#ap11

Every single person here knows why a change of plan is needed, no one seems too keen to voice it. The most recent scans are passed from hand to hand, like the answers are somehow hidden in the papers scattered on the table.

Jonatan straightens up, his gaze darting around for backup among the men in suits crowding the space. The footballer’s personal trainer doesn’t have any useful insights or significant observations, the medical staff doesn’t offer any idea or suggestion that could explain the situation.

“Because you aren’t recovering the way we hoped”

Everyone turns to you, speaking for the very first time since this disaster of a meeting started.

Someone stiffen, breathing deeply but silently, so as not to trigger the metaphorical bomb. They’re all used to your blunt honesty, they should not be surprised. If anything, the fact you waited until this moment to speak out is unusual. Barcelona’s head coach glances at you, only a second, before moving to the other side of the table, studying the captain.

For the first time since she walked in, Alexia’s eyes found yours.

“Am I wrong?”, you continue, gaze fixed on her, “Or are we all dancing around the real reason we are all here?”

“I couldn’t put it quite that way”, a bold man from management interjects.

“Since when softening the blow has done the players any good?”

“We’re not starting now”, Patricio, the head of the medical team, interrupts, trying to make order before this blows out of proportion.

“An ACL recovery is not a linear path”

“Yeah, but it’s not supposed to be a downfall either”

The voice raising from someone on her team is rigid, mask of professionalism cracking under the pressure of the situation and the reason behind the meeting, “What are you implying?”

It may not be their fault Alexia’s injury is not progressing as well as everyone is hoping, it’s no one’s fault really, but they are definitely not doing enough to improve the situation.

Until now.

“No one is implying anything”, Patricio states once again, too calm. “We’re looking at the scans, the tests, the assessments. We suggest a different approach. Alexia is significantly behind schedule–”

“Stop talking like I’m not here!”

Alexia rises from her seat, the legs of the chair scrape on the floor unpleasantly. She quickly uncrosses her arms to drop her hands on the table, loud.

A sign of irritation, for most.

To you, the movement is a subtle, betraying evidence – her knee failing to support the weight of her own indignation.

If possible, the stiff air tenses even more. An uncomfortable silence cast a veil on any attempt of explanation, any tentative hint of reasoning. There’s no space for understanding when everyone has a different take on the situation, different motivation.

Alexia has never felt so alone in a room full of people there for her.

No one is looking at her, no one is seeing her.

No one is understanding.

They’re all too busy trying to assess the damage, to uncover the reasoning behind this failing approach. To fix her.

What went wrong?

Was it the surgical reconstruction? The treatments? Maybe the entire rehabilitation protocol?

What can be done to fix it?

There’s a voice in Alexia’s head, loud and sharp – What if I am the problem?

Around the table, the discussion rises again in hushed tones and pointless remarks. You’re not talking, the only person you want to listen to you is currently trapped inside her own mind.

What’s the point if she isn’t listening?

After a failed attempt of getting her attention, the midfielder jolts away when her personal trainer puts a hand on her shoulder. She’s suddenly awakened, back in the room she wishes to flee as soon as possible.

“Do I have a say in this?”, she challenges, ignoring their questions.

“She’s one of the best physios we got and her programmes are solid”, Patricio says, pointing at you with a pen and the trace of a tired smile, “She’s also the best rehabilitation physical therapist you could ask for”

“I’m not asking–”

Jonatan cuts off, appearing more firm than she has even seen him. “No, Alexia, you don’t have a say in this–”

“You do”, you interject, speaking directly to her without a care of the other people’s gazes. The resolution in your voice is final, “You have a say. Give me one conversation, once chance. Then you can decide”

And just like that, the meeting is over.

~

The first time your fingers graced her knee is to tape her before yet another interview. You are the only physio already in the facility and she doesn’t want to be in front of the camera with such discomfort.

In between awards for her performances throughout the previous season, the irony of her own body’s betrayal could be funny if not so fucking painful.

“Do you have a favourite colour?”, you ask while she reluctantly hoists herself onto the treatment bed without muttering a response.

She can’t tell if you’re making fun of her or joking around.

“Just whatever, I’m already late”

“As you wish”

Your hands are fast and precise, cutting and stretching the tape as if the motions come naturally – as if you don’t need to think where to put it. The footballer fixes her gaze on the ceiling, taking in the smell of medical cream, while you work on her with a care she’s too stubborn to acknowledge.

You don’t comment about the way her muscles twitch under your fingers, both from pain and from the intrusion in her personal space.

“Done! You like it?”

She scoffs as soon as she notices the colourful pattern covering her knee, definitely not subtle under the shorts. It’s the most stable she felt in a long time, but she’s not going to comment that out.

“You think you’re funny”

“I have plenty more where that came from”, you claim as you leave the room – not before patting her calf with a grin.

~

Three days later, pacing in the treatment room, Alexia is making it impossible for Irene to enjoy her recovery session.

It’s not like she’s hiding, or stopping Carlos to do his job.

She’s simply there.

Relentless, stiff in her movements, yet stubborn. Complaining, muttering under her breath, not making any sense. Not listening. Pacing.

As if someone could call it pacing.

“Can you, at least, stop grumbling?”

“I prefer she sits down”, the older man states, his hands firm on the defender’s calf. “But I agree, the grumbling is quite annoying”

Alexia doesn’t respond, but she sinks into a chair.

It is due to the fatigue more than anything else, her friend and the physio think, but they’re nice enough to not point it out. They all know anyway.

After a couple minutes of just silence and the distinctive smell of sports cream to fill the space, Carlos speaks out without even looking away from his hands working on stiff muscles, “She really is one of the best”

“I don’t doubt that”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Alexia must have spoken with you a handful of times since you joined Barcelona’s medical team a couple of months prior to her injury. Someone said you accepted the job to gather more data for your research, someone else said you’re waiting for a challenge.

All she knows is you never treated her, not even once. And this is a problem for her.

Alexia doesn’t trust you.

She’s used to her routine, she’s comfortable in her own circle. Not trusting easily, the ones close to the midfielder are people she picked herself, people she knows care about her as much as she cares about them.

“Why don’t you have a problem with them dismissing your programme?”, the blonde asks, almost upset.

Carlos has been with Barça since she can remember, by her side from the very first senior team’s call up. He’s a good one, reliable and experienced. Trusted.

But the rehabilitation programme that her personal trainer and the club planned, crafted around her and her needs, is not working. She can feel it, right through tired bones and fucked-up ligaments.

The older man doesn’t answer, he wraps some tape around Irene’s calf, patting her gently to let her know he’s done. The defender cracks a smile, dropping off the massage table and making her way to the door – not before giving an encouraging squeeze at her teammate’s shoulder.

Once they’re alone he admits, “I asked for her to take over”

“What?”

“Alexia, our plan is not working and you deserve a better one”

“I trust yours”

“I know, but it’s not working”

They all know.

It’s clear, loud and easy to read between the lines of the failed tests and poor assessments’ results.

Alexia is suddenly grateful for the chair supporting her weight, her legs once again not able to support the cruel reality of her injury. She feels sick, tired.

But, most of all, hopeless.

“Give her a chance”

~

The next week passes in a blur of meticulous measurements – the movements Alexia is barely able to complete, the portions of a new diet, the data in a progress’ chart she doesn’t understand.

The team is outside, training in full swing after the first matches of the season.

It feels wrong, not being there with them.

On the field.

But she’s here, sidelined. Forced in a gym that smells like someone else’s sweat and cold metal.

Carlos is scribbling on a notepad, shaking his head and avoiding her gaze. Patricio hovers around, like he doesn’t have something more important to do. Even her own personal trainer made the journey, like this new set of tests is some monumental event.

The eyes of the entire group are on her, scrutinizing each single movement and twitch of her body – every time her knee fails to do what suppose to. Pointing out every second more she needs to catch her own breath, every evaluating point she’s missing, every sequence she’s executing with a hint of hesitation.

Alexia hates this, but she’s probably hating herself more.

“Does it take three people to hold a goniometer and two more to count?”, you comment in passing, entering the gym to seek some rubber bands.

It’s clear as the day, bright as just the city towards the end of summer can be, that the midfielder is uncomfortable.

You don’t stop long, but you catch Carlos’ tired hint of a smile and his dismissal of the rest of the party.

~

Barcelona had an amazing season last year.

Winning, breaking records, dominating in all competitions.

Alexia loved every single minute of every single game, even the one when they weren’t winning yet. Every pass, every goal, every loud cheer from the stands. She lived through it all, like a force inside filling her blood.

But now, as she enters the Théâtre du Châtelet for another awards ceremony, she almost resents it.

Not any awards ceremony, this one time.

The Ballon d’Or.

Last year was magical, unbelievable. It felt like an honour she doesn’t deserve and a recognition she fought her entire life for. Humbly accepted, raised with both gratitude and the distinctive emotion that constricts the chest with pride – she earned it.

This year, before separating to be guided to their seats by a nervous usher, Alba jokes about causing a scene to put her out of her misery. Nothing more than a signal and they can flee through a back door. The blonde genuinely thinks about it, then shakes her head, amused by her sister and her loyalty.

The ceremony passes in a blur of polite smiles and well timed applause, rehearsed speeches and some genuine reactions. Time stretches slowly as she smooths nonexistent creases in her dress and holds on fresh memories.

Ada Hegerberg shifts beside her, subtly nudging on her arm as a clip plays out to introduce their category. She’s very nice.

When Alexia hears her own name she rises on her feet, confidently, and blocks everything out. The rhythmic clapping of the crowd, the flashes and strategically placed lights of the stage. The silk of her gown catches on the compression sleeve hidden beneath, the itchy reminder that the woman on the screen isn’t in the room.

She smiles, she lifts the trophy in favor of the camera, she does her speech.

The gold ball is heavy, heavier than the first time. And for a moment, even if just for a brief one, holding the biggest individual recognition in football in front of these people, she thinks she doesn’t deserve it.

*

The office given to you is one of the smallest ones in the facility, but the windows are big and overlook the main training field so you don’t complain. As the last arrived, it’s not like you can be picky.

In the quiet time between the end of the season and the start of the Euros tournament, your sister Cris dragged you to buy more furniture the room can actually fit. She sat on a chair without legs while you tried to build everything, following the instructions word by word. She judged, didn’t lift a finger, and sipped a drink way too loudly.

Despite the lack of support, you managed to do a decent job.

The bookshelves covering an entire wall are filled with manuals, publications, and volumes with penciled notations and folded corners. Some have faded traces of comments back from your university years, others are untouched for you to find the time and willpower to get through them.

Small vases and green plants cover any available surface, meticulously watered every morning by a schedule you follow like religion to make sure they all get the needed attention.

The chairs in front of the desk have all their legs and a stuffed walrus, once belonging to your nephew, is towering over one. The examination bed on the side makes a questionable sound every time someone sits on it, but the poster with an unhinged motivational quote is a good enough distraction.

The door is ajar when you sense someone approaching, still busy answering a few emails with music playing softly in the background. Not loud enough to disturb anyone, but enough to fight the irritating rhythm of your typing.

Alexia’s presence is heavy, the crutches restrict her movements as she hover by the entrance. You’re not sure if she will say anything, not even assuming she is going to take a seat.

Maybe, for now, acknowledging you as a possibility is enough.

“I’m interrupting a session?”, she asks, pointing the toy in front of you with a nod.

It’s her first time in your office.

“He’s my assistant”, you reply, playing along with mock seriousness, “Please, meet Dr. Wallace. He’s a bit of a prick, honestly. Very self-conceited. But he does overtime with me, so I let it slide”

The Catalan woman doesn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

You will take it.

When she fully enters the room you stop the music and close your computer, leaving space for the enthusiastic voices of the B team training outside. She slowly settles into the free chair, almost reaching for the stuffed animal before closing her hand in a fist on her lap.

You pretend not to notice and she ignores your smugness.

“How do you know your plan is going to work?”, she asks after a moment, straight to the point.

“I don’t know”

That makes her hesitate, tensing up under your gaze.

She’d already be out of the office if not for the lingering discomfort in her knee, subsided by the position. The mere thought of getting on her feet is painful enough.

“Alexia, I don’t know you”, you find her eyes, as sincere as possible, “I’ve seen all your exams and all your scans, read over all the assessments and my colleagues notes. I’ve done the math. Twice. But I don’t know yet”

Honesty is better than a lie, at least you’re sure of that.

They are giving her timelines based on sponsor deals and trophies and hopes. It’s dangerous, you tell her as much.

“Then why should I trust you?”

“Because I don’t have assumptions or pretenses to know it all. This is a career-threatening injury, rehab is not like any other. And all ACL tears are different, so every recovery is different”

“You’re saying there’s no plan”

“I’m saying I want to understand it, first. I’m saying I want to map out where we actually are, beyond textbooks and expectations–”

You can tell she’s not reassured, so you try again. “If it makes you feel better, Dr. Wallace and I do have a plan. I’m not a complete fraud, I know what I’m doing. I’m telling you we will adjust on the way, we will find the best path as we go”

The tension in her shoulders loosened a little. It doesn’t disappear, but she doesn’t appear frozen on the spot – helpless.

Alexia doesn’t really trust you yet, not after only a simple conversation and some measured words of commitment. Nevertheless, she stays. She lets you explain, she listens.

It’s a tiny step, but it’s a step forward and that’s already progress.

*

The atmosphere at the Estadi Johan Cruyff is incredible, thousands of supporters waving the Blaugrana colours and signing their hearts out. It’s such a different perspective from the one you’re used to. From your seats, you can even smell the freshly cut grass.

It’s not bad, just different.

“You look like you’ve never watched a football game in your life”

When you turn to her, Alexia’s eyes are fixed on the pitch, but the lips twitch in a smirk. She’s perched on the edge of the seat as if nothing could stop her to sprint on the grass – despite the injured leg stretched out. A signal, a moment of distraction, and she will run to where she truly belongs.

“How does the offside rule work, once again?”, you bait.

It’s still a bit tense between the two of you. It’s not uncomfortable, but she doesn’t trust you yet.

However, her answers don’t consist entirely of grunts and monosyllables anymore. She doesn’t roll her eyes at your questions, scoffing as she repeats the same movements over and over again until you’re satisfied. She still flinches when you touch her knee, subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you see it. You feel it under your fingers.

But you’re moving forward, one step at a time.

“How did you even end up here?”, she asks with a hint of curiosity in the way her gaze shifts on you.

“Well– They begged me to fix the face of women football in Europe”

“And when I start considering the idea you’re not as bad as I thought”

“Bold to you to assume I will not get worst”

The midfielder smiles, despite herself.

For the rest of the game, you let her be herself.

She needs to watch, studying it. She needs her space because she can’t do much besides cheering for her teammates, giving out instructions and pointing out some obvious tactics she is able to spot even from the sideline.

On the pitch, the team’s confidence is growing at each pass. It’s just a matter of time before an idea will spark and a play will change the curse of the events.

The Barça captain spots it before you, obviously.

Probably before everyone else.

Aitana cuts between the opposing squad’s lines, finding Keira with a sharp pass. The ball is back on her feet like nothing, two players out of position to try to block her run. On the stands, Alexia leaps up from her seat as soon as she catches movement on the box. The younger midfielder sees it too, shifting and hitting a lob that sailed over the defenders. Beside you, the blonde cheers even before Pina nudges the ball in the back of the net.

As simple as that, like second nature.

Like it couldn’t be any other way.

You may be not really into the game itself, but even you can tell Alexia belongs in a football pitch.

~

The award season is in full bloom, going as strong as Alexia’s recovery, but a blinding contrast to her rehabilitation’s reality.

She’s progressing in weight-bearing, but her range of motion is still disappointing. The exercises and tests outlined in the previous rehab programme left space for your own observations and insights.

At first, you observed close by – writing on a small, yellow notebook. It’s irritating. The pen danced on paper every time Alexia tried a movement or even hesitated before completing an exercise, like a rhythmic judgment as loud as her own muscles.

Now, notebook fully scribbled with your handwriting, all you do is order her around, talking and teasing.

~

The day following Barcelona’s victory against Bayern Munich in the first match of the season held at Camp Nou, Alexia barges into your office after spending at least ten minutes pacing in the corridor.

As much as she can pace with a swollen knee and bruised ego.

The team is showing up, maintaining their perfect streak and scoring goals as if setting records after records is a normal Thursday.

They are doing everything they can to make the captain feel included. She keeps her turn in choosing the matchday playlist, even if her name is stuck on the list of unavailable players. She travels with the squad when possible and watches training from the sideline if the schedule doesn’t interfere with her own rehabilitation.

But it’s not the same thing.

Alexia wants to get back.

“You can take over”, she states.

“Please, come in and take a seat”, you say back, gesturing to the chair in front of you without even taking your eyes off the laptop.

For a few minutes, the only noise in the room is the rhyming typing. You mutter something under your breath every time the in-box lights up with a new message, trying your best to ignore Alexia’s good leg bouncing under the desk.

It makes your eyes twitch.

“You done?”

“You heard me?”, she retorts, not stopping.

You have to write the next email three times before it starts to sound less passive-aggressive and more professional, gaze still fixed on the screen. You still have to water your plants.

“I heard you– I just not believe you”

“Try me”

The laptop closes firmly in front of you, physically removing the last barrier between your eyes and hers. You study her, silently. Her frown, arms wrapped around her torso, jaw clenched. The leg is still bouncing, as if to challenge your patience.

“You fully in?”

“Yes”

“You trust me?”

Alexia doesn’t answer right away, you know it’s an unfair question.

But she’s here, she’s in front of you, asking for help.

After looking you up, searching online your published medical articles on ACL injuries in female sports. After learning about your studies and other athletes you helped before coming to Barcelona. A world champion skier who won another title three months after coming back, some basketball players with the fastest recovery in the league, footballers who praise you on every given opportunity.

She digs so much she even found your high school final thesis and your personal Instagram account.

“I’m willing to”, she says so honestly you’re almost taken aback.

The silence that fills the room after that is not uncomfortable, but definitely charged. At least her leg stops the annoying bouncing movement, gaze fixed on you as you pick the yellow notebook out of nowhere.

“I will take it”

~

The time when Alexia couldn’t even spare you of a single glance was pivotal in your observation.

She was too focused on her rehab, too focused doing every exercise with commitment, too focused on pushing way too hard during the tests. She didn’t notice how you took everything in – not at first.

The movements, studied and unconscious ones alike. The frown on her face, the grimaces and the discomfort badly hidden. The way her knee reacted against her will, moving on its own commands or not moving at all. The stubbornness, the pushing too much too soon. The disappointing results and the numbers making no sense out of context.

You noticed everything and you noted it.

A pattern forming, a routine outlining right in front of your eyes.

The barriers of ACL injury are usually hidden, the hardest ones buried so well that are almost impossible to uncover. Even after recovery. It’s not just a torn ligament, it’s a disconnection. The brain screams commands that, no matter how loud, the body will not listen – will not obey.

“Make yourself comfortable”, you gesture as soon as Alexia enters the treatment room.

The physiotherapy bed is built to be uncomfortable, she is sure about it, but nothing in the rehabilitation process has been comfortable so far.

“Someone explained to you what Arthrogenic Muscle Inhibition is?”

“I looked it up online”

“I could make you run a few laps for that sentence alone”, you comment, only half-joking. “You’re lucky your knee is so fucked up it could be child abuse or something”

You push a machine closer, working on setting it up before scanning Alexia.

Sometimes showing the problem, making it as real as possible, it’s the only way to really face it.

“The surgery is a trauma. A trauma more severe than the injury itself”

“I definitely feel traumatised”, she retorts, skeptical about your explanation.

“Oh, she has jokes”, you say to no one in particular, slightly amused but used to athletes’ emotional reactions to such situations. “The brain’s response to this kind of trauma is cutting out the connection with the danger zone – the knee, in your case. It’s like your brain is trying to protect your body from more damage”

It’s a defence mechanism, really.

Her quad is not strong enough, making even lifting her leg a challenge. Her left thigh is still significantly smaller than her right one, despite the hard work. And because she couldn’t use her quad to stabilize her knee, she started walking by “locking” her knee or swinging her hip. A limp you noticed immediately, slowing down recovery.

Alexia stares at her leg, as if to rebuild that connection with will force only.

If someone can, it’s probably her.

“It’s a vicious cycle, one of the many someone can fall into in rehab, but we can break it– if I’m annoying enough”

She jolts when you place the cold electrode pads on her thigh and knee, targeting the muscle group you want to stimulate.

“We can’t fix AMI with traditional weightlifting, so we trick your brain”, you say with a grin so open the footballer has to raise an eyebrow.

“Why do I sense you’re gonna enjoy this?”

“I’m gonna enjoy it more than you”

You explain how the NMES machine works as simply as you can.

The device sends an electrical current, basically forcing a contraction without the brain’s permission. The stimulated nerves trigger the muscles to contract and relax, similar to voluntary movement, but controlled externally. The brain sees the muscle moving, sees it can do it without more damage, and starts to trust it again.

“Wanna see something fun?”, you ask her after a few minutes, turning a screen with different graphs in her direction.

“I don’t like your idea of fun”

“Squeeze”

Alexia does, just to prove a point.

The line on the screen barely moves.

“That’s pretty embarrassing”, you comment, “They might want the shiny gold ball back”

“They should take back your medical license”

The machine hums with a low-frequency buzz that feels like energy crawling under the footballer’s skin. You watch her face as the current forces the muscles to jump, forces the brain to remember the leg still belongs to Alexia and Alexia only.

You smirk, “Make the line hit the red zone”

She tries again a few times, fixated more on the muscle and ignoring the indistinctive voices of her teammates coming in for recovery after their training session.

You tap with insistence at a spot on the screen.

Finally, the line spikes.

“It’s alive!”

Alexia looks at you, and, for the first time, there is a genuine smile on her face – despite her frustration.

~

After the first few real sessions, Alexia’s commitments to your rehabilitation programme surprised everyone but you.

The midfielder is still pretty vocal about her complaints and her doubts, skeptics about your methods. She may do the exercises with a frown, but she does them all. She follows your advice, she doesn’t push too hard on her own.

It’s not like you ever questioned her professionalism or her dedication, but you’re not taking her trust for granted.

You are slowly earning it, proving something to her.

And she’s proving something to you too.

Carlos comes to you one afternoon, hands behind his back. The gym session allows the injured players and the team to train together for a few hours. The two of you observe the girls doing their own circuits, sometimes more competitive than required and sometimes missing a beat or two to mess around.

You try to pay attention to everyone, observing all the players. The team is a blur of energy and loud laughter.

Lucy Bronze is close to breaking some personal records, while Claudia and Mariona are balancing each other so well you may start pairing them for physio sessions to save yourself from the younger girl’s enthusiasm. Vicky Lopes, recently promoted from the B team, is trying to prove something or pulling a muscle – you make a mental note to talk with her.

Your eyes, however, shift towards a corner every few minutes.

Alexia is doing her own exercises with precision, pushing her knee enough to feel something. You can tell she’s holding back, she wants to do more, but she is learning to listen when her body is asking to stop – not letting her stubborn mind convince her to keep going.

“I hoped she could let you in”, Carlos says after a while, gaze fixed in the same direction.

"Barely"

“Still means a lot, trust me”

You smile, not doubting it for a second.

~

Before the Christmas lights are rummaged out from basements, you are already checking out presents after presents for all the people in your life.

It may be simply hatred for the season, or a more profound trauma you’re not going to unpack with a therapist, but you can’t be bothered with the holiday spirit. So you plan ahead and make sure you do everything you have to do before everyone else spirals in a limbo of repetitive songs and ugly sweaters.

“You better come home for Christmas”, your sister says, her voice ringing in your head as you try to decide between two pretty much identical decorative ornaments your grandma not-so-subtly have been sending you for weeks now.

Her timing should be studied.

“I’m working that week”

“You work all weeks, even the Pope takes days off”

You shouldn’t have picked the phone.

“I don’t do Christmas, you know that”, you try again, giving up and dropping into the shopping chart both the identical ugly crystal Santa’s hats.

“I know you don’t do Christmas, but you’re going to send nana to the Creator sooner than planned if you skip another one–”

Cris pauses for a moment, barely enough for you to hope she’s dropping the topic, but then you hear the familiar sounds of your nephew’s adventures, commotions, and your efficient clean up.

It’s over before it even starts.

“Teach me your tricks, some of my patients act so much like child I could use them”

“They still work with you too, I’m not that stupid”, she retorts, wise as only a big sister can be. “Your said patients don’t do Christmas?”

“Rehab doesn’t and I have already called nana”

You check out of your mental lists a few more items, heading to the cashier’s desk after a quick run in the sweets’ section. Everyone has their own weakness.

“What did she say?”

“That I’m gonna send her to the Creator too soon”

After a few days of radio silence from your sister you almost believe she dropped the topic.

Wishful thinking.

Cris calls early in the morning, knowing you’re probably getting ready for the day and it’s not so easy to escape her. Plants watered and office set up, her voice fills the room while you’re half-listening to her and throwing together data in some research papers.

“You can send emails from home”

“Not convincing me with remote work”, you fight back, tempted to remind her once again, even if you don’t have patients on Christmas, you still have research papers that could use your focus.

It’s a part of the job you really love, especially the work you’re putting in with some colleagues in England to investigate the causes, consequences, and prevention of ACL injuries in women’s sports.

“It could be grandma’s last Christmas"

“She tries that every year, it’s doesn’t work when she has a better life expectancy than mine”

The gentle knock on your door makes you pause, time bantering with your sister flying faster than you realised. Alexia takes a seat on the treatment bed with a dismissive nod when you gesture an excuse with your free hand, trying to wrap the call.

You love Cris, but she is relentless.

“I have to go, I will call you tomorrow if you stop be annoying”

“Fine, but this is not over”, she concedes before firing off her last shot, “Your nephew likes Christmas and he miss you”

“This is emotional blackmail”

The call ends just like that, with a sentimental whiplash you both know works way too well. The methods can be as brutes as effective.

“Troubles?”, Alexia asks with a smirk, her legs swinging like an impatient child who would really like to be entertained.

“My sister is a pain in my ass”

“Younger?”

“Older”, you correct, motion her to lie down so you can check her knee and assert a few movements, evaluating her range of motion.

“She lives close?”

You usually don’t indulge conversations too personal, but since Alexia seems curious enough to let you do your tests and measurements without the usual grumbles and complaints, you indulge her.

So tell her– some things.

The years apart when you studied or worked abroad, the times your mother disappeared for weeks to some absurd places with a few days notice as soon as you and your sister were old enough to survive on your own. Cris’ presence, even from a far, always warm and always strong. Your nephew, Toby, the one and only man of your life, so wild and unbothered by chipped teeth and scraped knees. The decades-long fight against Christmas.

The session stretches out in a tangle of shared childhood memories, blurred family stories and tradition, ways to survive loud affection from loved ones.

The next day, when you enter your office barely five minutes later than usual, Dr. Wallace is dressed in a tiny Christmas hat waiting for you on the desk.

~

Winter in Barcelona is different from what you’re used to, never quite freezing or biting into the bones. It’s like even the weather is trying to sweeten you, charming you into believing snow can be warm too here.

It’s cold outside when Alexia comes into your office, trying to hide her limp. You can read her body better than her right now, you don’t even need to see her knee to know it is swollen.

Too swollen.

It was fine yesterday, perfectly iced after a few exercises on the treadmill. You didn’t lecture her about not pushing too much, trusting your cautious approach about this amazing progress.

You trusted her to trust you.

You ask her once if she pushed at home, alone.

The session is cancelled even before the lie is completely out of her mouth.

“Take a ride home, we have nothing to do here today. Ice it before and after some stretching exercises, don’t you dare weightlift a single kilogram”, the deafening absence of anger in your voice is worse than any fight she was bracing for. “If you want to do my job, go get the degree. If you want to be Alexia Putellas, stop self-sabotage and trust me”

~

They keep handing Alexia awards, praising her performances and reassuring her she’s going to come back even stronger. She smiles politely, shakes hands and says exactly what they want to hear.

Every time a new trophy is added to the list, she is not sure if she needs to scream so loud they will question her sanity, or if she needs to cry so much to risk dehydration. Maybe she should punch something so hard the ACL couldn’t be the most severe injury.

The brighter side is, every physio session after another title for the previous season is announced, you try to ragebait her into a new milestone.

Questionable tactics, but efficient.

“In the 2022 edition of the International Federation of Football History & Statistics Women's Awards– well, that is mouthful”, you read out loud, looking at the phone while the footballer is fighting against resistance bands under the watchful eye of Dr. Wallace. “Alexia Putellas won the Player of the Year award for a record second time. She also won the Playmaker of the Year award for the second time– what a showoff, with teammates Keira Walsh and Aitana Bonmatí placing third and fourth respectively”

“Are you done?”

“Are you done with your exercise?”

“I did a rep more”

You know, you can multitask.

“Dr. Wallace says your form was questionable”

As a good enough answer, she flinches the band to knock the peluche off the chair carefully placed right in front her. You gasp in pure shock, bringing a hand on your chest for good measure.

She wants to be dramatic? You can put on an Emmy-worthy show.

“You know what? You could use ten minute of heel prop”

“Oh, come on!”

It’s a passive extension exercise, nothing too crazy, but Alexia hates it. She has to sit with her heel propped up on something and with nothing supporting her knee, letting gravity pull it into full extension. And she must sit perfectly still, so there’s nothing to distract her from the dull, grinding ache in the back of the knee joint.

When she’s really annoying, you even stop the music playing softly in the background during your sessions, making her sit in complete silence while you watch her with a sardonic grin.

“If you move your pretty leg by one centimeter, I’m resetting the timer”

“Whatever, I know you never set it right anyway”, she mutters as she places the poor staffed animal under the heel for support.

~

The schedule in January is packed and challenging. The squad travels back and forth, preparing for the Champions League knockout stages while also defending the Supercopa title and messing up the Copa de la Reina one.

After reluctantly overhearing a quite animated phone call about the RFEF being the RFEF, Alexia’s muscles tensing under your hands even if you’re trying your best to do the opposite, you think it is time for a miracle.

“I have a Christmas present for you”, you say out of nowhere as the blonde Catalan finishes with her stretching.

“A bit late”

“Do you want it or not?”

She follows you outside, skeptical. It’s a misty morning at the training ground, empty since the team is away for a game. You stop on the sideline, right in the middle of the pitch, and Alexia almost collides into your back.

“You remember how to jog?”

“Barely”

“I will take it”, you step onto the pitch, pushing up the zip of your jacket and clapping your hands to get her attention. “Straight jog, nothing fancy. Follow the midfield line and don’t die”

At least ten different emotions pass on Alexia’s face, one trembling over the other and mixing together. It looks like relief, before turning into panic, to finally set on pure determination. She braces herself on the sideline like she’s ready to fight an army with bare hands and one good leg.

It definitely feels that monumental.

You’re now used to the Spanish theatrics, “They don’t pay me for my overtime, you know”

The athlete scoffs, shaking her head to hide a smile. She takes a deep breath and then walks in on the grass. She reaches the center of the pitch before actually starting to jog. You push her gently, but firmly, to the other end and follow close behind.

“My grandma can do better than this and they had to amputate her diabetic foot”

“I bet your family is so proud of you”

“I am, indeed, the golden child”, you retort, happy with the few jogs on the line and the growing confidence.

Until you see her immediately stop, face pale and trembling. She drops on the ground a moment after you reach her, taking her hands away from her knee.

“Talk to me”

“It popped”

Oh.

A whisper, genuine fear in her words, “I felt it pop”

You don’t say anything, just hold her gaze long enough for her to focus on your breathing and slow down her panic.

When she’s back on the earth with you, when your hands on her knee don’t feel like a ghost, you perform the Lachman test right there on the grass, pulling the tibia forward to check the ACL’s integrity.

It’s perfect.

The graft is as strong as it could be, firmer than the one she was born with. You tell her as much. Honest, understanding.

“It’s scar tissue snapping. It’s fine, it’s a good thing. It sounds worse than it is– It means the joint is opening up”

A pause.

Then, she exhales.

“If you fucked my knee again– I swear, I’ll kill you”

“First, I could love to see you try with a fucked knee”, you retort with a genuine smile, helping her up with ease. “Second, you still have to do a full lap before we’re done here”

“I almost died”

“I'm going to walk behind you. If you slow down, I’mma trip you. Vamos!”

She doesn’t doubt you for a second.

~

The other girls find out about Alexia’s first jog and it’s a chaotic mess of cheering and hugging. It’s good to see them so happy about their captain’s progress, celebrating a step forward as something monumental.

It warms your heart, even if you don’t really belong there.

It’s difficult to have such a strong bond in such competitive environments. Alexia misses her teammates in a way it’s impossible to hide, despite the professional and detached mask she still puts on sometimes. But you have been watching her for months now, you can tell when a veil of pain covers her eyes.

When the squad’s loud excitement flows from the training ground to the treatment room, when they run around the grass and she’s stuck on the sideline – or worse, on the stands. When they travel for games, she’s learning to move again.

When she feels like she’s not really part of the team because of her injury.

You see it and you can do something about it.

Small, but still something.

So you plot with Patri and a few of the younger girls, involving Irene for a semblance of professionalism.

Alexia comes into the gym for her morning session with the entire team waiting for her, grins on their faces and hands behind their backs.

She senses danger immediately.

“What is this?”

“Team bonding”, you answer, eyes lighting up with a spark she has never seen before. “Please, stand on the foam pad”

She does, because she’s committed to the recovery plan, but when she notices Dr. Wallace on the ground with a tennis ball nearby, she knows she’s in trouble.

Even the stuffed animal is threatening her.

“Now, please, try to survive”

Before the footballer can utter a word out, her own teammates, one by one, start to draw tennis balls at her. Lightly at first, avoiding her bad leg and just being as annoying as possible. When the captain gains confidence on the unstable pad, some balls come faster and she even goes as far as catching a few to throw back.

The room fills with more laughs than ever for such a place, releasing a tension built on more than one person. You let them play for a while, before the girls have to leave for their own training.

“I saw you aiming to my head”, she claims, helping you gather the offending items.

If you manage to fire a ball or two yourself it is to test the progress.

It’s research, really.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”

“Dr. Wallace has better aiming than you”

As a good enough answer, you throw a ball in her stomach, making her fold dramatically – still smiling.

“Get back on the foam pad”

“Are you actually trying to kill me?”

“I had to make sure your balance is good enough”, you explain, moving your hands around. “Stand on the fucked up leg and close your eyes. Without visual cues, your brain has to rely entirely on internal sensors. Let’s build your instincts back”

Alexia wobbles violently, losing her balance more times than not. She keeps trying. You stand behind her, arms protectively around her without touching.

It gets better, before it gets worse.

It happens so fast you don’t have time to brace yourself.

Her knee gives up and she drops back, falling on your chest and crushing the two of you on the ground. Your arms are still wrapped around the athlete, as if still steading her.

The laughter that erupts from you is full, straight out from the belly. She follows soon after, laughing in a way you haven’t possible.

A sound you will do everything in your power to hear again.

~

“Are you sure about it?”, Jonatan asks.

The men crowding the room are both hesitant and hopeful, not used to hanging on every word of a woman.

It’s irritating and empowering at the same time.

They know they have to listen, they know you’re the only one with the answers to their questions. But that is definitely not stopping them to doubt, to inquire – to just believe they know better.

They don’t.

“Do I look unsure?”, you fight back, too calm for someone who spent the past half hour sharing the reasons behind her choices and her decisions.

“The results–”

“The results are one of the reasons why I’m sure”

“There’s been undeniable progress”, Patricio interject, impressed by the tests and evaluations, “The ones upstairs want to make sure the time is right”

You don’t roll your eyes at the political talks, but the unsaid is loud enough.

The ones who bet on you want to know if taking a leap, trusting you to get one of their most valuable players back on her feet, worth it. They want to know if she’s back on her feet properly – to run, to score, to win.

The ones who care more about the club, the face of football, want to know if their precious Ballon d’Or winner would get back.

They want to know if such a huge symbol of Barça colours would still shine as bright.

They want to know if Alexia Putellas is still a name they like to hear chanted from the stands, if it is still their Alexia Putellas.

The ones who don’t dare to say it out loud want to make sure the injury hasn’t ruined her forever.

The ones who care about Alexia want to know if she’s really ready to be back.

“You have the numbers, the scans, the tests and even my notes, right here to review on your own if you’d like”, you state, final. “This is my professional opinion, and, mind you, I’m the one who actually got the progress we currently discussing”

“We’re not doubting you”

“You’re questioning me, I know the difference”, you retort.

The conversation circles back to the scans and your evaluations, the Catalan’s progress and feelings on her rehabilitation, the team dynamic’s changes and the medical opinions on more than the ACL – even the marketing team’s approach to a possible coming back for the Champions League knockout stage.

“I trust her”, Alexia’s personal trainer adds from his seat on the table, improvements and changes right under his nose for months now.

He’s the last to talk after almost an hour of discussion.

“So, it’s settled?”

Carlos and Patricio nod with conviction, along with a few other coaches and staff members. The club’s representatives seem both happy and relieved by the decision. You stay composed, determination and something deeper firing up your eyes.

You know you’re right.

Alexia is ready to get back.

~

It’s late when you are ready to go home, you expect to be the last one to leave the facility with the backlog of paperwork waiting on top of your desk.

What you do not expect is Alexia Putellas, quietly leaning against the wall outside your office. A smirk you’re getting used to curving her lips, one hand in her pocket and the other holding something by her side.

“You scared the shit out of me”

She dismissed it with a sheepish shrug, handing you a paper bag.

Churros.

“Not exactly a healthy snack”

“I’m celebrating”, she comments, taking one out as she walks by your side to the parking lot. “And last time I checked, you were my physio and jailer, not my nutritionist”

You raise an eyebrow at her words more than the way she chews her dark chocolate-covered churro, “Jailer?”

“You locked me up away from the pitch”

You don’t point out you’re also the one allowing her to get back, “You’re so dramatic”

“It’s fine, I’m a free woman now”, she says, genuine smile on her lips despite the teasing tone.

The two of you reach the parking lot with no real rush, saying goodbye to the few people closing up the facilities for the day.

Alexia keeps her baiting up for the entire walk, almost skipping, unable to physically contain her enthusiasm. You get it, she truly must feel like she served time and she’s now free to be.

The journey is still long thought, you both know.

But there really isn’t a good reason to ruin the moment.

When you reach your car, you steal a few churros from the bag before saying goodbye, “Just don’t make me regret it”

You see the footballer hesitate for a second, calculating something in her head, before taking a step closer and wrapping you into a hug.

It’s warm, different from the brief and half-hearted ones you shared before.

You’re now familiar with the show of affection this team takes pride in, but this one is different.

In the way her arms hold into your body, the sweets’ bag trapped between your jacket and her hand. In the way you can feel her relaxed shoulders, breath hold into a few unsaid words.

In the way her smile grows when you hug her back as tight.

“Oh, you’re definitely gonna regret it”

~

Slowly, one training day at time, Alexia is reintegrating with the group.

Moving around the pitch with her teammates, sharing the same space during gym sessions, even pairing up with someone for light exercises. It’s not much, not really if she stops to think about her life as an athlete hardly a year ago, but it’s something.

It’s progress.

It’s everything.

She’s on time for every physio session prior to her daily work. Not that she was late before being allowed on the grass again, but she has a different light in her eye. And she doesn’t complain that much anymore.

Some mornings, you find a beaming blonde waiting for you by the door before your first coffee of the day kicks in. Teasing, even if you’re early yourself. The younger woman brings breakfast on Wednesdays, to soften you in the middle of the week. On match day you hand her a few packets of figurines for the stamp album you gifted her as a joke. You criticise her pastry’s choices, she grumbles about the duplicates – none of you really mean it.

Sometimes you have to hold her back a bit.

More often than you like to admit, you let her be.

Not because Alexia can’t push, she does anyway, but because you know she will go all over if you’re not as annoying as her.

The footballer’s desire to get back where she belongs is so strong, and quite riveting, that you find yourself dragged into her stubbornness. You close an eye if she does more reps or exercises than allowed, even two if you notice her skipping through her programme.

There are times when you’re the one pushing her.

“Plant that foot!”, you command, shaking your head.

As a good enough answer, Alexia rolls her eyes, turning more sharply around the cones. Still not planting her foot.

The coach next to you annotates something on his pad as the Catalan jogs back, repeating the exercises. It’s a fast linear path with cones to point out the segment where Alexia is supposed to cut direction.

Sprints and cuts, she can do it in her sleep.

Or should.

You walk to the other end of the makeshift obstacle course, waiting for her to finish.

“You literally circled around that cone”

“I did not”, she fights back, catching her breath, “I did what you told me to do”

“I definitely haven’t told you to do– whatever that was”

It’s a classic pattern, compensatory movements to cover the ones her mind doesn’t trust the body enough to do. Alexia is using her hips and lower back to turn instead of the knee. And she knows.

Her face morphs into an unpleasant wince, eyes naturally shifting toward where her teammates are entertained in a pickup game.

You lightly push her shoulder, catching her attention, “Remember my nana? She cuts better than you”

“I really must meet her now”

“Alexia”, your tone is almost condescending, hand firm on her shoulder. “If you don’t plant that foot like you mean it, I will have to explain to club management their precious Ballon d’Or and who-really-knows-how-many awards winner somehow forget how to actually play football. Now, let’s do it all over again without thinking you will die”

“You’re so mean”

“You like it like that”

Alexia shakes her head, amused, fixing her posture and returning to her exercise with a new-found energy. “If my knee explode, you will hear from my lawyer”

Threats aside, the form of her sprints is more clean and her cuts are rapid, confident.

That doesn’t stop you from screaming “Pivot!” every time she approaches a cone.

~

Before you actually realise how late it is, you have filed a dozen reports and updated almost as many physio programmes. You’re glad for the productivity hours, but your stomach is pretty pissed with you for skipping lunch and drinking more coffee than water.

Taking advantage of the surprisingly empty facility, most staff out on the field with the players for a session under the Barcelona sun, you lower your guard in the canteen.

Alexia finds you there, slumped in a chair with questionable stability, chewing on a protein bar.

“This is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life”

“I have seen you trying to sit on a bench a few months ago”, you retort, sipping from a colourful energy drink, “You will be fine”

The younger woman scoffs, but with a genuine smile on her face.

It’s almost a shame your comments do not have quite the same effect on her anymore, ragebaiting her is a fun and effective method.

“I hope that’s a sad snack and not your lunch”

“You have nothing better to do?”, you ask, trying to hide the blushing growing on your cheeks for whatever reason. “Last time I checked, you were my patient and biggest pain in the ass, not my nutritionist”

“It must be your lucky day”, she states, inviting you to follow her to the kitchen in the player lounge. “As a matter of fact, I have nothing better to do so let’s feed you properly”

The space is modest, but well organised. A small but stocked fridge, two microwaves that must belong to a different era, and a surprisingly clean stove. In a few minutes, Alexia has plates and ingredients out for you to replicate a simple recipe.

When you almost burn the eggs while attempting an omelet, she bans you from ever coming close to a fire again.

“You’re a doctor”, she comments from the high barstool across you, eyeing skeptical your cutting technique. “How can you not know how to slice tomatoes?”

You point the knife in her direction before trying to defend yourself, “First of all, I’m not that kind of doctor–”

“Please, slow movements”

“Second, I’m not a chef”

“It’s pa amb tomàquet, there’s literally nothing easier than pa amb tomàquet”

Maybe your cooking skills are not remarkable, but you survived until now so at least your basic life skills are good enough to feed you. You never had the time or the patience to cook a proper meal, why start now that lunch is provided or pre-made and dinner is only a few taps on your phone away?

When you almost slide your hand open trying to cut yet another tomato, Alexia decides to intervene showing how to assemble the simple dish.

Much to your displeasure.

“You know what? Your sister is right. With this attitude, you will never find a good party”

“Introducing the two of you is, to date, the worst decision of my life”

“Good, there’s time for improvement”, she replies, coming closer. “Now, try again and please don’t kill yourself”

~

Match after match, won with Alexia still sidelined but barely contained in her seat, award after award, conferred to a version of Alexia Putellas she is just now learning to mourn; you can tell the excitement of her return is thrumming.

Everyone is waiting for her comeback like the thunder following lighting, the perfect storm waiting to overwhelm everything – or reestablish order.

The draw for the Champions League knockout stages is held at UEFA headquarters in Nyon, stopping a video session in the middle of training. Barcelona topped their group, successfully dodging the more challenging opponents.

Playing the first leg at Stadio Olimpico will not be easy, Alexia told you there aren’t easy games in the Champions League, but with the second leg to be played at Camp Nou you see her eyes sparkle.

Now, however, her troubling leg and loud comments are getting on your nerves.

At the third ignored request to stop, your hand finds her left knee with intent. The gesture is casual enough, your finger gently grazing her scar over the jeans but your irritation is clear. You just really hate that habit of hers.

“We shouldn’t have let them score”, she comments as a good enough explanation, gaze still fixed on the pitch.

The Camp Nou is buzzing, has been for the past hour, and you’re sure will not subside because Roma rallied and scored a consolation goal. Not with waving flags, fan chanting, and Barça playing in complete control of the game.

“You’re winning 6-1 on aggregate, Alexia. You’re fine”

You know it’s really not about this match. The team is handling it with precision and unapologetic dominance, the midfield is commanding every play with ease and goals are coming from all over.

Everyone is doing their part and more.

But you know Alexia feels like she’s failing, herself as much as the team, by not being on the field – by not doing her part.

Making her understand her only job is focusing on recovery, that doing it is how she’s helping herself and her teammates, has been the most challenging part of your job.

So you have an idea.

Sometimes it surprises you how stupid your ideas can be.

Ten minutes before the final whistle, you disappear between the corridors and tunnels of Camp Nou. You have to pull some strings and drop some names, but when half an hour later the stands are mostly empty and the squads are getting ready to leave and celebrate, you can drag Alexia to the sideline.

All you need to do is push her buttons with well placed comments and teasing remarks, her following you more curious than irritated.

On the otherwise empty pitch, maintenance staff reassess the grass with care and let you pass as they notice you with Alexia and the old man who is unofficially in charge of managing the entire stadium.

“You have five minutes”, he tells you, voice softer than necessary.

“It will be more than enough, thank you. Is not like she can really keep up anyway”, you joke.

Alexia doesn’t have the time to retort or fight back, pushed closer to the penalty area.

You produce a ball from behind your back like a magician’s trick. It’s a peace offering and a challenge wrapped in a sphere.

She doesn’t even realise until it’s kicked in her direction.

The athlete stops it like second nature, only recently getting re-used to the feeling of a ball around her feet. It comes naturally, if a bit stiff at first. But it’s too familiar for her to not feel like coming back home.

“What are you waiting for?”, you ask, dragging her back into the pitch and out of her head. “Do I need to whistle? Kick the ball, Alexia!”

She sends the sphere back to you with precision, not sure what you’re actually asking her or why you went out of your way to play catch at Camp Nou.

“Try to score, just– without fucking up your knee and all my precious work”

She complies, nudging the ball into the net before turning to you with a frown, “This is– stupid. I feel like an idiot”

“That shot sure was embarrassing”, you grumble, retrieving the ball and positioning yourself between the posts with a smirk.

Alexia’s brow shifts more, kicking the ball toward the goal as soon as your pass comes close enough. You move fast enough to tip the ball away, mocking the blonde athlete even more.

If you have to poke the bear to have a reaction, you will.

“If that’s the best you can do, they definitely overrate you”

“If I do the best I can, your ego will never recover”

“I put you back on your feet, Putellas”, you quip back, mocking a goalkeeper’s stance. “I think I will survive”

“Try to survive”

“Try not to kill me”

The words are barely out of your mouth when you see the ball flying from her feet to the bottom corner of the goal. Fast, clinical.

She smirks almost as much as you do.

The next minutes are a blur of light-hearted mocking comments, Alexia scoring more times than not even if she’s not really putting much force or commitment into it. You want her to get familiar again with the feeling, controlling the ball – back in control of her body.

If they let you mess around for more than planned, no one beside the few people in the stadium needs to know.

~

Alexia pushes open the heavy door of the treatment room with her shoulder, coming in later than usual for a media commitment. She enters the space with a headache and a stiff knee, bothered by something more than the rain.

She expects witty comments from you and teasing from her teammates, but she only finds Carlos checking the settings on an ultrasound machine and Jana sprawled on a bed with her leg wrapped in a cooling sleeve.

“And she finally arrives!”, the younger girl quips lightly, looking pleased with herself for a reason Alexia doesn’t feel like investigating.

“I’m ten minutes early”

“I've been bored for half an hour”

“And you still have another to go”, Carlos interjects, his gaze swifting from the machine to a tablet, making sure the numbers check out. His tone is easy and familiar when she addresses the blonde, “On the bed, cap. I’m running the show today”

Alexia obeys, but her eyes instinctively scan the room one more time.

The door of your office was open when she passed the corridor, no one inside but Dr. Wallace carefully placed on a chair.

She doesn’t ask, but Jana makes a face that lets Alexia know she has not managed to hide her curiosity as well as she hoped.

“Your favourite doctor is not coming”, Jana chirps, tilting her head back with a growing smirk. “Took the day off. Personal stuff, you know”

“Since when does she take days off?”, she means it as a joke.

“Since when do you care?”

Carlos immediately clocks the joking tone, the mischief in her words. And, from how the midfielder tenses under his hands, it works perfectly. He shakes his head, before saving the situation, “It’s her birthday”

In the next hour, between usual gossip and three different brands of tape, the Catalan finds out you’re actually older than what she thought and a tradition with a childhood friend gets you in Madrid every year on this day, clockwork.

“Don’t worry, she left instructions and notes”

The session with Carlos is light and familiar, Jana narrates in great detail the latest episode of her favourite dating show and the man fakes, poorly, disinterest. Alexia, however, is too distracted to pay attention.

She finds herself tracking the rain pouring outside from the window, wondering why you haven’t mentioned your birthday but ignoring why she cares so much.

A few days later, you enter your office before the sun is even fully up – in the hope of catching up on some work and surviving the Monday morning.

You notice it with the light still out.

Sitting right in the center of your desk, somehow protected by Dr. Wallace as the way is prompted holding it, there is a small box and a neatly wrapped gift.

You close the door behind you as you round the table. The scrapped paper reveals a book, hardcover with questionable graphics, and the laugh that bursts out at you is as loud as amused when you read the title.

“The Art of Being a Nit-Picker: an 11-step program for the most unpleasant person in the room”

On the first page, Alexia’s handwriting fills the white space messily – I know you only read things that come with a bibliography and endless footnotes, but let’s try something new. Dr. Wallace actually suggested this, I just picked the cupcake. We both can’t wait for your notes! Good read and happy birthday.

She signed it with the autograph she usually gives to kids, number 11 clear and without rushing the letters – to be extra annoying, you think.

The box is clear, containing a single, cartoony decorated cupcake. Dark chocolate, the only chocolate you actually like, with a candle on top. You take a bite, way better than the protein bar you usually have for breakfast.

The warmth in your chest definitely comes from the sugar hit.

~

It’s a sunny afternoon when basically half the coaching staff is crowding the sideline with beam smiles and attentive eyes.

Alexia is officially back in training with the team, taking active part in the sessions and getting involved in contact drills.

A few younger players go easy on her, out of respect and maybe a fear someone will have to talk them out to.

However, when Vicky attempts a nutmeg as Jonatan is explaining a play, you can’t contain a laugh at the blonde’s shocked face.

The more experienced players, on the other hand, seem to enjoy the lingering uncertainty.

Irene and Marta follow Alexia like a shadow, as if instructed to be as frustrating as possible. Keira dribbles around her like she’s a training dummy, while Jana, who is barely back from the injury herself, makes fun of the older woman like they are siblings.

It’s clear if Alexia is really bothered by her teammates’ behaviour she could raise an eyebrow and they could stop, but the truth is the teasing is just another sign she’s back.

A trainer turns to you as another attacker-defender drill takes over, “You think she’s ready?”

You don’t have to respond.

On the pitch, the ball is moving fast between Alexia and Patri. The Catalan pivots on her left foot, avoiding Lucy imposing presence, and controlling the ball to shoot. You see Irene approaching with a clean but firm tackle, half aspecting Alexia jumping out of the way and half praying she actually does.

She doesn’t hesitate.

With a quick movement, the ball is on her other foot to fly on goal.

She helps Irene up with a smirk, “Better luck next time”

The entire sideline beams in cheers, coaching staff clapping at the scene with enthusiasm. Pride overflows your body in an unfamiliar but warm way, hands by your side but a soft smile on your face. Your gaze and Alexia’s lock for a brief moment, enough for you to share a grin and maybe something more.

“She is ready”

~

“Are you cheating on me?!”

Unannounced, Alexia’s voice resonates your office with a playful tone and theatrics you’re way used to by now. It’s too early for it.

“Not only you’re not the lone player I am fixing”, you start, wrapping tape around Jana’s knee, “You’re not even my favourite one”

The captain acts so offended, both you and the younger defender have to hold back laughter. You finish your work with gentle hands, letting the two footballers chat the time away with ease.

Jana says goodbye to Dr. Wallace more cheerfully than to you, but you let it slide when you notice the smirk she sends to Alexia as she closes the door behind her.

There’s not real bite into your words, more amusement, “Next time, knock”

“I’m here almost as much as you are, it’s practically my office too”

She entertains herself with the stuffed toy while you prepare the treatment bed for her, cleaning it and making sure it’s ready to welcome a final assessment before the next match.

The team is getting ready for the second leg of the Champions League semifinal. The away game at Stamford Bridge was intense, exciting. The return one at Camp Nou will be even more.

For Alexia?

It will be special in a unique way.

You can feel it on her muscles, working on her with firm, yet oh-so-caring, hands. But you can also see it in her avoiding eyes and hear it in the soft murmurs when you touch a sensitive spot. She jokes, but it’s not as baiting as usual. And she talks, but it’s missing the usual depth note your conversations colours with lately.

“Should I suggest to Jonatan to take you out of the matchday squad?”

“Should I suggest to Laporta to fire you?”, she fights back, frowning at your threat.

You don’t add more, hands still manipulating her knee as a good enough reassurance.

She’s ready, her body is ready. Her mind has been ready even longer. A comfortable silence fills the office after that, you work on her muscles with attention while she ruminates on something you hope she will eventually share.

“My work here is done”, you declare, tapping her calf to signal she can get off the bed.

“Do you have a date with another of your girlfriends after or–?”

“You know you are the only one for me”, you indulge her jokes, shaking your head amused by how ridiculous she can be when comfortable. “But no, I kept the best for last so I can go home with a smile on my face”

She waits a bit before taking the seat in front of you, Dr. Wallace secured between her arms and legs stretched under your desk as if she owns the place.

Before you know, the last reports of the day are completed, the sun is getting down and the last rays cast a beautiful light throughout the window.

“I don’t think I can go back to– I’m not who I was”

Alexia’s voice is barely louder than a whisper when she finally speaks. You hear it only because she means for you, and only you, to hear. She holds onto the stuffed animal before continuing, “I just think I– I can’t be that player anymore”

“Is it a bad thing?”

She raises an eyebrow, recalling your habit of reading out loud critic articles and award motivations she was honored with during her recovery, teasing about new rising talents and accomplished players who deserve more recognition than her.

“That player won two Ballon d’Or”, she says eventually, matter of fact.

“They started giving them to women– when? Yesterday? Does it mean there weren’t great players before the individual trophies? Or that the footballers who have not won are not good enough?”

She roll her eyes at you, “You know it’s not what I mean”

“Do you think your contribution to the sport is solely related to how many Champions League you will win or how good you will do with Spain this summer?”

“I don’t even know if I will be there”, she mutters under her breath, twisting Dr. Wallace’s soft arm between her fingers.

“You will be”

“I don’t know, they expect me to do that and more and–”

“The people who really matter to you are just happy for you to be back”

When she doesn’t fight back, you rise from your seat to cross the distance and find a place on the chair next to her. Before you can hesitate, or think too much, one of your hands is on her arm and the other linger on her face. She holds a deep breath, closing her hazel eyes.

You definitely aren’t thinking – at all.

“You told me you weren’t the same player after Turin, and I bet you weren’t the same who won her first Champions League or the one who wore the Barcelona crest for the first time”, the voice out of your mouth is almost as gentle as your touch. “You are not the same player you were before the ACL, Alexia, you’re right about that”

“It’s not comforting”

“It’s not a bad thing”, you interrupt her with a smile, more used than amused of her stubbornness. “That version was invincible, and she still broke. This version? This version is evolving, growing. Allow yourself to change, Alexia. You may surprise yourself”

You hold her gaze until you feel her finally exhaling, closing her eyes before a single tear can run on her cheek.

“Besides, I prefer the version I’m looking at right now. Still annoying, don’t get me wrong, but–”

“Perfect, you ruined the moment”

The both of you burst into a roar of laughter, loud enough to cover the pounding beat of your hearts.

“You’re welcome”

~

Alexia doesn’t play in the home game at Camp Nou against Chelsea, much to her dismay, but when she makes her entrance at Estadi Johan Cruyff is pure chaos.

You check her knee one last time before nodding in Jonatan’s direction and back to the blonde, “Please don’t die”

“Can’t make any promise”

The supporters are louder than you have ever heard, the players and staff on the bench can’t be contained and, for every single one of the barely twenty minutes played, Alexia’s smile is brighter than the sun – of the last one, you’re sure.

After a comfortable win against Sporting de Huelva, Barcelona is mathematically unbeatable in the league and secures the fourth consecutive title. While the girls run on the pitch to celebrate, unconcerned about possible injuries as they pile on top of each other, Carlos lets you know the team won the league with a perfect record for the second season, and achieved 61st consecutive league victory.

Interesting stats for sure, but, even for a nerd like you, it seems like a moment to commemorate without too much thinking.

And you don’t think at all when later, while president Joan Laporta thanks the team for their tireless effort throughout the season and the staff for the work behind the scenes, you let Alexia kiss you in a hidden corner of a beachside restaurant.

~

The next day you arrive on time and that, for you, is unusual – since you’re always clocking in early. Plants unwatered, despite the beaming Barcelona sun, you hardly manage a cup of coffee before making your presence known in the treatment room.

The girls are coming in waves, some more affected than others by the late celebrations the management encouraged yesterday. But the season is not over, there still are games to play and trophies to win.

Alexia is talking with Jonatan when you busy yourself with Ana-Maria and a sore spot in her outer thigh, not alarming yet definitely something you will pay close attention to. The Swiss player is chatty and usually a conversation you indulge in, but today you can’t summon the energy for small talk.

The one and only thought in your head, flipping back and forth like a bouncing ball beating in your skull, is Alexia.

The kiss.

Kisses, plural.

You may have let her kiss you the first time, her lips barely a brush. Certain, but oh-so-gentle. The hand behind your neck holding on more firmly when you responded, when you kissed her back. When you initiated the second kiss, and the third one. When you couldn’t tell who broke the distance again after that, mind too dazed by the note of wood in her perfume, the buzzing taste of champagne lingering on your tongue, and the bodies so close and so good together it feels wrong to take them apart.

“My turn?”

Alexia’s voice almost startles you, too focused on your work on Ana-Maria to notice her coming closer and patiently waiting for you to finish.

The Catalan midfielder looks nervous as you prepare the treatment bed for her, but you honestly can’t point out the real reason.

Is it because you have to evaluate her knee’s response after the game, checking the reaction?

Is it related to finally being back on the grass, playing?

Is it something else entirely?

When your hands find her knee, she tense immediately

“Does it hurt?”

“No, no–”, she interrupts herself, closing her eyes for a moment before turning to you. “Yes. I mean, it doesn’t hurt. But– it doesn’t feel comfortable”

“It’s normal, it needs to get re-used to the work”, you reassure her, increasing the firmness of your touch when you feel her muscles relax under your hands. “Alexia, you played almost twenty minutes of a really emotional game when I could have let you eleven, just to be poetic”

“Just to piss me off, you mean”

“That too”

Ten minutes are all you need to evaluate the condition of her knee and assess the situation, the bit of swelling is not worrying and you can tell there isn’t fluid. Another thing you make a mental note to pay attention to.

You tell her that much, “Ice and try not to go full all in, today nothing more than lightworkload and all the things you hate”

“You kill my joy”, she jokes.

“And I take pride in it”

A bit passes between the two of you, Alexia stays close as you prepare the treatment bed for the next player – Patri, who is excusing herself to finish a conversation with a coach.

You almost make it out alive.

“About yesterday–”

Almost.

“I’m really happy you’re back”

“Not what I meant”, she quips back, studying your face with an attention and a care you still cannot place.

“It’s the only thing that matters”

You definitely will not make it out alive.

“So– We’re doing this? We’re going to pretend it never happened?”, she asks with a steady voice, her eyes chasing yours.

The footballer’s gaze linger on you for a bit, but when it locks with yours it’s clear she’s not happy with the way you’re dismissing it all.

Yet, without a doubt, you’re sure she will respect whatever decision you’re ready to make for both.

She is not going to like it, she is probably going to try and fight it. However, eventually, she will accept it as it is.

Your choice.

“I would prefer that, yes”

Alexia doesn’t respond, not with words anyway, but she nods and her face morphs in a grimace it’s supposed to resemble a smile.

It will haunt you for days, every time your gazes lock for a brief moment.

~

Patricio requests a meeting at his office while the team is occupied with endless video analysis of Wolfsburg.

You don’t think much of it, it’s not unusual for you to have one on one with the head of the medical team.

Every single day on Ciutat Esportiva you have been nothing but professional, committed to the work and to your patients. Every single match day, travel day, and late hour serves as a testament of how good at your job you are.

The one and only mistake you allowed yourself to indulge in?

You couldn’t even label it as a mistake in the first place.

So you enter the room with a smile and the attitude of someone who will face whatever thrown at them.

“Do you have plans for the summer?”, he asks as soon as you take a seat.

The both of you are not really fond of small talks, but you indulge him, sensing more than curiosity for your vacation.

“Just a few weeks off and then I will be in London to catch up with some colleagues about the research papers we are finalising"

“I have read a few of your papers, I’m sure it will be enlightening”, he comments, genuine in his nice words.

Patricio is a good man, one of few words but almost always well placed. He was the one approaching you, proposing you this position in the Barcelona medical team. He was the one pushing and fighting behind the scene with the management, after Carlos’ request, to suggest the change in Alexia’s recovery programme.

You know you don’t really owe him anything, everything you achieved is the merit of your hard work and commitment, but you’re not too proud to admit he played a role.

“Thank you”

“But I have to be honest”, he continues, small smile growing under his mustache. “I would like the idea of you accepting the updated contract for next season”

“I’m thinking about it, Patricio”, you admit without the hint of a lie in your voice. You have been thinking about their proposal since they put it on the table a few weeks ago. “But I still don’t have an answer”

The contract you signed last year ties you to the club for another season, but they apparently appreciated your work so much they have a different idea of how the business relationship could look after the World Cup.

You exit the man’s office more nervous than when you entered.

~

In the last game of the league’s season, Barcelona's unbeaten run came to an end.

The two goals from the Madrid CFF’s striker came before halftime, enough to secure a victory no one really saw coming. The home side’s game plan is clear, with a well-organised defence and a targeted counter-attack.

It works perfectly.

They capitalise on mistakes by both Barça and the referee’s questionable calls. Not enough to excuse the weak attempts to get the game back on track.

The final whistle decrees the first defeat as team manager for Jonatan and the end of the record run for the team.

But it’s a good thing he’s the one facing the press after the game and not Alexia, who enters the locker room equally kicked and pissed.

You linger in the room for a couple of minutes, assessing the general humor and making sure all players receive attention if needed. The game caused stiffness not only in the morale.

“My professional advice is avoiding the press altogether”, you suggest to Alexia, handing her an ice pack with a small smirk. “Not a PR expert, but that is not the face of someone who just scored for the first time after an ACL injury”

Alexia scored the team’s consolation goal not even two minutes after entering onto the pitch, a loose ball into the penalty area she simply couldn’t miss.

“Yeah, well– it meant nothing”

Her gaze drops on the floor before you can properly study it, before you can find out if she really thinks so. If she really thinks she has not made another huge milestone in her recovery. If it really thinks it means nothing.

You kneel right next to her, seated on the bench with her teammates floating around in different conditions of distress. The ice is cold on her skin, the contrast with your warm hands is evident. You secure it around the knee with ease and care, making sure she can move around and get ready to leave.

“I think it means everything”, you admit in a whisper, loud enough for only her to hear and honest enough for the words to really sink in.

~

The Philips Stadion is crowded with supporters, chants and heated humidity. On the pitch, Irene freezes in the middle of her run and the Blaugrana fans are left speechless – Barcelona now down by two goals.

The rhythm is off, passes are skipping past too soon or too wide and the press is disjointed between defense and midfield lines. They’re not making the most of some good chances, running in circles and missing opportunities. When a good attempt comes, there’s always a better block from Wolfsburg. The frustration is visible in the slumped shoulders of the players, the ghosts from Budapest and Turin traveling all the way to Eindhoven.

Ewa Pajor and Alexandra Popp gave Wolfsburg a strong lead to take into the second half, seeking to win.

On the bench, the silence is even heavier as halftime approaches.

The medical bag is on your feet, you sitting with some members of the staff – usually not the physio assigned on the sideline during games. Your gaze darts across the grass, jaw set so tight to bring headache tomorrow, but your eyes always come back to Alexia.

The Catalan is vibrating with tension, unable to mask her frustration. She is off the bench a lot, raising her arms and encouraging her teammates, but every time she sits back, her hand subconsciously grips her knee.

When the referee finally whistles, Alexia starts her warm up even before all the players are out of the pitch, giving away pats on the back and encouragement. You stay close, paying attention to hers and Geyse Ferreira’s movements.

You look at Alexia after a few minutes, really look at her.

You see the scars, the troubling legs. You see the uncertain steps, the ups and downs. The milestones. The setbacks. The woman who didn’t trust herself, until she could not do it. The old version, the new version, and the version in between.

Alexia in the meeting room.

Alexia in her office, paying more attention to a stuffed toy than you. Alexia on the treatment bed, downplaying her pain. Alexia embracing her pain. Alexia messing around with her teammates, letting them mess with her – letting you mess with her. Alexia complaining, then fully trusting, but never stopping complaining.

Alexia entering in your life like you enter in hers. Slowly, tiptoeing around, while filling the space with care, stretching exercises and teasing comments.

Alexia in the secluded corner of a beachside restaurant.

“Alexia”, you say, voice low and more steady than how you feel, as you step her before she joins her teammates for the halftime’s last minutes. “You earned it, you deserved it. Take it. You will not die today”

Alexia nods once, doesn’t smile, but her eyes are sparkling with a light you only saw a few times. She walks into the tunnel, disappearing under the chanting fans and the prying cameras.

You don’t know what happens in the locker room, what is said and what goes unsaid, but the team that walks back out is unrecognizable.

It’s a tidal wave, crushing on the grass immediately. Patri scores once, then again in a blur of two minutes. The stadium erupts in a completely different passion, pumping blood in your veins as loud as the cheers from the stands. The tension on the bench finally breaks into pure adrenaline, no one able to stay put for more than a few seconds.

It’s everywhere.

The spark is ignited and Barcelona returns to do what they do best – quick passes, combination plays and goals. The momentum is firmly in the team’s favour.

And, because life and football sometimes can be so cruel, Fridolina Rolfo is the one kicking the ball into her former club’s net.

The stadium erupts into an even wilder roar when Alexia walks closer to the sideline. Everyone is on their feet, everyone is celebrating.

Your gaze locks on the blonde woman for the rest of the game, never really drifting apart. Every step, every pass, every cut on the grass. You see everything – you see her.

It passes in a blur, too fast for you to understand anything beside excitement. Too fast and exciting to process it properly.

The feeling Barcelona is laying the foundation for something special, something incredible.

The feeling Alexia is raising from her own ruins to build even stronger foundations.

Draping in sweat and gold medals, the team lifts the Champions League’s trophy for the second time in their history. The players are taking turns celebrating with it, making angels of confetti and hugging each other to hold more than just tired limbs and aching hearts.

In the middle of the chaos, you manage to avoid embarrassing pictures, glory reserved to the athletes as you rather work “behind the scenes”, and to deter Claudia from attempting a backflip.

It’s a victory almost as big as the final.

When you reach the stands, it takes you way too long to find your sister and your nephew, waving widely and pointing to confused security guys. Irene has to have a few words with one of them, but not long after they are as close as they can get.

“You won the Champions League!”, your sister screams, holding you.

“I’m not the one playing”

“She’s being humble, it’s a team win”, Alexia interjects with a grin, way too pleased with herself when you roll your eyes.

Her family is close by, you recognise them from some encounters outside the training facility early on the recovery journey. Her own sister teasing without shame or intent to hurt feelings, her mother smiling with her eyes in a way that reminds you of Alexia.

It makes you glance down at the floor, face warm with a blush you can’t control.

“Did you have fun?”, Alexia asks eventually, focusing on Toby, barely tall enough for his face to pop up from the stands’ railing. He hides behind his mother’s legs, surprisingly shy.

The boy is usually a tornado, jumping around like taking a breath is not required. So you expose him, “He has a crush”

“Who doesn’t?”, your sister retorts and you have to talk yourself out the idea of strangling her with all those cameras around.

Next time she asks for tickets for a sold out Champions League final, she better go to someone else. You know it is more for the kid’s sake than hers, football-obsessed little menace, but you’re going to make her work for it.

“It’s nice to see you again, Cris”, the Catalan woman says, genuine, with a matching blush on her cheeks.

Apparently, your sister is having the time of her life too.

“Congratulation for the gold and your comeback”

“More the team’s comeback, I’m barely–”

Your nephew’s voice raises, quiet but fearless, “You played good”

Alexia doesn’t argue, takes the compliments as she usually reserves to kids’ unquestionable opinions, but she comes closer to the railing to high-five him.

“Don’t get too cozy with the enemy”, you say, chuckling at his failed side-eye’s attempt. “He’s a madridista”

“I’m not a madridista!”, he objects, almost offended by your accusation, then turning to Alexia to defend himself in her eyes. “I am not! Aúpa Atleti!”

The midfielder breaks into a genuine laugh, bothering you for not knowing the basics of football tifo, but it’s enough to make him come out of his shell.

Alexia and Toby eventually find common ground on their hate for Real Madrid – your sister has to placate them before they could start a definitely no-child-approved chant.

When the chaos, the team and the people on the pitch eventually claim back their queen, the captain stares between you and Cris, asking permission to take the boy with her. To feel the grass after a victory, she says.

You don’t know what it means, if it even means anything, but Alexia is allowed to haul him over the railing and encourages him to join a small group of kids. For the next ten minutes, Alexia Putellas and your nephews kick a stray ball around in a confetti covered football field.

Your sister’s eyes burn into the side of your head, but you can’t look away from the scene.

~

Barcelona celebrates for days, the city beaming under the sun and the team’s performance.

For you, however, it’s time to draw a few lines.

Without the pressure of the domestic league’s games and the mission of getting Alexia back on her own feet, you thought it could finally mean obsessing on your research papers and getting a tan.

It is not.

The RFEF is pressing on the club for information about players’ conditions and medical dossiers you rather burn than share with the man pestering your in-box. You worked with other federations in your career, sport at the highest level demands some sort of communication between National and Local, but you don’t trust them to treat those women the way they deserve.

You were not fully aware of how deep and twisted the conflicts behind closed doors are, how messy the situation between the players and the RFEF is – poisoning their lives as bad as their careers.

After a conversation with Patri following the first callup post the Champions League, you spend a few nights reading articles and reports.

A coffee with Alexia and Irene turns into dinner and ends with a plan of action you’re the most pushy to.

A complete dossier for each player, exercises and insights about each own condition and health. You provide your external perspective, your professional opinions and your personal number – you can’t be at training camp, but you can be there for them in some ways.

Vicky calls one afternoon to ask for clarification about an exercise added on her plan to get it right; Irene makes it known to who matters that you’re trusted; while Jana double checks with you every single thing the physios tell her.

Alexia doesn’t call, but she texts.

Confirming follow-up appointments and sessions in between the work she’s doing with her personal trainer and the commitments with the National, sending reminders to eat a real meal instead of surviving on caffeine. Sharing pictures of dogs and sunsets, to “take your head out of the books”, and ignoring your screenshots of unhinged tweets.

It’s light, even if the atmosphere is tense.

The final squad is confirmed early in July, you’re just back from a medical conference in London that mostly took the will to live away from you. It’s probably the exhaustion that makes you text her, that makes you ask her to meet in a cafeteria right outside Barcelona.

Alexia enters the place a few minutes later than planned, wrapped in a hoodie way too warm for the weather.

“Fancy meeting you here”

“You’re late”, you answer, no real bite into it.

“I see– You are not reading the book I gave you”

You don’t talk much. The air is already echoing with friendly conversation and the scent of fresh pastries, the unsaid is a guest you both welcomed long ago.

When you notice Alexia’s hands, steady but tracing the rim of her cup over and over like some sort of prayer, you bite the bullet.

“Try to not overthink it too much”, you say softly, trying to meet her eyes. “You’re managing minutes, it’s fine–”

“I’m not thinking about football”, she admits, finally looking up.

A small, sad smile touches her lips. You don’t answer immediately, but you hold her gaze with honesty. After a moment, you reach into your bag to pull out something.

Dr. Wallace.

The tone of your voice is gentle, mocking seriousness, “I had a very important meeting with Dr. Wallace, we agree on something. Someone must come to New Zealand to make sure you don’t fuck up my amazing work”

“Like I wasn’t the one doing the actual work”

Alexia reaches out, her fingers brushing the soft fabric of the toy. You have to push it toward her, nodding at her questioning gaze.

“Don’t die down there”

The stuffed animal isn’t just a mascot. It’s a comforting presence for anyone coming into your office with stiff muscles and career-threatening injuries, it’s a witness of progress and resilience – of failures, too, but offering a soft edge.

Right there, late afternoon in a cafeteria outside Barcelona, Alexia understands the toy represents more than an inside joke, more than a gift for the most important tournament of her life.

In the last shared hug before saying goodby, she tries to put all her gratitude, every bite of emotion she went through during her time working with you, into it.

Maybe, even something concealed, but never truly hidden.

~

[1]

The apartment was yours now. Well, not entirely—Nona was there to keep you company. Alexia had insisted that you take her with you instead of leaving her at home with your parents.

She’d fussed over you all week leading up to pre-season, despite your reassurance. You were going to be fine, you’d told her. But of course, your words went in one ear and out the other. She’d even demanded—yes, demanded like a child—to drive you down to Buñol herself, making sure you and Nona were properly settled in.

When it was time for goodbye, she lingered at the threshold of your new apartment, hands tucked in her pockets. Her eyes held something grounding, a weight you knew you’d miss in the coming months—a weight you weren’t sure you were ready to let go of just yet. But it was time.

You moved toward her the moment she stepped into your space. Her arms wrapped around your neck, steady and warm, while you pulled her closer by the waist. 

“You worry too much, you know,” you murmured, a weak chuckle slipping against her shoulder. You tried to stay composed, but a tear escaped anyway. Clinging tighter, you sank deeper into her embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her skin—the smell of home. This, you knew, would linger only in traces until the next time you saw her. “I promise I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” she said against your temple, her voice shaky but clear. “I’ll just miss you. That's all.” 

You closed your eyes, sniffing as more tears fell. 

“I’ll miss you, too.” 

You could’ve stayed that way forever—wanted to—but even as best friends, the moment stretched too long. Reluctantly, you pulled back. 

Alexia’s eyes were glazed red, though her smile crinkled them slightly, giving them that gleam you’d always adored. The ache bloomed again somewhere deep in your chest. She looked so beautiful, and in a few minutes, she would be gone.

“Thank you for driving me. For everything.”

She shrugged, all nonchalance, smiling softly as if to say it’s nothing. 

A quiet, comfortable silence settled between you. Your gaze drifted—her eyes, the shine of her lower lip, the gentle curve of her collarbone—before you quickly looked away, heart thudding. You cleared your throat.

“I–” she began.

“You should go,” you blurted.

She blinked. You closed your mouth. Then the two of you laughed.

“You go first,” she said with a small smile.

“Well, I said you should head back. I just… it’s nearly evening. You know how traffic gets on the AP-7.”

She raised a brow, still smiling. “Trying to get rid of me, already?”

At that, you only rolled your eyes. Then you added, “What were you going to say?”

“Oh, uh,” Alexia’s eyes darted to the side, then back to you. She stuffed her hands back in her pockets. “It’s nothing. And you’re right, I should get going.” 

Despite saying that, she lingered for a moment longer, looking at you with an imperceptible gaze. You felt your ears burn.

“I guess this is goodbye, then,” you said, voice lower and rougher than usual. 

“I guess it is,” she repeated, mirroring your tone. “Call later?”

You nodded. 

“Drive safe.”

Alexia smiled and gave you a slight wave before turning, and you watched her back retreat to her car. Once in, she beeped her horn twice—which made you laugh and roll your eyes—and off she went. 

The moment you entered your apartment, and the door’s closing echoed into the moderate space, it finally hit you. This was the first time since childhood that you and Alexia’d been physically apart. And the realization throbbed in your chest.

That first night alone—after the call with Alexia and chats with Guille, with only Nona for company–was the hardest. Silence pooled in the corners of your apartment, your thoughts stretching, circling, until they cast shadows behind your eyes. The space that Alexia left behind was apparent: hollowed out, chiselled with sharp-edged disappointment. You hadn’t been good enough to make it to Barça with her, and now she was far away, wrapped in familiarity, while you remained here, stranded in the quiet. 

And you only had yourself to blame.

You bit your lip until you tasted salt on your tongue. Tears cut as they lanced down your cheeks. In that moment, you made yourself a promise: you would close that distance. You’d bleed for it if you had to. Beginning the next morning—and for however long it took—you would train harder. You would be better. 

Unyielding. 

Like Alexia.

[2]

The months in Buñol without Alexia unfolded slowly, each earned through effort: inch by inch, day by day.

Days bled into each other; routine became your salvation—early mornings, lungs burning for air, the thud of balls against your gloves until your forearms screamed. Rinse and repeat. The season stripped you down to your limits and asked you to go further. It didn’t care about that ever-growing weight in your chest, nor about that empty space beside you; it only demanded more. And when your legs shook and your arms stung, whenever you thought you couldn’t take any another second, you thought of her—of the way she never stopped, never let up, never settled.

You trained until your body learned silence, until your mind could focus only on the ache of your muscles, not the stillness of your apartment.

Nona adapted faster than you did. She had already picked out the best place to sleep: the little sun-warmed nook by the window next to the door. She memorised the hours when you came home bone-tired and wordless, her meows offering you a brief reprieve from everything else. At night, she curled into your side, comfortingly warm, especially when your thoughts grew too loud.

Some evenings you called Alexia—short ones, mostly. Your schedules never aligned like they used to. Sometimes you spoke of football; most times, you spoke of nothing at all. When either of you was too tired to talk, you simply listened to each other breathe. And each time the line went quiet, as always, you never said what you wanted to say. 

As the season progressed, Levante grew around you—or maybe you around it, or both. You made sure to become sharper, louder, harder to beat. In return, the back line learned to trust your voice, the exact pitch for when you needed help and for when you had the box covered. Matchdays stacked up; so did clean sheets. And with the numbers, your confidence crept in, along with resolve. 

Yet still, every time you pulled on your gloves, you thought of her. And before you knew it, the fixture appeared on the calendar like a held breath: Valencia vs. Barcelona. Home match.

You stared at it longer than necessary, chest thudding, wondering—absurdly—if Alexia felt it too, that strange tightening beneath the ribs, as if something irreversible were approaching. But of course, that was only wishful thinking. Compared to her, you knew you felt so much more. Much, much more.

When match day arrived, your blood was practically thrumming beneath your skin—in anticipation or anxiety, you didn’t quite know. When you stepped onto the pitch for warm-ups, your kit clung to you, familiar and foreign all at once, your eyes searching for the only one that mattered.

And then you saw her.

Alexia wore Barcelona’s crest now—not just on her jersey, but in the way she carried herself: shoulders squared, jaw set, feet ready to go. Even from a distance, you could tell she looked stronger, hungrier; her presence commanded attention. Looking confident and comfortable, she was right where she was meant to be: at home where she belonged, as if she never left to begin with. 

When she finally turned toward you, your eyes met across the length of the field. 

For half a second, everything stilled.

Then she smiled.

It wasn’t big, nor soft; it was familiar. But it undid something in you all the same. Equal parts blue and scarlet, it was half longing, half homecoming—the latter a surge of warmth from a place in your chest that only belonged to her. 

You lifted your chin in response, smiling back, before joining your teammates. It was time to get your head in the game.

An hour later, the match whistle blew.

Barcelona took possession, controlling it the way they always did—short passes, quick tiki-taka. And Alexia? She was at the center of it all: dictating tempo with a flick of her foot, evading with a turn of her shoulder. You tracked her constantly, adjusting your line as you read her intentions, barking orders to your defenders. It felt wrong, watching her advance on your goal instead of covering her—instead of facing the same direction. 

It felt wrong, and yet… it was also thrilling.

The first shot came from distance—an easy save. The second forced you to dive, palms burning at the impact as you pushed it wide. You could tell Barça was starting to pick your team apart, prodding for weak spots, and each time you got back to your feet, Alexia’s presence pressed against your spine, a constant, invisible weight.

Midway through the first half, it happened. 

Alexia received the ball just outside the box, her back to goal. She turned— instinctive—and slipped past your left center-back like she’d done a thousand times when you still trained together. The ball rolled into the path of her left foot. Your heart jumped into your throat.

You moved without thinking.

She struck low, to your right. Fully stretched toward the far post, you got there—but barely. Your fingers grazed the ball, and you craned your neck as you landed, hoping it was enough. It was: the ball spun away, just an inch wide of the post. You stayed down for a beat longer than necessary, chest heaving, gut tight from the near goal. 

When you stood, Alexia was looking at you with a gleam in her eye. Not frustration, not surprise. Pride.

The whistle blew, signifying the end of the first half. You clapped the backs of your teammates as you all made your way down the tunnel. Every little bit of motivation counted, especially against a team like Barcelona. 

The second half opened with Barcelona turning the screw. 

It was like playing against a different team; they were sharper, faster. Their passes came quicker, their triangles snapping shut around your team’s midfield with a speed that left your gut tensing from every pass. You stayed light on your toes, tracking the tempo of the game through Alexia’s feet. She was everywhere—dropping deep to collect, drifting wide to the wing to pull markers, pointing, directing. You knew that language; you’d learned it alongside her.

You prepared for a shot.

She drove a diagonal path towards the middle and fed it through the wing. Her teammate made contact, aiming for the top corner of the far post. You anticipated it, but the shot had power, so you could only push it wide.

You landed with a grunt, annoyed at conceding a corner. It proved to be no trouble, though: the ball that Alexia whipped in from the corner ended up in your gloves. The space was there, but none of her teammates reached it in time. 

As you urged your team forward, your eyes flicked to Barcelona’s technical area. Two members of their staff stood just outside the dugout, clipboards tucked under their arms. One of them wasn’t watching their players like the rest—he was watching you. When your gaze met his, he didn’t look away. Instead, he murmured something to the woman beside him and scribbled on his clipboard.

You tore your eyes away, jaw tightening, and kicked the ball back into play..

The game remained tight, and you were confident that your team could hold until the end. But seventy minutes in, Alexia found space.

It was brief—barely a heartbeat—but she took it anyway. She received the ball just inside the center circle, turned on her first touch, and suddenly your team’s shape bent toward her. You felt it, the danger that always announced itself whenever she was involved. 

You shouted at your right back to hold it.

Too late.

She slid the ball wide, a perfectly weighted pass splitting your right side open. Barcelona’s winger drove toward you, dragging your fullback along. Your teammates looked like they’d closed the chance—that the danger had died there.

Alexia had moved before anyone noticed.

She surged into the space at the top of the box, your center back onto her a moment too late. You edged off your line, eyes locked on her boots as the ball made contact there, bracing for the shot you knew she would take.

Only, she never took it.

Instead, she clipped the ball with the inside of her left foot into the path of a late runner bursting unmarked into the box.

The strike came hard and low, across your body.

You dove.

Your fingertips brushed the ball, but its trajectory was an inevitability. 

The ball hit the net with a crack louder than the crowd’s cheer.

You lay there, face pressed into the grass, chest burning, mind reeling. How could you let this happen? Why hadn’t you seen that late runner? You shook your head as you pushed yourself up, swallowing the bitter taste of failure, as you watched the scorer get swallowed by her teammates, who were all patting her back as she celebrated her goal. 

It was only natural that you looked for Alexia, finding her just outside of the box. She wasn’t celebrating. Not really. She clapped once—sharp and controlled—before she looked at you. In her expression, you found no triumph, only recognition. Or was it pity?

You tore your gaze away, throat burning anew. No. You refused to be looked at that way. Especially by Alexia. 

There was still time. There was always time to turn things around. You pointed, reorganised, forced your voice to steady as you directed from your line. 

Your team kept up, but the goal lingered. Levante pushed, desperate, but Barcelona knew how to suffocate hope. And Alexia, for her part, played brilliantly until the end. She slowed the game when she needed to, sped it up when cracks appeared. From her orchestration, you made two more saves—one reflex, one sprawling—bu the damage was already done.

The final whistle cut through the air.

One–nil. 

You stood rooted inside of your penalty arc as the crowd applauded, hands heavy against your hips from disappointment. Sweat cooled on your skin while loss sat in your chest like a stone. That was how Alexia found you.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly as she approached.

You shook your head, smiling, but you felt the tightness of it on your lips. “Don’t be. It was a good ball.”

She regarded your face, and something flickered behind her eyes.

“You almost had it.”

“Almost,” you echoed, feeling your smile waver. 

Silence settled between you, thick but not hostile. Alexia reached out to touch you, and then she hesitated. She threw a look over your shoulder before she stepped back. You heard a figure approach behind you.

You turned.

“Good game.” 

You recognised the voice before you saw his face: Xavi Llorens, head coach of Barcelona Femení. He had a hand out, ready for a shake. You took it firmly, meeting his eyes. 

“You did well,” he said.

“Thank you.” 

He nodded once, decisive, before turning away.

You followed his retreating form, which drew your eyes to Alexia who was already walking toward the tunnel—back to Barcelona, back to where she belonged. After the six-hour bus ride, she’d be back home, back to your family, satisfied with Barcelona’s place on the domestic league table. 

Just before disappearing inside, she glanced over her shoulder; back at you.

Your eyes met. 

Something knowing passed between you.

Then she was gone.

You stood there a moment longer, staring at the goal post, thinking about the goal that she’d unlocked.

Despite the pride swelling for Alexia’s performance, something else brewed beneath your chest. You bit your lip. 

She hadn’t scored.

But she’d still beaten you.

And somehow, that hurt more than it should have.

[3]

You had dreamed of this moment long before you understood what it meant to dream big. And with Alexia by your side, you knew this moment would come eventually—the way you knew certain truths without ever saying them out loud. Even so, knowing didn’t soften the impact when it finally arrived, nor did it make your chest feel any lighter.

Back when the pitch you’d played on was uneven dirt and the goals were just backpacks tossed onto the ground. Back when your legs were always scraped and bruised, and Alexia’s hair was short and messy. You used to talk about Barcelona and the highest leagues like they were places that you could reach if you just ran hard enough—a promise waiting at the end of every sprint.

“One day,” Alexia had said then, on that summer afternoon, breathless, hands on her knees, eyes bright with belief.

“Together,” you’d added without hesitation. It was easy enough then to believe anything was possible, and with Alexia—especially when she looked at you that way, eyes shining—it was easy to believe even the impossible.

You’d meant it then. You still meant it now. 

When she’d called you one night a couple months back, voice shaky as she said, “I think… I think I’m really close. To debut in the Champions’ League, I mean.”

Something lifted and ached in you at the same time, pride and longing tangled together so tightly you couldn’t separate them. You hadn’t said much in reply, only releasing a breath to tell her that she made it, that you were happy for her.

“It’s always been a dream, and now it’s here,” she added quietly in disbelief, and you could hear the way she was filled with wonder, partly bright with nerves. 

You hadn’t said ours, but you knew she understood with the way her breath stuttered. The word had lived between you, unspoken yet known, the way so many things were with Alexia. 

Now, that dream had weight and noise and color. 

The Mini Estadi felt unreal as you stood there with both your families, surrounded by scarlet and blue. Noise made the air electric—alive. The chants and drums pressed into your ribs until you felt it in your breath, pushing against your heart, climbing up into your throat. The Barcelona scarf around your neck itched, but you didn’t loosen it. You liked the way it grounded you, reminded you why you were here.

Why she was here. 

Your phone buzzed in your hand again.

‘I can’t believe this is real’, the text read.

You smiled, soft as warmth bloomed in your chest. 

‘It is. You’re here. You made it,’ you replied. 

It took a minute for Alexia to reply. Then, ‘We made it.’

Your chest tightened at that. Because she still said it like you were both standing on the same starting line, even though one of you was already living the dream, and the other was still chasing it.

You swallowed before you sent her, ‘I’m so proud of you, Ale.’

She didn’t reply after that. You figured she’d been called to line up. Still, you kept your phone in your hand a moment longer, thumb hovering, hoping that she'd read it—hoping that the words had settled somewhere steady inside her before she stepped onto that pitch. Finally, you slipped it into your pocket. 

The Champions’ League anthem rose through the stadium, and your eyes stung unexpectedly. You’d heard it hundreds of times on TV, but it had never felt like this—never felt this close, this personal.

When the players walked out, you found her instantly.

Alexia looked different under these lights. Not changed—sharpened. Taller, somehow. More sure. Her ponytail was pulled back neatly, her shoulders squared, expression set with a focus that bordered on fierce calm. From this distance, she looked composed, unshakable, the embodiment of a professional athlete, of class and composure. She was all of that, you knew, but when she glanced up at the stands, just for a second, you saw the same girl who sat beside you outside that small football club in Sabadell, knees knocking into yours, talking about the future like it was a secret meant only for the two of you.

You lifted your hand without thinking. You weren’t sure she saw you, but the set line of her mouth twitched ever so slightly, and your heart told you that she had. 

The whistle cut sharply through the noise and the match surged to life. 

Barcelona pressed high, confident and hungry, the energy from their own turf only serving to stoke the fire. You watched Alexia move across the pitch with a familiarity that made your chest ache. You knew her patterns, her instincts—when she’d drop back, when she’d surge forward. Still, there were movements you didn’t quite recognise: the added risk, the cheeky one-twos, the timing of her runs. They felt newer, bolder, a part of this new version of herself you hadn’t learned yet—the decisions that carried the weight of experience you hadn’t shared and weren’t there to witness.

Even so, every clean touch felt like a small victory, another drop added to the well of pride in your chest. Each time she found the ball, your heart lifted, your body leaning forward as if proximity could somehow bridge the distance between her and you. 

Early on, she received the ball near the attacking third with a defender tight at her back. With a sleight of her shoulder, she turned smoothly, and threaded a pass through Arsenal’s line—the same precision you’d seen her wield against Levante. The crowd erupted, the sound crashing over you, and you laughed under your breath as you tightened your grip on the scarf around your neck, nerves and joy spilling out together.

For a moment, it felt like the dream was unfolding exactly the way it was meant to. Alexia played beautifully—football built on intelligence, on trust in her own ability. Every sprint pulled on a memory: the way she used to race you after training, laughing, daring you to keep up.

You always tried. 

You always lost by half a step. 

Still, football didn’t care how hard you reached, how badly you wanted it—there was always someone faster, hungrier. That was its creed: skill sharpened the knife, but chance decided where it cut. It rewarded precision and circumstance. And fairness? That was never part of the deal. 

Barcelona started strong, but Arsenal adapted quickly. As the first half wore on, the spaces closed, Arsenal moved at a different rhythm, cohesive and dangerous. When Barcelona conceded a loose ball, Arsenal picked it up with intent. A tightness in your chest—a warning—instinctive and immediate. 

When the ball crossed Barcelona’s goal line, the noise exploded—and then hollowed out just as fast.

You didn’t sit down. You couldn’t. 

Your eyes stayed locked on Alexia. She stood still for a beat, hands braced on her hips, then clapped sharply, as you heard her yell, “Come on, girls! Let’s push! Come on!” 

Then she jogged back to her starting position. 

At halftime, the scoreboard read 0–1 to Arsenal. Around you, people talked—analysing chances, debating positions—but their voices blurred together, secondary to the images replaying in your head. You wondered what Alexia was thinking, whether she felt calm or restless, whether she was breathing properly or holding too much in the way she sometimes did when pressure crept too close. 

You knew, deep down, that Barcelona would find a way to respond. That she would.

But football—just like it never promised fairness—didn’t care about belief alone.

The second half was harder. Arsenal had already adjusted in the first half; now their intensity increased twofold. Barcelona fought back, but one goal became two, then three. With every strike, something inside you cracked. Still, Alexia ran until the end, chasing; refusing to disappear. Even when the night slipped beyond saving, she held on and kept herself upright—shoulders set, legs moving. Watching her made you feel helpless, stuck in the stands while the person you loved most in the world was hurting in front of all of these people.  

Then the final whistle blew. Barcelona had lost. 

Applause still rang out, respectful but subdued, disappointment humming beneath it all. You clapped until your hands stung. When the players headed toward the tunnel, you stood, eyes never leaving her. Alexia, with some of her teammates, applauded the fans in return, slow and deliberate, professionalism etched into every motion. You knew what it cost her to do that. Only when she reached the mouth of the tunnel did her shoulders dip, just slightly, but you noticed it all the same.

“Oh, Alexia.” Eli sighed with empathy. Alba clutched her mother’s shoulder, her expression mirroring Eli’s, and you took one of Eli’s free hands, giving it a comforting squeeze. 

With your families, you waited, emotions thick in your throat. 

Finally, the stadium thinned, and after what felt like forever, Alexia emerged. She looked exhausted, eyes dull, disappointment written into the lines of her face. Eli and Alba went to her immediately, and you saw her melt into their embrace. You couldn’t hear what they said, but little by little, Alexia’s expression smoothed as she closed her eyes. It was your parents’ turn next, hugging her the same. 

Then her eyes met yours, and something in her face finally gave way.

She crossed the space between you quickly and pulled you into a hug that was tight and unguarded, her forehead pressing into your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, holding her like you always had, feeling her familiar weight sink further into you. She smelt like grass, effort, and home.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the fabric of your shirt, voice rough and uneven. 

“Don’t,” you said firmly. “Don’t apologise to me. You have no reason to.”

A sniffle. Then she murmured, “I wanted it to be better.”

You shook your head, tightening your grip around her. 

“You were incredible.”

She huffed out a weak laugh. “We lost.”

“You made it here,” you said softly. “That matters. It counts for something. And this is just the beginning.”

She exhaled shakily and nodded, leaning more into you and that was how you knew the reminder had sunk in. You stayed there with her, unhurried, giving her all the time she needed to pull herself back together. Another moment passed before she finally drew away, eyes red but her expression was gentler now. You nodded at her and gave her a reassuring smile, one that she returned in kind.

As the two of you walked out together with your families, Alexia reached for your hand, her fingers lacing with yours. She gave your hand a brief, deliberate squeeze.

“Thank you for being here,” she said, smiling softly, her eyes shining in the evening light.

You squeezed back. “There was nowhere else I’d rather be.”

If the home match had been painful, the away leg was worse.

0–4.

You remembered the aggregate score flashing on the screen as you stared at it, numb. When the camera cut to Alexia, your heart had broken from how devastated she looked. Barcelona were out. Alexia’s first Champions’ League campaign had ended abruptly, far too soon.

You were still in shock more than an hour later when your phone rang. You picked up at the first ring.

“Hey,” you said.

Alexia’s voice had come through raw, barely above a whisper. “Hi.”

You closed your eyes, something in your chest cracking further at the sound. There was a pause—a hesitation—then you heard her breathe, shaky and heavy with tears.

“It hurts,” she admitted.

“I know,” you said. You wished you could say more, wishing even more that you could be there, arms around her, letting her fall apart if she needed to. 

Another pause.

Then, quietly, “I miss you.”

That tugged painfully at your heart.

“I miss you, too,” you murmured.

You imagined her alone somewhere—on the bus, in the locker room, perched on the edge of a hotel bed—phone pressed to her ear, curled into herself. The image hurt more than you expected. 

“I wish you were here,” she whispered. 

You closed your eyes tighter. You wanted to tell her you wished the same. That you would trade places with anyone just to be beside her right now. That loving her like this—silently, the way you always had—felt especially unbearable in moments like these. 

But you didn’t.

“You’ve done enough today. You should get some rest,” you said gently, voice steady despite everything. “I know you’re exhausted. We’ll talk properly when you’re home.”

She inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “Okay.”

“Alexia?”

“Yeah?”

“For what it’s worth, I’m still proud of you.”

Her breath caught. 

Then, “I—Thank you.”

“Try to sleep,” you said. Before you could think better of it, you added, “I’ll be thinking of you.”

A pause. The line stayed open a moment longer. 

“Me too,” she said softly. “Goodnight.”

The call ended, leaving your bedroom quiet.

You stood there for a long moment, phone still in your hand, heart aching because you couldn’t be where you wanted to be. Out there, Alexia was hurting, and you couldn’t be there for her. You had thought chasing after a dream was painful—it was nothing compared to this. 

No, this was worse. 

[4]

Your agent called first. 

It was after a particularly grueling technical session: your personal coach had pushed you harder, had pushed you to beat your personal record. Even after you’d cooled down and showered, your muscles ached in a way that made you feel satisfied—pleased.  You were halfway through taping your wrists when your phone buzzed in your bag. 

You almost let it ring.

Almost.

“Hey,” you answered, holding the phone against your shoulder while your hands worked on the tape.

“Hey, how have you been?” Nico’s friendly voice filtered through.

“Oh, hi, Nico,” you said, mildly surprised. “I’m good. I just finished training, actually. How are you and Estel?”

“We’re doing fine. She’s still recovering, still in a little pain, but she’s soldiering through.” A small sound filtered through the speaker, followed by another small cry. Nico cooed, before he said, “Sorry, that was Val. She got the hiccups.”

You laughed, picturing Nico on the other end of the line, phone in one hand with a newborn baby in his arms. “That’s alright.” 

“Well, anyway. I won’t take long. Barcelona reached out this morning.” 

Your hands and chest stilled. What?

“Officially,” Nico continued. “They asked permission to speak. I said yes.”

For a moment, everything faded: the lights, the lockers, the sounds. All of it receded behind the roar of your own pulse.

“Okay,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steady. Your hands were already shaking. 

“They’ve been tracking you for a while,” he said, a smile clear in his voice. “But Levante’s previous match with Barça accelerated things. Your performance during that game made one of their recruiter’s reports very easy to write.”

At that, you huffed out a short, disbelieving laugh, more air than sound. The world blurred just a little in front of you as something light surged into your chest—hope.

“They want you as part of the first team. Not depth,” Nico added quickly. “Rotation with a clear pathway. The best part is, they’re thinking long-term.”

Long-term. You shook your head, leaning back against the wall, phone pressed to your ear. This wasn’t real. Were you dreaming?

“What happens now?” 

“We listen,” Nico replied. “And if you’re open, we meet.”

You don’t hesitate. “I’m open.” 

“Alright! That settles it. I’ll let them know.” You could practically hear the excitement in Nico’s voice, he knew just how much this meant to you. “When they give me the date, I’ll give you a call. ‘Til then, rest up.” 

“Thank you, Nico. Really.”

“No worries. You deserve this.”

With that, the line ended. You felt yourself bring down the phone, then you cradled your head in your hands. 

Was it finally happening? 

The question and the conversation replayed in your head long after the call. For the next few days, you moved on autopilot: wake up, training, sleep. You tried to imagine how the meeting would go—what you’d say, how you’d say it, who you’d meet. All that thinking, and yet when the meeting finally came three days later, your mind went blank.

The meeting itself was clean, professional. A video call. Faces—some familiar, some not—were framed neatly against neutral backgrounds: Llorens, Nico, Barcelona’s goalkeeping coach, and a man you recognised from the Levante–Barça match.

After the initial talk and pleasantries, everyone got down to business. They talked about your command of the box, your footwork, and your composure under pressure. Naturally, the Levante–Barça match came up. 

“You read the game well,” the goalkeeping coach said. “Especially when play runs through the midfield.”

You knew who he meant without speaking her name. 

Llorens leant forward slightly and took over.

“We’ve always had eyes on you—on all of you we had to let go two years ago. Tracked each of your growth and performance. Now that we have more budget, we can start recruiting those who still have the fire we need in our team.” He shifted in his seat, squaring his posture. “The truth is, we’re pushing for the professionalisation of the women’s team. To do that, we first need to secure our place in the domestic league. And we think you’re a key piece to the team that we’re building.”

You held your breath. 

“Two years,” he continued. “With an option for a third. Nico has probably told you about our plan to integrate you into the first team, but that, of course, entirely depends on your health and performance.”

Despite the measured tone of the meeting, you still couldn’t quite believe it as the offer took shape in front of you. Nico stepped in then, walking you through the numbers and clauses: the proposed wage, the training environment, the expectations. You listened, nodding, absorbing it all like it might dissolve if you blink.

At the end, Llorens smiled. “Take your time.”

There was something else in his tone—confidence. As if he knew you would accept no matter what. 

It was the easiest yes of your life. 

When the call ended, you sat very still. 

“Barcelona.”

You said it once, just to hear it out loud. 

Disbelief didn’t hit all at once. It breached without noise, creeping in slowly, like you’d stepped into someone’s life by accident. Nothing in your room moved—not the curtains, not even Nona who was stretched out on your bed—as if the whole apartment was holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the dream to end. Your hands stayed on the table, too close to the keyboard to relax, ready in case the screen would light up again and prove this wasn’t real.

You replayed the meeting in your head: their measured voices, the careful weight of each word that had determined your place, your future. Surely there had been cracks—something you’d misheard, misinterpreted.

But you didn’t find any.

And then, without warning, relief washed over you. Warm; almost overwhelming. You folded forward from the force of it, bracing yourself against the table, head in your shaking hands. A laugh bubbled up from your throat, spilling into the quiet, followed by the sting behind your eyes. The tightness in your chest began to unfurl, and for the first time in months, you could finally breathe. 

Here was an apartment of space, of evenings that stretched too long, of silence. You had spent months here learning what it meant to endure, what it felt like to carve longing into your heart. 

Yes, going to Barcelona meant ambition. Growth. 

But to you, it meant so much more.

It meant driving roads you knew by heart. It meant hearing the cadence and accents that sounded like home. It meant having to feel the touch of your mother’s kiss, and the reassuring weight of your father’s hand. It meant nights no longer flickering with doubt, no more winters that felt cooler, bluer.

It meant Alexia was no longer just a voice on the other end of the phone. 

It meant being by her side. 

Your gaze drifted to your phone. Her name sat there patiently, as if it had been waiting for this moment longer than you had. You picked it up, thumb hovering over her name. 

Then you set it back down.

Not yet. 

Not because you were afraid but because you wanted to sit with it—to let the reality settle into your bones before you shared it with the one person who’d always understood what it cost to get here. More than anything, you wanted to speak to Alexia, to share this moment with her, but not like this—not while your mind was still spinning from what just happened, how your future had been reshaped by a handful of words

You wanted to share this without the tremor of disbelief still clinging to your words. 

You breathed in. When you finally exhaled, it was slow and full, like the first real breath you’d taken all season.

You were finally moving forward.

You were going home.

The goodbye was quieter than you expected.

Your last day began on a cool February morning, and Levante’s training ground looked the same as any other day: the same stretch of grass, the same goalposts worn pale at the corners, the same locker that still smelled faintly of detergent and body spray. 

You arrived early, before most of the team, and moved through the routine on instinct—shoes and shin pads on, laces tied, tape on your wrists. You walked slowly through the facility, past the physio room, the mess hall, the offices, and out to the fields.

It felt like another ordinary morning, and you felt calm, composed. 

Until the others arrived. 

Your teammates gave you hugs, some long enough to make your eyes sting. Jokes were made, but they wobbled at the edges, the answering laughs just as shaky. Someone pressed a handwritten note into your hand and told you not to read it until you were gone. You smiled at her, grateful. Then your favorite goalkeeping coach clasped your shoulder, saying he’d always known this day would come, even if neither of you had wanted to say it out loud.

When he hugged you, your chin trembled against his shoulder. 

“Good luck, kid,” he told you. “And don’t you dare shrink yourself.”

“I won’t,” you promised him. 

The car ride north felt unreal, the roads unfurled beneath you with purpose. The landscape shifted subtly, forests turned to plains, hills smoothing out, and the air changed just enough that your chest tightened in recognition. By the time the city appeared over the horizon, sunlight glinting off the buildings, familiarity had settled into your bones. You pulled over for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel as you breathed it in. 

Barcelona.

Home.

You called her before you could overthink it.

“Ale,” you began when she answered, your voice steadier than you felt. “I’m here.”

There was a pause, brief, but full.

“I know,” she said softly. You could hear the smile in her voice, could picture it without trying. “I felt it.”

You smiled, eyes closing.

That was enough.

It always had been. 

The first weeks at Barça demanded everything from you. 

Since you transferred during the winter window, there was no gentle easing-in—Barcelona already had a shape, and you were expected to learn it quickly, to bend without breaking.

Training moved fast. Sharp. It demanded in ways that lived in the details: where you stood when the line stepped up, how long you held the ball under pressure, how your voice carried across the box without overreaching. You learnt when to speak and when to listen. You learnt the rhythms of a backline that had grown together the past year or so, how they shifted as one, how trust here wasn’t asked for but built quietly, through repetition. 

Some days, you left the Ciutat Esportiva feeling electric. With your legs heavy and lungs burning, but your chest light with the certainty that this was exactly where you were meant to be. That you belonged there. Other days, doubt slipped through the seams, settling heavy on your shoulders as you replayed mistakes, no matter how small, in ways you hadn’t when you were at Levante.

No one coddled you; no one needed to. Corrections came clean, direct. You took them gratefully. Praise came rarely, but when it did, it landed with weight. Slowly, passes found your feet more naturally. Calls were answered before they fully left your mouth. The backline began to move with you instead of around you.

And Alexia… 

She never hovered. Never made a show of helping. She just… existed where you needed her to be. A quiet word after training. A look across the pitch that said you’re early or trust it. Sometimes, she would do nothing more than walk beside you back to the locker room, shoulders brushing yours as if by accident—and it meant everything. 

When things went well, she said nothing at all. When they didn’t, she asked the right questions, never the obvious ones. 

You adjusted. You learned. You pushed. You carried the weight of wanting this badly—maybe too badly—but Alexia’s presence, steady and familiar in a place that demanded constant proof, made the ground feel less like it might give way beneath you. 

You didn’t say it out loud. But in those first weeks, when everything felt sharp and unstable, she made Barcelona feel possible. 

The locker room door opened quietly.

You didn’t look up. You kept your eyes on the floor, on the thin crack in the tiles between your boots. Someone had chipped it years ago; you’d never noticed it before tonight. 

The match was over, the stadium probably now empty, but it hadn’t left you. It sat heavy in your chest, immovable. 

“Hey.”

It was Alexia. 

You nodded once. 

“How are you?” She asked as she sat beside you. 

“Fine.”

The word slipped from your mouth before you could stop it. You felt the way each letter trembled; hated the way the sound betrayed you. You wanted to seem composed, professional— like the knowledge that you had broken Barcelona’s 23-game streak of clean sheets, ended your team’s winning streak, and left Barça at a deficit of two that cost the match—hadn’t gotten to you. 

Alexia shuffled closer until her thigh brushed against yours. She didn’t rush, didn’t fill the silence. She stayed there, patient, as if she knew that the quiet would eventually give way.

And it did.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, hands twisting together until the pressure almost hurt. The match replayed in your head—every step, every fraction of a second where you could’ve done something different, something better. You knew you’d mull over this again later tonight. Tomorrow, too. Sleep would come in fragments, if at all.

“It feels like…” Your voice faltered. You swallowed, trying again. “It feels like one game can undo everything.”

Saying it made it heavier, made it seem more real somehow.

“I know they trust me,” you continued, quieter now. “I know I’ve been starting. But I don’t—”

You shook your head, eyes screwed shut. Then, barely above a whisper, “What if they made a mistake?”

Alexia hummed softly.

“You know,” she said after a beat of silence, “on the fifty-ninth minute, I lost the ball just past the halfway line. We were stretched after that.”

You glanced at Alexia.

“That’s different,” you said instinctively, feeling the urge to defend her. 

“It’s not,” she replied calmly, leaving no room for any disagreements. “And on the eighty-third, Andrea had Jenni free and didn’t see her. We lost our advantage because of that. But that’s football. Mistakes happen.”

When her gaze met yours, there was no pity in her eyes. Only understanding.

“We don’t lose because of one action. Or one player. That’s not how it works, no matter how much it feels like it does.” She looked at you pointedly. “No matter how much we tell ourselves that it is.”

You exhaled shakily. You heard her words, but the feeling was the problem. It had lodged itself in your chest, bitter and persistent, like something  you deserved to carry. Then Alexia placed her arm around you, the weight of it radiating warmth that seeped down to your bones. She stayed there, solid and present, an anchor against the tide of your thoughts.

“Someone once told me, you don’t have to destroy yourself to prove you’re enough,” she said quietly. Her words settled slowly, meeting resistance before finding a place to land. “You’re here because you earned it. Not because you’re flawless, but because you are good. Because you learn. Because you choose to keep going. But you also need to let yourself breathe.”

Her words sounded familiar, and when you looked into her eyes, you knew she, too, was remembering that night. 

“This loss will pass,” she continued. “It will remain with you, but don’t let it define you.” 

You nodded, once. The loss still sat in your chest, but this time, it felt like something you could carry without letting it crush you. Something loosened after Alexia’s words sank in—not relief, exactly, but space enough to breathe. You sagged against Alexia, and then you felt her lips on your temple, reassuring. 

She spoke again, a hint of mischief in her tone now. 

“Go on. Get showered, get dressed. I’ve got something that might make you feel a little better.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Something?”

“Yes,” she said, rising to her feet. She stretched, one arm hooked behind her back, then paused. When she looked at you again, there was something knowing in her eyes, a small smile playing at her mouth. 

“Trust me,” she said. “Just come with me, and we’ll go for a drive.”

An hour later, you found yourself in Alexia’s car. The drive was quiet apart from the low hum of the radio, but it wasn’t stifling. When Alexia caught you staring, she only smiled, the corner of her lips curling in that way it did when she was excited about something. 

The city lights grew spars, the buildings thinned, and before you knew it, the familiar outline of the park you’d grown up playing in appeared. 

You thought she would drive past it until Alexia parked the car under the dim glow of a streetlight.

“Wait,” you said, pulling lightly at your sleeve. “Why… here?”

She merely grinned at you, reaching into the back seat and pulling out a bag before stepping out of the car.

“You’ll see.”

You followed, stepping into the cool night air. Shadows stretched across the barren playground, faintly illuminated by the yellow glow of the streetlights. And then you saw it—a familiar silhouette just a small distance away, walking toward the two of you.

“Guille?” you whispered, disbelief and joy tangled in your voice. You looked at Alexia. 

Her grin became wider, eyes sparkling. 

“Surprise,” she said simply, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Guille stopped a few steps away. He hadn’t changed much—taller, maybe, his face more angular—but the tilt of his shoulders, the way he held himself… he was still Guille, through and through.

He looked at you with a grin that matched Alexia’s. 

“Hey,” he said casually, as if no time had passed at all. “Missed you.”

Before he finished the last word, you threw yourself into his arms, your laughter ringing across the empty parking lot. He lifted you up, spinning you around, and you squealed. When he finally let you down, the bitterness, the shame, the frustration from earlier—all of it—felt lighter. And for a moment, it was if the world had paused just for you. 

“What–When did you get here?!” 

Guille shrugged, still grinning, as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Early this morning. Alexia and I planned to surprise you after the match.” 

You blinked, eyes flicking to Alexia.

“You… knew he was here?” 

Alexia nodded, her expression teasing. “Of course. And I told you it’d make you feel better. You didn’t think we’d let you stew alone, did you?” 

She held out her hand like she always did when you were kids—when the world felt smaller and so much simpler. You took it without hesitation, feeling the familiar spark where your fingers fit perfectly between hers. 

“Now, come on,” Alexia said, bouncing slightly on her heels. “You’re not staying here sulking. You’re going to remember why you play!”

Before you could protest, Guille grabbed your wrist, and together, he and Alexia tugged you toward the park. Three pairs of shoes crunched on the gravel path as you ran across the playground, toward the goalposts. And even in the darkness, it looked just like it had when you were younger, though somehow smaller, more intimate.

Once at the goalposts, Alexia pulled a football from her bag and tossed it to Guille. He caught it easily. Then she handed you a pair of gloves. Oh—so this was what she meant.

You took your place at the mouth of the goal. There was no line, the ground was uneven and slightly muddy, but you didn’t care. 

“You ready?” Guille called from across the pitch, Alexia beside him with a few more footballs at her feet.

You clapped twice, crouching into your stance. “Ready!” 

And then it began. 

At first, the shots came fairly easy. You reached them on time, no diving required. But just as you were finding the rhythm, the pace quickened. Balls flew from all directions—Guille teasing, Alexia shooting at you from impossible angles. Still, you ran, jumped, dove, and laughed. 

Sometimes you missed and scrambled, but each shot forced you out of your own head. Each time you blocked one, a little of the bitterness from the match melted away. 

“Hey, not fair!” you shouted, panting, as Alexia fired one that caught you off guard.

She only put her hands up innocently, grinning.

Guille laughed before he shot another ball toward you, but your hands met it perfectly this time. Something shifted in your chest—the tight knot of shame and frustration began to unravel. 

You laughed harder than you had in weeks, moving instinctively to the tempo of Alexia and Guille’s feet. The crowd, the scoreboard, the mistakes—they all fell away. Here, you were just playing. Just… here. Alive in the night with the two people who had always mattered. 

When Alexia finally called for a pause, tossing herself onto the damp grass, you collapsed next to her. Guille dropped next to you, laughing, shoulders shaking, chest light in a way it hadn’t been since before the season started—before Levante, Before Barcelona, before you and Guille went separate ways. This was one of those moments that made you wonder: Why did I ever want to grow up?

You breathed in the night air that carried the familiar scent of wintergreen and mint, of sweet chocolate, dew, and dirt—of childhood passed but not forgotten. Here, under these skies which had witnessed all the small things that ever mattered, you felt… enough.

Right now, it was just you, Alexia, and Guille.

And maybe that was all it needed to be.

[5]

You were drunk.

The season was over, and the weight of expectations—of pressure—finally eased, retreating like a tide from the shore. Ibiza was bright and breathing, a place where sunlight hit everything with  deliberate warmth, where the streets hummed with freedom, and the nights pulsed with endless possibility. You moved through it all with Alexia and a few close teammates, laughter spilling from you in reckless bursts, wild and careless after months of discipline and training. The city itself seemed to encourage abandon: every corner turned offered something to marvel at, something to steal for yourself. 

You indulged in everything you denied yourself during the season. Plates of pa amb oli, slicked with ripe tomato and olive oil, slices of jamón melting on your tongue, bowls of patatas bravas drenched in sauce that stained your fingers red. A wide pan of paella sat between you, saffron-scented rice still steaming, grains golden and studded with seafood you picked at lazily, sharing bites with Alexia without keeping track of whose was whose. 

And alcohol, of course. The first drinks were easy: claras sweating in the heat, citrus-bright and barely bitter. Later, Alexia ordered vermut over ice, orange peel floating at the surface, the taste deeper, slower. And then hierbas ibicencas, poured generously, the herbal burn sliding down your throat and settling low in your chest.

There was flaó for dessert—dense and sweet, the faint bite of mint and cheese still lingering on your tongue—and honey-soaked pastries that left your fingers sticky no matter how carefully you ate. The alcohol loosened your edges, unraveled the careful restraint you carried like armour. You felt lighter, almost untouchable, though the haze carried its own danger: every brush of her hand, every glance, every plane of her face that caught the light, made you simmer. You wanted to taste everything, to consume the night with her. 

The thought alone was intoxicating. 

Later, when you drifted away from the group at the club, you couldn’t remember the ride back to the hotel—only that you found yourselves in the room you shared. Shoes were kicked off, and you fell to the carpet, side by side between the beds. Your hands brushed, knees bumped, and the two of you stumbled through words and giggles, the room vibrating, the sounds bouncing off the walls in chaotic harmony. 

Alexia’s head tipped back in laughter, the sound melodic from the way it erupted from her throat. You couldn’t remember what you said—they were slurred, nonsense syllables that twisted together—but she found them hilarious, her eyes sparkling with the kind of joy that sent warmth coiling in your chest. 

Her laughter tapered off, leaving behind a crooked smile—wild, unguarded—so different from the careful one she wore after games, in front of fans, when the world was watching. That smile hit you with a sharp force, like a sudden brilliance in the night sky, and the sight of it blinded you—and god, she was beautiful.

Her cheeks were round and flushed, eyes bright though softened, her hair falling wildly around her face, catching the incandescent glow of the lamp, making it seem as if a golden halo emanated from her crown. And her lips—god, her lips. You didn’t want to look at them but they were impossible to ignore, impossibly inviting, shining from the gloss she had applied earlier. And every thought in your head was consumed by the image of them on yours, the thought of their softness, their taste. 

As if magnetized by your own thoughts, she moved. 

Alexia leaned forward, her hand brushing against your cheek, slow and deliberate, and the air between you thickened, charged with something unspoken. You froze, the thunder of your pulse rooting you in place, your chest constricting. Was this real? Was she really doing this? Your mind screamed to pull back, to remind yourself that this was just the alcohol, the tiredness—that it had conjured this, this beautiful mirage. But your body betrayed you. Every nerve, every instinct, insisted that this was real. 

Her lips met yours, tentative at first, then with more force, more purpose, until the kiss was nothing but heat and hunger. The first touch was like a spark, a sudden flare that made your breath catch. You were paralysed, unable to process it fast enough—the audacity and certainty in the way she kissed you—too caught in the intensity of the moment to respond. But when she tilted her head, when she shifted, when she pressed her body into your lap, you couldn’t hold back anymore. Your hands moved on their own—one threading into her hair, pulling her closer, the other at her waist, pressing her flush against you, the heat of her body seeping through the fabric of your clothes.

You felt everything. The way her back curved beneath your touch, the way her chest rose and fell under your lips, the way her breath mingled with yours, shallow and warm. Every breath she took, every stirring of her body, made you feel more alive than you ever had. The world outside this moment faded into nothing. It was just her. Only her. 

As the kiss deepened, your universe became centred on her: the heat of her lips, the taste of her skin, the steady beat of her heart. The way she sighed your name, her voice trembling, made something inside you crack open. All the things you’d never said—never dared to say—were suddenly right there between you, in the space between your bodies.

Every touch, every brush of her skin, was a confession; it was a revelation. The expanse of her skin held the secrets of the world—mysteries only she could offer, only she could shelter. Kissing her chest, her stomach, the delicate place where her pulse fluttered, felt like tasting the divine. And in that moment, you swore you found something sacred in the space between her legs—a desire to surrender, a wanting to be consumed by her. 

And here, with her bare body moving gently above you, all the love you’d buried so long—the love you’d never allowed to surface—was finally free, breathing, unfolding, alive in a way you hadn’t dared to imagine, or hope. 

You let her hold you, feeling her move against your lips, feeling the unspoken daring in her touch, the quiet ownership in the way she guided you: the push and the pull, like the tides to the moon, the moon to the earth. Gravitating, always, towards her. Always her. 

You didn’t want it to end. You wanted to keep memorising the weight of her chest, the tilt of her jaw, the taste of her lips, the way her hair fell over her face as she looked down at you. The way she sighed your name in the dark, the way she moved against you, the way your heat tasted on her tongue. 

Tried as you did to fight it off—to prolong the moment—the darkness of sleep crept in, but not before you heard her breathe your name once more, her voice soft and steady, her warmth sinking into you. In that space between consciousness and rest, you knew nothing else but her, nothing else but this. 

A buzzing ripped you from the warmth of your slumber.

You reached for it—it was Alexia’s phone. Patri. Careful not to wake Alexia, who was still curled against your back, her breath warm against the nape of your neck, you answered quietly.

“Patri?”

“Oh—hey! Uh… is Alexia up?”

As if on cue, Alexia let out a small groan, her body pressing closer into yours, arms tightening around your waist. You suppressed a smile.

“She’s still asleep,” you said softly. “Is everything okay?”

Chaos poured through the speaker—slurred voices, music, laughter; the unmistakable sounds of drunken trouble. Patri’s words came urgent and fractured.

“Funny you asked that!”

“Patri—” 

“Don’t blame me! I’m the one asking for help here, not the one who made the mess! Hey–Jenni! Jenni, stop, I—” 

You pulled the phone away from your ear when the sound of retching filtered through, feeling more awake now than a second ago.

Please, don’t tell me—

“I need help!” Patri yelped frantically. “One drunk I can handle, but two?! Come get us! We’re still at the same club—please—”

“Patri? Patri!” You hissed.

But the line was already dead. 

Your chest tightened, torn. You didn’t want to leave Alexia, her warmth wrapped around you as if asking you to preserve the memory of last night. But eventually, responsibility won. 

You pressed a soft kiss to her back, your lips brushing on her temple—a stolen acknowledgment of what you’d shared—before gently untangling yourself from her. You dressed her quickly, careful not to wake her up, and left her tucked securely beneath the blankets.

Thankfully, you’d sobered up enough to have full—well, mostly—control of your limbs, so you grabbed the keys to the rented car, your phone, and threw one last look at Alexia before finally heading out.

Nearly an hour later, you arrived at the club. It was a storm of light, music, and chaos. Outside, slumped along one of the benches, were three familiar silhouettes: Patri looked moments away from passing out, while the unconscious forms of Jenni and Mapi flanked her on either side. Patri looked up, relief washing over her face the moment she saw you. 

You approached them. 

“Thank you for coming,” she said, breathless. “I owe you.”

“You really do,” you muttered. 

It took effort—more than you wanted to admit—but you eventually managed to get everyone in the car. As Patri climbed into the passenger seat, she studied you, eyes narrowing with interest.

“You look… different,” she started slowly.

“Don’t,” you warned. 

She grinned. “I called Alexia. You answered.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It means something,” she said lightly. Then, softer, she added, “Relax. I’m happy for you.”

You didn’t reply. Exhaustion had settled deep in your bones, and all you wanted was to get everyone back safely and sleep. 

The thing was, if it was already difficult hauling two unconscious athletes into the car, getting them back to their room nearly finished you off. So when Patro handed you a blanket and told you to take the bed, you accepted—already drifting off before you had the chance to think of anything else. 

Morning arrived gently with sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains. Your head throbbed with a dull ache, the taste of last night lingering. You blinked, lying still, sorting through fragments of memories—the club, the laughter, the warmth, Alexia’s lips—

Your phone buzzed.

It was Alexia.

‘Morning. Where are you?’

Your chest tightened. 

‘Patri’s room,’ you typed back. ‘You okay?’

It took a minute for her reply to come through.

‘Yeah,’ it read. ‘Bit of a headache. I barely remember getting back, though.’

You stared at the screen, your fingers hovering over the letters, uncertain. 

‘Same,’ you wrote, carefully.

Another pause. 

‘We should get breakfast later, do a head count,’ Alexia replied.

You agreed, fingers numb. 

When you finally sat up, the room felt too quiet. Patri was slumped over the other bed, still knocked out. You let your thoughts drift back to the night before—to the warmth, the ease, the unspoken thing that had hovered between you. Then you looked at Alexia’s texts again, a dull numbness settling in your chest.

Had she really forgotten? 

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that she didn’t remember. 

But maybe—just maybe—it was safer that way. 

Breakfast in the hotel lobby arrived too quickly before you could think or prepare. Sunlight pooled across the tiled floors, catching on glass and cutlery, the low hum of voices filling the space with an easy atmosphere. You took a seat at the long table with the others, nodding greetings, accepting coffee you didn't’ t really want. The night lingered behind your eyes—not like a hangover, but as something heavier. A memory without a resolution. 

Alexia arrived a few minutes later, hair still damp, a pair of sunglasses perched atop her head. Your pulse stumbled. She greeted everyone easily, then slid into the chair across from you like it was any other morning.

When her eyes met yours, she smiled—opened, uncomplicated, as if last night hadn’t happened at all. 

“Morning,” she chirped.

You eyed her for a moment, searching for a flicker of recognition—anything. Finding none, you replied, careful to keep your tone even. “Morning.” 

She nodded once, then launched into a story about something she saw the day before, exaggerated enough to draw laughter from the table. You laughed when you were expected, focused on spreading tomatoes over your toast, on the rhythm of normalcy. If Alexia noticed the way you avoided her eyes, she didn’t say anything.

Breakfast passed in chatter and easy conversation, casual touches that still sparked something under your skin. Every glance, every smile, every tilt of her head pulled you back to last night—and yet she carried on as though it never happened. Maybe she’d forgotten. Maybe she was choosing to ignore it. Or maybe she was protecting you both. You didn’t know what to think. 

You wanted to ask, to tease, to test her memory, but the risk of breaking something fragile stilled your tongue. So you let the fire from last night sit in your chest, to cool down to embers, untouchable. Sacred and waiting.

At one point, she leaned forward to reach for the sliced bread. The collar of her shirt dipped, and you caught it—the faint discolouration at her neck, next to her pulse point, the same pulse you felt beat against your tongue—already fading, but unmistakable. You looked away immediately, pulse spiking, heat rushing up your spine.

Alexia must have felt your gaze because she touched her neck absently.

“What?” she asked, amused—if not a little self-conscious. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” you said too quickly. “Just… I spaced out. I’m tired.”

She studied you for a moment longer, her expression unreadable, then nodded.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”

She accepted the answer without resistance. That, somehow, hurt more than if she’d pressed. 

By the time breakfast ended, the numbness in your chest had spread, leaving you hollow—as if  you’d walk through something important without leaving a trace. And when you met Patri’s eyes that were soft with understanding, you wished you could disappear. 

[6]

You told yourself nothing would change after that. And, in a way, it didn’t. 

Training resumed on schedule once your break ended. Breakfasts blurred into lunches, meetings into drills, drills into recovery sessions. Laughter still happened in the same places, at the same jokes. Alexia still slung her arm over your shoulders in passing, still called your name across the pitch, still stopped by your locker  to check if you needed anything—if you were alright—after each session. If anything, the world had snapped back into place with unnerving precision, as if there was no division between the before and the after. 

That should’ve made you feel relieved. Grateful, even. Proof that nothing had been ruined, or broken. That nothing had changed.

Instead, it emptied you out. 

Being around Alexia now felt like standing too close to a fire—warmth sinking into your skin even as it stole the air from your lungs. She lifted you without trying: her voice, her laugh, the way she moved through a room as if it naturally made space for her. And yet every moment beside her left you painfully aware of yourself. Of where you stood. Of how close was too close. Of how much space you were allowed to take. 

You carried the memory of it in your body: the way distance had folded, the way holding her had felt right in a way nothing else ever had. 

And now you were expected to stand here, unchanged. To speak, to laugh, to pretend your hands did not remember. 

Alexia, meanwhile, seemed untouched by it all. 

She spoke to you the same way she always had. Easy. Thoughtful. Teasing at times. There was no hesitation, no lingering looks that suggested she remembered anything. If she noticed the way you flinched when her hand brushed yours, how your breath caught when she came too close, or how your thoughts slipped their footing around her, she gave nothing away.

Now, you couldn’t help but feel stranded—marooned on a deserted island that had once felt like paradise. You carried the aftershocks with you everywhere. In the way your bones still seemed to hum with it, as if your body hadn’t caught up to your mind’s quiet decision to pretend nothing had happened. Your body still craved, still anticipated, Alexia’s touch—the way she’d leaned in that night, the way she’d held you—only to recoil, embarrassed, the moment training demanded your focus again. 

It became harder when you noticed the marks, several months after Ibiza. 

At first, you thought it was a trick of the light. A shadow, maybe, cast by the sun as Alexia stretched, the movement tugging the hem of her shirt down slightly. But then she turned her head, and there it was—faint but undeniable. Purple just beneath the skin, soft-edged, blooming at the base of her neck.

You looked away quickly. Then—stupidly—you took another glance. 

There was more than one.

They weren’t loud. Almost discreet. 

Almost tender, like they were placed there with care. With intention.

And they sat there like punctuation. 

You told yourself not to read into it. Alexia had always lived her life openly, honestly. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She didn’t owe you anything—least of all an explanation.

And yet.

And yet.

You turned your back to her, breath tight in your chest, fighting the sudden urge to scream. 

A few weeks after that, she told you like it was something ordinary. Gentle. A bit measured—the way she’d always delivered news she thought needed to land softly.

You were sitting on the edge of the physio table, boots off, socks rolled down, ice melting slowly against your ankle. Alexia was leaning against the doorway, arms folded, weight tipped onto one hip. You knew she wanted to tell you something with the way she gnawed at her lower lip, but you didn’t push her—you let her gather her courage. 

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” she said finally. “Before it gets around.”

You looked up. Waited.

“I’m seeing someone,” she added. “It’s… official.”

There it was. Clean. Simple. As final as a stop at the end of a sentence.

Your first feeling wasn’t jealousy. It was distance—how quickly the space between you seemed to widen, collapsing into a gulf that was cold and unforgiving. The sound of it was sharp, like something fragile you’d been holding had finally slipped from your fingers.

“Oh.” 

A beat. 

And then, because you’d been practicing this your whole life, you smiled. “That’s great.” 

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. 

Alexia’s face softened, relief easing the crease in her brows, her eyes brightening.

“Yeah?” She asked, a bit breathless, as if your approval mattered more than she wanted to admit.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice steadier now. “I’m really happy for you.”

And you were. Because Alexia deserved happiness. Because she’d fought for it. Because you loved her too much to want anything else. 

She beamed at you, and her smile was almost blinding.

What you didn’t say was how your chest ached afterward. How the nights grew longer. How you caught yourself cataloguing absences—her phone lighting up with a name that wasn’t yours, her laughter angled just slightly away from you now.

This was fine. 

If this was the price of staying—of putting her first—you would happily pay the price.

Alexia grew comfortable confiding in you about her relationship. She talked about small things: how good her girlfriend was to her, how their schedules barely aligned, how exhausting it was but how strange and freeing it felt to finally be honest with her family. How her girlfriend had helped her through it—the acceptance, the relief. How Eli absolutely adored her. 

You listened. You asked the kind of questions that mattered—whether Alexia felt safe, whether she felt supported, whether she felt happy. You offered the right words. And still, you didn’t dare tell her how every sentence was another weight on your chest. You didn’t tell her that being trusted this way hurt more than being alone in Buñol ever had. 

When she finished, she squeezed your hand once. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smiled, because that’s what you did.

Later, alone, as you sat on the edge of your bed, you wondered—briefly, dangerously—what it would take to stop being this good at disappearing inside yourself.

Shrinking.

You told yourself nothing would change. 

The pitch felt familiar, grounding. Grass under boots, the sharp snap of passes, the clean geometry of drills. You clung to it—the clarity, the rules. You threw yourself into every rep, every movement precise to the point of severity. Mechanical. 

You told yourself nothing would change. But Alexia noticed, anyway.

It started with small things. A glance thrown your way a beat longer than usual. A call of your name when you drifted too far to the edge of the group. When you didn’t meet her eyes, she frowned—not hurt, only puzzled. 

During one particular break, she jogged over. 

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said, hands on her hips. “Is everything alright? Did I miss something?”

You shrugged, dragging a towel across your face. 

“Just focused. Only trying to keep up, improve. You know how it is.”

She tilted her head. Clearly, she wasn’t buying it. 

“You don’t usually shut people out when you’re focused.”

The words landed closer than you expected. You straightened, tugging your gloves tighter.

“I’m fine, Alexia. Really.”

She watched you, her eyes heavy as if she was weighing something she didn’t have words for yet.

“Did I say something?” she asked. “Or did someone else?”

You shook your head immediately.

“Okay.” She exhaled, nodded once. But she didn’t move away.

“I know things are getting pretty stressful, especially with our biggest matches coming up. It’s normal to feel tired. I just wanted to remind you that you don’t have to carry everything alone. You have our staff, our teammates. You have me.” She said, softly, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

You swallowed. This was the danger. This was what you didn’t know how to survive—not blame, not conflict, but care offered without conditions.

“I know,” you said carefully. You gave her a small smile. “Thank you. For reminding me, I mean. I just… need a bit of space. That’s all.”

Alexia blinked, then smiled, relieved in a way that made your chest ache. “Yeah. Of course. Take what you need.”

She gave your shoulder a light clap before jogging back to the group, already calling out instructions, already moving on. 

You stayed where you were for a moment longer, heart hammering, then forced yourself back into position. 

That night, you got a message from Alexia.

‘You sure you’re okay?’

You stared at the screen longer than necessary.

‘Yeah. You’re right, I’m just tired. And nervous. I don’t want another mess like last time.’

Her reply came quickly.

‘I get you. I’m nervous, too. Just don’t think about it too much.’ 

Then, a moment later:

‘And like I said, take all the space you need. If you need anything, I’m here.’ 

You exhaled through your nose, thumb hovering.

‘Thank you, Alexia.’

Three dots appeared. Paused. Appeared again.

‘Are you really okay? You can be honest with me, you know.’

‘You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine, I promise.’

‘Okay, alright. Get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She replied and you couldn’t help but stare at the red, heart emoji at the end of her sentence. Your fingers moved before you could stop them.

‘I don’t know how to be normal around you anymore.’

And just as quickly, you deleted it. 

“It’s a shame Alexia’s like that.”

The words cut through the room, casual in tone but it bit like broken glass. They were aimed carelessly, but they landed with precision. Something in your mother’s voice—an almost imperceptible mixture of pity and judgment—made your stomach tighten. The clink of cutlery against porcelain suddenly seemed louder, echoing too sharply in the confined space of the dining room.

Your mother didn’t look at you when she said it. She said it the way people talk about weather turning bad unexpectedly, as if it were simply a fact of life.

Your fork stalled halfway through your mouth. 

“Like what?” you asked.

You were surprised at how steady your voice sounded at first, though a tremor flickered beneath it. You forced the words out slowly, each syllable deliberate, bracing yourself for what you knew was coming.

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged, barely lifting her shoulders. She shook her head. “It’s such a waste. Such a waste. That sort of lifestyle is difficult, you know.”

The silence that followed was heavier than her words. It stretched in the air, a weight pressing down into your chest. The room suddenly felt smaller all at once—the walls edging closer, the ceiling crowding. Your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat amplifying the echo of her dismissal, her judgment. Bitterness constricted around your throat, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep control. 

“She’s happy,” you said. You felt the cold steel of the cutlery digging into your fingers, the edges creeping in your tone now, restraint thinning.

Your mother sighed—the kind of sigh that only mothers seemed capable of when disappointment ran deep. “I’m sure she thinks she is. But that kind of life… It's complicated. I just don’t understand why she’d put herself through it.”

Put herself through it.

Your knuckles turned white. 

“Aren’t you uncomfortable honey?” your mother added gently. “Being so close to it all, I mean.”

The sound of chair scraping back and cutlery dropping pierced the air. You hadn’t meant to stand; it just happened. 

“I can’t believe this,” you said, shaking your head slowly, disbelief lacing every word.

Your mother froze as she looked up at you, eyes widening. But it was your father’s gaze that stopped you. His expression didn’t change; instead something steadied in his eyes—like he was holding the line quietly, letting you decide how far you’d go. It was full of something you couldn’t name, as if he could see everything you were trying not to admit, everything you had hidden even from yourself. And still, with your mother’s judgment hanging between you, that reassurance felt warped—turned into something you weren’t ready to accept. That single glance—meant to calm you, to ground you—reshaped itself in your mind into a warning, a signal to run, to protect yourself, to guard your heart. 

Your eyes snapped back to your mother.

“You don’t get to talk about her like that,” you continued, words coming faster now. “You don’t call her life a shame because it doesn’t look the way you expected.”

Your mother frowned. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you cut in. Not loud—just certain. Accusatory, like a pointed finger. “You meant exactly what you said.”

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms, your pulse alive at your fingertips.

“She trusted me,” you whispered. “Do you know how hard that was for her? To say it out loud? To believe she wouldn’t lose everything by being honest?”

Your mother opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

“She’s happy,” you repeated, each word sharper than the last. “Do you even see that? She found peace in herself. And now she has someone who makes her happy—someone who sees her fully—and you reduce it to something unfortunate. Something difficult?”

Silence pressed down. Hard.

“We’re family,” you said, your voice breaking, raw and exposed. “We’re supposed to see each other. To protect each other. To understand. And you—you make it sound like her love is something to be ashamed of. How can you say that? How can you—”

Your chest heaved as you faltered, unable to finish the sentence. The memory of Alexia’s frame, curved under the weight of what she had to tell you—the way her hands trembled when she trusted you with her truth—pressed into your mind, relentless.

Your father’s eyes found yours again. Soft. Patient. Unflinching. There was no shock in them, no confusion—only recognition. A silent reassurance that somehow, despite the chaos, you were seen. Understood. That look carried a quiet permission: it’s okay.

But your chest ached. How could it be okay when the words of the woman who raised you still burnt like acid? 

“I thought you cared about her,” you said more quietly now. “About who she is, not who you want her to be.”

“I do care,” your mother said too quickly. “I just—”

“No,” you said again. Softer this time, but no less firm. “It doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to explain it away or—or say it halfway. You don’t get to say you care and then hurt her.”

Your mother’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Her judgment hung there, unfinished, suspended in the air. 

Your chest felt tight, crowded with things you didn’t have names for. Loyalty. Fear. Something more tender you refused to touch. 

“She’s not wrong, Mamá,” you said. “And she’s not broken. And I won’t sit here and let you talk like she is.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. 

You pushed your chair in deliberately. Your hands were shaking now.

“I’m done.” 

With that, you left the dining room. You didn’t look at your mother again. You couldn’t. The damage was already done, lingering like smoke. It followed you down the hall, pressing against your back, all the way out in the backyard, where you sat in your swing. 

You wanted to run, but you couldn't. You wanted to scream, to break through the walls of misunderstanding, to fight for Alexia, for yourself, for the right to love without shame. And yet, something held you back.

A column of warm light stretched across the yard. A figure appeared, and footsteps came soft against the grass until whoever it was stood beside you. You braced yourself.

“You okay?” came the gentle sound of your father’s voice. 

You nodded automatically, then stopped yourself. Shook your head once instead. 

He didn’t press. Didn’t move closer. Only waited. He and Alexia were similar like that. 

“I didn’t plan to say any of that,” you murmured. There was a streak of shame in your words, how it always did when you got into an argument with your parents. 

“I know.”

That was all he said, but it sounded like forgiveness, understanding. 

You kept your eyes on the ground. Your throat closed, not with anger this time, but with something far more fragile—with the kind of vulnerability you never learned how to hold.

“She’s important to you,” he said, carefully.

“Yes, Papá.” 

He nodded, as if that single word carried the answer sufficient enough to explain everything. 

After a long pause, he added, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

The words landed gently, but they carried weight.

You swallowed.

“I’m not—” You stopped, breath hitching. The rest of the sentence wasn’t ready. It might never be.

He didn’t need it. Your father placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed it like he’d done a thousand times before, but it always gave you strength, always saved you. 

“Go get some rest,” he said. “You’ve been carrying a lot.”

With that, he turned around. You watched him enter the house, staring at his retreating back for a second longer than necessary. Then you got up, and made your way to your own room. 

As you sat on the edge of your bed, you stared at your phone.

A photo from earlier this week lit up the screen—Alexia caught mid-laugh, her arm draped around her girlfriend’s shoulders, eyes bright, brilliant and alive. Easy, open, unafraid.

You couldn’t help but smile at the picture, feeling the familiar ache settle in. You didn’t text her. There was nothing she needed from you tonight. 

You lay back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, the sharp sting of your mother’s words still echoing in your ears. 

She wouldn’t get it, you reminded yourself. Loving like Alexia wasn’t wrong. Loving her wasn’t wrong. 

You closed your eyes.

Loving her was… loving her was the sun.

[7]

It took you a while to gather yourself—to steady your breathing, smooth your clothes, arrange your face into something passable. Making it to dinner felt like a small miracle. You just hoped you didn’t look the way you felt: undone.

You were late. Inside, cutlery clinked against plates, conversation humming low as you hovered at the door. Your father opened it. His smile lasted only a second before it faltered.

“Are you okay, sweetheart? What happened?” 

His hands cupped your face, gentle, familiar. You nearly broke down right there.

“I’m alright, Papá. I promise.” The words came fast. “I just didn’t sleep much—we went clubbing last night.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. He didn’t say anything, but the worry stayed, unmistakable, in his eyes. 

“You don’t look like someone who just missed some sleep.” He brushed his thumb under your eye. “But we’ll talk later, hm? Come eat. You shouldn’t be standing out here in the cold.”

You nodded too quickly. “Okay.”

You stepped past him before he could see your face for too long—before the light could betray you—and fixed your attention on the noise ahead. The laughter, of chairs scraping—anything but the tightness cinched around your chest. Anything but the thought of facing Alexia now. 

The house was warm, but somehow you were shivering as you entered the dining room. 

Eli was there. Alba. Your mother. Diana.

And Alexia.

Her gaze snapped to you at once. You looked away just as quickly, pulling a smile into place so hard it made your cheeks ache. You bent to greet your mother. Your mother’s smile faltered the moment she saw you—something unspoken gathering on her lips—but your father laid a steadying hand on her shoulder as he sat down beside her. They shared a look. When his eyes returned to you, they were careful, watchful.

“Hello, Má. How have you been?” you asked, kissing Eli’s cheek. 

Eli’s warm smile greeted you, though her eyes lingered on you a little longer than usual. 

“I’ve been good, love,” she said, her voice gentle. “Busy with work—you know how it is. How about you? Everything okay?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words caught in your throat. You glanced at Alexia, who was still observing you, her expression unreadable. Diana shifted beside her, and your gaze landed on her. There was something in the way she looked at you—an unspoken question, or judgment. You quickly pulled your attention back to Eli. 

Instead of replying, you smiled a little too wide, forcing the words out with a lightness you didn’t feel.

“Yeah, just tired. Didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

Eli’s eyebrows knitted slightly in concern, but she didn’t press further. She nodded, understanding.

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re no good to yourself if you’re running on empty.”

At that, you only hummed in agreement, moving on to kiss Alba’s cheek, before sitting down in the empty seat beside her. As you did, Alba looked at you as though you’d grown two heads. Her gaze flicked to Alexia and the empty seat on her opposite side before returning to you, now sharp with suspicion and worry.

Alba leaned in slightly, her voice low enough for only the two of you. “Are you and Alexia okay?” 

“Yeah, of course. Why do you say that?” you replied quickly, busying yourself with putting food on your plate, making sure the smile stayed neat and tight.

Alba’s brows furrowed further, her expression softening with concern.

“You’re sitting next to me. That’s why,” she said matter-of-factly, as though that alone could explain the subtle shift between you and Alexia. As if she, too, could sense the tension that hung thick in the air. 

You tried to shrug off Alba’s question, but something in the pit of your stomach twisted. The mask you’d put on earlier felt fragile now, as if any wrong move—a stray word—would shatter it. You forced a bite of food into your mouth, chewing slowly only to seem occupied.

Alba, for her part, didn’t seem convinced. Her eyes still narrowed on you, as if she was searching for something. But thankfully, she was pulled back into the conversation, and the room continued on around you—laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of chatter. It all felt distant, muffled by the pressure building between you and her. Between you and Alexia. 

As you took a sip of your wine, your gaze flicked toward the couple. Alexia, in her leather jacket and cropped white shirt, and Diana, in a turtleneck that clung to her figure. Diana looked beautiful—they both did. 

Alexia’s laughter sliced through the faded background, as she leaned toward your parents, sharing some inside joke. Diana sat next to her, quietly watching, her eyes glinting with adoration for Alexia. 

You quickly looked back down at your plate. The sight of the two of them was blinding. Too unreachable.

You spent the rest of dinner like that, drowning in the muffled sounds of the room. It was as if you were watching yourself from afar, as though there was an invisible wall between you and everyone else. You only answered when necessary, laughed at the right moments, and joined in just enough to keep Diana from feeling left out. 

At one point, the familiar pang in your chest felt too much—suffocating. You hadn’t planned to leave the table, but the longer you stayed, the heavier the air seemed. And then, before you even realised what you were doing, you were standing up.

“I’ll be right back,” you muttered, the words sharp and sudden enough to make Alba flinch in her seat. You didn’t wait for a response, excusing yourself quickly.

Your parents and Eli didn’t notice. They never did—not when Alexia was around, not when she was so full of light. But Diana’s eyes followed you, and you felt them on your back as you walked toward the back door. 

You didn’t stop walking until the noise behind you dulled, until the warmth of the house gave way to the cooler hush of the backyard. It was dark, almost painted in indigo, but you could make out the swing perfectly, swaying lightly in the winter breeze.

You drew in a breath that didn’t quite reach your lungs. The scent of burnt pine grounded you—but it didn’t clear the fog in your head. 

You were halfway to the swing when the door creaked open and shut behind you.

Then footsteps with a familiar cadence, their language soft—tentative. 

Alexia. 

You kept walking until you reached the swing, but you didn’t sit. Instead, you stood beside it, tracing the cold chain with your fingertip.

You could hear Alexia, but you didn’t turn. Not until she was right there—close enough that you could feel the warmth from her arm, could feel her eyes on you even without looking. 

“How are you feeling?” Her voice was soft—too soft. Like she was afraid that you’d break if she spoke any louder. The hesitation in it gnawed at the edges of her words. 

You let out a laugh that was too hollow to be real. “Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that?” you said lightly. “I did yell at you, you know.”

The joke fell flat, dead in the air between you. The silence tightened instead, a quiet pull that seemed to stretch the space between you rather than close it.

Alexia exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding it in—like she was bracing for your first words to her. 

“I didn’t follow you to make things worse,” she said. “I also didn’t mean to corner you, either. I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

She hesitated. “I just—”

She stopped, then tried again.

“It hurts seeing you like this.”

There it was again. That… that care. 

There were times you felt like you didn’t deserve it, times that made you want to run from her warmth altogether. Tears sprang to your eyes, the suddenness of them catching you off guard. You blinked quickly, trying to keep them from spilling.

“You’re too nice to me,” you said quietly, letting a small, disbelieving laugh slip. “ I should be apologising to you. About earlier.”

Alexia didn’t answer right away. She looked at you instead. There was a language in her eyes you didn’t know how to decipher.

“You don’t have to apologise,” she said finally. Her voice was steady, but softer than before. “Not for that.”

You shook your head, adamant. “But I do. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. That… that was a lot. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted the way that I did.”

Alexia’s silence hung in the air. The breeze stirred the leaves around you, filling the quiet like a welcome reprieve. 

“It’s… it’s okay,” she said. “I’m just worried. You were fine, and then you suddenly just…” She trailed off, but you knew what she was referring to, knew what she was saying: I don’t understand why you reacted like that.

You exhaled sharply. The heat rushed back into your chest, and it took everything not to let it spill out. “You don’t get it,” you said, voice strained. “You don’t get it because you don’t remember.”

Confusion flickered in her eyes, but you could also see the hurt beneath it. “Remember what?” she asked, her voice almost unsure, like she was afraid to even ask. 

The laugh that came out of you was bitter, too broken, almost painful. “You really don’t remember?” you whispered, the words tasting like they were meant for someone else: the Alexia from years ago, the Alexia from that morning after that night in Ibiza. The question was several years too late, and you knew it. But one thought had continued to plague you since: did that night really mean that little to her? That night—the one that haunted your dreams, the one that had left a mark you couldn’t erase. 

Her eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable. She opened her mouth, but she closed it just as quickly. 

You swallowed, your throat tight. “It doesn’t matter,” you muttered, looking up at the sky. A tear traced its way down your cheek, and for a moment, you questioned why you even tried. What was the point? Maybe you should just let it go. 

You wiped the tear away with the back of your hand, inhaling deeply, trying to steady your voice. 

“It doesn’t matter. All I care about is if we’re okay.” You said, as if repeating it would make it seem more true—would make yourself believe. 

Your gaze met hers. Alexia’s eyes shone faintly in the dim light, searching yours as if trying to read your thoughts, to find the right words. Her lips parted slightly, hesitant, and her posture leaned just a fraction toward you. There was a softness there that anchored you even as your chest ached. “Are we, Alexia?”

Alexia didn’t look away.

“Are you?” she asked gently. “Because I don’t want to pretend we’re okay if you’re not.”

A pause. Then—

“You’re shutting me out again” she stated. “You have been since you got back. Even while you were away in the States.” 

She hesitated, voice quieter now.

“You used to tell me everything. And now…” Her breath caught. “It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”

Alexia’s confession landed like an earthquake.

Your breath left you all at once. Your fingers slipped from the chain, falling uselessly to your side, and for a moment you couldn’t look at her at all. You turned away, blinking hard as her words replayed themselves—over and over.

I don’t know you anymore.

The night felt colder suddenly, dimmer. You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, grounding yourself, trying to find the right words to say as tremors started in your hands. 

Before you could answer, you heard the door open.

“Alexia? Are you okay?”

You turned to see Diana by the doorway, the light behind her casting a golden streak through the evening blue. Her eyes were dark, watchful—partly narrowed. 

Alexia didn’t answer right away. She glanced at Diana, then back at you, something unreadable flickering across her face before it smoothed over.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “I’m fine.”

The words rang hollow.

Diana’s gaze shifted to you then, lingering just a beat too long. She took in your rigid posture, the way your hands were clenched at your sides, the space between you and Alexia that felt suddenly deliberate. Under her gaze, you wanted to shrink—to melt into the shadows and fade away.

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She didn’t move to leave.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. The swing creaked faintly in the breeze, filling the space where your words should have been. You could feel the weight of both their attention pressing in on you, the conversation unfinished, suspended between the three of you.

Alexia shifted beside you, restless.

“We were just talking,” she added, too casually.

You swallowed.

It didn’t feel like talking anymore. 

In a small voice, you muttered—more to yourself than either of them—as you turned toward the door.

“I should head back inside.” 

As you passed her, you added quietly, just enough for Alexia to hear, “I’m sorry again. For everything.”

Then—

“Wait.”

You stopped.

“Are we still okay?” Alexia’s voice was careful. When you glanced back, her eyes were searching—almost pleading. 

You offered her a half-smile.

“Of course.”

That seemed to be enough. 

You walked back inside, giving Diana a brief, polite smile as you passed her at the door. Down the hallway, just before the stairs, you slowed. 

Your father was standing there.

He didn’t say anything. His eyes were gentle, heavy with something like forgiveness. He shifted only slightly, opening his arms by a fraction—an invitation. 

You stepped into him before thinking better of it.

Your arms hung useless at your sides as his closed around you, solid and warm. You exhaled against his shoulder, the sound breaking as tears slipped free, even with your eyes shut. 

He held you tighter. 

And even there—even in the sheltering arms of your father—you felt one wrong breath away from shattering. 

You thought your conversation in the backyard would resolve things. Maybe it did—but you never realised that not everything resolved stayed that way. 

A few days after that dinner, everything felt fine. Normal, even. Until last week.

At first, you thought you were imagining it.

Alexia still laughed at your jokes. Still asked how you were. Still hugged you hello. But something had shifted—like a chair nudged an inch out of place.

When you caught her eye, she would smile—but look away first, almost reflexively. Her laughter sounded the same, but it no longer lingered in the room; it bounced off the walls and left you behind.

She stopped brushing your arm when she passed by. When you leaned in to hear something she was saying, she barely tilted her head. You caught yourself noticing the subtle space she kept between you, the way her hands stayed folded, her gestures now smaller. Measured.

Once, when you reached for her arm without thinking, she startled—not pulling away exactly, but stiffening, bracing herself. 

“Sorry,” you said automatically.

She smiled too quickly. “It’s okay.”

Even her voice had changed—just enough. The warmer and lighter tones no longer stayed in your ears, as if they weren’t meant for you. Her sentences ended shorter, a beat sooner than they used to. She stopped asking too many questions, or when she did, she glanced past you while waiting for an answer.

It was subtle. Polite. Careful. A tide pulling away from the shore. 

And then the winds came, and the waves crashed.

Before you knew it, Alexia had pulled away entirely. The warmth, the ease, the closeness—it was gone. All that was left was the shadow of what used to be. And all you knew was that it had become unbearable. 

You walked past Jona on your way to the locker room. He gave a casual nod, keys jangling as he left, and you muttered a brief goodbye—words hollow, mind elsewhere. Your feet dragged, barely noticing where you were going, trusting only that your body would get you where you needed to be. The closer you got to the locker room, the harder it became to breathe.

You paused outside the door, closing your eyes. This wasn’t how you wanted to do it, but if you didn’t confront it now, you’d lose your mind. You crossed your arms over your chest, pressing your nails into your skin, hoping it might steady you—it didn’t. 

You stepped inside.

“Alexia?” The name slipped quieter than you intended, almost feeble, as if it didn’t belong to you. You hated how weak it sounded, but you couldn’t stop it. 

You heard her before you saw her, sitting in the farthest corner, digging through her training bag like it was the most important thing in the world. She didn’t look up when you spoke, didn't acknowledge you at all. She just rifled through her things, turning them over, then putting them back again.

You clenched your jaw and took a step forward.

“Can we talk?”

There was a long pause before she answered. Her tone was flat, dismissive, and it cut you to the bone. 

“Sorry, but not right now. I’m a bit busy. And Jona still needs to talk to me after. Maybe next time?”

You bit your lip, fighting the tremble in your chin.

“Jona just left,” you said, words sharp, desperate.

A pause. A moment of realisation.

“Oh,” Alexia murmured, not lifting her head. Her hands stilled.

A cold weight settled in your chest, snowballing with each heartbeat.

“Alexia, look at me,” you forced out, voice cracking, thick with sadness.

Slowly, her eyes met yours. There was a flicker there, the way she used to look at you, see you. 

“I don’t know why you’ve been avoiding me,” you said in a trembling whisper. “If I did something wrong… if I said something, just—just tell me. Was it when I freaked out? Was it that? I thought we were fine. I thought we were fine.” Your voice broke on the last part, the question hanging between you, impossible to ignore. 

Alexia’s eyes softened, a flash of guilt there somewhere, but it disappeared just as quickly. She sighed, closed her eyes, rubbed the back of her neck. 

“Look, it's…” Her voice was quiet now, almost apologetic. “It’s Diana. She isn’t comfortable with me being close to you.”

Diana.

The name hit you like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind out of you. You stared at Alexia, stunned.

You swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising panic. “Why?”

Alexia went silent, like she was choosing her words carefully—or like she didn’t want to say the words at all.

“She… She said she didn’t like the way you look at me.”

The world tilted. Everything went blurry. Your palms turned clammy, your hands shaking as your throat went dry.

“Look at you, how?” You could barely whisper it, but you pressed on. 

Alexia looked at you, really looked at you. Her voice was soft, but unflinching. Maybe it was just you, but you thought you heard a question mark faintly punctuating her sentence. 

“Like you’re in love with me.”

“And what did you say?” It surprised you, the way the question came out steady despite the simmer of dread you could feel beginning to boil over. 

“I told her it’s ridiculous, of course,” Alexia laughed lightly, shaking her head as if the very thought alone was amusing.“Because you’re my best friend. It’s not like you like me that way anyway.”

You knew she didn’t mean it that way. Alexia had never been cruel, but in that moment, her laugh grated at your ears, abrasive and inexplicably callous. On any other day, you would’ve brushed it off, laughed along, and agreed with her just to be done with it. Filed it away somewhere deep and untouched. But your emotions had festered. Your heart felt too exposed, too unstable to take her words in stride.

Maybe it was your silence that did it. Maybe she saw something in your eyes. Either way, her laughter cut off abruptly. She closed her mouth so fast her teeth clattered, and she stared at you, wide-eyed—whether in realisation or horror, you didn’t know. You could only watch as it seemed to dawn on her.

Before you could lose your nerve, you spoke.

“She’s right, Alexia, but it’s fine. I know my place.” You shook your head, and only then did you realize tears were falling. When did that start? You wiped them away quickly, irritated with yourself. Steeling your voice, you continued, “Let’s just make this easier, then. Keep avoiding me, and I’ll stay out of your way. Everyone’s happy.”

“Hey, wait a minute—” Alexia shot to her feet, but you were already backing toward the door.

You said evenly. 

“I’ll see you next week, Captain. Good night.”

You didn’t wait for an answer. You stumbled out of there without giving her another glance.

The air outside of the locker room was just as thick, no less suffocating. Everything blurred together—no sound reached you except the thundering of your heart, the rush of blood finally boiling over. In your haste to get away, you collided with something—someone. 

“Woah—watch it. Hey, are you okay?” 

The voice was familiar, annoyed at first before it softened. A gentle hand found your shoulder, and you looked up. Her face was blurry, but unmistakable—Patri. Concern creased her brow as her eyes searched you, as if she was trying to find where you were hurt. If she cut your chest open, she’d probably see it then.

You wiped your tears away.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, voice unsteady. “I—I just need to go.”

Patri’s grip tightened briefly. She shifted just enough to clear your path—a quiet understanding, a wordless go, if you need to.

You smiled at her, though your lips trembled, and then you were gone. Just before you left the building, you heard Patri’s firm voice behind you. 

 “Alexia—let her go.”

Inside the confines of your car, the dam shattered. Sobs tore out of you, loud and uncontrollable. You tried to breathe, chest expanding painfully with every inhale, but it still felt hollow—like it was only now realising something was missing, something that wasn’t coming back. The world seemed to close in around you, constricting tighter and tighter. You had to get away. You needed to be somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here. 

You started your car. Outside, the rain came down hard, the steady patter against the windshield keeping time with your stuttering breaths.

Every light blurred into the next. Every street looked the same—endless, empty. In the white noise of the rain, you could hear it again: Alexia’s laughter. Over and over. 

You wanted it to stop. 

You didn’t remember the drive home. Only that you were suddenly in the parking lot outside of your apartment. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against the steering wheel. 

You should’ve known. You should’ve seen it coming. The way Alexia laughed… she could never see you like that. You were just her best friend. 

That was all you’d ever be. 

All you ever were. 

You screwed your eyes shut. 

Not a moment later, your phone buzzed. You looked and saw Alexia’s name lighting up the screen. Your stomach twisted. So, you let it ring, watching numbly as a Missed Call notification appeared.

Another followed—this time, a voicemail.

Your finger hovered over it. You knew you shouldn’t. You listened anyway.

“Hey,” Alexia’s voice came through, rough, like she’d been crying too. “You don’t have to call back, or do anything… just—please, give me a sign that you’re safe. Or I will drive to your place. I’m worried. Please.” 

Each word cut deeper than the last. A bitter smile tugged at your mouth. 

Of course she was worried. She always cared, always had. And that only made it worse. Because this wasn’t something you could fix. You couldn’t put the words back, couldn’t pretend you hadn’t shown her. 

You opened your contacts and typed a message to the only person you trusted right now.

‘Hey. I know this is sudden, but could you let Alexia know that I’m okay? I just need some space. I’ll talk to you soon. I miss you. I wish you were here.’

You closed Guille’s contact, and then you opened Alexia’s. It took a moment, but you found the resolve to block her number. 

That week, you missed your weekly dinner with Alexia and her family. The first one you’d skipped on purpose—not counting the time you were away in the States. 

It was so unlike you that Eli called, worry thick in her voice. She told you to rest, offered to stop by to check on you, and asked if you were alright. You thanked her, said you were fine, that it wasn’t necessary. 

You assumed Alexia came up with an excuse for you. 

But what would she say next week? Or the week after that? After all, you couldn’t keep disappearing from her family because you and Alexia had fallen out—because you had said too much.

You should’ve let it go. You should’ve known better. But you pushed too far, and now it was too late. 

Farther from her, farther from yourself. 

Deeper, into a still ocean where the sun couldn’t reach you. You fell, hoping—praying—that you’d forget. 

But even the water didn’t care. Even the waves whispered the same litany on your tongue: