#barcelona fc

the ref signals for the golf cart yer you don't let go. you hook an arm under hers, supporting her weight as she stands, limping badly. the medic takes the other side, but it's you holding her steady, walking her off the pitch onto the cart while the crowd claps in support.

esmee's head leans against your shoulder for a second, and you feel her breath shaky against your neck. she plays it off like that did not happen, since eyes are watching, but the dutch softly squeezes your arm before they load her onto the cart.

as you take a few steps back, aicha comes and pats your back, guiding you back on the pitch as the cart drives away toward the tunnel.

you had many thoughts, but you push them down since the game isn't over.

you jog back into position, with your adrenaline for el classic masking the fear.

in extra time, you and aitana score before the final whistle blows, with the victory sealed.

you glance toward the tunnel again as esmee's injury lingers in the back of your mind, a shadow on the night. everything else was perfect, though. the win, the goal, the team.

that night, you go to sleep feeling the lingering high from the win. everything felt normal for a big game night, almost too normal after such an intense day.

you could've stayed at esmee's place, curled up beside her while she iced the irritation spot in her leg as she grumbled about being sidelined, but you didn't want to overwhelm her. she's already frustrated with the injury, and you know she needs space to process it without you hovering.

so you stayed at her place until she dozed off around 11pm, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, whispering "text me when you wake up" in dutch just to make her smile in her sleep.

then you drove home to your apartment in the quieter part of barcelona, the city lights blurring past your windows.

once you're inside, you lock the door behind you. it was deadbolt, everything habitual after three years here in barcelona. the locker room shower after the game washed off the sweat and grass stains, but you take another shower anyway, focusing on the hot water cascading over your shoulders, with steam filling the bathroom as you let the day's adrenaline ease. you change into your favorite matching set of blue modal pajamas, which hug your body just right.

over in the kitchen, you grab a small bowl of fresh strawberries. it is the kind you splurge on at the market, and you settle on the couch with your phone.

a few youtube videos of tonight's highlights play. you re watch your goal replayed in slow motion, with the net rippling and the crowd exploding, hearing the commentators raving about the american star's composure in extra time.

you smile at the clips, liking a few fan edits before your eyes start to get heavy.

when bed calls you brush your teeth, turn off the lights, double-check the locks one last time. your bedroom is a sanctuary with soft fairy lights strung along the headboard, you have posters of the uswnt and barça on the walls, your olympic gold medal hangs proudly over the bed on the wall and you have a stack of books on the nightstand with esmee's hoodie draped over a chair by your desk.

you slide under the covers, put your phone on do not disturb, and fall asleep quickly, the faint hum of the city outside lulling you into darkness.

four hours later, everything explodes.

a bang rips you from sleep. your mind immediately shot awake as if you were never asleep in the first place. the noise was loud, and violent, almost like an explosion.

it was your front door, you can hear it being slammed open over your heart slamming against your ribs. you shoot upright in bed, sheets tangling around your legs, with your breath caught in your throat as you try and hear for more noise. for a split second, confusion clouds your mind.... is it a dream? thunder?

no. it is stomping. outside of your locked bedroom door, you can hear heavy footsteps moving through the apartment, multiple sets, thudding against the hardwood floors you picked out yourself when you moved in.

things drop, you can hear the crashing sounds from the living room, a glass vase maybe, or the framed photo of you and the team from last season's champions league win.

your body freezes, paralyzed, every muscle locked as the reality sinks in like ice water since someone is in your home.

it could be intruders. burglars.... while you're here, and alone.

your bedroom door is locked since you always lock it before bed. it is a habit from back in the states, amplified since moving abroad... and there's the security bar wedged under the knob, the one you installed after reading too many horror stories online.

it buys you time, but not much. the overwhelming thoughts in your mind feel nauseating as you hear them in the kitchen now with cabinets slamming open, drawers yanked out, utensils clattering to the floor like metallic rain.

you force yourself to move, and your legs shaky as you slip out of bed, bare feet silent on the cool floor. phone.... where's your phone? it is on the nightstand. you grab it, with your hands trembling so badly you almost drop it.

into the bathroom you go, the en-suite connected directly to your bedroom, shutting the door softly behind you, twisting the lock with fingers that feel numb.

you climb in the bright white bathtub fully clothed in your pjs, curling up at the bottom with your knees to your chest, pulling the shower curtain closed like it could hide you better. the porcelain is cold against your back, grounding you just enough to dial emergencias 112. your mind would've clicked 911 instead if you didn't know better.

the operator answers in spanish first, then switches to english when you stammer and whisper "help, please, someone broke into my apartment."

your voice is a whisper, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. you give the address, and choking out details about multiple people, they're inside, i'm hiding. the operator stays calm, professional, telling you to stay on the line, and to stay quiet since police are en route.

the sounds outside of your room get louder with more stomping. it is closer now and you can hear something else shatter in the living room.... a glass frame? your tv? you flinch at each noise, body shaking uncontrollably, teeth chattering though you're not cold.

cabinets in the kitchen keep opening and slamming, contents spilling out. you hear laughter like this is nothing to them. maybe they found something? fuck, this was your home, your safe space, violated.

you can't cry, you think as tears burn your eyes, throat tight, but you bite it back, terrified any sob will carry through the doors. what if they hear? what if they break in here?

do they even know that you're in here?

the rattling starts at your bedroom door. you can hear someone trying the handle from inside of the bathroom. they're shaking it hard. the security bar holds, rattling in protest, but the sound is deafening in your hiding spot. you press the phone tighter to your ear, whispering pleas along the lines of "they're trying the bedroom door, please hurry, please."

the operator reassures you about units being close but you're not used to this. the police in spain feel distant, procedural, nothing like the swift response you grew up expecting back home. you had no family here to call, no parents or siblings to rush over.

you've been in barcelona three years, building this life alone. all of your teammates are your chosen family, but right now, in the dead of night, you're utterly isolated.

after a few minutes the rattling stops. all of the footsteps retreat, but the destruction continues when you can hear the door shattering open.

your breath stops inside of your throat as you can hear dressers opening, clothes rustling. they're in your room, searching for valuables, jewelry, cash, whatever they think an american footballer might have. your mind races to the laptop on the desk, the watch esmee gave you for your anniversary, the signed jersey from megan rapinoe framed in the closet.

is it gone? taken?

once you can hear sirens outside of your apartment complex, you can hear the sudden urgency in the hurried footsteps pounding toward the front door. all of the doors are slamming again as they flee. you stay frozen in the tub, shaking, until the operator says that the officers are entering now.

"policía!" voices shouting clear.

you hear scuffles outside, shouts, arrests down in the complex courtyard since they caught them before they were able to get some of your things inside of their cars. relief takes a hold in your chest but it's tangled with horror.

an officer finds you... who is a woman with kind hazel eyes, speaking soft spanish mixed with english. she opens the bathroom door slowly, and calls your name from the report. you unfold from the tub, legs cramped and wobbly.

the second she reaches out, you collapse into her arms. you did not know this woman, yet sobs break free now as you soak her uniform as she holds you steady.

"está bien, estás a salvo ahora."

you're safe, but it doesn't feel like it.

she says that they're gonna take you to the station, instead of the hospital since you are not physically hurt. they need statements, questions, details you can recount through tears and exhaustion.

the cop holds your shoulders, guiding you outside of the bathroom so you can walk outside. however, walking through your apartment again feels surreal, like stepping into a nightmare version of your home.

the female officer guides you gently, her other hand on your elbow, urging you forward in spanish while others dust for prints for evidence and photograph the chaos. however, you see the front door splintered around the lock, kicked in brutally. your living room is trashed with your couch cushions slashed, books scattered like confetti, the tv yanked from the wall and smashed on the floor. the kitchen has the drawers emptied, plates shattered in piles, fridge door hanging open, food spilled.

your bedroom... only the closet was ransacked, but some of your things are downstairs in that evidence van.

those things... they were not just stolen, but they were destroyed for the sake of it. the cozy space you built over three years, the plants on the windowsill, the photos, the little touches that made it yours... it was broken. the damage is done, irreversible, and your safety was ripped away in one night.

you stand there, numb by the door as the officer speaks, but her words fade.

your home doesn't feel like home anymore.

the police station near the beach feels like a sterile, fluorescent filled nightmare. it is the closest one to your apartment complex, yet you've never been here, and silently hoped that you'd never had to in a foreign country.

you stare at the clock on the wall which ticks past 3 am, with its hands moving too slowly for the chaos still going inside of your heart and your mind. you're in a small, gray room with a table, two chairs, and a one-way mirror that makes your skin crawl, wondering if someone’s watching. your hands tremble as you clutch your phone, the only lifeline you have left after the night’s terror.

your blue modal pajamas are wrinkled now, clinging to your body from the cold sweat that hasn’t fully dried. the female officer from earlier... her name was maria, you think... left you here to wait, promising she’d be back with updates.

however, the waiting is torture, with each second stretching into an eternity since your mind is constantly replaying the bang of the front door, the stomping, the shattering glass, and the rattling of your bedroom door.

you’re 21, halfway across the atlantic from your friends in the states, and the safety you’d built in barcelona over three years has been obliterated in hours.

you need someone, but not just anyone who could only give you words. no, you needed alexia. your captain, your rock, the one who’s been like an older sister since you joined barça in the summer of 2023, when you were a nervous american kid fresh off the uswnt u-23 team, barely capped for the senior national team while being unable to string a sentence in spanish.

alexia took you under her wing then, correcting your passes in training with a firm but kind voice, teaching you catalan phrases over coffee, laughing at your terrible accent but never letting you feel small. she’s the one who’d know what to do now, who’d make this feel less like the world is caving in since she would know exactly what to do to help.

your fingers fumble as you dial her number.

it rings with no answer and your heart sinks remembering that it is 3 am, of course she’s asleep.

you try again, desperate, whispering please, ale like some sort of prayer. the second call connects, and her voice comes through, groggy and confused, thick with sleep.

“cariño?” she mumbles, using the spanisn/catalan endearment she’s always called you, the one that feels like a warm hug in mental terms. you can picture her even without seeing her... alexia putellas, hair messy from her pillow, squinting in the dark, probably reaching for her water bottle, “y/n, què passa? it’s late.”

you try to speak, but your throat tightens. it is like your words are catching like splinters since you could barely speak without your chest hurting.. “ale, i’m—i’m at the police station. the one by the beach. please, can you come?” your voice stutters and it is barely above a whisper. you cringe at yourself, almost, since you hate how small you sound. you’re the goofy one, the one always cracking jokes with salma, vicky, and kika, the one who made esmee blush and laugh when you first arrived, drawing her out of her quiet shell.

now you’re just a scared kid, and the weight of it crushes you and it makes your confidence take a downhill hit.

“what?” alexia’s voice picks up a pitch, sleep gone in an instant.

you can almost see her eyes widening, her posture straightening as she sits up in bed, “police station? y/n, what happened? are you okay?” her catalan accent grows thicker with the protective edge you’ve heard before when you’ve taken a bad tackle in training or when you pushed yourself too hard after a loss.

all you could do is swallow a sob, pressing the phone closer to your ear, “just… please come. i can’t—” you can’t finish. the tears spill over, unstoppable, and you hang up before she hears you break completely.

in a way you were scared, you were scared of the unpredictable future. you drop the phone onto the table, burying your face in your hands, with your shoulders shaking as the memories flood back of you hiding in the bathtub, with the shower curtain being your only shield, with the operator’s voice on the line too calm for the terror that was happening to you.

you were alone... so alone... curled up in the dark, praying the police would get there before the door gave way. there was no family in spain. it was not like you had any, always. plus you had no one to call except your teammates, and even then, you didn’t want to wake esmee, not with her injury, not when she needed rest.

the door to the police interrogation room bursts open ten minutes later... maybe less. you are not sure since time’s a blur. you look up, and there’s alexia, storming in like a force of nature. the woman's hair is pulled back in a messy bun, sweatpants and the cactus jack barça hoodie thrown on. ale's face is pale with her soft eyes scanning you for any sign of injury.

she crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into her arms without a word and you collapse against her, with your sobs breaking free again with your hands clutching her hoodie like she’s the only thing keeping you upright. ale smells like sleep and faint lavender from her shampoo. the footballer's embrace is solid like she could hold the whole world together if she needed to.

“carinyo, estàs bé? què ha passat?” she murmurs into your hair, her voice soft but urgent, switching between catalan and spanish in her panic. ale's hands move to your shoulders, pulling back just enough to search your face. you must look like a mess... eyes red, face blotchy, lips trembling as you try to hold it together, “y/n, talk to me.”

you try, but the words stumble out in fragments.

“my apartment… they broke in. i was home, ale. i was asleep, and they—they just—” your breath hitches, and a hiccup comes out of your throat since you can’t string it together, not without seeing it all again, “i hid in the bathroom. i thought… i thought they’d get in.”

alexia’s face changes, a flash of something dark... anger, fear, you can’t tell... before she pulls you back into her chest, one hand cradling your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.

“no parlis més, d’acord? estàs aquí, estàs a salvo,” she whispers, her catalan is soothing, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you.

everything will be okay, but you feel her arms tighten with her breath uneven against your hair. she’s scared... not for herself, but for you, for what you must’ve gone through alone in that apartment.

she pulls back again, sitting you down in one of the chairs and taking the other, her hand never leaving you. it rests on your knee now.

“where was esmee?” she asks gently, not accusing, just piecing it together. she knows you and esmee are inseparable, that you’ve been the light to each other’s lives since you both joined barcelona at the same time in 2023.

“at her place,” you manage, wiping your eyes with your sleeve, “she’s injured, ale. i didn’t want to stress her out.... but thank goodness she wasn’t the-there.” your voice breaks on the last word, relief mixing with the lingering terror.

if esmee had been with you… you can’t even think about it.

alexia nods, exhaling.

“d’acord. good.” but her eyes linger on you, and you see the shift in her expression. she’s not used to this version of you that is so shaken and fragile with the brave front you’re trying to put up crumbling like wet paper.

you’re the one who’d dance with kika in the locker room, who’d tease vicky about her terrible aim in training, who’d bring esmee out of her shell with your loud laughs and bolder flirting.

you’re 21, younger than most of the team, and alexia’s always seen you as the kid sister she needs to protect, even when you’re scoring screamers in clásicos or being a caption figure (the sixth choice captain) repping the best national team in the world.

now, though, you look so small and curled in on yourself, and it’s breaking her heart.

“you’re not hurt?” she asks, voice softer now, like she’s afraid of the answer. she already asked, but her eyes scan you again and it lingers on your trembling hands, the way you’re biting your lip to stop crying.

“no. just… scared.” the word feels too small for what you’re feeling, but it’s all you can manage.

you try to smile, to be the y/n she knows but it falters, and her frown deepens.

soon the door opens, and officer maria steps in. the woman's face is tanned and professional, but kind. she starts explaining in rapid spanish about two men and one woman, caught outside the complex, with most of your items recovered but some damage done.

they need to confirm your status, whether you’re a citizen since your identifcation is not popping up in their system.

you shake your head, “no, i’m on a work visa.... for barça.”

alexia’s hand tightens on your knee, and she cuts in before you can say more, “tranquil·la, y/n. no diguis res més.” your captain's tone is firm, and protective. she pulls out her phone, already dialing.

“my lawyer will handle this for you, and they’ll sort it out.” she glances at you, “you don’t need to worry, love. i’ve got you.”

you nod, tears welling up again, not from fear now but from the overwhelming relief of her presence. alexia’s always been one of your safe places on the team, someone who’d check on you after a bad game, someone who sat with you when homesickness hit hard your first year.

she’s 31, a legend to the world of women players.

to you, she’s just ale... warm, strong, sweet, and the one who’d fight the world to keep you safe. right now, in this cold, sterile room, with your home in ruins and your heart in pieces, she’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

you don't even think about recovery training the next morning. today would've been the last session before the national team break, the one where everyone would be easing into light drills, ice baths, and physio appointments. you know esmee's staying home anyway since her leg would be wrapped and elevated, probably scrolling through her phone with a frown.

unfortunately, that's the furthest thing from your mind. your body feels heavy, like it's been drained of everything except this lingering tremor of fear that won't quiet down.

it's just hitting 8am when officer maria finally says you're free to go. the paperwork's done, statements are signed and a promise of follow-ups and recovered items if they're lucky. alexia hasn't left your side once with her hand on your knee, translating when your spanish falters under exhaustion.

she's running on fumes too, but she hides it behind that captain's composure.

you stand up slowly once maria leaves, and your legs are stiff from hours in that hard chair, still in your wrinkled blue modal pajamas under a borrowed police jacket.

the thought of going back to your apartment... even just to grab clothes... makes your stomach twist violently.

no way. the splintered door, the shattered glass, the vandalized walls… you can't.

and you won't.

alexia notices immediately. she always does, one thing about ale is that she is very observant of people. your eyes dart to the exit, then to the floor, panic flickering as you try to figure out where to go, who to bother.

"y/n," she says softly, cupping your cheek to make you look at her, "mira'm. you're coming home with me. no discussion." ale's voice is gentle, the one she uses when someone's pushing through an injury on the pitch, "you will sleep. nothing else. i'll call pere to tell the club. they'll handle contacting your national team."

you open your mouth to protest... but ale's tired, and she has her own life, especially dealing with the breakup of her ex-girlfriend... so the words die in your throat. you're too drained and too scared to be alone.

"okay," you whisper, nodding.

in her car, the drive to her house is quiet.

barcelona wakes up around you with early commuters outside of the window, delivery vans, the mediterranean sun starting to burn off the morning chill.

alexia's home is in a gated community outside the city center, spacious and modern, with high ceilings and big windows that let in so much light. it's ten times bigger than your cozy little apartment, the one you'd decorated with plants and framed photos and little american touches to make it feel like home. ale's place smells like fresh coffee and clean linen, warm and lived-in but impeccably tidy.

she leads you upstairs to the guest room full of soft gray tones, a king bed with plush pillows, blackout curtains already half-drawn.

"sleep," she repeats, pulling back the covers, "i'll be downstairs if you need anything." you nod, kicking off your shoes, crawling under the duvet fully clothed.

once alexia leaves the room, your phone's in your hand before you even think. the smart thing would be to call emma hayes first... your national team coach, the one who needs to know why you're missing camp and the friendlies against italy.

however your thumb hovers, then taps esmee's name above emma's contact instead.

you need her voice more than anything right now.

it rings twice before esmee hits the green button.

"good morning, liefje," she answers with a soft and sleepy voice. it is a little groggy from pain meds maybe. you can picture her in bed, her braids lightly tousled with her leg propped up.

"esmee," you manage, but it comes out choked, your name for her cracking in the middle.

for three seconds there is silence on her end.

"baby? is everything okay?"

the dam breaks once you hear esmee's concern in her voice, and tears flood your eyes instantly.

"something… something happened early this morning, at my apartment. i'm at alexia's now because… i'm scared to go back."

"what?" her voice nearly yells in panic, "what happened? y/n, talk to me."

"people broke in." the words tumble out, "i was home and asleep when they kicked the door in and trashed everything. i hid in the bathroom and called the police. they got caught, but… everything's ruined."

she's frozen... you hear her breath catch, a sharp inhale and the amount of time that passes with no words before esmee can tumble out, "were you hurt?" the woman's dutch accent is full with fear, the way it does when she's really upset, "baby, tell me you're not hurt."

"no," you sob quietly while curling tighter under the covers, "I was... I was just scared. so scared, esmee. i thought they were gonna get into the bedroom."

"fuck." esmee's voice breaks too.

you hear rustling, like she's sitting up too fast and wincing from her leg. "where are you exactly? alexia's house?"

"yeah. she… she came and got me from the station.... but she says i need to sleep."

"you do," esmee agrees, but there's tension underneath, "but i'm coming over in a few hours. leg or no leg, alexia can argue all she wants but i'm not leaving you alone today once you wake up."

you manage a watery smile through the tears, "i love you."

"i love you too, and so much. try to rest, okay? you're safe, and i'll be there soon."

you hang up, with relief mixed in with the heaviness.

once your phone goes back to the contact screen... that is when you dial emma.

the first call there is no answer.

you forgot about the time zones, since it's like 2am in the states, maybe.

you wait ten minutes, staring at the ceiling, before trying again.

your national team coach picks up on the second ring, "y/n?" her voice is alert now, no trace of sleep since her english accent is super clear, "i just got off the phone with someone from the federation... barcelona reached out already. sweetheart, i'm so sorry. are you okay?"

the sobs come full force again, "emma, i'm sorry. i can't come to camp. not after this. i just… i can't."

"hey, hey, no." her tone is maternal, "do not apologize. this isn't your fault. not even a little. you're not obligated to come right now since your health, your safety, comes first. always. your spot isn't going anywhere... and the federation agreed that no one's replacing you."

"thank you," you whisper, hiccuping, "i just… everything stopped. my home's gone. i don't feel safe anywhere."

"i know, y/n. i know." she pauses, and her voice is softening, "take all the time you need. we'll check in so the national team and your club can send resources if you want therapy or anything. just focus on healing.... you've got a whole team here rooting for you."

you mumble another thank you, goodbye, and drop the phone onto the nightstand.

the room spins a little since exhaustion is filled your mind. your life is paused so suddenly with no apartment, no sense of security, camp canceled, everything upended in one violent night.

tears soak the pillow as you curl into a ball, body finally giving out. the sobs taper into shaky breaths, then nothing. sleep pulls you under with the first real escape you've had since that bang shattered the darkness.

five hours later

you stir slowly since consciousness is pulling you from the heavy fog of sleep. however, your eyes squint from the confusion of your head resting on something soft, while falling and rising gently with each breath.

it is not a pillow since it is something firmer, and alive. you blink, eyes blurry and crusty from crying, and your vision is clearing on a soft blue shirt stretched across a familiar chest.

esmee.

you can hear heartbeat steady under your ear, her arms loosely wrapped around you, holding you close even in rest. she must've climbed in while you were out, careful not to wake you.

you tilt your head up and meet her eyes, those soft brown ones watching you already, filled with worry yet with so much love. for a split second, the world feels right again. it was like the burglary, the terror, faded like a bad dream.

you smile, murmuring "hi" in a raspy voice.

"hi, liefje," she whispers back, but her tone is laced with concern.

esmee's thumb brushes your cheek with no matching smile, just that gentle furrow in her brow.... and then it slams into you. everything that had happened twelve hours ago with the bang, the stomping, hiding in the tub, the police lights.

however, you shove it down deep, forcing a steady breath since you are awake and it is a new day.

you're fine.

you'll be fine.

it's over.

they caught them.

stuff can be replaced.

you're not hurt.

see?

dramatic.

"are you okay?" esmee asks softly, searching your face like she can see the cracks you're hiding.

"yeah," you lie, nodding a little too quickly, "i will be." you glance down at her leg, propped carefully on a pillow at the foot of the bed, no heavy brace in sight, "how'd you get here? your leg…"

"it is just irritation," she says, waving it off with a small smile, "nothing serious. physio cleared me for light movement since i couldn't stay away." she leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, her lips warm and soft against your skin.

"you're staying with me throughout the break, y/n." esmee's voice is stricter than normal, with no room for argument.

oh. right.

national break starts tomorrow and alexia will head to madrid with spain. her house will be empty and neither of them wants you alone. esmee's eyes say it clearly, and you know alexia would too.

truth is, you don't want it either.

the thought of an empty space, silence, any bump in the night… no.

you nod up at es, "okay."

afterwards you push yourself up, stretching stiff muscles with your back popping as you stand beside the bed. the guest room feels too big suddenly, with sunlight filtering through the curtains.

you turn to your girlfriend, almost hesitating.

"could… someone else grab my stuff from the apartment? i can't go back there to get anything... not yet."

esmee nods immediately, no judgment.

"oh yeah.. of course! my brother flies in later from the netherlands. he'll go with me to get whatever's needed for you. just call him to tell him what youll need, and he'll bring it to mine."

"thank you." relief loosens your shoulders a fraction.

however, as you stand there watching her settle back against the pillows, that voice in your head whispers in the back of your mind and into your ears.

you're overreacting.

it's just stuff.

a break-in happens to people all the time.

you weren't hurt since you're safe now, with esmee, and with the team. what... you were crying at the station and hiding here? that is dramatic. things aren't that deep and you'll bounce back like always... being the goofy y/n, tough y/n, the one who scores in clasicos and laughs off homesickness.

this? it'll fade.

you're making it bigger than it is, burdening everyone with your fear.

just push it down and smile. pretend until it sticks because admitting how shattered you feel inside? that would make it real and you can't handle real right now.

so you convince yourself that it's fine, and you're fine.

everything's going to be just fine.

a month and a half goes by in a haze of forced normalcy.

all of your days blend into one another as you desperately cling to the routines that keep you afloat. at first, the team rallies around you like an shield. once everyone heard about what had happened, everyone started acting as your personal security detail, with their concern wrapping around you so tightly it's almost suffocating, yet you crave it.

patri, just to point out one of your teammates, became almost like your shadow on and off the pitch, joking about being your "bodyguard for life" with that funny smirk. however, her eyes never stray far since she always pulled you into impromptu group chats during water breaks or insisting you sit next to her at lunch.

kika does the same, almost. she will drag you and esmee to her apartment for a sleepover some weekends, with the three of you sprawled across her oversized couch binge-watching trashy reality shows until the sun creeps up.

your laughter echos a bit too loud with the other girls, but it is a bit too forced. however, you think that it's better than the silence that waits at home.

outside of training, esmee is your constant tether with her hand always finding yours on walks through barcelona's streets, and her body stays curled against you every night in her bed.

even alexia takes on the invisible burdens with endless calls from lawyers, sifting through insurance paperwork, giving you vague updates on the case that you half-listen to, nodding blankly while your mind wanders elsewhere, grateful someone else is handling the mess you can't face.

you convince yourself it's all progress, that you're adapting to this "new normal," rebuilding brick by brick. deep down, the truth claws at you sharper than before since solitude terrifies you now, a gaping void that swallows any sense of security.

even a few moments alone will twist your stomach into anxiety, since empty rooms feel like traps and distant creaks turn into screams of vulnerability.

it's codependency disguised as necessity, a survival instinct gone haywire... you attach yourself to your teammates like vines choking a tree, drawing life from their presence. training becomes your sanctuary, and your entire life if it already was not.

the pitch became your home instead of your apartment. you love feeling bodies colliding, and shouts overlapping, with no room for isolation. the loud noise reassures you that you are safe, since everyone is a witness if something goes wrong.

you start seeking plans out obsessively, with your phone a constant stream of texts.

"hey, wanna grab coffee after training ?" to salma, "movie night?" to vicky. every week you will show up unannounced at team dinners with a grin that doesn't reach your eyes, but they always make space and pull out a chair for you without question.

esmee's place morphs into your unofficial home, your belongings infiltrating every corner with another charger permanently plugged in by her bed, your favorite hoodie tossed over her chair, your toothbrush claiming space in her bathroom cup.

you need proximity at all costs, like a touch, and a conversation, any proof that you're not exposed, not alone like that night in the bathtub.

as the weeks stretch on, your unhealthy coping mechanisms take root and flourish, subtle at first but growing more entrenched.

the recklessness on the pitch escalates since you dive into tackles with abandon, ignoring pere's warnings. you will linger in physical duels far longer than smart, chasing the adrenaline rush that drowns out the undercurrent of fear, since the burn in your muscles are a distraction from the mental scars.

off the field, the startles become routine and your body hurts you at every loud trigger.

a glass bottle shattering, thanks to pina, at a team barbecue sends you rigid. your heart started hammering as flashbacks flickered before you plaster on a laugh, brushing it off as "clumsy me jumping at nothing."

doors slamming, anywhere, hit hardest for your psychological state. in the locker room, when cata slammed the bathroom door with a resounding thud due to frustration at pere, you flinched hard with your shoulders curling inward.

alexia spots the flinches every time.

at that time, she crosses to you swiftly with her hand moving slowly on your shoulder.

"està bé, carinyo. només és la porta del bany," she soothes.

you nod too fast, forcing a chuckle.

"i know, silly me," you mutter, averting your gaze, denying the flinch ever happened because admitting it would crack the facade. avoidance becomes your armor since you will sidestep conversations about that night, changing subjects with a joke or a deflection.

sleep evades you unless esmee's there in bed at night. when she's away for even an hour, you pace, scroll endlessly on your phone, or blast music to fill the void, anything to avoid the quiet that lets the memories creep in.

you start over-relying on caffeine to push through the exhaustion of barely getting sleep, chugging extra espressos before training to mask the fatigue from restless nights.

the team starts to buy into your act as time passes... and the initial tiptoeing fades, replaced by easy banter and high-fives after goals. the barcelona and footballer community in general started to believe your project of okayness as if nothing's amiss.

only alexia and esmee pierce the illusion, since unspoken questions are still hanging in the air.

now the last day before national break arrives, the environment is lingering with impending separation. you're in the gym post training session, stuffing gear into your duffel for the flight to the states since the uswnt camp is looming with friendlies on the horizon.

the european players, basically your entire team, will stay in barcelona since their next international window is not until march... so your safety net stays intact here, but you'll be ripped away across the atlantic and far from this cocoon.

alexia approaches first with esmee trailing close behind since their expressions a mix of care and caution.

"will you be fine over there? really?" alexia asks, her voice probing gently.

"of course, I will have to be," you reply, zipping the bag with feigned nonchalance, ignoring the tightening knot in your gut, "i've got like 20 caps with the national team already… i'll be fine." it's dismissive, treating the burglary like a faded footnote.

esmee steps nearer, "babe… it's okay to not be okay. you don't have to keep pretending everything's perfect."

you flash that practiced smile, waving her off, "the traumatic event happened, and time goes on." it's a mantra you've repeated to yourself, simple and detached, as if logic alone can erase the damage.

you're willfully blind to the buildup and the codependency that's morphed into an unhealthy thing. there are still those flinches you deny, and the avoidance that's festering like an untreated wound, with the caffeine-fueled denial propping up your days.

these symptoms, ignored and nurtured in secret are primed to erupt, especially since you will be away from the barça girls who've become your emotional scaffolding.

in the states, you will be with your friends and your national teammates but isolated from esmee's reassuring touch, alexia's protective gaze, and the club team's familiar faces.

the quiet in the states will force you to confront the unraveling alone, where your copes might finally crumble under the pressure.

the flight to california feels endless since it was a drag of turbulence and recycled air that keeps sleep just out of reach. you board in barcelona with esmee's goodbye kiss still lingering on your lips, and her worried eyes are the last thing you see before turning away.

once you're strapped in the first class plane seat with the engines roaring, exhaustion wars with hypervigilance.

every jolt of the plane, every ding of the call button, every shadow in the dim cabin sends your heart racing. you try to sleep with a eye mask on, and a neck pillow wedged with a playlist of soft indie tracks looping but your mind keeps replaying that night.

the layover in washington dc is no better. you curl up on an uncomfortable gate bench, hoodie pulled over your head, but the crowds thinning and thickening keep you alert.

strangers are passing too close, rolling suitcases thudding like distant doors slamming. you doze in fits... ten minutes here, five there... but snap awake at every loud voice or dropped bag.

by the time you board the final leg to california, your eyes burn and your body feels heavy.

hours later when you finally arrive to camp, or the team hotel in los angeles... you get hugs and hellos from teammates who've heard whispers or read the news about the burglary. most of them tried to reach out to you through phone calls, but you'd accidentally ignored them because of the mess of everything.

you got a "you okay?" and hug from alyssa, a sympathetic talk from lindsey, and an even longer hug from your national team bestfriend, catarina.

you brushed their concerns off with a bright smile, the one you've perfected over the last month and a half.

"do not worry, I am totally fine now."

most of them nodded, accepting it, because you've always been the resilient one, the goofy american kid who bounces back.

no one pushes, thankfully.

in the hotel lobby everyone is given their room assignments. for you, you get trinity for the paraguay game period, and lily for chile. relief floods you seeing trin first since she is the familiar, and steady trinity rodman, with her infectious energy and no-bullshit vibe. you latch onto her immediately, since she is one of your closest friends on this national team.

almost without thinking, you shadow her to meals, sitting thigh-to-thigh in meetings, and chatter about eachother's relationships and other things fill any silence. you got to film some tiktoks with trin too, since you never oppose to be on her profile.

you act the same with lily too, when schedules overlap for group dinners, you wedge yourself between the lyon player and washington player while laughing at inside jokes, and doing anything to stay surrounded.

however, the nights expose the cracks.

the hotel room is nice with two queen beds, blackout curtains, the hum of ac... but it's not esmee's apartment, not alexia's guest room, not the constant presence of your barcelona bubble.

when trinity says she's grabbing her doordash order from the lobby, or popping down the hall to chat with phallon, you nod casually.

"cool, see you in a bit."

when the door clicks shut, panic creeps in since you are alone. the room is suddenly too big, and too quiet. you sit up in bed, lights on, phone in hand scrolling mindlessly through tiktoks, instagram, and old highlights. throughout the whole time, your ears are straining for every hallway footstep, every elevator ding.

is that the door handle?

no, just the imagination.

however, you don't sleep... not until trin bursts back in with her chic-fil-a food bag rustling while she flops onto her bed with a grin.

only then do your eyelids droop, since her her presence is a permission to relax.

unfortunately, the next night and worst night comes.

trin goes to croix and emily (sams) room for what she swears is "ten minutes" to watch some show clip sam's obsessed with. ten turns to thirty, and texts from the people you know are slowing since it is getting late.

you wait for the washington player with the lights blazing, and the tv on low for noise. an hour passes and you think that she's probably crashed there... it happens all the time in camp. there are many times, pre-burglary, when you've crashed in catarina's or sophia's room before she went on maternity leave.

knowing doesn't help since you're alone and fully, truly alone for the first time in weeks. the door looms across the room, locked but it is not enough.

what if someone picks the lock?

kicks it in?

the paranoia spirals and it is nearly ridiculous because this secure hotel is crawling with security. however, logic doesn't touch your anxiety. you pace at first, then huddle under covers with the phone flashlight on, checking the deadbolt every few minutes.

your eyes dart to shadows, and heart pounds at ice machines clunking down the hall through the door. there is no sleep for you, not a single minute.

when dawn creeps through the curtains, you knew that you were fucked.

it was 7am before breakfast when trin slips back in, apologizing sheepishly.

"I fell asleep, I am so sorry babe. im not sure if you left the door unlocked or something!" trinity hugs you, hoping nothing was wrong.

you mumble, "it's fine," with your voice hoarse while forcing a laugh... but your body screams otherwise.

emma notices your stateat the morning meetup before the game later.

you have dark circles under your eyes, and your movements are a beat slow. coach pulls you aside gently when everyone is grabbing water, "you good to start today?"

you nod vigorously, "absolutely." because admitting otherwise feels like defeat.

five hours later the paraguay game rolls around under california sun, and the stadium is packed with a sold-out crowd. you start since emma's faith in you has unwavering since the gold medal match last summer when you scored that brace against brazil.

for many minutes of the match, the pitch is your escape. bodies are everywhere, and there was no room for fear. you link up beautifully, threading a perfect through ball to catarina in the first half and she buries it, wheeling away in celebration as you sprint to jump on her back.

before the first half ended your tank emptied... and fast. the 'no sleep' catches up to you since your legs are heavy by halftime, and your vision is tunneling.

emma subs you early second half, around the 50th minute, patting your back as you jog off and alyssa takes your place.

"great assist, rest up."

you could barely listen to anything as collapse onto the bench with a towel over your head. your eyes close involuntarily since the game noise fades to a distant hum.

it was five minutes... maybe more... and you're half-gone with your head lolling, almost asleep right there amid the chaos.

ally, sitting right beside you, nudges you gently.

"hey, you okay?" her voice is sweet but direct.

you startle, blinking hard, a massive yawn escaping before you can stop it.

dropping the blue towel off of your head, you look over at her and nod, "yeah, fine," you mutter, rubbing your face.

the kansas current player tilts her head, eyebrow raised.

"you just yawned like you haven't slept in days."

you sigh, shoulders slumping a fraction before you catch yourself.

"i know, but it's nothing. really." the deflection is automatic now, since the words taste hollow even to you.

when the final whistle blows eventually... it is a 2-0 win with a clean sheet, since another goal by trinity in the second half sealed it.

all of your teammates mob on the pitch with hugs and high-fives. normally, you'd be buzzing, soaking in the victory with goofy dances or group selfies. today, you could barely shirt swap with a paraguayan player without exhaustion making you yawn nonstop.

you smile for the cameras, clap for the fans, but the excitement feels distant, and muted.

you arrive in santa barbara after the paraguay game, and the california coast is still a blur of palm trees and ocean views from the team bus, but the beauty barely registers.

on the bus, sitting beside catarina got you twenty minutes of a nap but that was nothing. lily is your new roommate for the chile part of this camp. it is the calm, thoughtful lily, with her quiet wisdom and steady presence. you like the lyon player since she's easy to be around, and not pushy like some. she is younger than you, and looks up to you in a way.

right now, even that feels like too much exposure. you need people, since you crave them to fill the voids, but opening up at the moment is a line you won't cross voluntarily.

after settling in, you wander down the hall to catarina's room, where she's bunking with lindsey. the talk is casual at first since you are all chatting about the last game, and your assist to cat. eventually, the conversation drifts, as it always does these days, to that night.

you sit on the edge of cat's bed, knees pulled up, staring at the hotel carpet as you recount it in fragments.

"i was so scared," you admit, "like, paralyzed. i couldn't even cry at first, because what if they heard me?" the pain resurfaces since it's not just the loss of things... it's the violation and the way safety shattered like the glass they broke, leaving you fractured inside.

lindsey listens sitting right across from you with her legs crossed. the woman's expression is soft but probing. when you finish with "but i feel fine about it now," forcing a shrug, the blonde tilts her head, eyes narrowing.

she sees it, along with the brazilian. cat and lindsey can see the lack of conviction in your voice, and the way your hands fidget while twisting the hem of your white uswnt shirt.

your words hang hollow, unconvincing even to you, but you cling to them like a shield.

cat reaches over, squeezing your arm.

"it's okay to talk about it, whenever you need to," she says gently, "i'm here. we're all here." your friend's voice is reassuring, but it creates the ache of needing that support but fearing the vulnerability.

you nod, swallowing hard, and pull them both into a quick hug goodnight. both of their arms around you a brief balm before you slip out.

back in your room, lily's gone since she is probably grabbing food or chatting with alyssa down in the lobby. the emptiness hits immediately, yet you climb into bed fully clothed with your phone in hand and doomscroll.

there are tiktoks of cute animals, and instagram reels from barça fans, anything to numb the creeping dread. hours tick by and it is midnight, 1 am, and 2am before your eyes start getting heavy, with your body begging for sleep, but you can't.

the codependency grips tighter here, away from esmee's warmth. you need someone safe in the room, their breathing a proof that you're not vulnerable.

without it, every hotel noise becomes a threat.

then, the bang.

there is a loud knock on the door... three, four, insistent. no voice calls out, no "it's me" or team name. little did you know, it was a knock for the room next to yours. still, panic surges and your heart is slamming against your ribs. it's just a knock for next door, you tell yourself, but your body betrays you since your muscles are locking, and a wave of paralysis washes over like that night in the tub.

you curl into a ball, arms wrapped around your knees, staring at the door as if it might burst open. tears prick your eyes since why are you like this? it is a normal knock for next door. you almost bolt to the bathroom since you instinct is screaming to hide, but you stay put, shaking, until the knocking for the neighbor stops.

the damage is done since you sob quietly, wondering what's broken in you. the pain in your nervous system is excruciating since this lingering trauma is turning everyday sounds into monsters, stealing your independence, and making you this shell who can't even sleep alone.

ten minutes later, the door clicks open and it is lily, with her keycard in hand, slipping in quietly.

she freezes seeing you curled up, with your face tear-streaked, and body trembling.

"y/n? oh god, are you okay?" she rushes to your bed, sitting on the edge, hand hovering uncertainly.

you shake your head at first, sobs hitching, but then wipe your eyes furiously, forcing composure.

"i'm okay," you mutter, lying through the tears that won't stop. lily's eyes widen.... she doesn't know what to do, her kindness clashing with confusion. you turn away, pulling the covers up.

somehow, with her there, exhaustion wins.

you drift off, leaving lily staring, wondering if you're truly fine after what happened, her gut twisting with doubt and uncertainty. she wants to run to lindsey for help, but she decides not to.

morning training dawns bright, and you act like nothing occurred since you laugh with trinity and rose during warm-ups, and you are focused in drills with no mention of the night.

it concerns lily deeply since your denial is a wall, shutting everyone out from the truth, making her question if it's not her business. she knows it's not simple, this pain you're burying. however, the conflict of work and personal life is getting in the way.

later, during a break back at the hotel she walks in to find you crying again. you're on your bed, knees to chest, tears silent but steady. it's the apartment situation that you're overthinking about now. it is the ruins, the insecurity, and you are overthinking about moving in with esmee.

what if she says no?

what if it's too much, too soon?

the fear spirals about losing your home, your independence, but you crave your club team's safety so badly it hurts. the trauma amplifies it all, turning decisions into overwhelming burdens.

lily slips out of the room quietly, since your back on the bed was facing away from her. so, you had no idea that lily saw you. the American-dutch had her phone in hand, scrolling to a contact she rarely uses. if she ever even did.

esmee brugts.

the dutch connections link them since friends from lily's ajax days knew esmee, and both of the girls shared a dutch youth camp once a very long time ago. however, lily's concern overrides hesitation outside in that hotel hallway.

she dials, expecting voicemail.

in europe, esmee answers quick.

"lily, is this about y/n?"

the dutch's voice urgent, no hello. she knew that someone on your national team might've called. however, she did not expect it to be lily.

lily switches to dutch, startled, "um, yeah… i'm sorry if i'm bothering you but—"

"you're not bothering me," esmee cuts in, rambling, "i've been thinking about her and her situation since she has been gone, about how she'd handle being away from barcelona. i figured catarina would've called lucy, who'd call alexia, but i'm glad you called me. did something happen?"

lily sighs, leaning against the wall, "your girlfriend keeps crying… um… and she refuses to acknowledge it afterward, as if it never happened. it's strange. i can't get through to her, and she was so tired after paraguay, more than usual. trinity thinks that she did not sleep."

silence, then esmee.. "i'll talk to her when she gets back to barcelona. i know she's not really okay, no matter how much she tries to convince herself."

they hang up and lily reenters the hotel room, seeing you composed now with your mascara makeup touched up.

"i think it's time for dinner," the teenager says softly.

you nod, smiling... fake but practiced.

"I am almost ready."

lily waits, piecing it together from esmee's words since your aversion to alone time, and the implied trauma means that you clearly needed someone. so she lingers with no rush, until you're set.

three days later, you're back in barcelona.

the flight from california was long and turbulent in spots, but you managed okay and better than the sleepless nights in camp, at least.

as you grab your carry-on and shuffle through customs, a flicker of relief warms your chest since you are home.... or what's left of it. you expect alexia and esmee waiting in arrivals, like always with alexia's steady smile, and esmee's excited wave.

when you spot a familiar face, it's just esmee with her face lighting up as she rushes forward, arms open.

beside her is irene, taller and composed, wanting to offer a warm hug as well.

"liefje!" esmee pulls you into a tight hug, her scent... vanilla and fresh laundry... comes around your senses like a blanket. you sink into it, the knot in your stomach loosening just a bit, "i missed you so much."

"I missed you too," you murmur, pulling back to kiss her softly.

irene hugs you next, her embrace is maternal, like she's checking for cracks.

"where's ale?" you ask, glancing around.

esmee shrugs, grabbing your luggage handle, "she has nike stuff... a photoshoot or meeting. she wanted to come, but you know how it is for her."

you nod, understandable since alexia's the face of everything these days.

the three of you head to irene's car, and the barcelona air carries some sea salt and city pollution. in the backseat with esmee, her hand slips into yours, with her thumb tracing circles on your skin. however, your mind wanders, heavy with the thought that's been brewing since national camp... about asking her to move in.

your apartment is a ghost now and living with esmee feels like safety, but what if it's too soon? what if she thinks you're clingy?

esmee's quiet too, with her gaze out the window. she thinks about ho lily texted again last night... after your brace against chile, mood high, but then the afterparty. you were exhausted, eyes drooping, but refused to leave alone.

"she wouldn't go back to the hotel without someone," lily said, "phallon walked her up since she was tired too.... it's like y/n's scared to be by herself." esmee's heart aches thinking about it.

now, with caro and marta waiting at her place… she hopes this helps, that the team moms can coax you open where she can't alone.

the drive passes in light chatter with irene asking about your camp. you recount the wins with forced enthusiasm and esmee squeezes your hand.

when irene parks outside esmee's building, you frown thinking irene was going to leave. that was until irene parks and gets out of the car too.

"you're coming up?" you ask her.

irene smiles softly, "yeah, just for a bit."

confusion flickers, but you shrug it off and you haul your luggage inside. esmee unlocks the door, and you immediately see caro and marta on the soft grey couch, with the tv murmuring some spanish drama.

the surprise freezes you in the entryway.

"hi?" you say, voice pitching up. they're casual, with legs tucked under blankets, but their eyes turn to you with purpose.

"welcome back, y/n," caro says warmly, standing from her blanket to hug you.

marta follows, and her embrace is soft.

you hug back, but unease creeps in.

"what's going on? you guys just hanging out?"

caro nods toward the living room, "get situated, then come join us? we want to talk."

your stomach drops as your hands grab your luggage handle tightly, wondering if you did something wrong since leaving for camp, "did i do something wrong?"

marta shakes her head quickly, "no, not at all. this is- this is just… a chat."

anxiety spikes and your palms get clammy against the luggage handle. you don't bother unpacking, and you let go of the luggage that gets abandoned by the door. you sink onto esmee's furniture, with your knees bouncing.

esmee sits beside you on the loveseat, her hand finding yours again. irene perches on the couch arm, with caro and marta settling back into where they were seated at before.

caro starts gently, her norwegian accent soft.

"are you okay, y/n? really?"

you nod automatically, forcing a smile.

"yeah, i'm good. camp was tiring, but the wins were great."

it's almost convincing, since your voice steady with your shoulders relaxed. it was like the old you, the pre-burglary you, was back. although, your foot taps erratically on the floor. esmee notices, and her grip tightens on your soft hand.

marta leans forward, eyes kind.

"we got a concern from one of your national teammates. they were worried about your lack of sleep and wondered if it tied back to… the event."

oh.

the burglary.

you do not speak for around thirty seconds, which is what the women in the room has suspected from you.you glance at esmee, who nods encouragingly, her brown eyes pleading.

"lily?" you guess while sighing, "it's nothing. i just… had some rough nights. it was jet lag, you know?"

irene tilts her head, her motherly gaze piercing.

"y/n, it's more than that. we've seen it here too.... the way you don't like being alone. it's nice to have companionship, but it's another thing to not be able to sleep or even breathe without someone being there."

she is kind, but those words hit like a punch, stripping away your defenses. tears prick your eyes, but you blink them back with your jaw tightening.

"i'm fine," you insist, "i don't need to talk about it. it happened, it's over."

"but it's not over for you," irene presses softly, leaning in closer, "we see the flinches, the way you stick close to everyone. codependency like this… it's understandable after what you went through, but it's not healthy long-term. you deserve to feel safe on your own."

the dam cracks after the last words and tears spill with your chest heaving.

"i'm scared," you whisper, "every time i'm alone, i hear it... the door breaking, them in my home. i hid, and i thought… what if they got in? i feel violated, like they took more than stuff. they took my peace."

esmee pulls you closer, her arm around your shoulders as sobs shake you. the pain floods out since the national break horrors of sleepless nights reminded you of the lost peace, "i couldn't sleep without someone there," you choke out, "I thought someone would break in again, hurt me. even in the hotel, safe as it was."

marta kneels before you, hands gentle on your knees, her touch grounding.

"oh, cariño," she murmurs, thumbs wiping your tears, "that's trauma. you need help processing it.... like you need to talk to a psychologist at the club... they can guide you."

you shake your head, sniffling against your hoodie sleeve, "my situation's too unique. I don't think anybody at barcelona went through this before."

irene nods thoughtfully, "julia helped me with family things after my wife gave birth... she helped with the stress, adjustment. but maybe you could talk to pauline at the club? she specializes in ptsd and cbt. she'd be a better fit for you."

the idea sinks in.

"maybe," you murmur. then, deeper fears surface, "still... i-i i can't go back to my apartment. every time, the anxiety gets worse when I see the dents. it triggers everything."

esmee turns your face to hers, eyes shining.

"then move in with me. permanently."

you turn to her, your eyes shiny with dried tears as love appeared, "you'd be okay with that? really?"

"of course, baby," she says, smiling through tears, "i've been meaning to bring it up for weeks, but i wasn't sure how you'd feel. i didn't want to push."

relief crashes over you, warm and overwhelming.

"i felt the same. I was scared to ask."

caro sums it up, "okay so... so you'll start sessions with pauline. move in with esmee.... and remember, talk to any of us if something's wrong. we're family, and you are not weak for needing help."

marta adds, still kneeling, "and get comfortable with alone time again. small steps... maybe sleep last after esmee, and know danger isn't always lurking. you're stronger than this fear."

you nod, even as anxiety whispers doubts.

everyone in the room hugs you then and you could feel like you're absorbing caro's quiet strength, marta's warmth, irene's reassurance, and esmee's love.

tears flow freely, but they're cleansing now, washing away the fear of isolation. you feel so loved, surrounded by these women who've become your saviors... in a way.

however, you know that you can save yourself with a new place to call home.

They were shown to the table.

Kate was already there. She stood when she saw them and the hug she gave Alexia was warm and real, both arms, her chin on Alexia's shoulder for a moment, and Alexia felt the old familiar pull of her and also, underneath it, the new knowledge that the pull was the feeling and not the answer. Those were different things. She was learning to hold them separately.

"YN," Kate said, warmly. "Good to see you again."

"You too," YN said.

"Vivienne's just in the bathroom. She'll be a minute."

They sat. Kate was in something emerald and well-chosen and she looked lovely and she knew it in the easy unselfconscious way of people who have always known it. She poured water for all three of them and asked about their week with the genuine interest that was simply how Kate moved through the world, making people feel like the room had been waiting for them.

YN answered pleasantly. Alexia watched the door.

Vivienne arrived four minutes later.

She was, as the photographs had suggested and the reality confirmed, exceptionally beautiful in a way that was also a kind of armour. The kind of beauty that had been cultivated and managed and understood as a resource. She moved through the restaurant with the ease of someone who had spent a great deal of time in rooms like this and knew that rooms like this were looking at her.

She was also, Alexia registered in the first thirty seconds, very good at reading people.

Her eyes moved over Alexia with a sweep that was so brief as to be almost undetectable, and what came back in her expression was a smile that was warm and welcoming and contained, underneath its warmth, a conclusion she had already reached.

"Alexia," she said, sitting down. "Kate talks about you constantly. It's so lovely to finally put a face to the name."

"Likewise," Alexia said.

"And YN." Vivienne turned the smile. "What is it you do?"

"I write," YN said.

"How wonderful. What sort of thing?"

"Fiction."

"Published?"

"Yes."

"Anything I'd know?"

"Possibly," YN said, pleasantly and entirely without elaboration.

Vivienne held the smile for a beat longer than necessary, the way people did when they were deciding whether to push, and then she turned back to the table and picked up the menu and the moment passed.

The first twenty minutes were fine in the way that dinners were fine when everyone was being careful. Kate anchored the conversation with the skill she had always had, moving between people, drawing things out, making the table feel like a room that had chosen itself. She was good at this. She was genuinely good at it and it was genuinely her, the warmth was not manufactured, and Alexia thought about what YN had said weeks ago. She makes people feel chosen. Yes. That was exactly it.

Vivienne, for her part, was charming in a way that was also pointed.

It was subtle enough that Alexia spent the first twenty minutes wondering if she was imagining it. A comment about how quaint European football was compared to the American game, delivered to no one in particular and landing squarely in Alexia's direction. A question about Barcelona, "it's very small, isn't it, compared to New York," asked with such genuine-seeming curiosity that it took a moment to understand what it was doing. An observation about how difficult it must be to maintain a relationship given how much you travel, with the eyes moving briefly, precisely, to YN.

Each one landing. Each one wrapped in enough warmth to be deniable.

Kate said nothing.

Not nothing in the way of someone who had not noticed. Kate noticed everything. She said nothing in the way of someone who had decided it was not her place, or who had decided it was easier, or who had told herself it was all fine, which amounted to the same thing.

YN, across the table, had been pleasantly and completely unreadable since Vivienne sat down. They answered when spoken to, asked one good question about a gallery opening Vivienne mentioned, listened to the answer properly. They were so aggressively normal that Alexia, who had learned to read the register of YN's silence, knew that something was being managed with some effort.

Then Vivienne said, turning to Alexia with the smile fully deployed: "You must be so proud of everything you've achieved. I always think it's remarkable when athletes manage to sustain a career this long. It takes such dedication. Especially," the pause was almost imperceptible, "at your stage."

The table went briefly still.

Kate's eyes moved to her wine glass.

YN set down their fork.

The movement was quiet. Unhurried. But it was a full stop, and it drew Vivienne's eyes.

"At her stage," YN said. The voice was pleasant. Entirely pleasant. "You mean as one of the most decorated players in the history of the sport."

Vivienne blinked. "Of course. That's exactly what I mean."

"Because Alexia has won more in her career than most people accumulate in a lifetime," YN continued, in the same pleasant conversational tone. "The Ballon d'Or. Multiple Champions Leagues. The Euros. If that's what a sustained career looks like, I think most people would take it."

The smile on Vivienne's face was still there but it had changed quality slightly, the way a room changes quality when a window opens and the temperature drops by two degrees.

"Absolutely," she said. "I meant it as a compliment."

"I know," YN said. And picked up their fork again.

Kate had been looking at the table. She looked up now, and her eyes went to Alexia, and what Alexia saw in them was something complicated and private and not entirely comfortable.

The conversation moved on. Vivienne steered it smoothly, she was skilled at this, and within five minutes the table had found its way back to something that functioned as ease. But something had shifted in the room's architecture and everyone at the table knew it even if no one named it.

Under the table, YN's hand found Alexia's.

Not the light touch of the restaurant weeks ago. This was different. Steadier. The hand of someone who was telling her something they did not have words for right now and would find them later.

She turned her hand over and held it back.

They walked home.

The night was mild and the city was doing its usual thing around them, full and indifferent, and they walked for two blocks before either of them spoke.

"She does that a lot," Alexia said. "Doesn't she."

"Every sentence," YN said. "Every single sentence was placed."

"I noticed some of them."

"I noticed all of them." A beat. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I'm sorry you sat through it," YN said. "And I'm sorry Kate let you."

Alexia was quiet for a moment. The thing she had been not-saying for several blocks was the thing YN had just said, more simply and more exactly than she had managed to shape it herself.

"She didn't say anything," Alexia said.

"No."

"Not once."

"No."

"I kept waiting," Alexia said. "Every time Vivienne said something I kept thinking, this is the one Kate will push back on. This is the one."

"And?"

"She looked at her wine glass," Alexia said. "Every time."

They walked. The streets were quieter now, the residential blocks, the trees overhead making the city feel briefly smaller and more manageable.

"She loves her," YN said. Not kindly or unkindly. Just as a fact. "That's not nothing."

"I know."

"And loving someone doesn't make you brave."

"I know that too," Alexia said quietly.

YN was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, "Kate will come around. I think she will. Don't lose hope."

Alexia looked at the side of their face. At the steadiness of it, the conviction being offered freely, the person who was still holding the plan together even now, still putting her first.

She did not say what she was thinking.

YN stopped walking.

Alexia stopped beside them. They were on a corner, a streetlight overhead, the city continuing its business in every direction.

YN looked at her. The direct, unperformed look that Alexia had stopped trying to be opaque for.

"You deserve someone who says something," YN said. "Every time. Without thinking about it."

Alexia looked at them. At the jaw and the dark circles worn without apology and the hands that had covered hers at thirty-five thousand feet without being asked and the person who had, without ceremony or announcement, become the person she looked for in every room.

"I know," she said. And this time it meant something different than the other two times.

YN held her gaze for a moment longer.