#asensio

𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐝, 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑

All good things must come to an end, and for Marco Asensio, his time at Real Madrid was his. The contract had expired, and the choice not to renew had been his own, a bitter pill to swallow after years of devotion, born from a clear and painful understanding that his place on the squad was no longer what it once was. The Santiago Bernabéu, with all its echoing glory, would now be a memory. Yet, in the quiet wreckage of that farewell, a single, steadfast blessing remained: Y/N Alonso, known to the world by her stage name, Y/St/N.

They had met through Álvaro Morata during the electric chaos of the Euro season. Álvaro, ever the mischievous connector, had insisted. “You two, you’re made of the same star stuff,” he’d said with a knowing grin.

Both had brushed it off, too cautious to hope. But it was true. From their first lowkey coffee date in a hidden Madrid corner, the sync was undeniable, a quiet understanding that felt like coming home. Going public felt less like a decision and more like an inevitability. The support was overwhelming, from fans and friends alike. Almost everyone.

Everyone, except one.

Her father. The legendary Xabi Alonso. The man whose poster had hung on Marco’s childhood wall, whose grace and vision had inspired him to pick up a ball in the first place.

The irony was a sharp, constant ache. Marco had tried to dismiss the subtle dismissals, the coolness in Xabi’s handshake, the way his compliments to Y/N always seemed to carefully edit Marco out of the picture. He’d bitten his tongue, swallowing the pride and the hurt. He didn’t want to be the reason for a rift.

But some things fester in the silence.

"Marco, dinner is ready!" Y/N’s voice, warm and familiar, floated from their small Parisian kitchen.

He stepped out, shower-damp hair tousled, dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. The table was a masterpiece of her making, paella, his favorite, the scent of saffron and seafood filling the air. It was a sight so full of love it almost hurt. A memory flashed: his mother, years ago, filling their family table with a similar, tireless devotion.

"This looks incredible, amor," he said, the smile on his face feeling like a poorly fitted mask.

She saw through it instantly. Her own smile faltered, a tiny crease forming between her brows. "Marco," she said softly, setting down the serving spoon. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing, it's nothing…" he waved a hand, turning to grab the water pitcher just to have something to do.

"Hey." Her hand was on his arm, gentle but firm, stopping him. "Don't do that. Don't lie to me. I know you."

He looked at her then, at the earnest worry in her eyes, and felt the carefully constructed wall around his secret begin to crumble. He didn't want to ruin this. He didn't want to be the source of that worry. But the weight of it was becoming too heavy to carry alone.

He let out a soft, defeated sigh, the sound swallowed by the cozy room. "It's your dad," he finally admitted, the words feeling like a confession. "I… I don't think he likes me very much."

Her face fell, confusion clouding her features. "What? What are you talking about? He's never said anything…"

"He doesn't have to, Y/N." Marco guided her to their sofa, sinking down beside her. He took her hands in his, his thumbs tracing circles on her knuckles. "It's in the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not watching. The way he changes the subject when you bring me up." He paused, gathering the courage. "It started with little comments. About my past. About Sandra."

Y/N’s breath hitched. She knew all about Sandra, the very public, very messy breakup that had painted him as the villain in tabloids and gossip blogs. It was the reason she’d been so hesitant when Álvaro first mentioned him. But she had looked past the headlines and found the man, kind, thoughtful, and fiercely loyal.

"He said…" Marco’s voice was barely a whisper, laced with a pain he usually kept buried, "he said I was probably dating you to be known as 'Xabi Alonso’s son-in-law.' That I was using you for the fame."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "He did not."

"He did." Marco’s gaze was steady, though it cost him. "He thinks I'm going to hurt you. That it's just a matter of time before I… before I repeat my mistakes."

"Okay, that's it." Determination hardened her tone as she reached for her phone on the coffee table. "I'm calling him. Right now. He doesn't get to say that. He doesn't get to think that."

"Amor, no." Marco’s hand closed over hers, stopping her. "Please, don't. You don't have to fight your father for me."

"Every other guy I've ever brought home, he's barely blinked an eye," she argued, her voice thick with frustration. "Why is he making such a fuss over something that happened years before I even knew you?"

"I don't know," he sighed, pulling her into his chest, her head finding its familiar spot under his chin. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo—vanilla and something uniquely her. "The last thing I want is to be the reason you and your dad aren't speaking. I love you too much for that."

Her arms tightened around him. "I love you, too. And I want you in my life. All of it. That includes him." She looked up, her eyes soft but resolute. "We'll figure it out. Together."

He pressed a long, tender kiss to her forehead, hoping against hope that she was right. "Together."

•───────•°•❀•°•───────• •───────•°•❀•°

Present day, Liverpool.

Liverpool was a ghost in Xabi Alonso’s blood. The city was a living, breathing part of his history, a chapter of his life written in shades of red, with bittersweet memories etched into the very cobblestones. Taking the helm at Anfield, stepping into the monumental space left by Jürgen Klopp.

It was a destiny he hadn't dared predict, but one he embraced with a ferocious pride. His first season had been a dream, a string of victories that felt like a love letter to the club that had shaped him.

Y/N knew what it meant to him. She’d been born here, in the wake of her parents’ separation, a little piece of Liverpool that was forever his. Their relationship had weathered its storms, but the bond was unbreakable.

With Liverpool gearing up for their first FA Cup match against Luton Town, Y/N decided a surprise was in order. She flew in from Paris, the city she now shared with Marco, a bittersweet pang in her heart as she paid the taxi driver and wheeled her suitcase up the familiar path to her father’s new house.

The door swung open after a few minutes to reveal Nagore, her face lighting up in genuine surprise. "Y/N!" she exclaimed, pulling her into a warm, perfumed embrace. "¡Dios mío! I had no idea you were coming!"

"I wanted to surprise you all," Y/N said, stepping into the warmth of the house. "I still can't believe he took the job. He seemed so settled in Leverkusen."

Nagore smiled, a knowing look in her eye. "It wasn't an easy decision. But after a long phone call with a certain Mr. Gerrard… well, you know how those two are. The pull of Anfield is a powerful thing."

Y/N chuckled. "I bet. So, where is the mighty manager? And the terrors?"

"The kids are at school. Your father is at the training ground, you know him, already obsessed with every detail." Nagore’s smile was fond but then it softened, becoming more careful. "So, what brings you to Liverpool? I thought you were busy in Paris with… Marco."

"Still am," Y/N said, her own smile becoming a little guarded. "But with his schedule packed with Ligue 1 and the cup, I figured it was a good time to visit. See Mum. See you guys." She glanced around the cozy, familiar space. "It's good to be back."

"Go on up, the guest room is all made up. Shower, rest. You can see your father when he gets home," Nagore said, shooing her towards the stairs.

Y/N nodded, but hesitated, her hand on the banister. "Actually, Nagore… can I ask you something?"

"Of course, cariño. What is it?"

She took a steadying breath. "Has Dad… has he ever talked to you about Marco?"

The hesitation in Nagore’s response was answer enough. She sighed, her sympathetic expression saying everything. "I… I don't want to be in the middle of this, sweetheart."

"You are already in the middle of it just by being married to him," Y/N replied, her voice gentle but firm. "He doesn't like him, does he?"

Nagore gave a slow, reluctant nod. "He has… concerns. I've told him, more times than I can count, that you are a grown woman who can make her own choices. But you know your father. He sees a threat, he wants to neutralize it."

Y/N let out a dry, humorless laugh. "He nearly had a coronary when Serge Gnabry tried to buy me a drink that one time. Marco is not a threat. He's the love of my life."

"I know," Nagore said softly, placing a comforting hand on her arm. "Maybe you can talk to him. Really talk."

"Maybe," Y/N echoed, the word feeling hollow. She forced a brighter smile. "I'm going to go unpack."

After a restless hour, Y/N heard the front door burst open, followed by the familiar, deep voice of her father's voice and the gleeful shrieks of her siblings. She crept downstairs to find Nagore shooting her a subtle, warning look.

She ignored it, sneaking up behind her father as he shrugged off his coat.

"Hello…" she singsonged, giggling as he jumped.

He spun around, and his face, usually a mask of cool composure, split into a beaming, unreserved smile. "¡Katutxoa!" he exclaimed, pulling her into a bear hug that smelled of grass, cold air, and his familiar cologne.

"Y/N!!!!!" Jon, Emma, and Ane chorused, launching themselves at her legs.

"One at a time, you maniacs!" she laughed, extracting herself to hug each of them properly.

Xabi shot a mock-accusing look at his wife. "You knew she was coming."

"She surprised me too!" Nagore defended herself, her eyes twinkling.

Dinner was a lively, chaotic affair. Y/N focused her energy on her siblings, laughing at their stories and answering their endless questions about her music, using their bright, uncomplicated energy as a shield against the conversation she knew was coming.

"Y/N, when's your new album out?" Emma asked, mouth full of pasta.

"If my team has their way, the rollout starts next month. 'Mala Fama' is still doing well, so they want to ride that wave a little longer. But I can give you all a sneak peek," she promised.

Jon grinned. "That's so cool, sis."

"Even cooler," Y/N added, leaning in conspiratorially, "you're all going to be on stage with me at the next awards show. Backup dancers."

The three children erupted in excited chatter. Xabi’s smile, however, became slightly fixed, a faint line of apprehension between his brows.

"Dad, don't worry," Y/N said quickly, reading him perfectly. "It's just for one song. And you and Nagore will have front-row seats to supervise."

"Okay," he conceded, though the tension didn't fully leave his shoulders.

Later, after Nagore had herded the children to bed, a comfortable silence settled between father and daughter, punctuated by the soft clink of wine glasses. Y/N watched the deep red liquid swirl in her glass, gathering her courage.

"Dad…" she began, her voice tentative.

Xabi glanced at her, his expression open and warm. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"I've been… meaning to talk to you about something."

His smile faded slightly at her tone. "Is everything alright?"

She twisted the delicate gold bracelet on her wrist, a gift from Marco for their last anniversary. "You know that Marco and I have been together for over five years now."

Xabi’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightened, and the warmth in his eyes cooled by a few degrees. He took a slow sip of wine. "Yes. I'm aware."

"Well, he, um…" She took a sharp breath, then blurted it out, a nervous smile touching her lips. "He proposed."

The glass in Xabi’s hand stilled. He set it down on the table with a precise, controlled click. "Pardon?" The single word was icy. "Did you just say he proposed?"

She nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Yes. Last week."

"And what," he asked, his voice dangerously low and even, "did you say?"

"I told him…" She swallowed, her throat dry. "I told him I wouldn't give him an answer until I talked to you."

"Good." The word was a blade. He leaned forward, his gaze intense and unyielding. "Then my answer is no. Reject him."

Y/N recoiled as if she’d been slapped. "What?"

"You heard me. I will not let you tie yourself to a boy with his reputation." His tone was absolute, leaving no room for argument. "Marco Asensio is not a suitable partner for you. He is not worthy of you."

"Dad, I'm twenty-four! He's twenty-seven! We're not children!" Her voice rose, incredulous.

"You are acting like one if you believe his promises!" he shot back, his own frustration breaking through his calm facade. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"You married Nagore when you were twenty-eight! What's the difference?" she cried, throwing her hands up.

"The difference is me!" he stated, his voice rising to match hers. "I had a history, yes, but I had proven myself. I had stability. He has a history of infidelity and poor judgment. What makes you think you are the exception?"

The accusation hung in the air, cruel and sharp. Tears pricked at Y/N’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "Because I know him. I know his heart. What happened with his ex was a mistake, a horrible one, but he was a kid! We've all done things we regret!"

"Not like that," he said, his voice dropping into a cold, final dismiss.

The silence that followed was heavier than any Y/N had ever known. It was a physical weight, pressing down on the cozy living room, smothering the warmth that had been there moments before. Her father’s words, echoed in the space between them, a verdict that felt both ancient and brutally final.

She stared at him, seeing not the legendary midfielder she idolized, nor the doting father who had taught her to ride a bike on Sefton Park’s paths, but a stubborn, immovable wall. The love in his eyes had been replaced by a flinty, unshakeable conviction.

“You’re judging him for the worst moment of his life,” she finally whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of hurt and fury. “You’re reducing the man I love to a single, terrible choice he made when he was barely more than a teenager. Have you never made a mistake, Dad? Have you lived a perfect life?”

Xabi’s jaw worked. He looked away, toward the window where the Liverpool night was settling in, dark and damp. “My mistakes are not the point. Protecting you is.”

“This isn’t protection!” The words burst from her, sharp and loud. “This is control! This is you refusing to see that I’ve grown up! That I can choose my own life, my own happiness!” She stood up, the movement jerky. “Marco is my happiness. And if you can’t see that, then… then I don’t know what else to say to you.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She turned and fled upstairs, the sound of her footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet. She shut the door to the guest room and leaned against it, finally letting the hot, silent tears fall.

Downstairs, Xabi remained on the sofa, staring into the empty fireplace. Nagore appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. The disappointment in her gaze was a sharper reproach than any lecture.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice rough.

“I didn’t say anything,” she replied quietly.

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m thinking that you just broke our daughter’s heart because you’re too proud and too scared to admit you might be wrong.” Her tone was calm, which made it worse. “I’m thinking that the man I married is usually the smartest person in any room, but right now, he’s being a fool.”

She turned and left him there, alone with the echo of his own harsh words.

The next two days in the Alonso household passed in a tense, polite truce. Y/N helped Nagore with the school run, went shopping, played with her siblings, and expertly avoided being alone with her father. The easy camaraderie they usually shared was gone, replaced by a stilted, careful distance that hurt them both.

Xabi, for his part, threw himself into work. Training sessions ran longer. Tactical meetings became more intense. He was sharp with the players, a rare occurrence for the usually unflappable manager. Virgil raised a questioning eyebrow after a particularly terse instruction. Trent , usually so confident, seemed hesitant to approach him.

The team felt the shift in his energy. The magic of his first season seemed to be curdling under the weight of whatever was bothering the gaffer.

On the third day, Y/N decided she couldn’t take the silence anymore. She needed to try again, if only for her own peace of mind. She spent the morning in the kitchen, preparing Chistorra, a dish she knew he loved, something that tasted of home, of the Basque Country they both cherished.

She arrived at the AXA Training Centre around lunchtime, the container warm in her hands. She nodded at the security guard, who waved her through with a smile. The halls were quiet, most of the staff and players on their break.

She found the door to his office slightly ajar. She peeked in. He was at his desk, staring intently at a tablet, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked tired.

“Knock knock,” she said softly.

He looked up, and for a fleeting second, pure, unguarded delight flashed across his face before it was schooled back into a more neutral, careful expression. “Hi, sweetheart. What are you doing here?”

“I made some Chistorra,” she said, holding up the container. “Thought we could have lunch. Since you’re on a break.”

He smiled, a genuine one this time, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” she said, stepping inside. “Nagore’s out, the kids are at school… figured I’d spend some time with my dear old dad.”

He rolled his eyes, taking off his glasses. “Forty-four is not old.”

“Mhm,” she retorted, a ghost of their old banter returning as she sat on the small couch opposite his desk. He joined her, and they unpacked the food. The familiar, spicy aroma filled the office.

“So,” she began, carefully steering toward safe ground. “Adjusting to life back here hasn’t been too hard?”

“It’s different from Leverkusen, that’s for sure,” he said, taking a bite and nodding in approval. “But you know me. This place… it always felt like home. Especially because it’s where you were born.” His voice softened on the last part, and she saw a flicker of the dad she missed.

“I know,” she said, her own voice gentle. “I’m really proud of you. Of everything you’re doing here.”

He gave her a small, grateful smile. “I appreciate that, katutxoa.”

The moment of peace was shattered by a brisk knock on the doorframe.

“Hey boss, sorry to interrupt, but we’re about to start the set-piece drill and, oh...” Trent stopped short, his eyes landing on Y/N. “Sorry, didn’t realize you had a guest.”

Xabi waved him in, his demeanor shifting back into Manager Mode. “Trent, this is my daughter, Y/N. Y/N, this is Trent Alexander-Arnold.”

Y/N stood and offered her hand with a warm smile. “I know who he is, Dad. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Big fan of your… passing range.”

Trent grinned, shaking her hand. “Likewise. Big fan of your… everything, actually. My mum plays your last single on a loop.” He held her hand a beat longer than necessary, his gaze appreciative and openly curious.

Xabi’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He saw the easy smile on Trent’s face, the way his player’s posture straightened, the unmistakable flicker of male interest in his eyes as he looked at Y/N. It was a look Xabi was intimately familiar with, both from his own past and from a lifetime of deflecting it away from his daughter.

And in that single, crystalline moment, something shifted inside Xabi Alonso.

He saw the situation not from his own stubborn, fatherly perspective, but from a terrifyingly objective one. He saw a talented, handsome, world-famous footballer, a Liverpool hero, looking at his daughter with clear admiration.

And he felt… nothing. No immediate surge of protective fury. No instinct to step between them. Trent was a good lad, from a good family, with a pristine reputation. He was, by Xabi’ own previously unstated metrics, suitable.

The realization hit him like a blow to the chest.

The problem was never Marco’s past. The problem was that Marco was the one she had chosen.

The problem was that he was losing his little girl, and Marco was the symbol of that loss. He had latched onto the easiest, most public flaw he could find because it gave his irrational, emotional fear a rational, defensible excuse.

He had been punishing Marco for a crime he hadn’t committed, the crime of loving his daughter and being loved by her in return.

“Boss?” Trent’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “The drill?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Xabi said, his voice sounding strangely distant to his own ears. “I’ll be right there.”

Trent nodded, gave Y/N another charming smile. “Really nice to meet you. Hope to see you around.”

“You too,” Y/N said, her smile polite but reserved.

As Trent left, Xabi stayed seated, staring at the closed door. The Chistorra suddenly tasted like ash in his mouth.

“Dad?” Y/N’s voice was laced with concern. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He turned to look at her, truly looked at her. He saw the woman she had become, strong, independent, talented, her own person. He saw the lingering hurt in her eyes from their argument, a hurt he had put there. He saw the fierce love for Marco that she was so bravely defending.

He had been so busy trying to protect the little girl from the ghosts of his own fears that he was failing the remarkable woman standing right in front of him.

“I…” he began, but the words caught in his throat. Shame, hot and acrid, washed over him. How could he possibly articulate the depth of his mistake? “I have to go to training,” he finished lamely, standing up abruptly.

The disappointment that flashed across her face was another knife to his heart. She had come here to bridge the gap, and he was running away. Again.

“Right. Of course,” she said, her voice flat. She started packing away the food. “I’ll just… I’ll see you at home.”

He wanted to stop her. To fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness. But the words wouldn’t come. He just stood there, paralyzed by his own epiphany, as she quietly left his office.

Training that afternoon was a disaster. Xabi was distracted, his instructions contradictory. He called for a high press, then yelled at them for leaving too much space in behind. He praised a player for a risky pass, then criticized another for attempting the same thing.

The players exchanged confused glances. This wasn't their manager. Their manager was a symphony of calm precision.

“Gaffer?” Virgil finally approached him after a misplaced pass from Salah led to a training-ground goal for the opposition. “Everything alright? You seem a bit… off.”

Xabi ran a hand over his face. He looked at Virgil’s concerned expression, at the confused faces of his team. He was failing them too. His personal life was bleeding into his professional one, and it was unacceptable.

“My apologies, Virgil,” he said, his voice tight. “My head is not quite in the game today. Take over the drill for a moment, would you? Focus on defensive shape.”

He walked away from the pitch, towards the empty locker room. He needed a moment of silence. He needed to think.

He sat on a wooden bench, head in his hands. Nagore’s words came back to him: “You’re punishing him for his reckless past, when you’ve done your fair share of reckless actions.”

He thought of his own youth. The headlines he’d generated. The mistakes he’d made, both on and off the pitch. He had been given grace. He had been given second chances. He had been allowed to grow up.

Why was he denying Marco that same grace?

He thought of the way Marco looked at Y/N, with a kind of reverent awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck. He thought of the countless times Marco had quietly deferred to her opinions, supported her career, celebrated her successes as his own. He thought of the patience Marco had shown him, never rising to the bait of his subtle jabs, always remaining respectful.

The boy had more class in his little finger than Xabi was currently showing.

He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t hear the soft footsteps approaching.

“Tough session?”

Xabi looked up. It was James Milner, already showered and dressed, a knowing look in his experienced eyes.

“Something like that,” Xabi muttered.

Milner sat down next to him, not saying anything for a moment. The silence was comfortable. Milner was a family man, a father himself. He understood the unique pressures.

“My eldest,” Milner began conversationally, “she’s started seeing a lad. Nice enough kid. Plays rugby. I spent the first month finding every single thing wrong with him. His haircut was stupid. His handshake was too weak. He laughed too loud.”

Xabi glanced at him, intrigued despite himself.

“Drove my wife mad,” Milner continued with a wry smile. “Finally, she sat me down and said, ‘James, you’re not trying to find flaws in him. You’re trying to find a reason to stop her from growing up. It’s not about him. It’s about you.’” He paused, letting the words sink in. “She was right, of course. Always is. The lad makes her happy. That’s all that matters in the end, isn’t it? That they’re happy.”

Xabi felt Milner’s words land with the force of a sledgehammer. It was the same truth Nagore had been trying to tell him, but coming from another footballer, another father, it bypassed his defenses completely.

“It is,” Xabi said hoarsely. “That’s all that matters.”

Milner clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. “Right then. See you tomorrow, gaffer. And for what it’s worth… whatever’s eating you, it’s not worth losing sleep over. Or worse, losing them over.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving Xabi alone with the echoing weight of his own foolishness.

He had to fix this. He had to fix it now.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly. He didn’t call Y/N. He needed to start at the root of the problem. He navigated to his contacts and found the number he’d never used for a personal call. He took a deep breath and pressed dial.

It rang three times before a familiar voice answered, sounding slightly cautious.

“Hola?”

“Marco?” Xabi said, his voice rough with emotion. “It’s Xabi. Xabi Alonso.”

There was a long, stunned silence on the other end of the line.

“Xabi? Is… is everything okay? Is Y/N alright?” Marco’s voice was instantly laced with panic.

“She’s fine. She’s… she’s more than fine,” Xabi said quickly, hating that he’d caused that spike of fear. “I’m calling about… I’m calling about me.”

Another silence, this one more confused than shocked.

“I owe you an apology, Marco,” Xabi forced the words out, each one a struggle against a lifetime of pride. “A very, very large apology. I have been… unfair. Unkind. And wrong.”

He could almost hear Marco’s stunned blink. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just listen,” Xabi said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “I judged you for something that is not who you are. I used your past as a weapon because I was scared. Scared of my daughter growing up. Scared of losing her. It was cowardly, and it was beneath me. You have done nothing but love and respect my daughter, and in return, I have given you nothing but suspicion. For that, I am deeply and truly sorry.”

The line was quiet for so long Xabi thought the call might have dropped.

“Marco?”

“I’m here,” Marco said, his voice thick with an emotion Xabi couldn’t quite place. “Thank you. That… means a lot. More than you know.”

“It should have been said a long time ago,” Xabi said sincerely. “You make her happy. That is all I have ever wanted for her. And I have been too blind and too stubborn to see that you are the one who does that.”

“I love her,” Marco said, the simple statement carrying the weight of a vow. “More than anything. I would never do anything to hurt her. My past… it’s a lesson I learned the hard way. It’s not a prediction of my future. My future is her.”

Xabi closed his eyes, the last of his resistance crumbling away at the raw honesty in the younger man’s voice. “I know that now. And I am sorry it took me so long to see it.”

He took another steadying breath. “You have my blessing. For whatever it’s worth. You have it fully and without reservation.”

This time, the silence was filled with a palpable relief. “Gracias, Xabi.”

“There’s one more thing,” Xabi said, a plan forming in his mind. “How would you feel about a surprise?”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────• •───────•°•❀•°

Y/N was in the kitchen helping Nagore prepare dinner when her phone buzzed. It was a text from her father.

Dad: Meet me at the Shankly Gates. Now. Please.

She frowned, showing the phone to Nagore. “What do you think this is about?”

Nagore’s eyes sparkled with a secret knowledge. “I think you should go and find out.”

A knot of anxiety tightened in Y/N’s stomach. Was this it? Was he going to formally disown her? Tell her to choose? She took a deep breath, grabbed her coat, and headed out into the chilly Liverpool evening.

The drive to Anfield was quiet. The famous stadium loomed in the dark, its lights glowing like a beacon. She saw him standing under the iconic Shankly Gates, his hands shoved in the pockets of his coat, his breath making small clouds in the cold air.

She approached him cautiously. “Dad? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

He turned to her, and the look on his face made her breath catch. It wasn’t anger or sternness. It was raw, open remorse.

“No,” he said, his voice quiet. “Everything is not okay. I have been a terrible father to you these past few days. Worse than terrible.”

“Dad, you haven’t ...”

“Let me finish, katutxoa,” he interrupted gently. “Please.” He took a step closer. “I was wrong. So completely and utterly wrong. My behavior towards Marco… it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. With my own fear of losing my little girl. I found the easiest target for my fear and I aimed it at him, and in the process, I hurt you. The person I love most in this world. I am so sorry, Y/N. From the bottom of my heart.”

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes, but this time they were tears of relief. She saw the truth in his eyes, the profound regret. “Oh, Dad…”

“I called him,” Xabi continued. “I apologized to him. I told him he has my blessing. Because he does. He loves you. He respects you. And he makes you radiantly happy. That is all I have ever wanted.”

He reached out and took her hands, his own warm despite the cold. “Can you ever forgive me?”

She didn’t answer with words. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. “Of course I forgive you,” she whispered, her voice muffled by his coat.

He held her just as tightly, a weight lifting from his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was there.

“There’s one more thing,” he said softly, pulling back. He nodded towards the shadows near the stadium wall.

Y/N followed his gaze. A figure stepped out of the darkness. It was Marco, dressed in a thick coat, a nervous but hopeful smile on his face, a single red rose in his hand.

Y/N’s hand flew to her mouth. “Marco? What… what are you doing here?”

“Your father called me,” Marco said, walking towards them. “He bought me a ticket. Said it was time we had a proper talk.” He stopped in front of her, his eyes shining with love and a little bit of awe at the man standing beside her. He handed her the rose. “He told me everything.”

Y/N looked from Marco to her father, utterly speechless.

Xabi placed a hand on Marco’s shoulder, a gesture of acceptance, of belonging. “I believe,” Xabi said, his voice thick with emotion but his eyes clear, “the two of you have something to discuss. Without any interference from me.” He squeezed Marco’s shoulder once, then turned to Y/N and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be at home. Take all the time you need.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving them standing together under the legendary gates, beneath the shadow of the club that had brought them all together in this strange, full-circle moment.

Y/N watched him go, her heart so full she thought it might burst. She turned to Marco, the rose held tightly in her hand. “I can’t believe he did that.”

Marco smiled, pulling her into his arms. “I can. He loves you. He just… he needed to remember how to show it.” He looked down at her, his expression turning serious. “Now. Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”

He got down on one knee right there on the cobblestones, in the hallowed shadow of Anfield. He took her hand.

“Y/N Alonso,” he said, his voice steady and sure, filled with a love that had weathered a storm and come out stronger. “The love of my life. My best friend. Will you do me the incredible honor of becoming my wife?”

Tears streamed freely down Y/N’s face now, but they were tears of pure, unadulterated joy. She nodded, unable to form words for a moment.

“Yes,” she finally breathed, pulling him up to kiss him. “Yes, a thousand times yes.”

As they kissed, a cheer erupted from a few yards away. They broke apart, startled, to see a group of Liverpool fans on a stadium tour, all grinning and clapping. They’d seen the whole thing.

Laughing through her tears, Y/N held up her hand, showing off the ring Marco had slipped onto her finger. The fans cheered louder.

Later, as they walked hand-in-hand back to her father’s house, the world felt right again. They found Xabi in the living room, pretending to read a book. He looked up as they entered, his eyes immediately going to their joined hands, to the new ring on his daughter’s finger.

He didn’t say a word. He just stood up, opened his arms, and embraced them both, his daughter and his future son-in-law.