just a fraction.

"Oh..." You rested your chin lightly against your hand, "...were you expecting something else?"

Alexia let out a short laugh, rubbing a hand across the back of her neck, "You..." She shook her head, "...that was deliberate."

"What was?"

"The eye contact."

You smiled, "I learnt from the best."

Alexia looked away for a second, laughing quietly to herself. When she looked back, there was a faint warmth across her cheeks she couldn't quite hide. "I think" She admitted, almost under her breath, "...that might actually have been your best one."

You raised an eyebrow, "Really?"

She nodded once, "Really."

There was a beat of silence, then she reached for her beer, taking a drink that was perhaps a little longer than necessary. You watched her over the rim of your own glass, "So..."

"Hm?"

"What do the women win..." You smiled into your drink, "...when you decide they've given you a good date?"

Alexia didn't even hesitate, "Sex, usually."

You let out a small, "Oh." She looked at you expectantly, you rested your elbow on the table, "So..." Your smile turned teasing, "...you put out on the first date, do you?"

Alexia laughed, "I wouldn't phrase it quite like that."

"But it's accurate."

She tipped her head from side to side, "...Sometimes."

You raised your eyebrows dramatically, "Alexia."

"What?"

"I thought you had standards."

"I do. They're just... flexible. I don't sleep with just anyone"

You laughed, "That's one word for it."

She nudged your knee lightly beneath the table, "Don't judge me."

"I'm trying very hard not to."

Alexia smiled into her drink, "I don't always."

"No?"

Alexia met your eyes, "No" A slow smile appeared, "and what about you?"

You looked up, "What about me?"

She mirrored your earlier question, "What does someone get if they've given you a good first date?"

You pretended to think about it, "Hm." You laughed quietly, "I don't know..." She waited, "I don't even really kiss on a first date."

Alexia looked genuinely surprised, "You don't?"

You shook your head, "No."

"Never?"

"I didn't say never." You smiled, "I just... don't usually."

"Why?"

You shrugged, thinking for a moment, "I suppose because if I'm kissing someone" Your expression softened "...it's because I actually want to."

Alexia smiled, "I'd hope so."

You laughed, "No, I mean..." You searched for the words, "I don't kiss people because it feels like it's expected, or because it's the end of the evening. If I'm kissing someone" You held her gaze, "it's because I can't quite convince myself not to."

Something about the way you said it made Alexia's smile falter into something quieter, "So" She rested her chin against her hand, "how many dates?"

"It depends."

"On?"

"The person."

She laughed, "That's a very diplomatic answer."

"It's an honest one."

"So there isn't a rule?"

"No." You smiled, you took another sip of your drink, "I just think..." You shrugged. I'd rather it just happen naturally but usually because I don't know them I'm not comfortable enough doing that."

Alexia looked at you for a long moment, "I get that."

"You do?"

She nodded as she twirled her beer bottle slowly between her hands, "I don't think I've ever looked at it like that."

"No?"

She shook her head, "I've always been..." She smiled to herself, "...quite impulsive."

"I'd noticed."

Alexia looked down at the table for a second before looking back up, "So, if tonight really was a date" She let the question hang. "and it ended in an hour" She smiled, just enough to tell you she was only half joking. "I'd have absolutely no chance of kissing you?"

You looked at her with an expression somewhere between amused and thoughtful, "I didn't say that."

Her eyebrows lifted, "You didn't?"

You slowly shook your head, "I said I don't really kiss on a first date."

"But?"

You smiled, "There are exceptions to every rule."

Alexia laughed under her breath, "I was wondering when the doctor was going to let loose... what makes someone an exception?"

You leaned back in your chair, "I couldn't possibly tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't kiss and tell"

Alexia smiled, unable to look away from you. 🍼 The apartment was quiet when you unlocked the front door, you stepped inside first, immediately slipping your heels off with a grateful sigh.

"I've never been so happy to walk on flat ground."

Alexia laughed behind you as she locked the door, "You chose those shoes."

"I was lied to."

"By who?"

"The salesperson. They told me they'd be comfortable and they were, but only for the first six minutes."

Alexia smiled to herself, "You're dramatic."

"I work in A&E. I'm entitled to be."

Before either of you could continue, Eli appeared from the living room. She smiled the moment she saw you, "There you are."

You smiled back, "How was she?"

Eli's face softened immediately, "Not a peep. She slept the entire time."

Relief settled across your features, "Good." You bent down to pick your heels up, "Thank you for sitting with her."

"Oh, it was no bother." Eli waved a hand dismissively, "Honestly." Behind her, Alba wandered into the hallway carrying two empty mugs. "We've just been watching films."

She looked between you and Alexia with an expression that was entirely too curious, "So how was your evening?"

Alexia answered before you had chance, "It was nice."

"Nice?" Alba folded her arms. "That's all we're getting?"

Alexia shrugged, "The food was really good. And..." She glanced sideways at you, "it was just" Her smile was smaller now, "...nice."

Alba looked unconvinced, "Right."

You bit back a smile, Eli noticed. "So..." She asked gently, "You enjoyed yourselves?"

You nodded, "Yeah. I did. It was lovely."

Eli smiled knowingly, "I'm glad."

She picked up her handbag from the worktop, "Well. We'll get out of your hair."

You looked between her and Alba, "You don't have to rush off."

"It's getting late." Eli smiled warmly, "And you've both got an early start."

You nodded reluctantly, "Fair enough." As Eli reached the front door, you leaned back against the kitchen counter, "You'll have to come back sometime" Both women looked towards you, "when she's actually awake."

Eli's entire face lit up, "I'd love that."

"So would I." Alba grinned, "I've heard she's got everyone wrapped around her little finger."

You laughed, "That she has."

Alba smiled at you, "It was lovely meeting you."

"You too."

For just a second, Eli looked a little emotional, "Thank you, we'll arrange something soon" She stepped forward, giving your forearm a gentle squeeze, "Take care of yourselves."

"We will."

"And give Olivia a cuddle from us tomorrow."

"I will."

Eli smiled one last time before opening the apartment door, "Goodnight."

"Night."

"Goodnight."

The door clicked shut behind them and the apartment fell quiet again, you let out a slow breath, still leaning against the kitchen counter.

Alexia had wandered to the fridge for a glass of water, you watched her absently, she'd loosened the top button of her shirt at some point since she'd got back, rolled the sleeves up to her forearms.

She looked...it was a thought you didn't let yourself finished as she took a sip before setting the glass down.

When she turned, she found you already looking at her, "What?"

You smiled, "Nothing."

Alexia studied you for a second, then, instead of saying anything, she walked back across the kitchen stopping directly in front of you, close enough that you could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes.

Close enough that you caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the cool night air from outside.

You smiled first, "What? You've been standing there for a full minute."

"It hasn't been a minute."

"It feels like it."

Alexia smiled, "I was deciding something."

"And?"

She was smiling, but there was something nervous underneath it you'd never seen before, "I have a question."

"Okay."

"It might be a stupid one."

"I'll be the judge of that."

She laughed quietly, "I suppose you will."

You waited, Alexia looked at you for a long moment before speaking, "Theoretically..." Your eyebrows lifted, "If" She glanced down for the briefest second before meeting your eyes again, "...tonight had actually been a real date..." Your heartbeat immediately sped up, "...would you have kissed me?"

You didn't answer straight away not because you didn't know, because you wanted to be sure.

Your eyes searched hers, looking for the teasing smile, the joke, the easy escape. There wasn't one, she was genuinely asking.

You smiled softly, "I think" You admitted quietly, "I'd have wanted to." Alexia's breath caught, "But" You continued, "...I'd probably have spent the whole evening trying to work out whether you wanted me to."

A tiny laugh escaped her, "You really are a doctor."

"What does that mean?"

"You overthink everything."

"I do."

She smiled, "I've noticed."

You looked at her, "So" Your voice was barely above a whisper now, "...would you have wanted me to?"

Alexia didn't answer with words instead she took one small step closer, until there was barely any space left between you.

She lifted one hand slowly, giving you every opportunity to move away, her fingertips brushed lightly against your jaw, almost tentative.

"You know" She murmured, "for someone who says they don't kiss on a first date" Her thumb rested gently against your cheek, "you've been making it very difficult not to ask."

You smiled, "I did say there were exceptions."

"I remember." She searched your face one last time, "This is okay?"

You nodded immediately, "Very." You closed the last inch between you, not all at once. Slowly giving her time to change her mind, but she didn't, her eyes drifted shut only at the very last moment.

Your lips met so gently it almost wasn't a kiss at all, just a soft and warm press of lips, neither of you moved for a heartbeat, simply letting the reality of it settle.

Alexia was the first to respond, her fingers slipped carefully into your hair as her lips began to move as she kissed you, a little more confidently this time, still unhurried, still impossibly gentle.

You found your hand settling against her waist, feeling her breathe and feeling her smile against your lips, that it made you smile too.

When you finally drew back, it was only far enough to look at one another.

Neither of you seemed capable of saying anything, Alexia's forehead rested lightly against yours, "...Well."

You laughed quietly, "So..."

"I've definitely kissed you now."

"You have."

She smiled, "I was right."

"About what?"

"You don't kiss people because it's expected."

You shook your head, "No."

"What changed?"

You looked into her eyes, "I couldn't quite convince myself not to."

Alexia let out the smallest laugh, then, before either of you could lose your nerve she leaned in again.

This kiss was even softer than the first more about simply enjoying the fact that, somehow you had both ended up exactly where you wanted to be.

When she finally pulled away, she rested her forehead against yours once more.

"I think..." She whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I should go”

She groaned, a near silent sound, and pressed her palm sweetly to your jaw, her thumb drifting down, slow, deliberate, learning the shape of you. Her hair fell forward, grazing your cheek, and then you were kissing again, this time with the relief of having crossed some invisible line, the tension unspooling down your spine.

Everything about her was new and familiar all at once, the taste of her tongue, she was sturdy and soft at the same time, confident but uncertain, like she was calibrating each new sensation as it happened.

"Careful," you whispered, breathless, "if you keep that up, I might actually sleep with you on the first date."

She smiled against your mouth, "Promises, promises," she said, and you felt the vibration in her chest, a richness you wanted to bottle and keep next to your bed, to open each night before sleep.

For a while, you just stood together in the dim kitchen, her body a buffer between you and the rest of the world, her arms bracing you against the counter as if she couldn't let go. 

Nothing in your last thirty years had prepared you for the sensation of being kissed in your friends' apartment with their child in the next room and the taste of cheap wine still on your tongue, of being wanted so specifically, so precisely, not as an afterthought, but as the direct line between Alexia’s mind and her hands and her whispered, "I want you, but I don't want to mess this up, either."

You let yourself rest your forehead on her collarbone, drew in a breath. She was real, not a fantasy, not a theory, not some impossible future you watched from a safe, unpopulated distance. She was right here. It was both fantastic and terrifying.

"In case you couldn't tell," she went on, "I've never really done this before."

You laughed into her shirt, your lips brushing the place where her pulse beat. "Kissed someone?"

She pinched your waist, enough to make you yelp and grin, "No. Not like this." Her voice gentled, "Like it actually means something."

You felt the words settle under your skin, somewhere that hadn't been reached in years not since the last time you'd let anyone stay past midnight.

She must have sensed the shift, because she pulled back, hands braced on either side of you as if she was worried you might flee if she gave you any more room. “I need to hear you say it” Alexia held your eye contact, “I need to know what ever happens tonight, it doesn’t affect how we care for Olivia” Your fingers found the collar of her shirt without meaning to, turning it over slowly. "I'm nervous," you said. Alexia's arm came back around your waist, her forehead returning to yours. "I don't do this." Your hand stilled against her chest. "And there's Olivia to think about." You felt her waiting. "It's just" you exhaled, "it's been a long time since I've wanted someone the way I want you right now." Alexia let the silence sit for a moment, then quietly, "Shall we go to bed?"

You didn't answer right away. Just lifted your eyes to hers, and nodded.

She took your hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world, threading her fingers through yours and guiding you down the hallway with a confidence borrowed from floodlights and full stadiums. In private, she was still learning to be this brave, but there was a steadiness to her that buoyed you both. You could feel the heat of her palm all the way up your arm.

The bedroom was darker than the rest of the apartment, the slow orange glow of a city night creeping in through the slat of blinds. There were shadows everywhere; you barely had time to catalogue them before she pulled you in and kissed you again, deeper this time, her hand splayed flat at the small of your back. You pressed into her, feeling the hard line of her thigh between yours and the softness that belied the strength of her arms.

It was slow, almost ridiculous how slow, and you tried to make a joke about it "Is this one of your famous moves?" but the words died in your throat as she ran her hands up your sides, mapping the lines of your rib cage through your shirt.

Your hands found her collar, thumbs tracing the notch of her throat. You had never been so aware of the mechanics of a button before. Each one yielded to you, slowly, exposing more of her skin, the way her shoulders sloped, the scar under her right clavicle, the shimmer of her necklace in the light. You took your time, letting your fingers learn her, the way her breathing deepened, the way she smiled at you when you did something right.

When her shirt was off, she stood still for a moment, bare to the waist, letting you look. She didn't cover herself or turn away, and something about her confidence, no, her trust made you ache. You reached for her, hands following the curve of her ribs, up and over the delicate plane of her back. She felt solid, like a promise. You pressed your mouth to her shoulder, to the hollow of her neck, and she exhaled, her hands sliding up to cradle your jaw, tipping your face up to hers.

It was a slow dance, and you half expected her to take the lead, to pin you to the bed or flip you over, but she didn't. She let you set the pace, let you explore her body with the kind of awe you didn't know you were capable of. She sat on the edge of the bed, pulling you into her lap, her hands spreading over your thighs. You ran your fingers along the waistband of her jeans, unsure, but she guided you, her breath warm in your ear, "Whatever you want. I want you to touch me wherever you want"

So you did, tracing the curve of her hip, the heat blooming under her skin as you learned her, every inch, every freckle. Her hand found the back of your head, tangling in your hair as your tongue mapped the notch of her throat. There was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the hush of sheets, the creak of the mattress when you finally, finally let the rest of the world fall away.

At some point she tipped you back into the bed, half on top of you, her mouth at your ear, her body flush with yours. She kissed you until you had no idea where she ended and you began, until you forgot whose heart was pounding hardest, until the only words either of you could remember were please and yes and don't stop.

Even then, she moved with care, you knew she was strong enough to take you apart, but she never did, not even when your leg locked around her waist, not even when your hand trembled against her spine.

Alexia’s hand was a map sketched in the dark, each new inch of skin she discovered a place she wanted to memorise. She found the hem of your skirt, hesitated, and then her palm slipped beneath, resting warm and electric on your thigh. Her other hand followed, so careful, like she was worried you might vanish if she moved too fast. You felt the air shift as she drew your skirt upward, you lifted your hips to meet her, and for a heartbeat, the two of you hung there suspended, breath held, time odd and elastic.

She slid the skirt down your legs, and let it fall to the floor. You became hyper aware of every exposed inch, the coolness of the room on your skin, the way her gaze lingered not in the abstract but in the most literal sense, she watched you. She watched all of you.

You should have felt shy, maybe, or self conscious, but instead, you felt in a word devoured. Alexia looked at you like she’d been waiting for this her whole life, she ran her hands along your outer thigh, up to the waistband of your underwear, and paused again.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” she said, and her voice was low and rough, not a question but a promise of safety.

“I’ll tell you if I want to stop,” you managed, but what you wanted was for her to keep going. She lowered her mouth to your navel, pressing a slow, open mouthed kiss there, then another, just below the line of your underwear. You felt her smile when you arched toward her, and when she finally hooked her thumbs into the waistband and drew your underwear down, you had to close your eyes.

She kissed the inside of your knee, the apex of your thigh, the softest part of skin you’d never thought of as a place to be worshipped, and then she moved up and up.

She was patient, so patient, and when you finally felt her tongue, you almost sobbed. She found your rhythm quickly, of course she did, but she didn’t just memorise, she innovated. She drew you out, drew you open, and when you pressed your palm to her head, she moaned in response, as if the compliment was physical, as if your need was feeding hers. You didn’t recognise the sounds you were making, but Alexia seemed to know them already.

After, you dragged her up by her chin, kissing her hard, tasting yourself on her lips. Your hands fumbled with her jeans, but she was already helping, getting them off, her mouth, her hands, her everything. She shimmied them down and off, tossing them somewhere that neither of you would probably ever find again, and then she was bare, skin to skin, the heat between your bodies almost comical in its intensity.

You reached up, suddenly greedy, and Alexia let you run your hands up and over her, worshipping the lines of her shoulders, the soft dip of her lower back, the muscle beneath her stomach. Her breasts pressed against you, perfect, and you found yourself gasping, every nerve ending on high alert.

She kissed you again, and your hands fumbled for her, trying to get her underwear off, and she helped you, both of you laughing a little at how tangled and graceless it was until you were both finally, completely bare.

You pulled her to you again, legs locked around her hips, and this time she kissed you with an intensity that left you dizzy. Her hand found your breast, cupped it, thumb brushing over your nipple. You inhaled sharply, you’d forgotten how sensitive you could be when you let yourself go and her mouth followed, hot and wet, tongue circling, then teeth, and it was all you could do not to cry out.

“Fuck, look at you” she mumbled, mouth still busy with your breast, and you felt her smile when you arched into her. She switched sides, greedy, worshipful, and you let her, hands in her hair and nails digging deliciously into her back.

When she finally made her way down, her mouth mapped a line of heat over your ribs, your stomach, every inch accounted for, and then she was between your legs again, this time slower, more deliberate, as if she wanted to see how long she could keep you on the edge.

Her fingers were devastating, you’d had partners before who were eager, enthusiastic, but never, never someone who seemed to know what you wanted before you did. She was attentive, relentless, and when you bucked against her, she didn’t pull away, just held you steady, groaning into your mouth as if this was the only thing she ever wanted.

When you came, it was like a circuit closing, an inevitability, heat arcing up your spine and blooming out in every direction. Alexia didn’t stop, not right away, working you through it, letting you shudder against her fingers until she finally eased back.

You were still catching your breath when she kissed you, slow and deep, and you could taste yourself on her tongue.

She rolled you onto your back with more strength than you expected, and you let her, finding an odd comfort in the way she took control, the way she seemed to know exactly where to touch, when to slow and when to press harder. She kissed your jaw, your throat, the soft dip of your clavicle, both of you drifting through the half-light with nothing but the sound of your breathing, your moans, the urgent hush of the sheets twisting under you.

She kissed you again, this time with tongue, urgent, almost greedy, her thigh sliding between yours, pressing up, forcing your legs wider. She wanted all of you, and you wanted her back with almost violent intensity. When she ground her hips against you, you gasped, the heat at the apex of your thighs turning molten. You bucked against her, and she moaned, her mouth tracing frantic lines up your neck. Her hand curled around your thigh, moving you where she needed you, the heel of one of your feet moved to rest on her shoulder.

She shifted, bracing herself over you, and you felt her slick, feverish pussy pressed against your own, your hips aligning perfectly.

She smiled, wicked, and then she rocked into you, slow at first, then harder. You met her, thrust for thrust, moving together, not thinking about what you looked like or how it sounded, but only about how it felt. Every movement sent shockwaves through your belly, every grind a new jolt of pleasure.

Her hand slipped between your bodies, and the first brush of her fingers against your clit sent you wild. She kept working you, not stopping for a second, alternating between circling and pressing, her hips never losing their rhythm against you. You felt her muscles flex, her abs tight and trembling, the sweat pooling in the hollow above her sternum under your explorative fingertips.

She was lost in it too, completely gone, her voice raw as she whispered your name, once, twice, like a prayer.

Your hand gripped her arse cheek hard leaving marks, needing something to anchor you, because you were starting to come apart. She felt it, matched your urgency, grinding harder, her thigh slick with her own wetness. She was right there, and so were you, both of you straining, shaking, unable to stop.

When you came, you cried out, your whole body arched and slick with sweat. She didn’t stop, didn’t even slow, chasing her own finish with a focus that was almost terrifying. She shuddered, gasped, and then you felt her pulse against you, a wet, hot rush that only made you press closer. You carefully let your leg fall from her shoulder, as she eased her body down on top of yours.

You stayed like that for a long time, tangled together, neither willing to move, the sticky heat of your bodies sealing you in place. You could feel her heartbeat against yours, wild, then slowing. She kissed you, softer now, her whole weight splayed over you, and you ran your hands over her back up and down.

Eventually, she moved to your side, facing you in the dark, she laced her fingers with yours, the heat between your palms a quiet echo of everything you couldn't vocalise. She watched you, eyes soft, as if she wasn't sure if she was still allowed to be gentle with you.

It was a beautiful, hyper-passionate romance that everyone in your close-knit surgical department joked about because of how utterly, shamelessly clingy you were. Despite your high-stress career cutting into human skulls, the moment you stepped through the door of her villa in Pedralbes, you transformed. You were the girl who would wrap herself around Alexia’s back like a koala while she tried to cook dinner, the one who would crawl into her lap on the sofa and refuse to move for hours, burying your face in her neck until she laughed that rich, raspy laugh and held you against her chest like you were the only solid thing in her world. Alexia loved it. She matched your energy completely, her powerful athlete's arms locking you against her body with a fierce, possessive warmth that made you feel utterly invincible.

But that beautiful reality came with a shadow: it was completely, entirely secret.

Alexia was a global icon, her every movement tracked by the media, her private life an endless source of public speculation. At first, you didn't mind the shadows. You were a busy woman; you had a department to run, a residency program to oversee, and a never-ending rotation of complex craniotomies. You didn't need the flashing cameras. You didn't need the red carpets.

But hiding a three-year relationship required a heavy tax. It meant deleting your digital footprint, leaving her house through the service elevator, and sitting in the stadium stands three rows behind her family, pretending you were just an acquaintance from the medical consultant staff if anyone looked too closely.

You had tolerated the sacrifice because you believed the foundation was unbreakable. Until the night the structure gave way.

It was a late Friday evening, following a massive Champions League victory at the Estadi Olímpic Lluís Companys. Alexia had hosted a small, private gathering at her home for a few childhood friends from Mollet and a couple of influential sports executives who had helped manage her commercial image. Because you had just finished a grueling twelve-hour surgical shift removing a complex glioma, you had arrived late, slipping through the back entrance into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

As you walked down the short, tiled corridor leading toward the auxiliary lounge, you heard voices through the partially open oak door.

"Come on, Ale, we saw the way that doctor looks at you," a prominent sports agent scoffed, his voice dripping with casual, elite cynicism. "She’s been at almost every private dinner this month. The media is starting to ask if she's more than just a medical advisor. Is she the reason you haven't been linked to anyone else? Are you actually dating her?"

You stopped in the shadow of the hallway, your hand freezing against the cold glass of water. A soft, hopeful flutter bloomed in your chest. You wondered, just for a fraction of a second, if after three years, Alexia was finally going to claim you out loud in front of her inner circle.

Then, Alexia’s laugh echoed through the room. It wasn't the warm, genuine sound that usually vibrated against your skin when you slept. It was sharp, cold, and laced with a defensive, dismissive armor.

"¿Qué dices? No, por favor," Alexia said, her tone carrying an air of total indifference that made your blood instantly run cold. "Y/N is just a neurosurgeon the club utilizes for head trauma consultations. She's great at her job, sure, but she's completely exhausting to be around outside the hospital. She's way too needy, constantly hovering around me like a lost puppy because her own life is just boring charts and operating theatres. She’s just convenient company when I need to decompress between training blocks, guys. It’s nothing real, I promise you. I wouldn't date someone that high-maintenance."

The world simply stopped spinning.

The air in the corridor felt like liquid nitrogen as it rushed into your lungs. Exhausting. Needy. Lost puppy. Convenient company. The words didn't just pierce your heart; they completely, surgically dismantled your entire reality. The very clinginess she had spent three years encouraging, the affection she claimed kept her grounded, was suddenly reduced to an embarrassing, high-maintenance nuisance she mocked to protect her precious privacy. To save herself from a moment of uncomfortable scrutiny from a sports agent, she had completely rewritten your entire love story into a pathetic joke.

You didn't cry. You didn't storm into the room to demand an apology. When a neurosurgeon encounters a catastrophic, uncontainable hemorrhage on the operating table, her emotions freeze into total absolute zero. Panic is a luxury for people who don't hold lives in their hands.

You quietly set the glass of water down on the console table, walked out of the back door, and drove your car back to your small, empty apartment near Vall d'Hebron without looking back a single time.

The silence began the next morning, and it was absolute.

When Alexia woke up, she sent her usual morning text: "Woke up and my koala wasn't here :( Did you have to go in for an emergency surgery, mi amor? Call me the second you're free, I miss you."

The message was marked as read. But no answer came.

By Monday, the silence had transformed into a terrifying, unyielding wall. Alexia had called you twenty times, each attempt dropping straight into the void of a standard corporate voicemail. She sent endless messages, watching the grey ticks turn blue instantly, but the screen remained entirely blank. The complete, sudden withdrawal of your presence felt like the sudden loss of oxygen in a room.

On Tuesday evening, completely beside herself with an uncontainable panic, Alexia drove straight to Vall d'Hebron. She knew your schedule by heart; she knew you were finishing a grand rounds presentation at 7:00 PM. She waited outside the secure glass doors of the neurosurgery administrative wing, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her heart hammering against her ribs.

When the doors finally slid open, you walked out, flanked by three senior residents and an attending physician. You were wearing your navy blue scrubs beneath a perfectly pressed white lab coat, your hair pulled back into a sharp, professional twist. You were explaining a complex ventricular shunt procedure, your voice carrying that effortless, funny, and brilliant spark that always made your students adore you.

"Y/N!" Alexia called out, her voice cracking slightly as she took a step forward, completely forgetting the hospital staff around you.

The residents stopped, their eyes widening as they recognized the legendary Barcelona captain standing in their hallway.

You stopped too. But your face didn't change. Your hazel eyes, which usually filled with an absolute, radiant joy whenever she appeared, were completely blank. Looking at you was like staring at an unyielding pane of surgical glass.

"Ah, Captain Putellas," you said, your voice entirely level, professional, and completely devoid of a single ounce of warmth. You turned to your residents with a calm, clinical smile. "Go ahead to the ICU and prepare the post-op orders for bed four. I will join you in five minutes."

The doctors nodded quickly, sensing the sudden, suffocating drop in atmospheric pressure, and hurried down the hall.

Once they were out of sight, Alexia took a desperate step closer, her hands reaching out to grab your arm. "Y/N, thank God. Why haven't you answered my texts? I’ve been going out of my mind for three days. I went to your apartment, but you changed the entry code—"

"Please do not touch me in a professional environment, Captain," you said smoothly, stepping back just enough to keep a definitive, unyielding physical distance between you. You didn't raise your voice; you didn't look angry. You looked like an attending physician speaking to a stranger who had lost their way in the corridor. "If the club requires an evaluation for a head injury or a neural consultation, please have your athletic department submit a formal request through the administrative portal. My schedule is currently entirely booked with actual medical emergencies."

Alexia felt the air leave her lungs as if she had been hit by a stray tackle. The coldness in your voice was a physical strike. "What... what are you doing? Why are you calling me that? Y/N, please, it's me. It's Alexia. What happened?"

"I am simply maintaining the boundaries you require," you replied, your gaze fixed somewhere just past her left ear, completely refusing to lock eyes with her. "Out of sight. In secret. Like an exhausting, high-maintenance puppy that doesn't actually exist in your real life. I wouldn't want to overextend my welcome as your 'convenient company,' Captain. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a craniotomy to perform."

Before she could form a single word, you turned on your heel, your white coat billowing slightly behind you as you walked through the secure double doors, the magnetic lock clicking shut with a heavy, definitive thud.

Alexia stood frozen in the middle of the sterile hospital hallway, the realization crashing down on her like a physical weight. The hallway. The auxiliary lounge. Her mind raced back to Friday night—the careless, defensive, arrogant words she had thrown out to a sports agent just to avoid a moment of personal vulnerability, to keep her world locked in its safe, sterile box. She had forgotten that you were in the house. She had completely forgotten that you were coming from a twelve-hour shift just to see her.

"No," Alexia whispered, her hands dropping to her sides as a sickening, suffocating wave of guilt flooded her stomach. She had built a fortress to protect her privacy, but she had accidentally crushed the only woman who made the fortress worth living in under the rubble.

The next two months were a brutal, agonizing descent into absolute hell for Alexia Putellas.

An elite athlete is trained to handle adversity. When a match is slipping away, Alexia knew how to double her efforts, increase the intensity, and force a victory through sheer strength of will. But you weren't a football match; you were a brilliant neurosurgeon who had completely erased her from the architecture of your life.

You blocked her personal phone. You blocked her on every digital platform. When she sent massive arrangements of lilies and white roses to your private office at Vall d'Hebron, you quietly told the nurse to distribute them to the pediatric oncology ward, never keeping a single petal. When she waited outside the hospital parking garage at 2:00 AM in the pouring rain, hoping to just see your face, you drove past her car without a single glance, your eyes fixed straight ahead on the road.

The complete, total absence of your warmth was destroying her.

Alexia couldn't sleep. Her performance on the pitch began to suffer; her passing was uncharacteristically sloppy, her presence in the midfield distracted and hollow. During a training session at Joan Gamper, Mapi León had finally grabbed her by the training bib after Alexia missed three consecutive tactical runs.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Ale?" Mapi demanded, her eyes full of genuine concern. "You look like a ghost. You've lost weight, your head isn't in the game, and you look like you’re about to collapse. Is this about Y/N? What happened?"

Alexia buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a quiet, broken sob that shocked her teammate. "I broke it, Mapi. I said something horrible to protect the secret, and she heard me. She won't look at me. She won't speak to me. She looks right through me like I’m made of glass."

"Then you don't stop fighting," Mapi said softly, her hand resting heavily on Alexia’s shoulder. "A neurosurgeon spends her whole life fixing things people think are impossible. If you want her back, you have to show her that you're willing to throw away the whole damn box just to hold her hand in the light."

But while Alexia was dying of heartbreak in Pedralbes, you were dying of sheer, unadulterated exhaustion at Vall d'Hebron.

Burnout among surgical chiefs is a silent killer. To cope with the gaping, agonizing void in your chest where Alexia’s warmth used to be, you had thrown yourself into your work with a terrifying, self-destructive intensity. You took every on-call shift. You volunteered for every emergency trauma surgery. You spent forty-eight consecutive hours in the operating theatre, living on bitter hospital coffee and stale vending machine crackers, completely refusing to let your mind rest for even a second. If you stopped working, the memory of her laugh would find you. If you slept, you would dream of her arms around your waist. So, you simply refused to sleep.

Your colleagues noticed. Your chief resident, a close friend named Dr. Lucas Méndez, had tried to intervene multiple times. "Y/N, you look grey. Your hands are steady under the microscope, but you’re running on pure adrenaline and spite. You need to go home. You’ve done four craniotomies in thirty-six hours."

"I'm fine, Lucas," you had muttered, your voice raspy and thin as you stared at a set of MRI scans. "The department needs me."

The breaking point arrived on a rainy Thursday afternoon, precisely nine weeks after the night in the corridor.

You had just finished a grueling, five-hour emergency surgery to repair a ruptured aneurysm in an eight-year-old child. The procedure had been a complete success, but the physical and emotional toll was the final straw your system could bear. As you walked out of the scrub room, tearing your surgical mask from your face, a sudden, violent wave of dizziness hit you.

The sterile white walls of the corridor began to spin rapidly, turning into a blur of fluorescent light. A high-pitched ringing filled your ears, completely blocking out the sound of the hospital alarms. Your knees felt like water, your lungs refusing to expand as a cold, clammy sweat broke out across your forehead.

"Dr. Y/N?" a nurse called out, her voice sounding a million miles away. "Doctor, are you—"

Before she could finish the sentence, your vision went completely black. Your body collapsed like a deck of cards, your head narrowly missing the metal chart trolley as you hit the linoleum floor of the surgical ward, completely unconscious from sheer physical exhaustion, profound dehydration, and a heart that had simply run out of fuel to pump.

At the Ciutat Esportiva, the afternoon training session had just concluded. Alexia sat on the wooden bench in the locker room, her head bowed, staring blankly at the floor tiles while her teammates showered around her. She felt a heavy, suffocating dread in her chest all day, an unexplainable weight that made it hard to breathe.

Suddenly, her phone, resting on the bench beside her, began to vibrate violently.

An unknown, corporate landline number flashed across the screen. Normally, Alexia ignored unsaved numbers during training, but an instinct older than her career made her slide the screen open instantly.

"¿Sí?" she said, her voice raspy.

"Is this Alexia Putellas?" a sharp, authoritative voice asked. The background noise was a chaotic symphony of rhythmic bleeps, rushing footsteps, and overhead pages. A hospital.

Alexia’s blood turned to ice instantly. She stood up from the bench, her hand gripping the phone so hard the plastic creaked. "Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Dr. Anna Torres from the Emergency Department at Hospital Vall d'Hebron," the voice said, urgent but professional. "We have Dr. Y/N here. She collapsed outside the surgical theatres twenty minutes ago due to severe physical exhaustion, acute dehydration, and a critically low blood pressure spike. She’s stable now, but she's completely unresponsive to standard discharge protocols and is currently on an IV drip in ER Bay Three. Before she lost consciousness completely, she had her phone open to your contact info from an old chat archive. We need an immediate family member or designated contact to come down here, sign her medical leave forms, and take her home. She cannot be left alone in this state."

The locker room completely vanished from Alexia’s field of vision.

"I'm coming," Alexia choked out, a cold, violent wave of terror gripping her throat. "I’m ten minutes away. Please... please take care of her. I’m coming right now."

She didn't change out of her training kit. She didn't grab her bag. She threw her car keys into her pocket, ran out of the facility in her slides, and tore down the highway toward Vall d'Hebron like a woman running out of a burning building. The speed limit didn't exist. The traffic didn't exist. The only thing that existed in her universe was the terrifying image of your brilliant, funny, beautiful face lying pale under a harsh hospital sheet.

When she arrived at Vall d'Hebron, she didn't care about the people recognizing her in the lobby. She sprinted through the sliding glass doors of the Emergency Department, her chest heaving, her eyes wild as she scanned the signs until she found the high-security entrance to the treatment bays.

"Emergency Bay Three!" Alexia gasped to the triage nurse, slamming her palms down against the desk. "Dr. Y/N. I’m Alexia Putellas. They called me."

The nurse looked up, her expression softening with a mixture of recognition and gravity. She pointed down the long, chaotic corridor. "Bay Three is on the left, Captain. The attending doctor is waiting for you."

Alexia threw the curtain aside, her breath catching in her throat as she stepped into the small, sterile cubicle.

The sight broke something fundamental inside her soul.

You were lying on the narrow hospital bed, looking incredibly small beneath the coarse white blanket. Your face was almost translucent, your lips dry and chapped, with deep, purple-grey hollows beneath your closed eyes. A clear plastic oxygen cannula sat beneath your nose, and a thick IV line was taped to the back of your pale hand, pumping fluids into your exhausted system. The brilliant, sharp, hilarious Chief of Neurosurgery looked entirely deflated—broken by the very world she had tried so hard to cure.

Dr. Anna Torres, an older physician with a stern, no-nonsense expression, stood at the foot of the bed, reviewing a chart. She looked up as Alexia entered, her eyes dropping to Alexia’s sweaty training gear.

"You're the emergency contact?" Dr. Torres asked, her voice clipped.

"Yes," Alexia whispered, her eyes never leaving your face as she walked slowly to the side of your bed, her knees trembling so badly she had to grip the metal guardrail to stay upright. "What... what happened to her? She’s a doctor here. How did nobody see this coming?"

"Doctors are the worst patients, Miss. Putellas," Dr. Torres said with a heavy, tired sigh. "Your girlfriend has performed fourteen complex neurosurgical operations in the last three weeks alone. She has taken every night shift, skipped every administrative break, and according to her department’s cafeteria logs, she hasn't eaten a proper meal in days. Her body simply ran out of glucose and fluid. She didn't faint; her nervous system literally shut itself down to prevent a cardiac arrest from sheer stress and fatigue."

Alexia closed her eyes, a hot, agonizing tear sliding down her cheek, burning her skin. She did this because of me. I drove her to this.

"She needs absolute rest," Dr. Torres continued, handing Alexia a clipboard of medical leave documents. "I have signed her off from the surgical department for the next three weeks, effective immediately. Her keys are in that plastic basin. If you are going to take her home, you need to ensure she drinks fluids, eats solid food, and does absolutely nothing but sleep. If she stands up before tomorrow morning, her blood pressure will drop again. Can you handle that, or should I admit her to the observation ward?"

"No," Alexia said fiercely, her voice thick with emotion as she signed her name across the bottom of the forms with a shaking hand. "She’s coming home with me. I will take care of her. I swear to you, she won't lift a finger."

The drive back to the villa in Pedralbes was conducted in a heavy, fragile silence. You had partially regained consciousness when the nurses moved you to a wheelchair, but your mind was entirely hazy, your body feeling like it was encased in lead. You hadn't even had the strength to protest when you saw Alexia lifting you carefully into the passenger seat of her SUV, wrapping a thick fleece blanket around your shivering shoulders.

When she pulled into her private garage, she didn't let you try to walk. She reached into the car, sliding one powerful arm beneath your knees and the other securely behind your back, lifting your slight frame against her chest in one smooth, protective motion.

Your head automatically rolled into the crook of her neck, an ancient, instinctual habit your body refused to forget even through the fog of your exhaustion. You inhaled the familiar scent of her skin—laundry detergent, sweat, and that deep, intoxicating warmth that had always meant safety to your tired brain.

"Alexia..." you mumbled, your voice a tiny, dry scratch against her skin. "Let me down. I can walk. I have to go back to the ICU..."

"Cállate, mi vida," Alexia whispered fiercely, her voice breaking as she carried you through the private elevator straight into her massive, sunlit master bedroom. "You are not going back to any hospital. You are staying right here."

She laid you down on the giant, king-sized bed with an tenderness that felt almost holy. She carefully stripped off your stiff hospital scrubs, leaving you in a soft, oversized cotton t-shirt, and pulled the heavy, down comforter up to your chin.

For the next two hours, you slipped back into a deep, dreamless sleep. When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the afternoon sun had softened into a warm, amber twilight, casting long, lazy shadows across the white walls of the room. The room smelled of fresh lavender and hot chicken broth.

You shifted your head slightly on the plush pillow, and your breath instantly caught in your throat.

Alexia hadn't left. She was sitting directly on the hardwood floor right beside your bed, her back resting against the mattress, her knees pulled up to her chest. She had finally changed out of her training kit into a pair of worn grey sweatpants, but she looked completely shattered. Her face was buried in her palms, her broad shoulders shaking with quiet, rhythmic sobs that she was desperately trying to muffle so she wouldn't wake you.

The sight of the formidable, unshakeable captain of Barcelona weeping on the floor like a heartbroken child completely dissolved the last lingering remnants of your defensive wall. You were a doctor; you knew when a wound had been cleaned, and you knew when it was time to let the tissue heal.

Slowly, with an immense effort, you slid your hand out from beneath the heavy comforter, your pale fingers reaching out until they gently brushed against the soft hair at the nape of her neck.

Alexia bolted upright instantly, her head snapping around, her hazel eyes wild and completely drenched in tears. When she saw that you were awake, your eyes clear and focused on her, a sharp, choked gasp escaped her lips.

"Hey," you whispered, a tiny, fragile smile touching your dry lips. "Why are you crying on the floor? You look like you're the one who survived a twelve-hour shift."

"Y/N," Alexia breathed, her voice a total wreck. She didn't hesitate. She scrambled up onto the mattress, moving with a desperate, frantic energy, but she stopped just an inch away from you, her hands hovering over your face, trembling violently, completely terrified to touch you without your permission. "Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Do you need water? The doctor said you needed to drink this broth, I have it right here—"

"Alexia," you said softly, interrupting her frantic rambling. You reached up, your hand catching her wrist, your fingers sliding down until they interlocked with hers, your grip surprisingly warm despite your weakness. "Come here."

A loud, broken sob escaped her lips at the simple invitation. The two months of agony, the walls of silence, the terrifying image of you on that ER bed—it all collapsed in a single second. She slid down onto the bed beside you, her powerful arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate, terrifyingly tight grip, burying her face into the crook of your neck as she wept openly, her entire body shaking against yours.

"Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento," Alexia cried into your skin, her voice thick and raw with an unbearable weight of guilt. "I am so sorry, Y/N. I am so sorry for the horrible, disgusting, cowardly things I said to those people in the lounge. I was terrified of the media, I was caught off guard, and I used the worst words in the world to protect a secret because I was a coward. I didn't mean a single word of it. I swear on my life, I swear on everything I am... you are not exhausting. You are not a puppy. You are my entire world."

She pulled back just enough to look down into your eyes, her hands framing your face, her thumbs desperately wiping away the stray tears that were beginning to pool in your eyes.

"I loved every single second you wrapped yourself around my back," Alexia wept, her hazel eyes burning with an intensity that left no room for doubt. "I loved the way you would sit in my lap for hours. I missed it so much, Y/N. I spent two months living in an empty house that felt like a tomb because my koala wasn't here. When the hospital called me today... when they told me you collapsed because you were working yourself to death to avoid me... I felt like my heart was being torn out of my chest. Don't do this to me again. Please. Punch me, scream at me, hate me if you have to... but don't run away into the dark where I can't protect you."

You stared up at her, your chest heaving as the sheer volume of her devotion completely filled the empty space in your soul. You saw the raw, bloodshot truth in her eyes. You saw the physical toll the separation had taken on her own body. She had spent two months fighting a war against the very walls she had built, and she had completely demolished them just to get to your bedside.

"Your apology is structurally sound, Putellas," you choked out through a tearful, wet laugh, your hands rising to grip her forearms. "But your tactical execution during that dinner was absolutely atrocious."

Alexia let out a loud, breathless laugh through her tears, her face lighting up with a radiant, emotional joy that made her look like herself again. "I know. I'm an idiot. A complete, total idiot. But I fixed it, Y/N. I swear I fixed it."

She reached into her sweatpants pocket, pulling out her phone and sliding the screen open with a shaking thumb. She turned the screen toward you.

It was a live post on her official Instagram account—the one with over three million followers. It was a beautiful, candid photograph you didn't even know she had taken months ago, showing you sitting on her terrace in the evening light, your hair loose, laughing at something she had said, looking absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.

The caption beneath the photo was written in large, bold letters in both Catalan and Spanish:

“The most brilliant mind in the world, the finest surgeon at Vall d'Hebron, and the only woman I will ever love.”

The comments section was already a chaotic, exploding waterfall of millions of likes, red hearts, and messages of support from fans, teammates, and the entire sporting community. She hadn't just thrown away the box; she had exploded it in front of the entire world.

Your breath completely caught in your throat, a fresh wave of hot, ecstatic tears blurring your vision as you looked from the screen back up to her face. "Alexia... your sponsors... the club executives..."

"Let them talk," Alexia whispered fiercely, tossing the phone onto the nightstand, completely dismissing the entire global media landscape with a wave of her hand. She leaned down, her face stopping just centimeters from yours, her breath warm against your lips. "Let the whole world write the stories. Out there, I am the player. But in this room, on this bed, I am just a woman who is completely, desperately in love with her girlfriend. I don't care about the cameras anymore, Y/N. I just need you. I need my clingy, beautiful doctor back. Please."

The final wall of doubt inside your soul completely turned to dust.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "But I told you... I am incredibly high-maintenance when I'm sick."

"Sé lo que me espera," Alexia murmured with a breathless, beautiful smile, and then she closed the final distance.

The kiss was entirely different from the cold, professional distance of the last nine weeks. It was deep, possessive, and filled with a profound, overwhelming warmth that completely healed every single broken circuit in your exhausted brain. Alexia’s lips parted yours with a smooth, intoxicating hunger, her tongue tracing your lower lip with a reverent sweetness that made your soul vibrate. Her powerful arms slid beneath your back, lifting your upper body off the mattress to pull you completely flush against her chest, holding you so tightly it felt like she was trying to fuse your ribs together.

You let out a soft, satisfied sigh into her mouth, your arms instantly locking around her neck, your fingers tangling into the short blonde hair at the base of her skull, pulling her closer, tasting the salt of her tears and the rich sweetness of the broth she had prepared.

When she finally pulled back, just an inch, she didn't let you move. She shifted her body until she was lying completely flat on the mattress beside you, her long legs tangling with yours beneath the heavy comforter, her arm sliding beneath your head to act as a permanent pillow.

The moment she was settled, the high-key, shameless clinginess that defined your relationship returned with a violent, roaring vengeance.

Now that the angst was gone, your body completely demanded the comfort it had been starved of for months. You shifted your hips, crawling across the sheets until your entire front was pressed tightly against her side. You threw your right leg completely over her powerful thighs, pinning her down, and buried your face directly into the warm crook of her neck, your fingers digging into the fabric of her t-shirt as if you were trying to burrow inside her skin.

Alexia let out a rich, deep laugh—that beautiful, raspy sound you had missed so much—and her arms locked around your waist instantly, pulling your hips even closer until there wasn't a single millimeter of space left between your bodies. She began pressing sweet, lingering kisses into your hair, your temple, and the soft skin behind your ear, her hand rubbing slow, soothing circles across your back.

"Madre mía, te extrañaba tanto," Alexia murmured against your skin, her voice full of a warm, sleepy contentment that vibrated straight into your chest. "My little koala is back."

"Shut up," you mumbled into her collarbone, your voice drowsy but full of an absolute, unbreakable happiness as the warmth of her body finally allowed your nervous system to fully cool down. "You said I was a lost puppy. Now you have to deal with the consequences."

"I will deal with them for the next fifty years," Alexia whispered softly, tightening her grip around you, her nose nudging your jawline affectionately. "Drink your broth first, and then you can sleep for three weeks. I’m not letting you go to the bathroom alone, understood?"

"Understood, Captain," you sighed, your eyelids growing heavy as the absolute safety of her presence finally allowed your brain to drift toward a deep, natural sleep.

You hate football.

You hate the sound of a ball striking a boot, that sharp crack that seems to follow you everywhere no matter how many years you spend trying to distance yourself from it. You hate the smell of freshly cut grass because it instantly transports you back to training grounds and stadium tunnels and endless afternoons spent waiting around while other people obsessed over a game you never cared about. You hate the sight of floodlights illuminating a pitch at dusk, hate the television commentators who speak about football as though it is the most important thing in the world, hate the way complete strangers seem to believe they know your family simply because they know your surname.

Most of all, you hate the way football consumed your childhood.

Your papa’s playing career had already ended when you were still young enough to think adults knew everything, but by then his managerial career was ascending so quickly that it felt as though football had just found a new way to claim him. Success turned into reputation, reputation turned into influence, and influence eventually became something larger than any individual person. It became legacy.

People spoke about him with a reverence that sometimes bordered on worship. Journalists dissected every decision he made as though it were a matter of national importance. Fans crossed streets just for the chance to shake his hand. Other managers studied his teams, copied his tactics, and spent entire press conferences discussing his ideas. Everywhere you went, there were reminders that your father was not simply a man anymore.

He was a symbol.

Maybe, at twenty-eight, you should appreciate that more than you do.

Maybe you should be grateful for the opportunities his career created for your family, for the doors that opened before you ever had to knock, for the experiences that most people only dream about. Maybe you should feel proud every time somebody recognizes your surname and their eyes widen in admiration.

You try. You really do. But it is difficult to feel grateful for a legacy that demanded so much from the people who loved him.

It is difficult to celebrate football when football stole countless evenings that should have belonged to your family. Difficult to romanticize success when it meant birthdays spent waiting for him to return from away matches, school performances where an empty seat sat beside your mother, and holidays interrupted by phone calls that inevitably dragged his attention back to training sessions, injuries, transfers, and tactics.

Football never stopped asking for more.

And because football never stopped asking, neither did life.

One day you were running barefoot across the warm sand of Barcelona’s beaches, speaking Catalan with your friends, convinced that the Mediterranean sun would shine forever. The next, your entire life had been packed into boxes because your father had accepted a new challenge in Munich.

You still remember how cold it felt.

The language sounded harsh and unfamiliar, all sharp consonants and impossible grammar, and no matter how hard you studied, you never felt as though you truly belonged there. The city was beautiful, people always insisted that when you complained, but beauty means very little when you are eleven and homesick. What you remember is the grey sky, the endless winter, and the feeling that everyone around you understood a world that remained stubbornly closed to you.

Before you could fully settle, football moved your family again.

Manchester was somehow worse.

The rain seemed endless. The sky existed in varying shades of grey. Entire weeks passed without seeing proper sunlight, and you became convinced that British food was an elaborate punishment disguised as a national cuisine. Every conversation somehow circled back to football. Every newspaper featured football. Every radio station discussed football.

You could never escape it. Not even in your own home.

And yet, despite everything, despite your resentment and frustration and the years spent insisting that you wanted absolutely nothing to do with the sport that had dictated so much of your life, you never stopped loving your father.

Because your papa never brought football through the front door with him.

The moment he stepped inside, he became simply Papa. 

The father who woke you up early on weekends for bike rides along the coast whenever the family was back in Spain. The father who spent hours researching restaurants because he wanted to surprise you with somewhere new. The father who never missed an opportunity to take you to the cinema, even if it meant staying out far later than he probably should have before training the next morning.

When you graduated from law school, he celebrated with more enthusiasm than he had ever shown after winning a trophy. When you secured your first prestigious internship, he called every member of the family before you even had the chance to tell them yourself. When you received the offer for your dream position back in Catalonia, he looked prouder than any photograph you had ever seen of him lifting silverware.

Football trophies decorated museums and boardrooms. Your achievements decorated conversations. And there was never any doubt which mattered more to him.

You were the apple of his eye and everyone knew it.

Your brothers teased him about it relentlessly, your mother rolled her eyes whenever he tried to deny it, and even he occasionally admitted it with a sheepish smile when he thought nobody important was listening.

You were his little girl - always.

So when you finally came home, part of you wondered if something in him had quietly settled too.

After nearly two decades of living abroad, after years spent building a life around airports and moving trucks and temporary addresses, you returned to Barcelona for good. You found an apartment overlooking streets you actually recognized. You reconnected with old friends. You started the career you had worked so hard to build.

For the first time in years, home felt like home again.

And not long after you settled back in Catalonia, he announced he would be leaving Manchester. Maybe it was coincidence or maybe he was simply ready to rest and enjoy everything he had spent decades building instead of always chasing the next challenge. But regardless, the football world reacted with the kind of dramatic disbelief usually reserved for royal abdications.

Television channels dedicated entire evenings to discussing his decision. Former players gave emotional interviews. Journalists wrote lengthy retrospectives examining every trophy, every tactical innovation, every rivalry, and every triumph. Fans treated it like the end of an era.

Your father just seemed relieved.

While the rest of the world searched for hidden meanings and secret plans, he spent his days taking long walks with your mother, drinking coffee on terraces overlooking the sea, and rediscovering hobbies that football had stolen from him years ago. For the first time in your life, he looked like a man who wasn’t carrying the weight of an entire club on his shoulders.

He was sometimes a little too relaxed though, in your opinion.

You arrive at your parents’ new house on a warm afternoon, letting yourself in through the front door without bothering to knock. The house sits along the coast, tucked away from the attention that had followed your family for most of your life, and it already feels more like home than any of the temporary houses you had occupied in Munich or Manchester. Sunlight pours through enormous windows overlooking the water, filling every room with a warm golden glow. The distant sound of waves drifts through the open terrace doors and mixes with the faint commentary coming from a television somewhere deeper inside the house.

Following the noise into the living room, you find your parents exactly where you expected them to be.

Curled together on the sofa, practically intertwined, your mother’s legs stretched across your father’s lap while his arm rests comfortably around her shoulders. Some football match plays quietly in the background. The local women’s side, you think after sparing the screen barely a second of attention before immediately losing interest.

The sight would probably make most people smile. It mostly makes you roll your eyes.

Thirty years of marriage and somehow they are still disgustingly in love.

The moment they notice you, their faces brighten in perfect unison. They exchange identical smiles before rising from the couch together, both already reaching for you before you’ve even crossed the room. Your father gets there first, wrapping his arms around you with enough enthusiasm to make it clear that retirement has done absolutely nothing to reduce his affection. You lean into the embrace for a brief moment before your mother steals you away for one of her own.

They have become unbearable since you moved home.

Years of complaining that you lived too far away have apparently convinced them that physical affection must now compensate for every lunch, celebratory dinner, and ordinary afternoon they missed while you were building your career elsewhere.

You allow it because, despite your complaints, you’ve missed them too.

The three of you settle into the living room and fall easily into conversation. Your mother disappears briefly to bring coffee and pastries while your father asks about work, genuinely interested in the answer despite understanding almost nothing about corporate law. He listens anyway, nodding thoughtfully while you complain about difficult clients and impossible deadlines, asking questions with the same focus he once reserved for post-match tactical analysis.

The conversation drifts naturally between subjects until you notice a look pass between your parents.

The tiny exchange lasts less than a second, but after twenty-eight years of being their daughter, you recognize it as something immediately.

Your father suddenly becomes very interested in his coffee while your mother struggles to hide an amused smile behind her hands.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

Your mother’s smile widens. Your father sighs. And suddenly you know with complete certainty that whatever is about to happen is going to inconvenience you.

“Carinyo…” your father begins, setting his drink down on the table with a level of caution that makes you suspicious. “I have a favor to ask you.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Across the sofa, your mother seems very interested in stirring her coffee despite the fact that she hasn’t added anything to it.

That alone tells you everything you need to know.

“What kind of favor?”

Your father shifts slightly in his seat.

“Your mother has that baby shower tomorrow. You know, for your cousin.”

A very distant cousin, but yes, you know exactly which baby shower he means. Your mother has been talking about it for weeks despite the fact that neither of you could confidently identify the woman in a lineup.

You wait patiently for him to continue.

“Well,” he says, drawing the word out slightly, “Barça is hosting a gala tomorrow night for the foundation. They’ve asked me to speak because apparently they think seeing your old man back in blaugrana colours will encourage people to donate more money.”

He rolls his eyes as though the idea is completely ridiculous, which is particularly rich coming from a man who could probably convince half of Catalonia to buy bottled tap water if he attached his name to it.

You continue staring at him. The favor still hasn’t arrived. Your father notices your blank look and suddenly looks far less confident.

The sheepish expression that crosses his face is answer enough.

“Oh no.”

His shoulders sag, “Listen-”

“No!”

“I haven’t even asked yet.”

“You don’t need to.”

A laugh escapes your mother before she quickly hides it behind her coffee cup. Your father points at her accusingly before turning back toward you.

“I was wondering…” He hesitates for a moment, clearly aware that this conversation is not heading in his favor. “Well, since your mother can’t come…”

You already know where this is going. You know it before he even finishes the sentence. You know it so certainly that your eyes close in defeat.

“Maybe you could come with me?”

There it is. The disaster. A football gala.

An entire evening surrounded by former players, club executives, sponsors, journalists, donors, and every other category of person you have spent your entire adult life trying to avoid.

“Be my date?"

“Papa,” you groan, dropping your head back against the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling as though divine intervention might still save you.

“It won’t be that bad.”

It will undoubtedly be that bad.

Your father, unfortunately, mistakes your silence for uncertainty and quickly launches into his defense.

“You can pretend it’s some lawyer event! There’ll be loads of lawyers from the club there.”

Wonderful, your favorite.

An entire room filled with wealthy old men who would spend the first few minutes of every conversation staring at your chest and the remainder trying to impress you with stories about their glory days. At least until they realized who your father was, at which point they would inevitably begin treating you like some extension of him rather than an accomplished lawyer in your own right.

The more you think about it, the worse it becomes.

Unfortunately, Papa is looking at you with the same hopeful expression he has worn your entire life whenever he wants something from you, and that expression has always been your weakness.

He rarely asks for anything at all so when he does you’re basically a goner.

The sigh that leaves your mouth is long and dramatic enough to make your mother smile.

“Okay. Fine… I’ll go.”

The relief that floods your father’s face is so genuine that it almost makes the sacrifice feel worthwhile. Almost.

You hold up a finger before he can thank you.

“But I expect to buy a beautiful new dress on your dime.”

His grin arrives instantly. He doesn’t seem remotely surprised or concerned about the expense.

“Done.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. That agreement had come far too quickly.

Your father only looks more pleased with himself, leaning back into the sofa with the satisfied expression of a man who had anticipated every step of the negotiation before it even began.

And perhaps he had.

After all, his daughter might be a lawyer and a professional negotiator, but he had spent twenty-eight years studying her habits, weaknesses, and bargaining tactics.

In many ways, he was the only person in the world who negotiated with you better than you negotiated with everyone else.

------

The following evening, a sleek black town car waits outside your apartment building, its polished exterior reflecting the golden glow of the streetlights as the driver stands patiently beside it. The entire scene feels unnecessarily dramatic, which is exactly what you would expect from an event connected to football. Somewhere along the way, the sport had apparently decided that everything needed to feel larger than life.

The chauffeur moves toward the rear door the moment you emerge from the building, but he barely has time to reach for the handle before the opposite door swings open.

Your father steps out. You can’t help smiling.

For all the wealth and status and prestige that surround him, he has never quite mastered the art of letting other people do things for him.

His face brightens when he sees you and for a moment, he just stares.

The expression is familiar. It’s the same expression he wore at your university graduation. The same expression he wore when you passed the bar exam. The same expression he wore whenever you accomplished something that made him proud.

Only tonight you’re fairly certain he’s just admiring his beautiful daughter.

The black gown hugs your frame perfectly before flowing elegantly toward the floor, simple enough to be sophisticated and expensive enough to make your father wince slightly when the credit card bill eventually arrives.

“You look stunning, darling.”

A warmth spreads through your chest despite yourself.

“Gràcies, Papa.”

You step closer, reaching up automatically to straighten his bow tie. It has shifted slightly to the left, something no one else in the world would probably notice. Your father remains perfectly still while you adjust it, smiling softly the entire time.

“There,” you murmur. “Now you look presentable.”

He laughs. “Thank you for coming.”

The words are simple, but there is a sincerity behind them that softens whatever complaints you had prepared.

“I really am happy you’ll be by my side tonight.”

"Me too." You squeeze his arm affectionately. “And when you inevitably get kidnapped by hundreds of middle-aged fanboys who want to tell you where they were when Barça won some trophy fifteen years ago, you can find me at the open bar.”

His laughter echoes across the quiet street. The look he gives you says he knows you’re absolutely right.

Unfortunately, you are.

The moment the two of you arrive at the gala and step into the ballroom arm in arm, it feels as though half the room suddenly remembers your father exists.

People begin approaching from every direction almost immediately.

Former players, executives, sponsors, club officials. Men who have apparently spent the last decade waiting for an opportunity to tell your father the exact same stories he has heard three dozen times before.

Hands are shaken. Introductions are made.

Your father proudly introduces you at every opportunity, his arm occasionally settling around your shoulders as though he cannot resist reminding people that you are his golden child. For a few brief moments the conversations remain balanced, the guests politely asking about your work and your life before inevitably gravitating back toward football.

They always gravitate back toward football. Every single time.

You stand there smiling politely while listening to conversations about matches, transfers, tactical systems, club politics, and moments from seasons that happened so long ago they should probably be considered historical events.

The muscles in your face practically ache from resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

Eventually your father catches your expression.

His mouth twitches and a small apologetic grimace flashes across his features as another group begins steering him toward a gathering of board members and club leadership waiting across the room.

You simply gesture toward the bar. He nods in understanding.

You have performed this dance together your entire life. He gets absorbed into football. You escape. Everyone wins.

The bar occupies one corner of the ballroom beneath a cascade of crystal chandeliers, and you settle onto one of the empty stools before ordering a glass of wine. The bartender delivers it moments later and you take a long sip, grateful for both the drink and the temporary solitude.

From your seat, you can observe the entire room.

The gala is fully alive now. Clusters of elegantly dressed guests fill every corner of the space. Women in designer gowns drift between conversations while men in tailored tuxedos cradle glasses of expensive liquor. Laughter rises above the soft music playing in the background. Waiters weave effortlessly through the crowd carrying silver trays piled high with champagne flutes.

The amount of wealth concentrated inside the ballroom is honestly staggering.

You suspect there are enough questionable offshore accounts in attendance tonight to single-handedly support several Mediterranean economies. The thought makes you smirk into your wine.

Unfortunately, your solitude doesn’t last long. It never does.

You notice the older man approaching several seconds before he reaches you.

Expensive watch, expensive suit, and the particular confidence of someone who has spent decades assuming that women will be delighted by his attention.

You suppress a sigh. What exactly about sitting alone at the end of a bar while staring into a glass of wine suggests that you are hoping to be interrupted?

You brace yourself for whatever painfully rehearsed line he is about to deliver.

Thankfully, he never gets the chance.

Another figure appears seemingly out of nowhere, slipping smoothly into the space between the two of you before the man can even open his mouth. The movement is so natural and effortless that it takes you a moment to realize what has happened.

The woman leans casually against the bar beside you, one arm resting lightly on the polished countertop as she lifts a hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Sparkling water, please.” Her voice is warm and confident.

Then she glances toward you. “And another…”

The sentence trails off as she gestures politely for you to finish the order yourself.

“White wine,” you tell the bartender. “Please.”

Only then do you risk looking past her shoulder.

The older man has stopped several feet away, apparently receiving the message loud and clear. After a brief moment of hesitation, he turns and heads toward another bar on the opposite side of the ballroom.

Your shoulders relax immediately.

The stranger notices, a faint smile touches her lips.

Moments later, the bartender returns with both drinks. She thanks him before carefully taking your wine glass and handing it to you.

For the first time, you properly look at the woman who has just rescued you. And for the first time all evening, something about the gala becomes interesting.

“Thanks,” you say as your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass.

The woman offers a small shrug, as though stepping in to save complete strangers from uncomfortable conversations is something she does every day.

“No problem. I saw him making a beeline toward you and you didn’t seem particularly interested.”

You let out a quiet laugh at that.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Definitely not.”

Her smile widens slightly, seemingly pleased that her assessment had been accurate. For a moment neither of you says anything, the comfortable silence settling naturally between you as the noise of the gala swells around the bar. Conversations overlap across the ballroom, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of crystal, while somewhere near the stage a photographer calls for attention from a cluster of former players posing together.

The woman lifts her sparkling water in a small gesture of farewell and begins to turn away.

For reasons you can’t entirely explain, you find yourself stopping her.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

She pauses and glances back over her shoulder.

“Alexia.”

Just Alexia. No surname or explanation or attempt whatsoever to clarify who she is.

You find yourself studying her more openly now that you have an excuse to do so. 

She is undeniably beautiful, though not in the polished, manufactured way so many people at events like this seem determined to be. Her beauty feels effortless. 

Her dark hair falls loosely over one shoulder, framing striking hazel eyes that seem to miss absolutely nothing, while the understated elegance of her dress somehow draws more attention than the far more extravagant gowns scattered throughout the ballroom.

There is a quiet confidence about her, the sort that cannot be purchased or practiced in front of a mirror. She carries herself like someone completely comfortable being noticed, yet entirely uninterested in demanding attention.

Perhaps she notices your prolonged inspection or perhaps you’re just less subtle than you think. Because when your eyes meet hers again, there is unmistakable amusement dancing there.

“Alexia no last name?” you ask lightly, attempting to recover some dignity by shifting the attention back onto her.

The knowing smile that follows is immediate. The sort of smile that suggests she understands exactly what game you’re trying to play.

She merely nods.

You can’t stop your own smile from appearing.

“Fair enough.”

Extending your hand, you introduce yourself exactly the same way she had, offering only your first name and nothing else. If she wanted to play mysterious, you were more than capable of meeting her on equal footing.

The look in her eyes brightens instantly. The challenge has been accepted.

When she takes your hand, you’re struck by how confident the gesture feels. Her grip is firm without being aggressive, practiced without feeling rehearsed, and accompanied by steady eye contact that somehow manages to feel both professional and deeply personal at the same time. It reminds you vaguely of networking seminars during law school, where entire lectures had been dedicated to first impressions and the psychology of handshakes.

Yet nothing else about her suggests lawyer.

She carries herself differently, more comfortably and naturally. She is far too sun-kissed to spend every day trapped inside offices, conference rooms, and court buildings. And there is none of the carefully managed tension that seems to plague everyone in your profession. 

Instead, she appears completely at ease within herself, as though she has long since stopped worrying about how others perceive her.

Your curiosity grows.

“So what brings you to the gala?” you ask, hoping to fill in at least some of the increasingly obvious gaps in her story.

Alexia takes a slow sip of her water before answering.

“I’m affiliated with the club.”

The response is so vague that it borders on parody. The smile she gives you is suspiciously innocent.

You stare at her. She stares right back, completely serious. Your head tilts slightly and her smile widens. 

Before you can press for clarification, she smoothly redirects the conversation back toward you.

“And you?”

The challenge is obvious.

You laugh softly despite yourself. “My father is affiliated with the club.”

For the first time, genuine amusement flashes across her face. The corners of her eyes crinkle slightly. Touché.

The conversation continues from there with surprising ease.

What begins as polite small talk somehow stretches into something far more engaging, neither of you appearing particularly interested in discussing the things that should logically dominate a conversation between two strangers at a gala. Instead of careers or accomplishments or the carefully curated biographies that people usually exchange at events like this, the discussion drifts effortlessly toward entirely different subjects, as though both of you have silently agreed that those details can wait.

You compare childhood neighborhoods and debate which corners of Catalonia are still worth visiting before tourists inevitably discover them. You argue over the best cafés in Barcelona, exchange stories about terrible landlords and nightmare neighbors, laugh about absurd encounters with overly entitled strangers, and commiserate over the strange experience of returning to a city that once felt like home only to discover that it has somehow changed while remaining exactly the same.

One topic melts into the next so naturally that you eventually lose track of how the conversation keeps evolving. There are no awkward pauses, no desperate searches for something new to discuss, no moments where either of you scans the room for an escape route. Every answer seems to create three new questions, every story sparks another memory, and before long the noise of the gala has faded into little more than background static.

At some point you find yourself telling her about growing up in Barcelona before moving away, about how strange it felt watching your childhood disappear through the rear window of a moving car while every adult around you insisted that the next city would be an exciting adventure. You tell her about Germany and the endless struggle of learning a language that always seemed to have twice as many rules as necessary, about England and its relentless grey skies that somehow managed to make even summer feel overcast, and about the peculiar loneliness that comes from constantly arriving somewhere new only to know that eventually you’ll be expected to leave again.

Most people hear stories like that and immediately begin searching for opportunities to tell stories of their own. They wait just long enough for you to finish speaking before redirecting the conversation back toward themselves, eager to compare experiences or share an anecdote that proves they understand exactly how you feel.

Alexia doesn’t. Instead, she listens. Actually listens.

Her attention never seems to wander despite the chaos unfolding around you. She doesn’t glance over your shoulder searching for someone more important. She doesn’t check her phone. She doesn’t interrupt with stories designed to redirect the spotlight back onto herself. She just watches you with genuine interest, occasionally asking a question that reveals she has been paying far closer attention than most people ever do. 

It is unexpectedly disarming.

You have always been a gifted storyteller. Long before law school taught you how to construct arguments and command a room, you possessed an instinctive understanding of narrative, timing, and audience. You know how to hold someone’s attention. You know how to make people laugh at exactly the right moment. You know how to guide a conversation wherever you want it to go and leave people feeling as though they arrived there naturally.

Yet with Alexia, you find yourself becoming unusually aware of that instinct.

You’re not even consciously trying to impress her, if anything, the realization sneaks up on you slowly. Somewhere between discussing childhood memories and trading stories about cities that never quite felt like home, you discover that you care whether she finds your stories interesting. You care whether she laughs. You care whether that attentive look remains in her eyes.

Every time her expression softens with interest, you find yourself elaborating slightly more than necessary. Every time she laughs, warmth spreads through your chest with surprising ease. Every thoughtful question encourages another story, another memory, another piece of yourself that you wouldn’t normally volunteer to someone you’ve known for less than an hour. 

Gradually the rest of the gala begins to fade into the background.

The donors and executives become little more than moving shapes beyond the bar. Conversations that had once seemed annoyingly loud blur into an indistinct hum. Bursts of laughter rise and fall somewhere across the ballroom without ever fully registering. Even Papa, who had been the entire reason for your attendance tonight, slips from your thoughts entirely as the world narrows down to the space occupied by two bar stools and a woman with hazel eyes.

For nearly an hour, the woman who introduced herself only as Alexia somehow becomes the most interesting person in a room filled with football legends, celebrities, politicians, and people wealthy enough to purchase entire islands if the mood ever struck them.

And judging by the way she continues looking at you, as though every story is worth hearing and every answer only creates a dozen new questions, you begin to suspect she is finding you equally difficult to walk away from.

The announcement comes far too soon.

A man’s voice echoes through the ballroom speakers, warm and polished in the way that only people who spend their lives hosting charity galas seem capable of sounding, thanking everyone for their generosity before informing the room that dinner would be served shortly and asking guests to begin finding their assigned tables.

Around you, conversations begin dissolving. Clusters of people separate with reluctant smiles and promises to continue discussions later, while waiters appear as if summoned from nowhere and begin directing guests toward the dining area.

Beside you, Alexia huffs softly in irritation. The sound pulls a smile from you because it mirrors your own disappointment almost perfectly.

You hadn’t realized how much time had passed until now. Somewhere between discussing childhood friends and comparing favorite vacation destinations, an hour had disappeared without either of you seeming to notice.

Apparently neither of you had wanted the conversation to end.

Alexia rises from her stool with obvious reluctance, smoothing a hand along her dress as she glances toward the dining area where guests are already beginning to find their seats. For a moment she just stands there, as though considering whether there might be some socially acceptable way to ignore the announcement altogether and remain exactly where she is.

Then her eyes find yours again and without a word, she extends her hand. 

The gesture is simple and effortless. Yet something about it makes your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

You are perfectly capable of standing on your own. In fact, you have spent most of your life being fiercely independent, stubbornly refusing help even when you probably should have accepted it. Yet the offered hand feels less like assistance and more like an invitation, and you find yourself taking it before you’ve fully thought through why.

Her fingers close around yours warmly.

The contact is brief, lasting only long enough for her to help you from the stool despite the fact that neither of you actually needed the assistance, yet you become acutely aware of it anyway. The softness of her hand. The quiet confidence in the gesture. The way her thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles as she releases you.

By the time your feet are firmly beneath you, the moment has already passed. Still, the sensation lingers.

You hesitate for a second, caught between caution and curiosity, between the instinct to protect yourself and the increasingly powerful desire to see where this might lead. Normally you would overthink it and spend ten minutes analyzing every possible outcome before saying anything at all.

Instead, before your better judgment can intervene, you decide that being brave for once might actually be worth it.

“Come find me after the auction?”

The question leaves your mouth before you have the opportunity to reconsider it.

For the briefest moment, uncertainty flickers through you. Maybe she was simply being polite. Maybe she had enjoyed the conversation in the pleasant, fleeting way people often enjoy conversations at events like this, with no expectation of ever continuing them. Maybe you had mistaken friendliness for interest, curiosity for chemistry. Maybe the easy rhythm that had developed between the two of you existed only in your imagination.

The doubts barely have time to form before Alexia’s face brightens. The reaction is so immediate and so genuine that it erases every one of them at once.

“Yes,” she says, the answer arriving almost before you’ve finished speaking, as though there was never any possibility of a different response. “I’d like that.”

Something warm unfurls inside your chest.

It is an embarrassingly satisfying reaction, made worse by the fact that you cannot seem to stop the smile spreading across your face. For someone who prides herself on being composed, on remaining rational and measured and entirely unaffected by attractive strangers, you are suddenly doing a remarkably poor job.

Alexia notices. The amused softness that settles into her expression suggests she is having far too much fun watching you try and fail to appear unaffected.

Still smiling, you give her hand one final squeeze before finally letting go.

For a few lingering seconds, the two of you remain exactly where you are, standing beside the bar as though neither is particularly eager to be the first one to leave.

Eventually reality reasserts itself. Dinner, tables, responsibilities. The endless procession of speeches and fundraising and networking that accompanies every event of this kind. The evening begins pulling you in opposite directions, demanding your attention whether you are ready to give it or not.

Reluctantly, the two of you separate.

You take several steps toward the dining area before glancing back over your shoulder.

Alexia is already looking. The discovery sends an entirely unreasonable amount of satisfaction rushing through you. 

For a brief moment your eyes meet across the growing crowd, both of you caught in the act, and neither bothering to pretend otherwise. Then she laughs softly and shakes her head before turning toward her own table.

You continue walking with a smile that refuses to leave your face.

The ballroom has transformed while you were distracted. The lights have been dimmed slightly, softening the vast room into something warmer and more intimate, while the enormous chandeliers overhead cast everything in a golden glow that reflects off crystal glasses and polished silverware. Elaborate floral arrangements sit at the center of every table, their carefully arranged blooms competing for attention with the designer gowns, tailored tuxedos, and enough expensive jewelry to fund a small nation. Around you, VIPs, politicians, former players, sponsors, and donors settle into their seats, conversations gradually quieting as the evening shifts from cocktails and mingling into the more formal portion of the program.

Your own table appears to contain precisely the sort of people you had spent the first half of the evening trying to avoid.

The executives are already deep into discussions about sponsorship agreements and broadcasting rights. A politician whose face you vaguely recognize from television is attempting to charm everyone within earshot. Two former directors are comparing stories from decades ago as though they personally built the club brick by brick.

You slide into the empty seat beside your father, offering the polite smile expected of you before settling comfortably into your chair.

As soon as you settle in, your father leans slightly in your direction.

“Having a nice time?”

The question itself is perfectly innocent, his expression, unfortunately, is not.

You know that look. The faint curve threatening at the corner of his mouth. The glimmer of amusement dancing behind his eyes. The unmistakable expression of a man who has noticed something and is enjoying the fact that you haven’t caught up yet.

Your own eyes narrow instantly.

“Yes,” you answer honestly, because there is little point pretending otherwise. “It’s actually been better than I expected.”

The smile grows enough to send alarm bells ringing somewhere deep inside your head.

“I thought you always said no footballers.”

You blink. “What?”

The single word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

For a moment your father appears as though he might elaborate. His smile widens further, clearly delighted by your confusion, and you can practically see the response forming behind his eyes.

Unfortunately, before he can say another word, the foundation president steps onto the stage.

The ballroom gradually falls silent - conversations fade and heads turn. Attention shifts toward the podium as the evening’s official program begins. Your father is forced to abandon whatever explanation he had been preparing and straighten in his chair, his focus returning to the stage.

The moment passes, at least for him. For you, however, the damage has already been done.

You barely hear a single word of the speech. The president could be announcing the discovery of extraterrestrial life and you aren’t entirely sure you would notice, your brain is too busy replaying that sentence.

For as long as you can remember, those two words had been one of the few constants in your life.

No footballers.

The rule had first emerged when you were a teenager, born out of years spent watching football dictate nearly every aspect of your family’s existence. You remembered crying to your mother after another school performance where your father’s seat remained empty despite his best intentions. You remembered holidays interrupted by transfer negotiations and urgent phone calls. You remembered constantly packing boxes and saying goodbye to friends because football had decided your family belonged in a different country. You remembered loving your father fiercely while simultaneously resenting the profession that always seemed to claim the largest share of him, no matter how desperately he tried to shield you from that reality.

Football had given him everything. Football had taken a great deal too. And somewhere amidst all those years of airports, moving vans, and missed moments, a rule had quietly taken shape.

No footballers.

The rule had only strengthened with age. 

When friends attempted to set you up with players, the answer had been no. When athletes approached you in bars and restaurants, the answer had been no. When people insisted you were being unfair, that you might be surprised if you actually gave one a chance, the answer had remained exactly what it had always been: no.

The specifics had never mattered - tall or short, blonde or brunette, funny or serious. None of it had ever been relevant.

The only requirement had always been painfully simple.

No footballers.

Which was precisely why your father’s comment now felt so suspicious. Because it hadn’t been random. Your father never said things randomly.

Not after decades spent navigating dressing rooms filled with enormous personalities, boardrooms filled with competing agendas, and press conferences where every word was analyzed from a dozen different angles. He observed everything. He noticed everything. Entire careers had been built on underestimating how much information he absorbed simply by paying attention.

If he had said it, there was a reason.

Slowly, your eyes drift across the ballroom. Toward the tables positioned near the stage. Toward the section where Alexia had disappeared after leaving the bar.

The realization begins forming before you consciously reach it.

Too tan to be a lawyer. Too young to be an executive. Far too comfortable in this environment to just be some donor or guest.

You had spent the better part of an hour trying to place her without ever quite succeeding. At various points you had convinced yourself she might be a doctor, something about her attentiveness and the way she listened fitting neatly into that image. Other times you had wondered if she was an entrepreneur, a foundation director, or perhaps someone involved with one of the club’s charitable projects. Her calm confidence, thoughtful questions, and complete lack of pretension had pointed your imagination in a hundred different directions.

Just not the correct one.

Because of course the answer had been staring you directly in the face the entire time. This was a Barça gala. A Barça foundation event. A room filled almost exclusively with people connected to football in one way or another.

Your stomach drops. The feeling is immediate and absolute.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Across the room, Alexia laughs at something someone says beside her, her head tilting back slightly as the warm light catches the features you had spent the last hour trying not to admire too openly.

And suddenly everything clicks into place.

The woman who had rescued you at the bar. The woman who had somehow made this entire evening enjoyable. The woman you had been looking forward to seeing again after dinner. Had to be a footballer.

The realization makes you close your eyes briefly and resist the urge to bang your forehead against the table.

Because after twenty-eight years of maintaining exactly one dating rule, after a lifetime spent insisting that footballers were categorically off limits, the first person to genuinely capture your attention in over a year had turned out to be the one thing you had always sworn you would never touch.

And the truly infuriating part was that the knowledge changed absolutely nothing about how excited you still were to see her again after the auction.

The eruption of applause around the ballroom drags your attention back to the present before you can disappear completely into your own thoughts.

You blink and straighten slightly in your chair as your father rises beside you, earning another standing ovation simply for existing. 

The reaction is almost comical at this point. Years have passed since he last stood on the touchline at Camp Nou, decades since he wore the club’s colors professionally, yet the affection people feel toward him remains almost untouched by time. Executives applaud enthusiastically. Former players beam at him from neighboring tables. Wealthy donors who probably couldn’t explain a single tactical system clap like devoted disciples greeting a prophet.

Your father, meanwhile, looks mildly embarrassed by all of it.

The sight makes you smile despite yourself as he buttons his jacket and begins making his way toward the stage. For all the attention football has forced upon him throughout his life, he has never quite become comfortable being the center of it. The trophies and documentaries and statues and endless praise have somehow failed to cure him of the instinctive discomfort that always appears whenever people celebrate him too loudly.

As he climbs the steps toward the podium, your attention begins drifting around the room again. Toward the hundreds of guests seated beneath glittering chandeliers. Toward a woman whose charming smile has managed to completely derail your evening.

Your father reaches the microphone and immediately attempts to begin speaking over the applause.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Eventually the room settles enough for him to continue.

“I’m so honored to be invited to speak tonight and to be welcomed back with such open arms. This truly is the club of my life, and I know I strayed away for a little while.”

Laughter ripples throughout the ballroom at the understatement. Even your father smiles.

“But Barça always has been and always will be my home. No matter where football took me, no matter what challenges came next, this club and the people connected to it remained part of who I am. I owe so much to everyone in this room, and I owe even more to the supporters who believed in me long before I deserved it.”

The applause returns briefly before fading once more.

You have heard variations of this speech your entire life. Different clubs, different trophies, different cities. Yet the sincerity always remains the same.

Your father was never particularly good at pretending to care about things he didn’t actually care about, which is probably why people trusted him so much. When he spoke about football, about family, about loyalty, there was never any doubt that he meant every word.

His gaze sweeps across the ballroom before eventually landing on your table.

Instantly, a familiar feeling of dread settles into your stomach. You’ve known that look since childhood. The look that always appears right before he embarrasses you in public.

“And I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me and for my family. My beautiful wife unfortunately couldn’t be here tonight because of a prior commitment.”

A chorus of sympathetic murmurs rises from the crowd.

“But thankfully my wonderful daughter agreed to accompany me.”

There it is. You close your eyes briefly. The smile in his voice is practically audible now.

“You all know I’d be completely lost without her.”

The spotlight finds you immediately and the entire ballroom seems to turn as one. Hundreds of faces. Hundreds of eyes. Hundreds of people looking directly at you.

Years of practice save you and the panic never reaches your expression.

Instead, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin slightly, and produce the polished smile that has been perfected through decades of public appearances, family photographs, charity events, and championship celebrations.

The crowd reacts exactly as expected. Applause breaks out throughout the room. Several people whistle. A few call your name.

The beloved daughter of their beloved manager.

You smile graciously while internally considering whether it is possible to legally disown a parent at twenty-eight.

Eventually the spotlight drifts away.

The sudden darkness leaves dancing spots across your vision and you blink repeatedly, waiting for your eyes to adjust while your father continues speaking somewhere above you. The words barely register. Something about community. Something about the foundation. Something about giving back.

Your attention is elsewhere.

As the dark spots finally begin fading, your gaze drifts instinctively across the room and immediately collides with Alexia’s. For a moment neither of you looks away.

The expression on her face is almost enough to make you laugh. 

It's shock - pure, unmistakable shock.

The easy confidence that had defined every second of your conversation disappears completely as her gaze flickers from you to the man standing at the podium and then back again, her brows drawing together as she tries to process what she’s seeing. You can practically watch the pieces falling into place in real time. 

The woman she’d spent the last hour talking to wasn’t simply attending with someone connected to the club. She was attending with the greatest manager to ever live. Who just so happened to be her father.

The realization unfolds across her features one detail at a time. First recognition, then disbelief, then understanding.

Suddenly every vague answer you’d given her begins snapping into focus. Every time you’d referred to your father as merely “affiliated with the club.” Every carefully sidestepped question. Every missing detail and intentionally incomplete explanation that had seemed amusing at the time.

You can almost hear the conversation replaying in her head as she reconstructs it with this new information.

And then, rather uncomfortably, you realize you’re doing exactly the same thing.

Because if she hadn’t recognized you, it means she hadn’t known who your father was when you were sitting together at the bar. Which means she hadn’t approached you because of him or stayed because of him or spent nearly an hour laughing at your stories because of him.

The realization sends unexpected butterflies through your gut.

Unfortunately, it also forces another realization to the surface. One that is significantly less comforting.

Because now that Alexia knows exactly who your father is, there is no longer any plausible explanation for how comfortably she had navigated this room, how effortlessly she had moved through a gala filled with football royalty, or why your father had immediately known who she was without needing an introduction.

Slowly, painfully, the final pieces click into place.

The confidence. The athletic build hidden beneath the elegant dress. The non-answers to your probing questions. The fact that she had introduced herself as simply Alexia and somehow expected that to be enough.

At the time, you had assumed it was part of the game the two of you were playing. A harmless attempt at mystery. A way of teasing each other while carefully avoiding the details that usually dominate conversations between strangers.

Now you realize it was something else entirely. Because even in a room like this, she didn’t need a surname. Everyone already knew it.

Your stomach drops.

The woman who had spent the last hour completely captivating you isn’t some reserve player or academy coach or random club employee.

She is important.

The kind of important that transcends introductions. The kind of important that allows a person to identify themselves with a single name and expect recognition. The kind of footballer whose face appears on billboards, whose jersey hangs in children’s bedrooms, whose name is spoken with familiarity by people who have never met her.

And judging by the slow, increasingly amused smile beginning to spread across her face from across the ballroom, she has reached exactly the same conclusion about you.

The two of you had spent an entire hour carefully concealing your identities from one another while unknowingly discussing everything except the one thing that connected you both.

Now, across a crowded ballroom filled with some of the most influential people in European football, you watch recognition fully settle into her beautiful hazel eyes.

And the worst part is that, instead of making her any less interesting, it somehow makes her even more so.

------

You ignore them, going to catch the Uber that you ordered earlier. You had the time to take a quick shower and change in some neutral clothes, you’re not sure Alexia would let you get in her car later if you were in a full Merengues kit.

The flight to Barcelona passes in a blur, the flight is short, and at this point in your career traveling is second nature. El Prat is quieter than usual, but you aren't letting your guard down. You’ve kept your hat low and your sunglasses firmly on for the entire flight, they now feel completely ridiculous considering it’s pitch-black outside

You keep your head down. One person with a phone camera and a good memory, and you'd be trending before you reached baggage claim. Social media would make crazy theories about you joining Barça if you were seen here, and you don’t even want to think what the Real Madrid group chat would be like.

Alexia already shared her loc in the parking lot, having her meet you at arrivals was never an option. The weather isn’t exactly cooperating for early May, but you suppose it beats the rain back in Madrid. Alexia told you to bring your bathing suit in case you want to use her pool, you doubt it’s going to leave your bag.

Alexia didn’t park close, meaning you have to walk for a bit with a steady undercurrent of stress keeping you on edge. Your eyes flick around every two seconds, scanning the quiet lot. You know the odds of getting caught are tiny, but odds only matter until one person actually recognizes you. After that, it would be an absolute mess.

The rows of vehicles are entirely deserted when you finally spot her Cupra. The moment you approach, the driver's side door swings open and Alexia steps out. She wraps her arms securely around your shoulders, and you instinctively circle yours around her hips, pulling her close. “Hola,” she whispers into your hair, pressing a tender kiss to the side of your head.

You don’t even say it back, you let your forehead sink against her shoulder. All the anxiety of the flight evaporates as you breathe her in, your nose nuzzling into the warm, familiar curve of her neck.

“Someone’s tired,” she murmurs affectionately. She presses one last kiss to the side of your head before stepping back, her arms leaving your shoulders. She opens the passenger door for you, taking your bag in her hand to throw it onto the backseat.

When you’re both seated inside the warm car, you finally take the time to watch her. She’s wearing comfy clothes, a Nike sweater and sweats, but she looks great. She gazes back, reaching over to remove the sunglasses from your nose. She places them on the dashboard and then kisses you properly.

You respond instantly, your hand coming up to cup her cheek. For a few unhurried minutes, the empty parking lot disappears as you lose yourselves in each other. Ignoring the deep soreness settling into your muscles from your own game, you gaze at the backseat, considering it for a second.

Alexia catches that. “I have a massive game tomorrow, and I have to sleep.” You let out a frustrated groan, but you nod. You know the drill.

Her right hand finds your thigh the second she starts driving. You begin to caress the back of it, only to freeze when you notice the details. “No way. Did you seriously get a Barça manicure ?”

She smiles, clearly proud of it. “Yes, but you can’t complain, they’re short.” You laugh louder at that, looking down at her hand again. It’s freshly done, the nails clean and short, alternating between red and blue depending on the finger.

“I like them,” you say, then you see the smug smile on her face and add quickly, “Not the colors, obviously, just the fact that you got them done. The red ones during camp looked great too, just… impractical.” She snorts, but you can see the color on her cheeks from the compliment. “So how are you doing ?”

“Stressed,” she admits, her gaze fixed on the road. “But a lot better now that you’re sitting next to me.”

You roll your eyes, a warmth expanding in your chest. “Flirt,” you tease. She doesn’t even try to deny it, and the rest of the drive passes in easy small talk.

Alexia’s house is in a wealthy neighborhood. It’s called Pedralbes, she informs you, the kind of area where the fences are high and nothing is out of place. You prefer living in the middle of the city, but you understand her need for quietness.

She badges the gate open, revealing a modern house with palm trees standing guard in front. Parking in the middle of the driveway, she grabs your bag from the backseat as you get out. You’re both silent as you walk to the front door, as if respecting the stillness around you.

Pushing inside, you kick off your shoes at the door. The layout is exactly what the ultra-modern exterior promised : tall ceilings, a living room big enough to host the whole Barça team, a patio outside, and a swimming pool glowing in the background.

There are multiple framed jerseys on the walls, perfectly aligned, with her historic 500-games shirt displayed right next to the 300 and 400 ones. There’s no sign of her trophies, making you suppose she keeps them somewhere else.

An adjacent wall is entirely covered in photos : her family, her close friends, casual team pictures, and a dog. They aren't nearly as focused on football as you would have thought, featuring snapshots from vacations, gatherings at relatives' homes, and candid moments in the streets of Barcelona. Some of them still feature pictures with trophies, but they aren’t dominating the space.

As you trace the images, a pair of arms slip around your waist. Alexia hugs you from behind, resting her weight against your back as she presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Can we go to sleep now ?” she murmurs. “I promise I'll give you the full tour tomorrow.”

You agree without hesitation. She has an incredibly important match tomorrow, and you refuse to steal another minute of her rest. But the second you step into her bedroom, you can’t stifle the laugh that escapes your lips. Sitting in a pristine, transparent showcase are her two Ballons d’Or. It’s the only trace of her football career in the entire room, but it’s a pretty shiny one.

“Really ?” you tease, gesturing toward the glass.

She shrugs. “They’re a reminder of why I’m doing all of this.”

“That is an incredibly flex-heavy reminder, just saying.”

She lets out a low chuckle. “Hey, don’t blame me because they’re gold.”

“Ale, you literally texted me a picture of your new Louis Vuitton bag two days ago,” you counter, turning to face her. “I know you have expensive taste. You absolutely love that they’re gold.”

“Maybe,” she murmurs. Before you can reply, she steps into your space, turning you back around so she can wrap her arms around your waist from behind. Pulling you flush against her chest, she leans in until her lips are brushing the shell of your ear, sending an immediate shiver down your spine. “Tomorrow after we’ve won,” she whispers, “I’m going to fuck you from behind while you’re staring at them.”

You choke on air and she smiles against the back of your neck. Alexia had said some filthy things to you in the heat of the moment before, but never a promise like this out of nowhere. You’re into it, so incredibly into it, and she knows it, or she wouldn’t have dared to say these words. You know she isn't even that confident about the match tomorrow, she just wanted to rile you up.

You deliberately press your ass back against her, grinning when you feel her entire posture go rigid. “If you win tomorrow,” you promise, lowering your voice. “I’ll let you do that. And much more.”

“It’s not fair considering we can’t do a single thing about it right now,” she complains, her hands tightening on your waist.

You twist out of her embrace, stepping back to gaze at her with an innocent smile. “You’re the one who started it, Ale.”

“And I deeply regret it now,” she groans, running a frustrated hand over her face.

You get ready for bed quietly, stealing a shirt and a pair of shorts from her drawer despite having packed your own. Ten minutes later, you’re both tucked under the sheets. Her bed is massive and ridiculously comfortable, the kind of warmth you never want to leave.

As you settle down, Alexia shifts until she’s lying half on top of you, her face completely hidden in the crook of your neck. You’ve figured out by now that this must be her favorite way to sleep. Her hand rests flat against your skin under your shirt, while yours settles on her ass, under her shorts. “Goodnight, amor,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“Goodnight, cariño,” she whispers back against your skin. You fall asleep quickly, comforted both by the weight of her body on yours and the deep tiredness left over from the game.

In the morning, Alexia’s stress is so palpable it’s almost painful to watch. You’re quite surprised, with Spain, she’s always so composed before the big games. You suppose this is what she actually looks like in the privacy of her own room. To counter it, you become extra tactile, and it seems to help her relax a little. She sits between your legs eating breakfast on the couch while rewatching the first leg.

Spending your morning analyzing tactical tape isn't your version of an off-day, but you find your own entertainment. Once your hands are free of the breakfast bowl, she lets you trace patterns along her skin and hold her close. As long as you don't interrupt her hyper-fixation on the match, she lets you do whatever you want. Definitely not a waste of time.

You handle lunch while she packs her gear bag, since she has to leave immediately after eating. The kitchen is vast and completely separated from the living room, a layout rare for modern builds like this, but Alexia had mentioned it was one of the details that made her buy the place. She wanders in toward the end, helping you set the table simply because she doesn't know what to do with her hands.

Alexia is buzzing with energy as you eat. You remember her saying that part of the reason her parents were so happy she played sports growing up was because it contained her energy. You understand that perfectly now.

“Can you still live text the game, even if you’re here ?” she asks.

You smile, leaning across the table to press a reassuring kiss to her lips. She sighs against your mouth, letting some of the tension drain out of her. “I will," you promise softly. "Go be great.”

You watch the video of her arriving at the stadium on Barça’s Instagram. She’s not exhibiting an ounce of stress. Her eyes are focused, her shoulders and jaw set, everything expected from the captain. It’s a far cry from the woman who was in this house earlier.

Seeing her that tense this morning felt like a time machine to the early national team days. Even if you weren’t close back then, she wasn’t very good at hiding her emotions. Jenni would spend pre-match hours half-teasing her, half-helping her calm down to the amusement of the rest of the squad. She grew up after that, the spotlight changes people, or at least it makes them learn exactly when to show their soft side.

You watched it all unfold from afar, but the changes were obvious. She had everything hitting her at the exact same time: winning the Ballon d’Or, breaking up with Jenni, claiming the first Champions League, dealing with the mess with the federation, taking the Spanish armband, tearing her ACL, handling becoming mainstream, and likely personal shit you don’t even know about.

She changed so much after that, you sometimes have trouble connecting her with the twenty-two-year-old version you first met. Now, her head always held high when there is an audience, media trained to the point she can’t give a wrong answer, the incarnation of control. 

This morning was a reminder that people rarely change entirely, they grow up, learn what is expected of them, and try to act accordingly. Alexia does a fantastic job at that. You like the soft side she’s showing you better.

You don’t do much after Alexia leaves. It’s not hot enough to want to get into the pool, and though her morning tour left you incredibly impressed by the home gym, it’s supposed to be an off-day, and you know recovery is part of the job.

So you just hang around the house, looking at the pictures everywhere. You wander into her office where the trophies and medals are kept, feeling a pang of jealousy at the sheer number of them. You can't help but picture where your own career would be if Real Madrid actually invested the same kind of resources into their women's section. You know choosing happiness means accepting that yours might never look like this.

Stepping closer, you pick up a miniature Liga F replica, tracing the edge. You aren't even asking for a Champions League trophy right now, just a single domestic title. Looking around the room one last time, you shake your head, she truly has a ridiculous career. You can't help but wonder if she’s going to end up adding a third Ballon d'Or to her bedroom display this September.

You put the game on the TV as soon as the pre-game coverage starts. Alexia showed you use Disney+ three times this morning to be absolutely sure you would be able to watch it without problems. The TV is huge, the disproportionate kind of huge, making you suppose Alexia watches a ridiculous number of games on it.

The commentators are already hyping up the sold-out Camp Nou, discussing how Barça remain the heavy favorites despite carrying a one-goal deficit from the first leg. They also mention the possibility of Aitana being subbed in for her first minutes back from injury, a prospect that brings a smile to your face. The camera pans to the stars, focusing first on the Bayern side : Bühl, Harder, and Stanway.

It's striking how much the roster has turned over since you wore the red shirt. ovana is the only one you shared the pitch with for more than a single season. The others, Giulia, Linda, and Carolin were only there for your final year. It’s wild to think how long ago that was. You often forget you’ve already finished your fifth season with Madrid, the time has flown by so fast it doesn't even feel real.

You don’t hold any resentment toward Bayern. The club was supportive, and your teammates were nice enough. You were simply too young when you moved there. Navigating a foreign country at 18 while barely speaking a word of English at the start had been isolating. Bayern holds a complicated, slightly bittersweet spot in your history, but it’s a permanent spot nonetheless.

The broadcast cuts to the Blaugrana stars : Alexia, Irene, Pajor. They could have panned across the entire squad and the quality wouldn't have dropped, they're world-class top to bottom. You won't support Barça, doing so would violate your DNA. But you will be happy for Aitana and Alexia if they pull this off.

The football on display is elite. Backed by the Camp Nou crowd, Barcelona is a relentless machine. Their transitions are lethal, suffocating Bayern with the kind of possession structure very few squads can execute.

Bayern is holding on for dear life, knowing their only job is to avoid breaking. They manage to survive most of the first half, but in the 43rd minute, Patri delivers one of those ridiculous, line-breaking passes that only she can see. Alexia controls it perfectly. In an instant, she fires the shot past the keeper. Camp Nou explodes. Alexia bows to the crowd, and you hate yourself for the sudden surge of pride swelling in your chest.

The first half comes to an end under the applause of the crowd. Bayern knows they can’t have a second half like the first one if they want a shot at the trophy. The second half is indeed closer, with Bayern playing a little more daringly. There are chances on both sides, but nobody converts, leaving the goalkeepers screaming at their defenses.

 Aitana comes in for Vicky at the 70th minute, and the whole stadium starts chanting her name, you’re seconds away from chanting it too in Alexia’s living room.

In the 85th minute, it’s Graham who makes Camp Nou explode. She gets past her defender and crosses it into the middle, where Pajor’s head is there to meet it and power it to the back of the net. Even through the TV, the noise the stadium makes is deafening, while the commentators scream Goal a hundred times.

The crowd is silenced in the 4th minute of additional time, however, when Bühl’s shot curls right into the top corner, away from Cata’s hands. The broadcast immediately captures Alexia’s reaction, because cameras apparently can’t stay away from her. Her jaw is set, her eyes dark. She has the face of a woman on a mission.

The match goes to extra time, and you’re instantly frustrated because it means Alexia will be coming home even later. Barça continues to dominate possession, but the chances are dead even. The players are visibly exhausted, shirts clinging to their skin, their runs losing their sharpness. In the last few minutes, everyone is starting to accept it’s going to penalties.

Then, deep into stoppage time, Eriksson clears a cross poorly. The ball ricochets directly off Tanikawa’s back and lands miraculously right at Alexia’s feet. She doesn’t hesitate for a single fraction of a second to shoot. It isn’t a great shot, it's nowhere near the posts and lacks any real power. But Mahmutovic didn’t anticipate the strike at all, and she's beaten cleanly.

It’s an ugly goal, everyone will admit that, but nobody at the Camp Nou cares. She whips her jersey over her head, the image instantly triggering your memory of the Bilbao final, which you'd been tortured into watching after losing a bet to Aitana. Her abs are flexing, the tattoos on her back are fully on display, and her entire team is sprinting frantically behind her.

The Bayern players collapse to the turf, utterly dejected. The entire stadium, maybe even the whole city of Barcelona, is chanting her name as she gives her legendary celebratory bow after being buried beneath a mountain of teammates.

You don’t get any news from Alexia until an hour after the game, when she’s finally in her ice bath. She apologizes for the wait, explaining that the media essentially kidnapped her before her teammates did the exact same thing. You have no problem believing that. She progressively replies to all your live texts, her excitement radiating through the screen.

She says you will continue the conversation in person since she has to go shower. Right before she logs off, she drops a link to a high-end Japanese restaurant. “Send me your order,” her message reads. “It’s celebration night.”

Aitana texts you back around the same time, thanking you for the congratulations on her comeback. She wastes no time roasting you for hate-watching her team. You aren't remotely in the mood to reveal your current location, wanting to let her just ride the high of the victory without complicating things with your personal life.

The moment she sees you, a true, entirely unguarded smile breaks across her face. She is still vibrating from the adrenaline of the win, the sheer energy radiating off her. She sets her things down on the floor, and you immediately step into her arms.

It takes a while for Alexia to fight her way out of Camp Nou. She keeps texting to keep you updated, and you let out a long exhale when she finally messages that she’s leaving, nearly two hours after the final whistle. When the front door finally clicks open, you turn to see her standing there in her Barça-issued tracksuit, a heavy gear bag slung over one shoulder and a massive bag of Japanese takeout in her other hand.

She lets out a frustrated groan against your throat but complies, giving you a sharp, parting nip on the lips. The absurd amount of food she ordered makes you laugh, running yourself into the ground for 120 minutes apparently creates a black hole in a midfielder’s stomach.

“Congrats, amor,” you murmur against her lips before capturing them in a deep kiss. She reciprocates instantly, her fingers gripping your hips tightly. When she starts to drive you back against the wall, you reluctantly break away with a grin. “I’m actually starving, and the food is still warm.”

It’s totally not respecting your diet, but you let it slide. You both settle on the couch, her legs draped over your lap. She boldly tries to negotiate putting the match replay on the big screen, but one lethal look from you silences the idea instantly.

You can’t keep the image of her shirtless out of your mind. The knowledge that thousands of people were screaming for the exact woman who belongs entirely to you tonight. The sheer possessiveness of the thought is intoxicating. The second you both finish eating, you slide across the cushions to settle onto her lap, nipping playfully at her earlobe.

“Remember your little promise from last night, captain ?” you whisper against her skin. “I think you deserve that, don’t you think ?”

Alexia’s entire body goes rigid before a dark look takes over her eyes. Without a word, she hooks her arms under your thighs and hoists you up, carrying you toward the bedroom. She nearly loses her footing and drops you midway down the hall when you lean in to bite down hard on her neck, a ragged gasp escaping her lips.

She tosses you onto the mattress a bit unceremoniously, and climbs on top of you without a shred of hesitation. The kiss that follows isn't remotely tentative, her tongue claims your mouth in seconds while her hands slide eagerly under your shirt. It’s the first time she’s taken charge like this since you started sleeping together, and you're more than happy to let her.

She pulls the shirt over your head and trails a line of burning kisses down your neck. You arch instinctively against her body, drawing a smug smile from her lips. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take care of you?” you manage to murmur. “You’re the one who won.”

At first, you aren't even sure she heard you as she continues to press her lips to your skin, slowly licking a path up your jawline to your ear. “You don’t get it,” she breathes against your skin, her voice dark. “This is my prize for winning.”

She nips your earlobe softly, careful with her teeth because she knows you aren't a fan of that so early on. A sudden, violent wave of heat spreads through your entire body at her words, pooling heavily between your thighs. If she stays in this mood all night, it’s going to be an unforgettable one.

You yank at the hem of her top, and she discards it without breaking eye contact. She’s left in her sports bra, the exact image that you saw on a screen earlier. You swallow hard, your hands mapping the defined ridges of her torso while she reaches up to tie her hair. The second her hands are free, she traps your wrists against the mattress above your head.

A brief flicker of surprise crosses your features, and you immediately watch her confidence falter. Her grip loosens. “Tell me if I’m doing too much," she murmurs, her eyes scanning yours. "Or if you don’t like this.”

You easily slip one hand free, reaching up to gently cup her jaw and pull her down into a soft, grounding kiss. It’s entirely different from the frantic heat of before, meant purely to reassure her. “It’s incredibly hot, don’t worry," you whisper against her lips. "I promise I'll tell you if it's too much.”

To prove your point, you give her jaw a teasing bite before dropping your head back down, deliberately placing your wrist back above your head. It’s an unmistakable green light. Instantly, that fierce, confident smile returns to her face.

She's dragging it out, weaponizing her patience in a way that is driving you crazy, but the sheer pleasure on her face makes it impossible to stop her. You fight a losing battle with yourself to keep your hands pinned above your head, failing miserably the second her warm tongue connects with your nipple.

“Hands,” Alexia murmurs against your wet skin, a smirk evident in her tone. “Keep them up.”

You groan in protest but snap your wrists back against the mattress, desperate for her to continue. The sensory overload of her playing with your breasts has you completely unraveled, you're slick and aching without a single touch of any kind below your waist.

Whenever you try to grind your hips upwards to find some relief, she pins you down, shutting down the movement instantly. Sweating and desperate, you genuinely need her between your legs, in whatever way she wants to take you. “Ale, please. Hurry the fuck up,” you pant.

She just lets out a soft laugh, looking up at you from your chest. Dios, her eyes are dark, so completely different from how bright and sparkly they were when she first walked through the front door. “You have absolutely no patience,” she taunts. She is incredibly lucky she scored that winning goal.

“Next time, I’m tying you up,” you promise, your voice tight with desperation. “And we will see how patient you are then.”

A lethal smile touches her lips. “Bet.” She sinks her teeth into your midriff. The sharp spike of pleasure catches in your throat. “Until then,” she whispers, capturing your gaze, “you are entirely mine to play with. Hands back up, captain’s orders.” You let out a whimper, knowing you would die of embarrassment if you could see yourself right now.

You manage to obey the captain’s order, though your fingers curl into fists against the sheets when she finally discards your clothes and drags her mouth along your inner thighs.

“Ale, please,” you beg. You absolutely hate having to beg, but you legitimately can’t help it right now. Every muscle in your arms is shaking with the effort it takes not to grab her jaw and pull her directly where you want her. Since begging isn't working, you pivot to a challenge. “I know how badly you want to taste me.”

She looks up at you, thoroughly amused by your shifting tactics. “I will get to taste you later, cariño. But this position right now is the only one where I get to hear you whimpering and begging.”

A defiant smirk cuts through your desperation. “There are a dozen different ways to get me to beg and whimper, Putellas. You just have to be inventive enough to figure them out.”

She freezes instantly. You hear the faint, rough Joder she mumbles directly against your skin. For a second, she seems entirely torn between speeding up because she wants it just as badly, or continuing to torture you a bit longer

She pushes up onto her extended arms, towering over you so she can take you in completely. A hopelessly cocky smile slowly spreads across her face, but you are far gone enough that you can only find it incredibly sexy. “I haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re absolutely wrecked,” she gloats.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” you pant. It doesn’t sound anywhere near as sarcastic as you wanted it to, you are completely stripped of the focus required for a proper attitude. You try to rub your thighs together for relief, but her legs are heavily pinning yours down, completely shutting down the movement.

Alexia reaches up and grabs your left hand, tightly interlacing her fingers with yours and pulling them down onto your stomach, leaving a quiet command for you to keep your right hand pinned above your head. Her free hand anchors firmly on your hip, anchoring you in place as she finally lowers her body between your thighs.

She keeps her gaze locked straight on yours as she licks you for the very first time. The moan that tears from your throat isn't loud, but it is deep, heavy, and throaty. “Dios, you’re so wet,” she breathes against your skin.

Any potential comeback is instantly swallowed as her tongue strokes over you again. Your eyes snap shut, your free right hand blindly clawing into the pillow for support. You completely lose your mind when she focuses all her attention directly on your clit. Apparently, she’s done teasing you and wants to see just how fast she can push you over the edge.

The answer turns out to be embarrassingly fast, especially considering she hasn't even used her fingers. Your entire body spasms as a violent wave of pleasure takes over, and as she climbs up your body to press heavy, hot kisses to your neck while your breathing recovers, you weakly mutter for her to shut up.

You begin to run your hands over her back, sliding your fingers under the elastic straps of her sports bra to pull her body closer to yours. “My turn,” you whisper. “What do you want?”

Alexia smirks, her palms tracing slow circles on your ribs. “Nice try. I distinctly remember saying I was the one doing the work tonight.”

You look up at her, genuinely frustrated. “Are you sure about that ?” To force her to reconsider, you let your hands drift lower, gripping her ass firmly. She lets out a small, involuntary groan but chooses to kiss you deeply instead of answering, her fingers mapping your skin to distract you.

“You really are an ass girl, aren’t you?” she laughs against your mouth.

You smile back, letting your hands slide beneath the waistband of her sweatpants to grip her bare skin. “You have to admit, you have a great ass.”

To your amusement, Alexia actually blushes. Considering what you two are currently doing in this bed, you find it hilarious that she still reacts like that to a simple compliment. “Fine,” you relent. “If I can’t take care of you, at least take the rest of your clothes off.”

Alexia doesn’t obey immediately, clearly too occupied trailing her hands over your skin and peppering kisses down your neck. Impatient, you arch your hips upward to urge her along. She lets out a low laugh against your throat. “I thought being a world-class defender required patience.”

“Yeah, well, that’s my job, it’s not the same. I’m not in a football kit right now, unlike you,” you say, playing with the hem of her Barça sweatpants to emphasize your point.

Alexia finally relents, slipping off the bed with a challenge in her eyes. “If you want to see me naked that badly...” You thoroughly enjoy the view as she pulls her sports bra over her head, followed smoothly by her sweatpants and underwear. “Happy?” she asks, a smug expression on her face as she crawls back into bed and pins you beneath her weight.

“Infinitely,” you hum against her lips as she kisses you deeply. You waste no time letting your hands roam freely over her bare skin. The moment your fingers glide down to trace the inside of her thighs, a triumphant smirk pulls at your lips. “ Fuck, you’re soaked.”

Alexia quickly catches your wrist to pull your hand away, drawing a frustrated groan from your lips. “I have a plan, don’t worry,” she promises breathlessly.

She shifts her weight, sliding her thighs securely between yours. A sharp groan escapes her throat, her head throwing back the exact moment she locks into place against you. You grip her hips firmly to guide her, tilting your pelvis until you catch the friction, a deep moan torn from your lungs as you align.

It is pure electricity, feeling her clit friction flawlessly against yours, hearing the ragged noises she’s making while the exact same pleasure builds inside you. The best part about her house is the complete privacy, you both can be as loud as you want without bothering a soul. Your nails dig deep into her hips, while her own fingers lock securely into the soft flesh of your thigh.

You both are at a loss of words, utterly lost in the sensation. Alexia is more vocal than you, as always, and you greedily drink in every hitching breath and whimper she makes. Watching her ride you like this, her abs and biceps flexing with every rhythmic push, is an intoxicating turn-on that drags you toward the edge, again, at a terrifying speed.

Your movements grow increasingly frantic and messy as the friction brings you both to the brink. She shatters first, crying out loudly as her hips jerk uncontrollably against yours. The intense friction immediately triggers your own release, sending you crashing over the edge right along with her. You pant heavily, gripping her hips so tightly you're certain you'll leave bruises.

Alexia collapses completely against your chest, her breathing ragged and uneven. You wrap your arms securely around her, holding her close. “That felt amazing,” you whisper against her temple, pressing a soft kiss there. Post-win Alexia is definitely something you wouldn't mind experiencing again, even if it means Barcelona keeps winning.

“There’s still one thing left to do,” she says, a lethal smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. You arch an eyebrow, genuinely not seeing where she’s going with this. “Do you remember what I promised you yesterday ?” She points her chin toward the gleaming Ballons d’Or across the room, and your entire body instantly hits with a violent wave of heat in anticipation. You absolutely love post-win Alexia.

She slides off the mattress, pulls open a dresser drawer, and retrieves a sleek box, tossing it onto the bed right next to you. “Pick your poison.” You pop the lid open and shoot an amused look her way when you're met with seven different dildos of varying sizes. She shrugs defiantly, but you can clearly see the pink blush creeping up her neck and onto the top of her chest.

“You’re the winner tonight, so you get to choose,” you argue.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not the one getting it inside me.”

Fair enough. You select one of the average sizes, purely because you want to get fucked fast and are not in the mood for a ton of preparation. Alexia doesn’t comment on your choice, silently buckling the harness around her hips and snapping the toy into place.

“On all fours, facing that way,” she commands, pointing directly toward the golden trophies. You can't help but smile as you comply.

You drop into position without a second thought. Watching her dominate the bedroom is a massive turn-on, and you want her inside you as soon as humanly possible. She presses her palms firmly against your shoulders, pushing you down to make you bend further. The distinct click of her opening the bottle of lube echoes through the quiet room, making your muscles clench in pure anticipation.

“You don’t need to use your fingers to ready me,” you breathe out, your voice tight. “I just want to take you.”

You hear Alexia take a sharp, deep breath at your words, steadying her own racing pulse. “Tell me if it’s too much at any moment, yeah ?”

You agree instantly, nodding blindly. Her right hand clamps down securely on your hip, and you instinctively push yourself backward against her, feeling the cold slickness of the lube-coated toy graze your skin.

“Always so eager,” she mocks softly, her voice thick. She cuts the talking there, centering the head of the toy against your tight opening. You take a deep breath, consciously untangling the knots in your stomach as she slowly begins to drive forward. The intense, stretching fullness is incredible, and a long, broken groan escapes your lips.

Because of how wet you are from her previous ministrations and the lube, she encounters absolutely no resistance as she slowly pushes inside. Alexia lets out a rough groan the moment she bottoms out, the base of the toy pressing firmly against her clit. “Ale, you feel so good,” you pant, encouraging her as her left hand slides up to caress the curve of your bare back.

Her thrusts are experimental at first, carefully testing your limits. But the moment she realizes she isn't going to break you, her rhythm turns harder, rougher. She anchors her left hand firmly onto your shoulder to steady her weight while she pistons into you with a bruising, unrelenting pace.

Overwhelmed by the friction, you try to turn your head to the side to handle the depth, but her fingers instantly find your jaw, turning your face back toward the front of the room. “No. Look straight ahead at the Ballons d’Or.”

The sheer, unadulterated cockiness of it completely shatters whatever restraint you had left. You lock your eyes forward on the golden trophies. They are impossibly shiny in the dim light, the polished glass of the display case capturing the blurred, rhythmic reflection of her body driving entirely into yours.

The wet, smacking sound her hips make each time they slam against yours is completely obscene, turning you on in a way you never saw coming. The angle she's working from behind is hitting perfectly, threatening to throw you over the edge on internal stimulation alone. When she tries to slide her thumb down to touch your clit, you gently nudge her hand away, knowing you would get too close to overstimulation.

You have absolutely no idea how Alexia still has this much energy, if you had just played 120 minutes of elite football, you would have definitely tapped out by now. Instead, her movements remain incredibly powerful and fast, quickly reducing you to a breathless, moaning mess beneath her.

The next orgasm catches you completely by surprise. You weren't expecting it to be this easy after already coming twice, but Alexia slightly shifts her weight, hitting a spot deep inside you just right. Your walls instantly clamp down around the toy, and you can feel Alexia gasp, taken aback by your sudden, violent release.

Panting against the pillows, you reach your limit. “Too much,” you manage to murmur, shoving back against her thighs. Alexia obeys instantly, sliding out of you with a heavy exhale and removing the harness from her hips. As soon as you’re able to, you pull her down, using your mouth and fingers to make her completely fall apart in a matter of minutes.

The adrenaline evaporates all at once, leaving both of you completely heavy and drained. You melt into her chest, dead weight against her body as she wraps her arms around you, her thumb idly stroking your hip. “We need to shower,” you murmur into her collarbone.

She lets out a dramatic groan at the mere idea of standing up, but somehow, you both manage to drag yourselves out of bed. The shower is a quick, functional affair, purely because your bodies are screaming to get back under the covers.

Soon enough, you’re tangled up in the exact same position as before. The sheets smell intensely of sex, but neither of you has a shred of energy to change them, so you gladly let it slide. You reach over to set your alarm for Monday morning, and Alexia sleepily kisses your shoulder, promising she'll drive you to the airport. You drift in the dark, murmuring quiet nonsense to each other until sleep finally claims you both.

Alexia is incredibly grumpy the next morning, complaining that you completely messed up her sleep schedule and made her sore. In your opinion, it’s more the fault of the game she played yesterday but whatever. She’s also fiercely cuddly and touchy as you get ready, which more than makes up for the attitude.

The drive to the airport is filled with Alexia’s playlist blasting through the speakers and you complaining about the morning training session you are thoroughly convinced you won't survive. You look over at Alexia’s profile, her sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She is so fucking beautiful. You ache to trace her jawline with your thumb and bite down on her neck right then and there, but you decide that’s a terrible idea while she’s navigating traffic. If she catches you staring, she doesn’t comment on it.

Goodbyes are the same as usual, making out intensely in the car after parking as far from the terminal entrance as possible. It’s especially hard today, considering neither of you knows exactly when you’ll see each other again with her hectic schedule to end the season.

“Thanks for coming,” she says softly, her face close to yours, her eyes earnest now that her sunglasses are pushed to the top of her head. “I know I wasn’t the most available this weekend, but it meant a lot. Truly.”

“Don’t worry, you more than made up for your lack of availability last night,” you tease against her lips. You kiss her again, both of you moving slowly this time, intentionally taking the time to memorize each other. “I had a great time as a whole.”

She smiles, and you both finally step out of the car before you actually miss your flight. The moment your feet hit the pavement, your interactions shift completely, neither of you wants to draw public attention. She casually helps you with your bags, and you exchange a simple, disciplined goodbye before parting ways.

-----------

The absolute first thing Alexia does when she walks through her front door is face-plant straight back into her bed to crash. She finally emerges late in the morning, immediately checking her phone. Seeing your message confirming you have landed safely, a soft smile tugs at her lips as she reacts with a simple heart. She also notices a text from Alba asking about hanging out tonight; not thinking much of it, Alexia types out a quick, No problem.

Considering it’s an official rest day, she spends the vast majority of it curled up on the couch, watching the latest Bayern Munich match and meticulously taking notes on her tablet.

The analytical silence doesn't last. Her screen flashes with a barrage of incoming texts from the group chat she shares with Misa, Irene, Mariona, Laia, and Jenni.

Misa : Okay, so you all remember the whole thing about y/n seeing an English player during camp ? I think Vicky wasn’t saying bullshit. Y/n was literally in London this weekend. She’s saying she was just seeing a random girl but I don’t believe her. @Mariona @Laia I need you all to figure this out.

Alexia furrows her brows at the message. She feels the jealousy, an ugly feeling at the pit of her stomach. Then her brain catches up. Oh she’s the girl you were talking about. She has no idea how you’ve managed to throw the goalkeeper off so much.

Irene : How does that concern us ?

Misa : Oh I know you don’t care about gossip but I want it. Especially if it’s about y/n and another football player.

Jenni : I feel like I’ve missed a few episodes

Jenni : Goodie two shoes was sneaking out at camp ? Seems out of character

Mariona : Yeah, but you didn’t see her last camp she was acting really weird. And she didn’t sleep in her and Vicky room after our England game

Jenni : Wait, miss “I’m too good to be friendly with people that don’t wear the Real Madrid jersey” was put in the same room as Vicky ? That’s hilarious she must have gone crazy

Misa : You’re harsh her bf is literally Aitana

Jenni : Yeah but that’s like the only Barça player she hangs out with. She barely tolerates Mariona since she’s with Arsenal

Alexia considers defending you, but thinks it would be weird, so she just shuts up and let them talk, the game is on pause in the background.

Laia : She actually entertained the kid, to everyone surprise. Vicky got out of her that y/n thinks Misa is the hottest on the team

Jenni : Why do they don’t select me when something interesting like that happens ? Her getting bullied is my jam

Alexia rolls her eyes, Jenni doesn’t like you, to say the least. You’ve never been the friendliest person during camps, mostly staying with players you already know, and often avoiding Barça players not named Aitana. You never taking a stand against the federation was the final nail in the coffin, especially considering you benefited from it. The vice-captain position, always in the front for media and ad campaign. Jenni also isn’t a huge fan of Real, it didn’t help.

There’s some uneasiness, because Alexia distinctly remembers criticizing you along with Jenni a few times. Then she remembers you making lunch for her yesterday before her game and she feels terrible.

Misa : She told me she actually lied to Vicky and that I was only the safe answer

Misa : My heart was broken

Irene : I’m once again asking why does her personal life concerns us ? She’s not even close to anyone here except Misa

The moans she got out of you while Alexia was fucking you from behind resonate in her head. Alexia doesn't lie to her close circle. She's never been that person. The guilt is starting to eat at her. It’s one thing to say nothing, another one to ignore it when they’re straight about talking about it. She almost sends something, but then the chat moves on.

Irene : Wait, are you interested in her ?

Misa : NO

Misa : That’s my bro

Misa : Nothing more

Mariona : Ngl I’m happy about that

Laia : I think you resent her too much for how she acted with the federation

Mariona : It’s not about that, or like not totally

Jenni : No one here was friends with her way before this happened

Jenni : Let’s say it confirmed my opinion of her

Irene : I’m not in this group to read all of you criticize one of our teammates

Jenni : Oh come on don’t start acting like you like her

Irene : I don’t, which is why I don’t talk about her. So once again, why are we discussing it ?

Misa : I’m asking Mariona and Laia for intel

Mariona : Fine we will ask around at Arsenal

Jenni : Now can we come back to something. “The safe answer” ? That’s a weird thing to say. It’s also an asshole move to lie in a bet but that doesn’t surprise me. What did she got in exchange ?

Misa : I think some info from Vicky ? She didn’t say much

Alexia is tempted to send you a text to ask, but it would be admitting that this conversation is going on to you. It doesn’t seem like a great idea.

Mariona : Wdym by it’s a weird thing to say ?

Jenni : Well that kinda means she didn’t want to say the true answer to Vicky

Jenni : And like why would it be shameful

Jenni : Imagine if it’s actually a Spanish player she was sneaking up with

Laia : There’s no way for it to happen with our double rooms

Laia : I mean only Ale has a single room. Are you sleeping with her @Alexia ?

Alexia heart genuinely stops for a second, then two, then three. She exhales when she sees everyone leaving a laughing emoji on the message, even Irene.

Alexia : I leave you all unsupervised for 20 minutes and this is what happens … ?

Jenni : We needed to say that for you to appear ?

Alexia : Laia @ me, I was rewatching the Bayern game

Mariona : Pls no talk about Champions League rn.

Arsenal were eliminated by Lyon on Saturday, Alexia understand it being a touchy subject.

Laia : You do realize we can see that you’ve been reading it all along, right ?

Alexia goes for the safe answer in this group : not responding.

Misa : If our only option is Alexia, we can for sure say we’re back on the English player path

Laia : I mean… Alexia did you slept with her ?

Alexia : Do I really need to answer that ?

Alexia : No.

Jenni : She doesn’t feel like Ale’s type

Jenni : Ale doesn’t need someone who’s even more of a control freak and a law follower than her

Alexia : I’m gonna leave this group for good

Laia : Is Jenni wrong ?

Jenni isn’t wrong per se, but Alexia doesn’t really think you fit what they’re describing, at least from the time she’s been spending with you and talking to you recently.

Misa : She’s surprisingly chill outside of football

Misa : But Alexia is absolutely not her type. Ale is too much of a football nerd, y/n can’t stand that

Okay Alexia is a bit offended now. You’ve been letting her talk about football things, about tactics and the upcoming games. Have you been secretly hating that and just been waiting for her to shut up ? Alexia thinks back to all her rants about Bayern, were you just being nice ?

Alexia : Yeah I’m a football nerd because all my friends are assholes. Football never disappoints

Irene : That’s a very questionable statement

Alexia : Is anyone willing to support me today ?

The thumbs down reaction on her message tells her everything she needs to know.

Alexia : And then you all wonder why I don’t answer

Jenni : y/n isn’t as big as a football nerd as Ale ? I’m genuinely surprised

Misa : They’re very similar in the way they follow their diets, training, sleep schedule and recovery like psychos. But y/n does it because it’s her job, Ale does it because she has a problem with football

Misa : Like if I hang out with y/n and start talking about tactics got the upcoming game she will kill me

Alexia thinks about your live-texting of her games, and she’s thoroughly confused.

Misa : Even with Aitana they don’t speak much about football itself, I think

Jenni : A Merengue that doesn’t like to talk about football tactics ? Can they room together for next camp it could be fun

Alexia is a bit offended that everyone thinks she talks about football so much. She doesn’t. Right ?

Alexia : I have a single room as the captain, remember ?

Mariona : Wait I just remembered something

Laia : Dangerous

Mariona : Do you all remember what Mapi said she heard during camp

Alexia : Oh no

Jenni : I WASN’T HERE YOU IDIOTS

Alexia : Mariona and everyone here I beg you to shut up

Jenni : You can’t do that to me

Jenni : I’m gonna text Mapi to ask her

Alexia : Don’t do that she will overblown everything

Jenni : Then tell me

Laia : I don’t think there’s another way to say it than Mapi and Fiamma heard Ale have phone sex

Jenni : NO

Jenni : I can’t breath rn

Alexia : Kill me

Irene : I hate this group

Jenni : Ale is it true ?

Jenni and her are friends now, but it still feels very weird to discuss her sex life with someone she dated for seven years.

Alexia : I’m not saying her name

Jenni : You’re not fun

Alexia : That girl disagrees

Mariona : Are you feeling well Ale ?

Laia : She’s trying to end this conversation

Jenni : You all are going to hell for not telling that to me as soon as you heard about it

Jenni : But it’s the beginning of the day here, and it couldn’t have started better

Mariona : We were too focused making fun of her, sorry

Mariona : So Ale is that serious with this girl ?

Alexia takes a second to answer, because she hasn’t asked that to herself enough. What are you two even doing ? She has no idea, and Alexia hates situations where she’s underprepared. She, not for the first time recently, asks herself how she got to this point.

Alexia : It’s casual

Irene : Since when do you do “casual” ?

Jenni : It means the girl wants casual and Ale doesn’t know how to say she’s not the casual type

Alexia : Fuck off

Jenni : Thanks for telling me I’m right

Misa : This group better be the first to be told if you two become official

Misa : Or if you need advice on how to transform it into not casual anymore

Alexia : I’m never asking for love advice here

Alexia : And you will be the last to be told

Alexia : Ok maybe second last, before the Barça kids because they will tell everyone

Jenni : Rude.

To Alexia’s relief, the conversation stops there. She was pretty afraid they were gonna make the connection between you and the noises in her room. Good that they think you two are so incompatible, she supposes. It was actually a bit hard to read that. People like Jenni that don’t know you don’t bother her, Misa does a lot more.

Alexia presses play on the Bayern game, but five minutes later she realizes she hasn't registered a single pass. Her phone is still open to the group chat. She closes it.

Alba arrives not long after Alexia finishes the game, even if she didn't reach any important conclusion from it considering how hazy her mind was. They settle outside on the patio, catching the late afternoon breeze with a quick drink and some olives. Alba pours herself a glass of wine while Alexia sticks to lemonade, refusing to touch alcohol during the season. Despite that being the case for literally years now, Alba still can’t resist teasing her about her discipline, rolling her eyes with an affectionate smirk.

At first, the conversation is the usual. Alexia talks about the game against Bayern and Alba about how the kids are at school. Then, because Alexia knew there was a true reason her sister came here, the conversation deviates. “Soooo, what’s her name.”

Alexia feigns innocence. “Who ?”

Alba rolls her eyes. “I’m supposed to believe you just really want to go home last night despite the how good your game was ? Not even accepting to have dinner with us ? And you looked very in a hurry on top of that.” Alexia winces, she’s in a bad position to lie, she’s a terrible liar anyway. “I was nice enough to not badger you in front of mama yesterday. Come on spill.”

“It hasn’t been going on for long, it’s not that important, we’re not even officially together. It’s been a little more than 3 weeks.” Alexia mumbles, eyes fixated on the sun reflecting on her swimming pool to not have to look at Alba.

“You ditched us for a girl you’ve been seeing for 3 weeks and aren’t even dating ?” Alba says, scandalized. Then there’s a pause, a long one, it forces Alexia to look at her sister. There’s a dangerous flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Weren’t you in the Spanish camp three weeks ago ?”

Alexia had no idea Alba would make that connection, her sister doesn’t care about football. Alexia should have anticipated that Alba knows her schedule more or less. Fuck, that was a huge mistake on her part. Alexia can feel her whole face heating up, she knows she’s giving it away. “Alba–”

“Don’t Alba me.” Her sister didn’t even look this delighted when Alexia gifted her some very expressive jewelry last Christmas. “I want a name, or I’m gonna start guessing and you’re gonna be horrified.”

Alexia groans internally. She’s going to tell Alba at the end anyway, getting it over it might be the best plan. “Y/n Y/l/n.”

Alba is in enough football circles, despite her dislike for the sport, to make the immediate connection. “Real Madrid captain ? The one who captains Spain when you’re not here ?” Alexia nods. “You know Alexia, you’re so predictable in every aspect of your life and then there are the women you date.”

Alexia furrows her brows. “What is that supposed to mean ?”

Alba shots her a no-bullshit stare. “It’s just that if it’s not mistaken, she’s been playing with you for ages, I think. You two have never been close, not even a little bit and you go straight to dating her ?”

“I’ve hanged out with enough footballers to know she’s not the most liked one out there. I remember you rambling about her during when the Spanish federation were being dicks even more than right now.” Alba sighs. “Most of the players are kinda like great footballer, but not particularly close to her as a person. A few of them genuinely dislike her.”

These words hurt, because it’s what has been going on non-stop in Alexia’s mind for hours. It must show on her face, because Alba tried to smoothen her words, saying jokingly. “And dating the Real Madrid captain of all people Ale ?”

“We’re not dating,” Alexia defends quickly, she can’t ignore the exasperated look on Alba’s face. “We talked during last camp and I don’t know.” Alexia shrugs. “We just hit off well I suppose. We never really talked like that in the past and then the occasion came and it just… happened.”

Alba looks at her sister up and down, still unconvinced. “You don’t let things just happen.”

“Camp is always a particular environment. It’s close-off, I don’t really have the time to relax and go home to think. She was there and easy to talk to and Vicky was annoying her, so she was with me all the time. I couldn’t even overthink honestly.”

“You’re talking about camp, but she was here in Barcelona, so it didn’t stop there.” There’s a pause, then Alba furrows her brows. “Wait did you invent the event in Madrid last week as an excuse ?”

Alba seems seconds away from rethinking everything she knows about Alexia. “No, the event was real. I might have stayed the night in Madrid which wasn’t in the original plan.” Alexia avoids her sister’s eyes at the admission, she can feel the ears get hotter. “And she’s just so easy to relax with. I don’t need to explain her football, and we talk about lot of things, and we laugh, we text each other stupid shit.” Alexia’s throws her head back, closing her eyes. “I don’t know Alba it’s just so simple when it’s just the two of us.”

“Is that about the sex ?” Alba asks jokingly, bursting out laughing when Alexia becomes as red as a tomato in the span of 2 seconds.

“Alba !” Alexia says, scandalized. She knows her sister likes to broach this subject just because it embarrasses her, but it still work every time. “I’m not talking about…” She gestures vaguely with her hands. “that with you. What even tells you we’ve done it.”

Alba looks thoroughly entertained. “Your reaction just now tells me that. Also when you said “just happened” it was pretty clear what you meant.” Alba wiggles her eyebrows, Alexia reddens even more. “I will get it out of you this summer.” Alba knows Alexia is talkative when drunk, that’s the only way to get this type of information out of her, but it works well to Alexia’s dismay. They already have a planned trip to Mexico.

“We might not be seeing each other by then.” Alexia tries to deflect. She wants to keep seeing you, maybe. She will need to sit down and think about it seriously at one point.

Apparently, Alba is trying to quicken Alexia’s reflections. “First, you’re shit at casual.” Why does everyone say that ? “And you sound really into her when you talk.” Alexia doesn’t want to think about that, that’s something for later. Alba tries to read her sister’s face, she likely can’t because she sighs heavily. “Ale you’re seeing the vice-captain of your national team. It would be a stupid idea for it to be casual. It’s even stupider to go for it without taking the time to actually think about it. You’re the OG overthinker you should know that.”

Alexia lets out a humorless laugh. “I know what the rational choice is, but I’m not sure that’s what I want. So I just don’t think about it.” Alba always had a way to make her talk about things she buried deep. Alexia doesn’t particularly like it.

“What makes you so hesitant ?” Alba softens, seeing her sister has lot of things twirling in her head, which isn’t unusual.

“We were talking earlier on the group chat.” Alba furrows her brows, Alexia immediately clarifies. “Irene, Jenni, Mariona, Laia and Misa.” Alexia swallows hard the lump in her throat from the memory. “They genuinely dislike her, Alba, and I just can’t date someone my close friends dislike.”

Alba eyes her. “You changed your mind, they can too.”

Alexia works her bottom lip. “I just shouldn’t have let it happen. Like I just had to resist 3 or 4 days of camp. Then outside of it it’s so easy to avoid her. I just let my control slip. Imagine the ruckus it would cause if it ever reaches the media ears.” Alexia panics, already seeing the frontpages in her head.

“Ale calm down,” Alba says with force. “You can’t live your life basing it on what people you don’t even know will say.”

“Everyone will criticize it, Alba. But I can’t back down now, can I ?” Alexia laughs humorlessly.

Alba sighs, it reminds her of past conversations with Alexia, where her sister never listened. “You can always back down from relationships, especially when they’ve been going on for less than a month. I know you won’t hear it, but it’s okay to break up with people.” Alexia avoids her gaze, Alba knows it means she’s not listening. “But if you do like her, I would say to go for it.”

“But people–” Alexia gets interrupted.

“You have the right to want things for yourself, you know,” Alba states. “But just don’t get in a relationship with the captain of Real Madrid without thinking of everything that comes with it, including the distance.” There’s the silent understanding between them about Alexia’s last relationship exploding because Olga was living in Madrid and Alexia was staying in Barcelona. Looking back it wasn’t the only problem, but that was the tipping point.

“I’m terrified of letting it go further and then realizing it won’t work because of our friends,” Alexia admits.

Alba sighs. “Ale, you’re acting as if she killed someone. There’s nothing unsolvable here.”

Alexia taps her fingers on the table, looking at the reflection of the sun on the surface on her swimming pool. “I hope you’re right,” she answers with a small voice.

That seems to satisfy Alba “Now come on tell me about her and how it happened, I want to know everything.”

Alexia smiles, grateful that Alba is letting the seriousness go to a territory Alexia is more comfortable with. Alexia tells the whole story to Alba, still not telling the spicy parts, making her sister complain about being told an “incomplete story”. Alexia also carefully avoid the contract part, you told her something that was supposed to be private, she can respect that. Also because Alba runs her tongue too much.

When her sister leaves later, Alexia feels heavier. She knows she has some thinking to do, she’s not sure she wants the conclusions of said thinking.

Later that night, Alexia opens her text thread with you. She starts recording a voice note with her takeaways from the game against Bayern, then she remembers the football nerd comments and just deletes it without sending anything.

-----------

A/n : I wasn't planning to include smut in this one, thought about Alexia fucking her while looking at the Ballons d'or and I just couldn't not write it.

The bright Barcelona sun pierced through your curtains, dragging you awake in a golden haze that made you regret every last glass of wine from last night.

“I should not have drunk that much,” you groaned, pulling on your favorite sweatpants and a matching zip-up hoodie, both stitched with the tiniest embroidery of your brand’s monogram, SL, on the hem. You slid on oversized sunglasses, gold lettering of your brand glinting faintly on the temple, and padded barefoot toward the door.

The air outside was warm already, scented faintly with the jasmine crawling over the garden walls. Barcelona was supposed to be a short-term escape. Just a place to breathe, to create again, to stop feeling like Paris and your brand were swallowing you whole. You had rented this little house on impulse, enchanted by its courtyard garden. What you hadn’t expected was Eli Putellas next door, waiting with her teapot and smile that could shame the sun.

Eli had welcomed you into her orbit like you were a long-lost niece. Morning tea, shared watering cans, gossip traded over hydrangeas. She told you stories about her daughters with maternal pride and exasperation, and in turn listened as you rambled about disastrous dates, sleepless nights, and half-baked baking experiments.

The best part? She had no idea who you were. To Eli, you weren’t the woman behind Solenne, a brand that graced billboards in New York, Milan, London, Paris. You weren’t a “genius” that glossy magazines liked to profile. You were simply the young neighbor who showed up in sweats with mismatched socks, laughed too loud, and burned toast more often than not. And you loved it.

Today was no different. You found her already on her patio, cup of steaming tea in hand, the stray cat she always fed sprawled lazily on a chair beside her.

“Oh, carinyo, you can’t be serious,” Eli said, shaking her head, dark eyes sparkling as you stood with the hose poised over her rose bush.

“Eli. I swear,” you said, one hand clutching your stomach as you laughed at the memory. “She ordered three raw eggs—of the menu, cracked them into a glass, and just—” you mimed throwing your head back, swallowing. “Like she was in a Rocky montage. At dinner! Our poor waitress was so weirded out.”

Eli nearly spit out her tea. “Ai, Déu meu!” She pressed a hand to her chest, scandalized. “In front of you? In a restaurant? This is barbaric, nena. Not a date.” [Oh, my God]

“It was performance art,” you deadpanned, turning off the hose and sinking into the chair across from her. “I took one look at that protein cocktail and knew I was leaving early. Paid the bill, wished her the best of luck with her cholesterol, and went to a bar with a friend instead.”

Eli leaned forward, eyes wide in horror. “Nena… where are you meeting these women? Honestly. Are you… are you picking them up off the street?”

You burst out laughing. “Not off the street! Just… friends of friends, mostly.” You shrugged, sipping from your mug of herbal tea. Which wasn’t technically a lie. The problem was most of your “friends of friends” existed in circles of money and monotony, the kind of people who thought raw eggs counted as a personality trait.

Eli sighed like a martyr and patted your knee. “I worry about you. Too beautiful, too smart, too funny, and yet you sit across from me telling me stories about egg-guzzling gym rats.”

You groaned dramatically, hiding your face behind your mug. “I’m starting to think Barcelona is cursed.”

“Barcelona is not cursed. Your taste in women is cursed,” Eli corrected primly, before softening with a chuckle.

The conversation lulled for a moment, the sound of cicadas buzzing lazily between you. Eli set her mug down and gave you that motherly tilt of her head.

“How’s work, nena?” she asked warmly.

Your lips curved into a small smile. For once, the answer was easy. Back in Paris, you’d felt smothered by your own success, drained dry of creativity. But here in Barcelona? Here you woke up with sketches dancing behind your eyelids, with a need to touch fabric and sew until your fingers ached.

“It’s been… wonderful,” you admitted softly. “I sent some sketches to the company for feedback before I start sewing.”

Eli beamed. “See? You are happiest when you are creating.”

She didn’t know, of course, that the “company” was yours. That the sketches she thought were shuffled off to some faceless superior were instead passed down to your atelier, your team waiting for your word like scripture. You let her think you were just one of many designers. You downplayed it easily. “Oh, nothing glamorous. I just stitch a few things here and there, send them along, and hope they don’t look like trash bags.”

Eli swatted your arm, scandalized. “Trash bags? Ai, dona, don’t speak about your work like that! If it comes from you, it cannot be ugly.”

Her faith in you made your throat tighten. She really had no idea.

“If you ever need help, nena, I am right here,” she added earnestly.

You smiled into your mug. “I’ll keep that in mind, Eli. Maybe you can help me wrestle a sewing machine when it misbehaves.”

Eli suddenly grew quiet, staring at you over her tea. You felt the weight of the mom-stare and shifted nervously in your chair.

“…What?” you asked warily.

“How old are you, nena?” she asked, squinting slightly like she was lining up puzzle pieces.

“Twenty-seven,” you answered slowly, suspicious. “Why?”

Eli looked up toward the sky as if calculating something, then back at you with a triumphant nod. “That will work.”

“What will work?”

She ignored you, speaking more to herself. “Yes, yes… that will be fine.”

“Eli,” you warned.

She set her mug down with a decisive clink. “Alright. Enough of this nonsense. You have been on a multitude of dates since you arrived in Barcelona and they have all failed—”

“Geez, thanks for sugarcoating it,” you muttered.

“So,” she continued briskly, “I am taking matters into my own hands. My daughter Alexia—”

“Eli…”

“No, no, no, no, no.” She wagged a finger at you. “Let me finish before you say yes.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“She is only three years older than you. You like them older, don’t deny it. She is beautiful, strong, successful. She plays for Barça. You should come to a game with me, nena. It’s in a couple of weeks. Don’t you know someone on the team?”

You hesitated. “Hm… yes. The company sponsors a few players on the women’s side, and some on the men’s.” You tried to make it sound casual, though it wasn’t exactly easy to hide a sponsorship portfolio the size of yours.

“Perfect.” Eli clapped her hands, delighted. “I know Alexia is free next Saturday. You are also free next Saturday. The two of you will go on a date, and then we will go to the game later that week. Perfecto.”

“Eli…” You started, but faltered when she held up her hand like a queen commanding silence.

“Not taking no for an answer,” she said firmly. “You think about it. You have a business trip, no? After you return from your business trip, you give me your answer.”

You bit back a laugh at her sheer determination. “…Fine. But only because it’s you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she said smugly, rising to her feet. Then, as if matchmaking her daughter was just a warm-up, she called back over her shoulder: “Now. What bread did you make yesterday?”

You followed her inside, chuckling. “Fresh baguettes. With honey and jam from that market you showed me.”

Eli clasped her hands to her chest like you had just announced world peace. “Ah! This I must try. Move over, I am taking over your kitchen.”

And just like that, your terrifying new reality, going on yet another blind date, was eclipsed by Eli raiding your bread basket.

“Hola, Mami.”

Alexia kissed Eli on the cheek before sliding her gym bag against the wall. Her hair was still damp with sweat from practice, sticking to her temples, and all she wanted was to shower in Eli’s guest bathroom and then devour whatever was simmering on the stove.

“Hi, vida,” Eli said slyly, not turning from the cutting board. Her knife worked in a steady rhythm, onions piling in neat crescents beside her. The smell of sautéing garlic and tomatoes filled the kitchen, warm and inviting.

Alexia narrowed her eyes at the tone immediately. “What are you plotting?”

“Me?” Eli raised her brows, slicing into a clove of garlic with exaggerated innocence. “Nothing. Just… good news.”

From the couch, Alba cackled like a crow. “Oh no. You’re in trouble.”

Alexia groaned. “Alba, don’t encourage her.”

But Alba was already pushing herself up, abandoning her reality show. She jogged barefoot to the kitchen, grinning like a child on Christmas morning. “I need front row seats for this.”

“Alba, calla,” Eli scolded, pointing the knife at her like a conductor’s baton. Then she turned back to the pan, sweeping the onions into the sauce with a flourish. “So. I know you said no more dating, Alexia—”

“Ay, Mami…” Alexia leaned heavily against the counter, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.

“Alexia,” Eli said sharply, knife still in hand. “Listen to me. She is lovely. My neighbor, the one I told you about? From Paris. But her Spanish and Catalan, perfect. How rare is that?”

“Mama…”

“Twenty-seven years old,” Eli continued, plowing straight over her daughter’s groans. She began stirring the sauce with gusto, like she was narrating a recipe. “Works for a small fashion brand in France, but she came here for inspiration. Such a sweet girl. Very modest, very polite. Too humble, honestly. Her sketches are beautiful. And the clothes she sews—¡un arte!” [it’s art]

Alexia frowned despite herself, curiosity slipping in. “Fashion?”

“Yes, fashion!” Eli waved the wooden spoon dramatically, nearly splattering sauce across the counter. “Clothes, bags, shoes, you know everything. And she is single.” Eli’s voice dropped conspiratorially, eyes flicking toward Alba as if this was top secret gossip. “She tells me about her disaster dates. The last on ordered raw eggs. In a glass and drank them!”

Alba clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “Perdona? What kind of Rocky Balboa nightmare is that?”

“Exactly!” Eli smacked the spoon against the pot for emphasis.

Alexia covered her mouth, but a laugh still broke through. She shook her head, fighting it down. “That’s… disgusting.”

Eli leaned across the counter, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. “So, you will take her out Saturday. I know her favorite restaurant, the French one downtown. It reminds her of home.”

“What?” Alexia blinked. “No. No way.”

“Yes way.” Eli was already bustling to the oven, sliding out a tray of salmon like she hadn’t just detonated a bomb. “And I made the reservation for you.”

Alba clapped her hands together. “Oh, this is better than reality TV.”

“Mama!” Alexia shoved her hands through her hair, pacing now. “You’re setting me up on a blind date without even asking me?”

Eli smiled sweetly, setting the salmon on the counter. “Finally, she understands. Besides, I am your mother. I have the power.”

Alba leaned across the table, stage whispering to Alexia, “You’re doomed.”

“Shut up, Alba.”

Eli carried on as if she hadn’t heard. “She would be here tonight but she is traveling. Business trip in Madrid, I think.”

Alexia squinted. “Madrid?”

You weren’t in Madrid. You had told Eli you were in Milan for meetings with an upcoming brand you wanted to buy. But Eli had latched onto Madrid and, once again, you hadn’t corrected her.

Alexia groaned. “Mami, I’m not interested in dating. I told you. I’m focusing on football right now.”

“Football, football, football!” Eli threw her hands up toward the ceiling. “Is that all you think about? You will shrivel into an old woman with only a ball for company. Live a little!”

Alba snorted, already stealing a piece of bread from the counter. “Imagine her tombstone: Here lies Alexia. Married to football. Boring at parties.”

Alexia smacked her arm. “Alba!”

Eli, unfazed, plated the salmon like a general preparing her troops. “Saturday. No tracksuits. She will probably want to drive herself, so be on time—no, be early. And you will dress nicely, entiendes?”

Alexia groaned, dropping her head into her hands like the world was ending.

Alba patted her back with mock sympathy. “Poor thing. Forced to have dinner with a beautiful, talented woman. What a tragedy.”

Alexia lifted her head just enough to glare at her sister. “I hate you.”

Alba grinned, already buttering her stolen bread. “Love you too.”

And for all her groaning, Alexia couldn’t help the tiniest flicker of intrigue at the edges of her mind. Paris, fashion, sketches, humble, pretty, disaster dates with raw eggs. She shoved the thought down quickly, telling herself it didn’t matter. She was done with dating….Right?

Your Milan apartment was the kind of place people in magazines tried to imagine into existence. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the skyline, the faintest shimmer of sunset draping the Duomo in gold. The air inside smelled faintly of peonies and vanilla, your signature diffuser, and beneath it, the sharper tang of leather and varnish from the prototypes strewn across your glass coffee table.

You stood over them like a curator at a museum, your silk blouse tucked neatly into high-waisted trousers, hair twisted up to keep it off your face. One bag in particular caught your eye with thin sheets of recycled marble dust pressed into supple panels, the surface cool under your fingertips.

“Magnifique,” you whispered before switching into Italian for the pair of twenty-something Milanese sisters perched nervously on the edge of your cream sofa. Your voice carried awe, not performance. You lifted the bag, cradling it like fragile porcelain. “This—this is not accessory. This is a conversation. People will stop in their tracks. They will want to know the story.”

The sisters exchanged a look, one biting her lip, the other blinking fast. Pride warred with disbelief on their faces.

“We… we were not sure anyone would see it that way,” the elder confessed, her Italian lilt strong. “Most people told us it was… troppo strano. Too strange.”

“That is why I am here.” You set the bag back on the table as if it were a relic from another era, reverent. “Fashion without risk is death and being safe is boring. What you two are doing? This is resurrection. This is… future.”

A spark of hope lit their faces. The younger sister leaned forward. “You mean you would use our designs?”

“I don’t just want your designs.” You leaned in, the dim light catching the sheen of your blouse, your tone deliberate. “I want you. Both of you. Your hands, your imaginations, your madness. I don’t buy talent to cage it, I give it a stage. Solenne should not only whisper luxury. It should scream daring. And you—” you gestured to the marble bag, then to the shimmering woven-metal prototype— “you two are daring.”

Silence, thick and weighty, hung for a moment. The sisters sat stunned. Then the younger burst into a shaky laugh, covering her mouth. “Is this real? We thought you were only coming to… look. To be polite.”

Your smile was faint but sharp with certainty, the kind that had charmed venture capitalists and terrified rivals. “I never just look.”

By the time they left, their eyes were bright and their hands trembled as though they were carrying invisible contracts already signed. You could see it, the marble dust and the metal threads woven seamlessly into Solenne’s fall/winter line. The kind of risk that didn’t just make waves, it made history.

Hours later, you stepped out of a taxi into the cool Milan night, the hum of scooters and chatter in the streets below rising like music. Desiree, your assistant, best friend, and unofficial keeper of your sanity, walked beside you in her oversized blazer, phone in hand as always. She was already typing up the outline of the contracts, thumbs flying.

“Des, you’ve been typing since they left,” you said as you tugged your coat tighter.

“That’s because unlike you, I don’t trust lawyers to capture the poetry of ‘marble dust handbags,’” she replied without looking up.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. Desiree had been with you since you were eighteen, two wide-eyed girls sharing a cramped dorm room at FIT in New York. You had a sketchbook full of dreams, she had a major in Cosmetic and Fragrance Marketing she wasn’t sure she even liked. Somewhere between 3 a.m. study sessions and scarfing down 7 dollar pizza from the sketchy corner store, she had become your family. When your brand exploded in the middle of your freshman year, Desiree hadn’t hesitated, she jumped ship to join you. “Assistant,” she called herself, though the truth was she ran half of Solenne when you were too exhausted to blink.

As you both entered your Milan headquarters, Desiree finally shoved her phone into her bag and smirked. “So. You were saying Eli set you up?”

You groaned so dramatically it echoed in the marble lobby. “Yes. Oh, she thinks I’m in Madrid, which… I never said. I told her Milan. But she decided Madrid, so now I am apparently in Madrid. Oh how I love that woman.”

Desiree snorted. “Honestly? As she should. I love her. She makes sure you eat, she bosses you around, she calls you nena. She’s like, Mediterranean me and it’s amazing.”

“She also made a reservation at that French place for a blind date,” you muttered, pressing the elevator button. “I told her I wasn’t sure, but she just smiled at me and waved a spoon in my face. It was… terrifying.”

Desiree stopped mid-step, her eyes wide with glee. “Wait. Hold on. Let me guess.” She snapped her fingers. “Alexia Putellas.”

You froze, hand hovering over the elevator panel. “…She did not say the name.”

“She didn’t have to. Who else is she setting you up with? Eli said her eldest daughter, plays for Barça, of course the last name Putellas. Do the math, genius.”

You blinked. “Dating is messy. Especially when it’s with someone else in the public eye. You know how I feel about that.”

The elevator dinged. Desiree shoved you inside and leaned against the rail, arms crossed, eyes glittering. “Babe. You’re telling me you’re too busy to have dinner with one of the hottest, most eligible women in Spain? And Eli already likes you? You realize you already got the Mom approval before the date and you want to blow that up?”

You pressed your palms to your face. “You are supposed to be my assistant. You’re supposed to support me in these situations.”

“I am supporting you. Supporting you to finally get some.” Desiree grinned wickedly. “At least go for the food. Worst case? You eat steak frites and text me an SOS halfway through.”

By the time you sank into your desk chair upstairs, you were half-smiling despite yourself. You scrolled through emails until Desiree plopped onto your office couch, kicked off her heels, and tucked her legs under her.

“I’m just not sure, Des,” you admitted. “Fall/Winter Fashion Weeks are approaching and for some reason we’re doing all four. Who even approved that schedule?”

“You did,” she said flatly, picking at the hem of her blazer.

You groaned. “Why do I hate myself?”

“Because you’re a control freak.” She leaned forward, her tone suddenly softer. “But listen. You’ve been at this since you were fifteen. Designing, grinding, raising your sister, taking care of your cousins, supporting your grandmother. You’ve been responsible your whole damn life. You’ve never been allowed to just… be twenty-seven. To do stupid things like date. Or fall in love.”

Her words sank into you, quiet but heavy. You stilled, fingers hovering over your desktop keys.

“Babe,” Desiree continued, now standing to take your hands. “You keep going on dates with bums because you know they’re bums. It’s safe. They’ll never stick. Eli didn’t raise a bum. So you’re scared, because what if it’s different this time? What if it’s real?”

Silence stretched, the city humming outside your windows.

Finally, you groaned, letting your forehead drop to the back of your chair. “Fine. Maybe I’m scared of a real relationship.”

Desiree beamed. “And that’s progress.” She smacked your arm. “So go on the damn date. What’s the worst that could happen? You eat good food, flirt a little, and if it’s a disaster, you send me memes about it after. Done.”

You peeked up at her with a reluctant smile. “You are insufferable.”

“And you love me.” She flopped back onto the couch with the dramatic sigh of a woman who had just won a war. “Now, let’s order pasta. Milan men are useless, but their chicken is actually bomb.”

When your plane touched down in Barcelona that Saturday morning, exhaustion tugged at your bones, but you didn’t head home. Instead, you drove straight to Eli’s… which was next door but you get the point. The original two day in Madrid had been longer than expected, endless meetings stacked on top of one another, but somehow your mind was already buzzing with the next project. Still, when it came to Barcelona, Eli was your first stop as always.

You knocked on her door, and within seconds, it swung open.

“¡Nena!” Eli beamed, pulling you into her arms before pressing a kiss to each of your cheeks. Her perfume smelled faintly floral, and her lipstick left the faintest smudge on your cheek.

You laughed, letting her pull you inside. “Buenos días, Eli.”

“How was Madrid?” she asked immediately, guiding you toward the kitchen like you lived there. She set a steaming cup of coffee in front of you before even taking her seat, fussing over the sugar jar and sliding a plate of toast your way. “Come, sit, tell me everything.”

You stirred the coffee, the spoon clinking softly. “It was good. The company absorbed a Milanese small business and then hired the creators to work as designers. Then we are starting the process to launch a fragrance line. So that’s another thing I have to think about. You know, the scent combinations, packaging, mood boards, all of it.”

Eli waved a hand as if dismissing your empire sized worries. “Ai, carinyo, just smell around the garden and something will come to you. The roses, the jasmine, all the herbs, it is all there. You designers make things complicated when it is simple.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “If only the investors thought that way.”

Her lips curved into a sly little smile, one you’d grown to recognize over these past months. Mischief lived in that smile.

You set down your cup slowly, narrowing your eyes at her. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?” she asked, feigning innocence far too dramatically to be believable.

You leaned back, crossing your arms. “Like you’ve just successfully trapped me in one of your schemes.”

Eli pressed her fingers together in mock contemplation before breaking into a grin.

“Tonight at eight, right?” you said before she could open her mouth, already laughing.

She clapped her hands together like a little girl. “¡Sí, nena! At the French restaurant you like. What is the name again?”

“La Vigne Cachée,” you supplied with a sigh.

“¡Eso! Yes, yes,” Eli nodded enthusiastically, shooing you with her hands. “Take the whole day, eh? Get your nails done, buy new makeup, wear that black dress—the one that shows off your cul.” [Ass]

“Eli!” you gasped, your hand flying to your chest before you dissolved into laughter. “You cannot just say that!”

“¿Por qué no? It is true,” she shrugged, sipping her own coffee with perfect composure. “If I had that dress and that cul, I would wear it every day. Even to the bakery.”

You buried your face in your hands, laughing so hard your shoulders shook. “You are outrageous.”

“I am honest,” she corrected, patting your arm like she was offering sage wisdom. Then she stood suddenly, tugging you up with her. “Go, go, go. No wasting time. This is important!”

“Important?” you echoed, dragged halfway to the door with a piece of toast still in your hand.

“Yes!” she insisted, waving her free hand in the air like a conductor. “Do your hair, paint your nails, spray some of that fancy perfume. Make sure she cannot look away.”

“She?” you repeated, voice tight with amusement.

Eli only smiled knowingly, kissed you on the cheek again, and quite literally shoved you out the door.

As you stumbled onto the front step, still laughing, you called back, “If this goes badly, Eli, I’m blaming you!”

Her voice followed you down the walk, triumphant and teasing. “If it goes badly, it is because you didn’t wear the black dress!”

La Vigne Cachée was the kind of place that whispered exclusivity with its dim golden light, velvet drapes, and tables spread far enough apart that privacy felt like part of the service. The air carried the soft hum of French jazz, the scent of butter and garlic weaving through candle smoke.

Alexia had arrived absurdly early like too early. She had told herself it was because she hated being late, but really, it was because Eli had been insistent, mysterious, even and Alexia hadn’t been on a real date in years. She sat there, fidgeting with the edge of her napkin, shifting her water glass, checking her phone. She had played numerous high stakes games and never felt such anxiety as she did in that moment.

And when those doors open and you walked in, her world stopped and her anxiety flared.

You stepped into the restaurant with an elegance that made heads turn. Your French curl braids flowed over your shoulders, catching the light like threads of silk. The black gown clung to you in the right places, the thigh-high slit daring yet effortless. The fabric looked impossibly smooth, like liquid under the chandeliers, but it was something you had made yourself. It was a prototype spun from hemp, disguised as luxury silk, something you had been working on for quite some time.

Your smile was radiant, the kind that warmed the room instantly, and for Alexia, it felt like someone had just cut the power to everything else. The noise of the restaurant dimmed, the servers blurred, and her chest tightened like she’d just sprinted up the pitch.

You caught sight of her immediately, sitting at a corner table, stiff but striking in her blazer, her hair falling in soft waves. Her eyes were locked on you, wide and unguarded, and it made you bite back a knowing smile. She didn’t recognize you and quite frankly you liked that.

“Alexia?” you said softly as you reached the table.

She stood so quickly her chair almost scraped the floor. “Sí—uh, yes. Hi.”

Your laugh was low, playful, your accent wrapping around the word. “Hi.”

She pulled out your chair, still looking as if she couldn’t believe you were real. You slid into it gracefully, the slit of your gown revealing just enough to make her look away quickly, ears pink.

“So,” you began once she sat back down, tilting your head. “You like to arrive… how do you say? Extremely early?”

Her lips quirked. “I—well, I didn’t want to be late.”

“Mm,” you teased, leaning on your hand. “Or maybe you were nervous.”

Alexia gave a short laugh, looking down at the table as if it could save her. “Maybe.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, your tone gentle, mischievous. “I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

Her head snapped up at that, eyes widening, and you laughed, enjoying the flush spreading across her cheeks.

From there, the conversation flowed with shocking ease. You didn’t talk about work, neither of you asked the expected questions about careers or accomplishments. Instead, you talked about little things.

Her favorite spots in Barcelona. Your favorite bakeries in Paris. How she preferred the beach at sunrise, while you swore sunsets were superior. The worst dates you’d both been on. Your reenactment of the story of the man who tried to split the bill after ordering three bottles of wine had her wheezing.

The flirting came naturally, slipping into the spaces between laughter.

When the waiter asked if you wanted another glass of wine, Alexia said yes without hesitation, just to stretch the night longer.

When your hand brushed hers reaching for the breadbasket, neither of you moved right away.

When you leaned in to tell her a story, she leaned in too, like she couldn’t bear the thought of space between you.

By the time dessert arrived, Alexia had forgotten every reason she’d sworn off dating. All she knew was that she didn’t want this night to end. And by the way she caught you smiling at her—playful, knowing, and utterly captivating, she suspected you didn’t either.

The dinner stretched on until the candles at your table had burned low, wax pooling at their bases. Neither of you noticed the time until the waiter gently cleared his throat and dropped the bill.

Outside, Barcelona’s night air was warm but crisp, the kind that hummed with weekend energy. The city lights reflected off the cobblestones, laughter spilling from nearby bars. You and Alexia lingered on the steps of La Vigne Cachée, neither moving to leave.

Alexia shoved her hands in her pockets, shoulders rolling like she was preparing for a post-match interview. “So…”

“So,” you echoed, smiling. “You survived, didn’t you? My company isn’t that bad?”

Her laugh was soft, genuine, and it made your chest flutter. “Better than I expected.”

You arched a brow. “Expected? You were expecting bad?”

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head, eyes wide. “Not bad. I just… I didn’t expect this.” Her voice dipped at the last word, like she wasn’t sure she should admit it.

For a moment, you simply looked at her. The way the streetlamp hit her hair. The sharp angles of her jaw softened by the hesitant smile tugging at her lips. You had a rule, always. No kissing on the first date. that ways you were able to keep things clean, controlled, at your pace. But standing here, watching Alexia fight to keep her composure when you could practically feel the gravity pulling the two of you together… it made you reckless.

You stepped closer, close enough that she inhaled sharply. Your fingers brushed her arm, just a whisper of contact, and her eyes flicked to your lips before darting back up.

“Do you always look like you’re thinking too much?” you teased, voice low.

Her throat bobbed. “Probably.”

That was all it took. You leaned in and kissed her, soft but sure, your hand finding the edge of her jaw. Her lips parted in surprise before she melted into it, her body angling instinctively toward yours and her hands finding your waist. It wasn’t long, but it was enough to make the world tilt, the hum of traffic, the chatter from the bar across the street, all of it dimmed until there was only the warmth of her mouth and the rush of your pulse.

You pulled back just slightly, close enough that your breath still mingled with hers. “I don’t usually do that,” you admitted, a playful glint in your eyes.

Alexia’s lips curved slowly, a little dazed, a little triumphant. “Neither do I.”

You laughed, brushing your thumb against her sleeve before stepping back. “Well… maybe rules are meant to be broken.”

She was still watching you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics, her smile lingering even as you waved, slid into your car, and disappeared into the night.

And for the first time in a long time, Alexia Putellas didn’t think about football.

To say you and Alexia had hit it off was an understatement. It wasn’t fireworks or some chaotic crash of chemistry, but it was something softer, something that hummed underneath your skin like a rhythm you already knew. You truly just… clicked.

Both of you the eldest siblings, both of you carrying the weight of responsibility for younger sisters, both of you working so hard your family could finally breathe. Alexia bought her mom a home and gave Alba a safety net. You worked yourself ragged so your grandmother could retire and your younger sister could dream without limits. It was a bond that required no explanation, you simply understood each other.

Alexia knew you worked in fashion now, of course. But she didn’t recognize you. She thought Solenne was some small but promising label, and you didn’t correct her. She wasn’t the type to scroll endlessly through Instagram or devour fashion magazines, and she couldn’t care less about trends. She posted on social media when her sponsors required it and that was the extent of it.

Oddly enough, you liked that. Because with Alexia, you weren’t the girl who was Karl Lagerfeld’s apprentice at the ripe age of sixteen (he discovered you after a video of the amateur fashion show when viral.) Not the twenty one year old who inherited Chanel’s creative director seat only to be torn apart by critics when you stepped down. Not the woman who built her own multi-million empire before the age of thirty. With Alexia, you weren’t even the genius behind Solenne.

You were just you. The you who drew silly sketches and shoved them under Alexia’s nose, demanding opinions she didn’t know how to give. The you who dragged her unwillingly to Pilates, laughing at her grimaces. The you who stopped to feed every stray cat on your morning walks with Eli. The you who drove like the Formula 1 was your day job, forcing Alexia to clutch the passenger seat like her life depended on it. But Alexia loved every messy, unpolished piece of that you.

No one was happier about the two of you than Eli. Which is how you ended up getting kidnapped into Sunday dinner.

“Nena, enough is enough.” Eli planted herself in the doorway of your sewing room, hands on her hips. Her sharp eyes swept across the organized chaos of fabrics draped over chairs, sketches pinned to the glass board, and journals stacked like teetering towers. “You finally have the day off, Alexia is already at my house, and you can finally meet Alba.”

You didn’t even look up from the machine as you guided a seam through the needle. “Eli, I’m almost finished—”

Eli gasped dramatically and marched right up to you, plucking the thread from between your lips. “Don’t you dare talk with needles in your mouth, and don’t think I didn’t notice.”

You gave a nervous laugh. “Notice what?”

“Did you even eat today?”

You froze and the whir of the machine died as you sheepishly turned to face her, guilty

as a schoolchild.

Eli narrowed her eyes, then sighed, muttering in Catalan. “Ai, these artists. Starving yourselves for ‘the vision.’” She looped her arm through yours and started pulling you away from the table like a misbehaving teenager.

“Eli, I’m still in my these clothes—”

“They are black leggings, nena. Nobody will care. Let’s go.”

You allowed yourself to be dragged through the backyard, the two of you slipping through the little garden gate into her house like you had a hundred times before.

“The next time you do this,” Eli warned, wagging her spatula as you stepped inside, “you don’t want to know what I will do. Entesa?” [Understand?]

“Yes, mademoiselle,” you mumbled, head down like a child caught sneaking sweets.

“Bonita!” Alexia’s voice came from the living room as she immediately got up and wrapped you in a hug, lifting you slightly off the ground. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be buried under sketches.”

Before you could answer, Eli whacked the back of Alexia’s head with the spatula.

“Ow—Mama!” Alexia ducked, glaring at her mother.

“And what is wrong with you? You knew she was in that sewing dungeon all day and didn’t drag her out?” Eli whacked her again, making you snort.

“Mama!” Alexia yelped, dancing out of reach.

You clutched your stomach as you laughed harder than you had in weeks, watching Eli chase her grown daughter around the kitchen with a spatula.

“What the fuck?”

The new voice made you turn. A woman stood in the doorway, jaw practically on the floor. You recognized her instantly from Eli’s framed photos, Alba.

Her eyes bulged. “You’re—you’re—you’re—”

“Alba!” Eli smacked her youngest with the spatula now. “Language, niña! Mouth like a sailor.”

Alba stumbled back, pointing at you like she’d seen a ghost. “Mama, do you know who this is? This is the creator of Solenne. The one I dragged you to in Paris. Lagerfeld’s prodigy. Chanel’s golden child. The reason my bank account cried for six months after that handbag.”

You tried to hold back, but laughter exploded out of you again, especially when Alexia tightened her grip on your waist, looking baffled.

“Ugh, you two are impossible,” Alba groaned at her mother and sister’s dumbfounded expression, digging her phone out of her pocket. “Fine. Look. Wikipedia. Here. Read.” She shoved her phone between them.

Alexia leaned over her shoulder. “Wait, what?”

Eli squinted at the screen. “Nena!” She whirled back to you, scandalized. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

You wiped tears of laughter from your eyes. “Eli, I did tell you. I told you about my company, my designs, my reasons for moving—”

“You made it sound like you were knitting sweaters for Etsy!” Eli smacked you lightly with the spatula, too.

“Ow—Eli!”

“You need to give yourself more credit. This is incredible. You should be proud.”

Your smile softened. “I am proud. It’s my baby. But sometimes…” You shrugged. “Sometimes it feels safer to keep it small.”

Eli softened, cupping your cheek for just a second before turning back to the stove like nothing had happened. “Bah. Enough. Dinner!”

Dinner was a warm, chaotic blur. Eli served roast chicken with lentil salad, proudly remade from your accidental invention last week. Conversations flowed, effortlessly as you and Alba fell into easy banter. Yes, she fangirled at first, she even snapped a sneaky photo to send to her friends in a group chat, but after five minutes she was roasting you like a sister.

“You’re cooler in person,” she admitted between bites of salad. “Like, not as scary. I thought you’d be… I don’t know. Untouchable.”

“Untouchable?” you laughed. “Alba, you’ve seen me choke on tea at your mother’s table.”

“She’s right,” Eli agreed dryly. “Not untouchable. A disaster.”

Everyone laughed, even Alexia, though she slipped her hand over yours under the table.

Later, when Eli asked about your sister, pride bubbled up in your chest as you told them about Olympe and her basketball dreams, about little Étienne and his big heart.

“Nena, where is your sister? I never asked. She’s in university, right?” Eli handed you the bread basin she had, filled with cut up sliced of the sourdough loaf you gave to her.

You smiled at the thought of your sister. “Olympe? She’s in her first year of uni. She goes to university in America, and she plays for the woman’s basketball team at her school. She wants to go into the WNBA,” you explained with pride.

Eli smiled as well, “That’s very good! When she joins we will all go watch her games.”

You laugh at Eli’s ambition, she was already planning this far ahead.

By the time you and Alexia slipped out into the night, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Déjà vu,” you teased as Alexia walked you home, the moonlight catching in her hair.

She grinned. “What do you mean?”

“Standing outside like this. First date all over again.”

Her laughter was soft, full. She pulled you into her arms the second you unlocked your front door, tumbling onto your couch in a heap of limbs and quiet giggles.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Solenne?” she pouted, tugging playfully at your leggings.

“Chérie, I did tell you,” you laughed, brushing a curl from your face. “You just weren’t listening.”

Her lips brushed your shoulder. “Mama’s right. You don’t give yourself enough credit. I didn’t think ‘too humble’ was a thing until you.”

You exhaled, voice softer. “Sometimes the attention is overwhelming. “I know. I just enjoy the quiet, I’m not sure. Sometimes the attention can be… Comment dit-on cela en espagnol?” [How do you say this in Spanish?]

“Overwhelming?” Alexia offered.

“Yes. Exactly, it’s overwhelming. Like when I stepped down as creative director at Chanel to put my full attention on Solenne after I graduated, and the whole thing was blown out of proportion. All these reporters saying it was the worst decision of my career and my brand would never take off. It got so bad some teachers at my little cousin’s school talked bad about me near him and had him in hysterics. My poor Étienne, he had to change schools which is the last thing he needs. Since then, I guess I realized it’s safer to keep it small, even when it isn’t small at all.”

Alexia only hummed, her hand sliding under your shirt, rubbing circles at your waist. “Well… small or not, I’m proud of you.”

You blinked back a sudden rush of emotion, whispering, “Thank you, mon amour.”

Alexia let the silence sit, but the warmth of her hands dragging up and down across your skin was a reminder she was still here.

“Why did you choose Solenne?” Alexia asked.

“My grandmother’s name. She’s always supported me and when I started it was the only thing I could give to her really, I was only fifteen,” you whispered, the reputation of Alexia’s hands lulling you to sleep. “Besides it sounds elegant and classy, which was all I wanted.”

“How old is your sister and cousin? I don’t think you’ve told me.”

“Olympe is actually seventeen. She graduated a year early so she could go play early. She plays for the University of Connecticut. Étienne is eight going on nine. He’s my baby, I love him so much. He has the sweetest heart, and he’s really into football right now. Olympe is trying to turn him onto basketball. He lives with our mamé because both of his parents travel for work,” you let out a loud yawn. [Grandma]

Alexia kissed your temple, her voice gentle. “Go to sleep, guapa. I’ll be here in the morning.”

And you did wrapped up in her warmth, lulled by the simple, unfamiliar peace of being loved without expectation.

The box felt like it was shrinking around you the longer the match went on. The cheers from the crowd below were deafening, the claps of drums and chants of culers vibrating through the glass. Yet your nerves buzzed louder. You fiddled with your stacked rings, gold, platinum, brushed silver, sliding them up and down your fingers until Eli reached over and gently stilled your hand.

“Nena, what is wrong?” Eli asked when you suddenly folded yourself in half in your seat, hair falling like a curtain around your face. “The game is almost over and you spent most of it worrying and staring at Alexia.”

“I can’t do this,” you whispered against your knees, then lifted your head to groan. It wasn’t your first football game, you knew Jules Koundé and went to many of his games. “This isn’t like cheering for Jules or Aurélien or the French team. This is… different. This is me wearing her jersey. This is me sitting in the family box. This is Alexia.”

“Aww,” Alba cut in with a teasing smirk, her eyes never leaving the pitch as the final whistle blew. “You already got the WAG routine down. Cute outfit, nervous energy, cheering for your girl like the world is ending.”

You sat up straighter and looked at her, scandalized. “It’s technically Alexia and I’s first public outing where people might connect dots. I was already spotted at concessions and you know how I value my privacy, so if one—”

“You’re rambling again,” Alba sing-songed, resting her chin on her fist. “Huge ball of anxiety, but you’ll live. Stop overthinking.”

You blinked at her. Eli blinked at her. The two of you turned in tandem, shocked.

“What?” Alba asked, defensive under your twin gazes.

“That’s actually… good advice,” you said slowly, as if testing the words.

Eli clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “It’s a miracle.”

Alba tossed her hair dramatically. “What can I say? Genius strikes when you least expect it.”

“I can say you finally had a good thought,” Eli muttered into her coffee cup.

“Mama!” Alba gasped.

You laughed so hard you clutched your stomach, rings clinking together, just when the door opened.

“What are we laughing at?” Alexia’s voice floated in, warm and amused. She looked radiant with her sweat slick hair tied up, cheeks flushed, and her jersey clinging to her still burning skin.

“Good game, vida,” Eli said, rising to kiss her daughter’s cheek.

“Yeah, good game, I guess,” Alba mumbled, before Eli smacked her arm and physically nudged her toward the door.

“We are going to the family room,” Eli announced far too quickly, dragging Alba out despite her whining.

“Subtle,” you whispered with a grin.

Alexia stepped closer, and without thinking you were already out of your chair, wrapping your arms around her neck. Her hands immediately found your waist, pulling you flush against her. You gave her a quick peck, murmuring, “Good game, chérie. So proud of you.”

Alexia’s lips curved before she tightened her hold and captured your mouth again, this time slower, lingering, kissing you like she’d been waiting the whole ninety minutes for this exact moment.

“Capi will you make the TikTok—

“What the fu—”

“Capi?”

You both jolted apart, Alexia spinning halfway toward the door where Jana, Bruna, Esmee, and Salma stood in a messy clump. Jana’s jaw had practically hit the floor. Bruna’s eyes were comically wide. Even Esmee, usually reserved, had her mouth parted in shock. Salma, however, was smirking.

“Oh, my God,” Bruna whispered. “You’re kissing someone.”

“Not just someone,” Jana pointed, eyes narrowing as if solving a puzzle. “That’s—wait. That’s—”

“Hi,” you said smoothly, switching into your practiced but genuine smile that you used for investors, journalists, the rare public appearance. You extended your hand like you hadn’t just been caught making out with their captain.

“Uh…” Esmee blinked, still processing.

Bruna elbowed her. “Say something!”

You chuckled lightly, then turned toward Salma, who was already stepping forward. “Salma,” you greeted warmly, pulling her into a hug. “Congratulations again on the contract. I’m so glad we’re working together.”

Salma grinned knowingly. “Gracias. I had a feeling this was coming.”

Alexia stood frozen, her ears red. “Am I… am I the only one who didn’t know about Solenne?” she muttered under her breath.

Jana’s eyes shot open wider. “Wait. Solenne? You’re Solenne?”

“Like… the fashion Solenne?” Bruna’s voice cracked on the word. “The one on Vogue last month?”

“Well, I created it.” You smoothed the skirt of your dress under your Alexia jersey and shrugged delicately. “But tonight I’m just here as Alexia’s date.”

That sent the three of them into a fresh wave of whispering chaos. Alexia pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Okay, enough,” she said firmly, shepherding them toward the hall. “Go. Make your TikToks. Leave us alone.”

The four scurried off, still whispering loudly.

When they disappeared, Alexia groaned. “They’re never going to let me live that down.”

“They’ll survive,” you teased, linking your arm through hers as you walked out together.

Outside, your freshly detailed black G-Wagon gleamed under the stadium lights, windows tinted dark enough to bounce back the reflection of the floodlights. Eli and Alba had texted that they’d gone ahead to the restaurant, giving the two of you space.

Alexia opened the passenger door, hand sweeping theatrically. “Get in.”

You shook your head immediately. “Absolutely not. You just played ninety minutes. You’re exhausted. I’ll drive.”

“Carinyo.” Her voice softened, her hand still braced on the door. “Please. Let me spoil you. Besides, you drive like a lunatic.”

Your lips twitched, torn between practicality and the warmth in her eyes. Finally, with a mock sigh, you slid inside.

Alexia shut the door, jogged around, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The car purred to life.

“You better drive safe,” you teased, buckling in.

Alexia smirked, shifting into gear. “Bonita, as long as I don’t drive like you we will be safe.”