#cata coll

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Being 25 and dating Alexia Putellas was a constant adventure. From the beginning, you were both completely clear: no one on the team could find out.

Not because you were doing anything wrong. Not because you had doubts. But because you knew the younger ones far too well. If they found out, it wouldn’t last three days before the entire locker room knew.

Alexia, with all her experience and calmness, had been the one to suggest it.

“It’s not that I don’t trust them,” she had told you one night, sitting on the couch in her apartment, the lights low and the distant noise of the city coming through the window. “It’s just that if we tell Claudia or Cata, within an hour Vicky will be making absurd theories out loud and Mapi will be looking at us with that suspicious smile. And I don’t have the energy for that.”

“So… what are we? A secret operation?”

“Exactly,” Alexia had replied, leaning closer to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “Operation absolutely secret.”

And for months, it worked.

Long looks no one else noticed. Hands brushing only when you were sure no one was watching. Discreet messages before matches. Leaving the parking lot separately so it wouldn’t look suspicious.

The only problem was that Alexia, no matter how much of a captain she was, sometimes forgot she was in public when it came to you.

And there was also the small detail of the sweatshirt.

The famous gray sweatshirt.

Everything fell apart on an ordinary Saturday.

You arrived at the stadium with your headphones on, your hair tied back in a low ponytail, and the oversized sweatshirt covering almost your hands. It was comfortable, warm… and smelled like Alexia.

You didn’t think much of it. It was just clothing.

Until you walked into the locker room.

Mapi was the first to notice.

“Hey,” she said, frowning with exaggerated drama. “Since when do you wear that sweatshirt?”

You froze mid-step.

“What’s wrong with the sweatshirt?”

Claudia looked up from her phone.

“That’s Alexia’s sweatshirt.”

Silence.

A dangerously long silence.

You tried to keep your composure.

“Not every gray sweatshirt belongs to Alexia.”

At that moment, as if the universe had a sense of humor, Alexia walked into the locker room. She stopped for barely a second when she saw you. You. Wearing her sweatshirt.

And she smiled.

Mistake number one.

Because Mapi never forgave that kind of smile.

“Oh,” she said slowly, pointing at both of you as if she had just solved an international crime. “Ohhhhh.”

“Don’t start,” Alexia muttered, trying to sound firm.

“Start what?” Mapi replied, placing a hand on her chest dramatically. “I’m not starting anything. I’m just observing that our captain lost a sweatshirt… and magically it appeared on someone else.”

Vicky was already recording with her phone.

“This is premium content.”

“Don’t record,” Alexia warned, crossing her arms.

You felt your cheeks begin to burn.

“It’s just a sweatshirt, really.”

“Sure,” Claudia replied, holding back laughter. “Just like it’s ‘just’ a coincidence that after every training session you two disappear at exactly the same time.”

Chaos was served.

But the real confirmation came hours later.

Home match. Full stadium. Maximum intensity.

Alexia stayed impeccable, focused, serious. She celebrated your goal with the whole team, hugging everyone equally. Zero mistakes. Zero slips.

It seemed like you had survived the sweatshirt incident.

It seemed.

The problem came afterward.

In the tunnel, when the adrenaline was starting to fade and the stadium was still roaring outside, you began walking a few steps ahead, still smiling because of the goal. Alexia was behind you, talking to the staff.

And it was something minimal.

Tiny.

But definitive.

You stopped to adjust your shin guards, leaning against the wall. Alexia, without thinking too much, stepped closer from behind and placed a hand on your waist.

An automatic gesture.

Intimate.

Natural.

Too natural.

“Did you hurt yourself in the fall?” Alexia asked, lowering her voice, leaning slightly to speak near your ear. “Because if it was from that tackle, I already spoke to the referee and—”

You shook your head, smiling.

“I’m fine. I just got a little scared, but it’s okay now. You don’t have to go into angry captain mode every time someone touches me.”

Alexia didn’t remove her hand.

On the contrary.

Her fingers slid just a few centimeters, making sure you were really okay.

“It’s not captain mode,” she replied softly. “It’s… caring about you mode.”

Silence.

A small, charged silence.

And then, from the back of the tunnel:

“Are we interrupting something or should we keep watching?” Mapi’s voice echoed with unnecessary clarity.

You both turned at the same time.

There they were.

Claudia with her mouth open.

Vicky with a “I knew I wasn’t crazy” expression.

Patri with her arms crossed, enjoying the show.

And worst of all.

Alexia’s hand was still on your waist.

Alexia removed it slowly. Too late.

“It’s not what it looks like,” she tried to say.

“Oh, perfect,” Mapi replied with exaggerated seriousness. “Then explain to us what it looks like. Because from here it looks like our captain has very specific preferences when it comes to checking injuries.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Alexia, on the other hand, took a deep breath. She looked at the group. Then she looked at you.

And something changed.

The strategy was over.

The secret operation was over.

“Alright,” Alexia said, with that firm calm she used in press conferences. “We didn’t want to say anything yet. But yes. We’re together.”

The silence lasted exactly half a second.

Then the tunnel exploded.

“I KNEW IT!”

“I told you the sweatshirt wasn’t a coincidence!”

“How long have you been together?”

“I DEMAND DETAILS!”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or hide behind one of the columns. Your cheeks were burning and your heart was beating way too fast for someone who had just played a full ninety minutes.

Alexia, meanwhile, kept her characteristic calm. She wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… resigned.

She looked at the group with a mix of patience and warning.

“Breathe,” she said firmly but serenely. “We’re not holding a press conference right now.”

“But how long have you been together?” Claudia insisted, unable to contain her excitement.

You hesitated for a second, but Alexia answered first.

“Long enough to know it wasn’t something we wanted to make public yet,” she explained. “Not because we’re ashamed. We just wanted something that was only ours for a while.”

That softened the atmosphere a little.

The teasing didn’t disappear, but it lowered in intensity. It wasn’t an interrogation anymore, it was affectionate curiosity.

And while the group began to scatter, talking among themselves, Alexia looked at you again.

This time without hiding anything.

“I promised we’d last quite a while,” she murmured softly.

You let out a nervous laugh.

“Yes, but we didn’t count on them being so observant.”

“They’re a disaster,” Alexia replied, though there was tenderness in her tone. “And they don’t know how to keep secrets. You were right.”

There was a small silence. Calmer now.

No hidden glances. No hands pulling away at the sound of footsteps.

Alexia took a step closer.

It wasn’t impulsive. It was deliberate. Serene.

She placed a gentle hand on your cheek, her thumb barely brushing the skin still warm from the match.

“Are you okay?” she asked once more, but no longer about the fall.

You nodded, this time without nerves.

“I’m more than okay.”

And then, in front of the distant laughter and the murmurs of teammates pretending not to look, Alexia leaned in just enough.

It wasn’t a long kiss. It wasn’t scandalous.

It was small. Soft. Certain.

A warm brush of lips, calm, like confirming something that no longer needed to be hidden.

When you pulled apart, you were smiling without being able to stop.

“Now,” Alexia said, with that half-smile of hers, “official.”

You had been best friends since your youth age group days. Back then, Cata had been the one sneaking sweets into your bag, tugging at your ponytail when you were trying to focus, inventing stupid games to pass the time. You’d been the one reminding her of schedules, making sure she ate properly, telling her to take things seriously for once.

Somewhere between adolescence and adulthood, between injuries and recoveries, between late nights and early mornings, something shifted. The teasing lingered a little longer. The touches became more intentional. The laughter softened into something warmer, heavier, harder to ignore.

Even now, years later, it felt like a constant battle to remind yourself that you truly did love her annoying arse.

She knew exactly which button to push, exactly how to wind you up and get on your very last nerve, and she took a special kind of pride in it. It wasn’t accidental. It was calculated, precise, like she had an internal map of your patience levels and made it her personal mission to test their limits daily.

But at the end of the day, you loved her wholeheartedly.

You loved the way she filled every quiet space with noise, every serious moment with a joke, every heavy thought with something light and ridiculous. You loved how she danced around the kitchen while you cooked, how she sang off-key in the shower, how she narrated her own life like she was in some badly written sitcom.

She used her pranks and unserious nature to get you to loosen up, to let go of the little worries in your head and let you enjoy life a little more, even when you pretended to hate every second of it.

And Cata thoroughly, utterly, completely relished in the way your cheeks would redden, your eyebrow would raise, and your teeth would grind together as you tried, and failed, to keep your composure.

She lived for the moment you finally snapped, turning on her with mock outrage, often leaving a few hefty smacks to her arms or torso before you were both laughing your heads off, breathless and tangled, and she was kissing you deeply like it was her victory prize.

It appeared that tonight was one of those nights. It was a team bonding night, hosted by Alexia (as always); a mid-season game night that was usually tamer than some of the more… outlandish… celebratory nights out that could occur. There were no clubs, no music, no tequila shots lined up on some sticky bar counter. Just food, board games, and the vague promise of “relaxing.”

You and Alexia were clearly debating something, a frown etched onto your face as you took in the Catalan’s words. Cata noticed immediately. She always did. The narrowing of your eyes, the way your shoulders squared, the subtle biting of your lower lip like you were trying to hold something back. You were taking whatever Alexia was saying seriously. Too seriously, if Cata had anything to say about it.

“Oi,” Cata muttered, spinning around and whacking Patri in the arm.

“Ow,” Patri complained, rubbing the red mark Cata had left behind. “What the hell?”

“What’s Putellas saying to Y/N?” Cata demanded, jerking her head in your direction.

The two of them turned back to look at you, just in time to see you nod at something Alexia had said, pulling your phone out to type a note.

“How am I meant to know?” Patri said.

“‘Cos Ale has her Capitana face on and my girlfriend looks like she’s trying not to cry,” Cata shot back. “She better not be criticising her.”

There it was. That familiar protective surge, warm and sharp in Cata’s chest. She knew you. Knew how sensitive you were, how deeply you internalised feedback, even when it was constructive, even when it came from someone who cared about you as much as Alexia did.

“I dunno, chica,” Patri replied, a little too casually for Cata’s liking.

“Bullshit and you know it,” Cata cut her off, eyes still fixed on the back of Alexia’s head like she could will the conversation to stop. “Pere kept the captains behind to talk, and now Ale is using team bonding, where we are not supposed to talk about work, to talk about work. So, what is she saying?”

Patri sighed, rolling her eyes at the version of Cata that only came out when you were involved. “Pere mentioned we might be trying a new system and some new pairings in upcoming games. It’ll mean some adaptations. And it might be tricky for her, since she might not get that much game time for a few weeks.”

Cata whipped around to face her. “Fuckers,” she muttered, throwing her hands up in frustration.

Patri tried to explain it properly. Injuries, tactical adjustments, different styles for different opponents. All logical, all reasonable. But Cata wasn’t really listening anymore. Her mind had already wandered back to you.

She knew exactly what this would do to you. You always took rotation personally. Even when everyone told you not to. Even when you understood, rationally, that it wasn’t a reflection of your ability. There was still that little voice in your head that whispered not good enough, try harder, prove yourself. And you listened to it. Every time.

You’d push yourself in training, stay later, arrive earlier, demand more from yourself until you felt like you’d “earned” your place again. It was one of the things Cata loved about you, your drive, your discipline. It was also one of the things that scared her the most.

As her thoughts spiralled, her eyes drifted across the room, eventually landing on Pina, who was standing next to Marta and Caro, clearly half-bored with whatever conversation they were having. Pina felt someone staring and turned, catching Cata’s eye.

Cata smiled.

Pina froze. That smile. That was not a normal smile. That was a dangerous smile. The kind that usually meant chaos, laughter, and at least one person getting into trouble. (And, great sex, although Pina didn’t know that particular consequence).

“Oh no,” Pina muttered under her breath.

The evening had worn on, your conversation with Alexia had ended and the meal had been eaten as you all settled into Alexia’s living room. You had taken a seat in between to Mapí and Kika, Cata settling opposite you with Pina to her left and Ona on the right. Tonight, you had settled on a murder mystery game; all of you playing detectives as you tried to solve the death of some poor fictional character. 

Alexia, of course, took charge immediately. You, Marta, and Aitana fell naturally into supporting roles. You were already scribbling notes, drawing arrows, underlining names, completely absorbed.

Cata leaned towards Pina, lowering her voice. “I got something.”

“Huh?” Pina whispered.

“I got something,” Cata repeated, reaching behind her and pulling out a bright yellow rubber chicken.

Pina stared at it. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

“Glovo,” Cata said, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Y/N’s got that stressed-out look again. I only just got rid of the last one and Alexia’s slapped it right back on her face. So I’m gonna squawk this every time she talks and see how long it takes her to break.”

Pina blinked. “I think that sounds like a stupid decision that ends with your girlfriend mad at you.”

Cata stared at her, unimpressed. “She knows what she got into when she started dating me.”

“Your funeral.”

“Yeah, well. When she’s mad, we usually end up having great sex. Worth it.”

“Ew,” Pina grimaced. “I was thinking more that she’ll shove the chicken down your throat until you suffocate.”

Cata shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”

It was maybe an hour into the game, and you had narrowed it down to one of three characters. 

“Are we sure it’s not Miguel?” Vicky asked, reaching over to look at one of the pictures on the coffee table.

You were already shaking your head, “No, it can’t be. See he’s-”

HONK. 

A screeching, whining noise blasted through the room, cutting you off from what you were about to say. 

There was a beat of silence, every trying to recover their heart rates. “What was that?” Caro asked. Everyone was looking around, trying to find the source. 

“It came from the couch,” Kika added, an amused smile playing on her lips. “So Pina, Ona or Cata.”

“Not me,” Ona said, lifting her hands innocently. 

“Not me either,” Pina chimed in, holding her hands out. 

Your eyes settled on Cata, narrowing suspiciously at her perfectly serene face. “Cata?” Alexia asked.

“Sí?” She beamed back.

“What was that noise?”

“I dunno know.” Cata shrugged again, although her eyes never left you, telling a completely different story. 

“Mmm-hmmm.” Alexia was unconvinced. “Anyways,” she turned back to the game. 

You didn’t speak for another five minutes or so, too absorbed in listening to Esmee’s theory about who the murderer might be and writing down the reasonings. 

“Clara, what’s the-” you asked, pointing at the map you had pinned to the wall behind where Clara was sitting. 

HONK. 

The same obnoxious shrill sound cut you off again. You turned, your lips pursed and nostrils flared as you looked at your girlfriend. She smiled widely back at you, her round cheeks almost shiny with the intensity of her grin. You took a steadying breath. 

“Cata, mi amor, what are you-” 

HONK.

You blinked, grinding your teeth and setting your jaw. Nobody moved, the whole team freezing as you stared at your girlfriend. You pushed down the irritation. You love her, you love her, you love her. The mantra repeated on your head in a loop. 

Again, it took a little while for you to speak again, although you felt Cata’s eyes on you the whole time as if you were the most captivating thing in the world. 

“I just want to open the envelope,” Kika whined, her eyes flitting to the bright green paper than had who the murderer was written inside, cutting Vicky off.

“We can’t do that.” Alexia scolded the Portuguese player gently.

You rolled your eyes. “That would be cheat-”

HONK. 

“Cheating,” you continued, opting to not even look Cata’s way. You knew her far to well not to catch onto her little game. Although you didn’t know why she was choosing right now to push your buttons in such an over the top way. “And we are not cheater-”

HONK.

You closed your eyes, biting your lip and taking a steadying breath. When you opened your eyes again, you could see Pina and Patri starting to laugh, egging Cata on and boosting her ego as she tormented you.

You swallowed, indicating to Vicky for to continue with whatever she was about to say before Kika had starting whining. 

“So, we’re 100% sure it’s María.” Alexia said, glancing around the room. 

“It’s got to be.” Ewa said.

You flipped through your notebook. “She’s got the motive, she-”

HONK. 

That was it.

“Catalina Tomàs Coll Lluch,” you snapped, standing up. “Will you fucking-”

HONK.

You lunged, ripping the chicken from her hand and smacking her with it.

“You absolute menace. You are the worst person I have ever met.”

She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch.

With ease, she stood and hoisted you over her shoulder.

“Put me down,” you said, hitting her back.

“Thanks for the night, Ale!” she called, already heading for the door.

She finally set you down in the hallway.

“What the fuck was that?” you demanded, breathless.

“You needed to destress.”

“You annoyed me.”

“No,” she said, softening, hands on your waist. “I distracted you. I de-stressed you.”

“You decided to destress me by irritating me?”

“No, I’m going to destress you by fucking the living daylights out of you when we get home.” She said bluntly. 

“And what … pissing me off was your idea of foreplay?”

There were many hazards playing forward for the Spanish national team.

But for you, the greatest hazard at Las Rozas was currently wearing oversized neon, diving through the air, and screaming at the top of her lungs.

Actually, there were two of them.

"You’re staring again."

You jumped slightly, tearing your eyes away from the penalty box. Claudia was standing next to you by the water coolers, arms crossed, looking at you with a deeply judgmental smirk.

"I am analyzing the defense," you lied, taking a sip of your water. "I'm a striker. I have to study the keepers’ weak points."

"You are studying the way Misa’s thighs look in those shorts," Claudia corrected bluntly. "And ten minutes ago, when Cata caught that corner kick with one hand.It’s embarrassing, YN."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Claudia snorted. "Please. It’s the worst kept secret in the squad. You are an absolute embarrassment around the Number 1s. Broad shoulders, crazy reflexes, loud voices... you have a type. A very specific, unhinged type."

You opened your mouth to argue, but at that exact moment, the whistle blew to signal the end of the shooting drill.

Over in the six-yard box, Misa popped up from the grass after a spectacular diving save. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and her eyes were blazing with pure adrenaline. She beat her gloved fists against her chest, letting out a loud, triumphant shout.

Right next to her, Cata just chuckled. The Barcelona keeper casually caught a stray ball on her chest, bounced it off her knee, and caught it in her gloved hands with effortlessly.

Both of them turned their heads. And both of them locked eyes directly on you.

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very overheated.

Claudia patted your shoulder sympathetically. "Good luck surviving the week"

– – –

Thirty minutes later, the pitch had cleared out. You had volunteered to collect the training cones, mostly to avoid the craziness of the locker room. You hauled the heavy mesh bag of equipment into the dim hallway of the storage room.

You had just dropped the bag onto the floor when a shadow filled the doorway.

"You were holding back on your shots today."

You turned around. Cata was leaning against the doorframe. She was still in her keeper kit, looking incredibly relaxed. She reached up, using her teeth to rip the velcro strap of her right glove open. The completely effortless action sent a hot spike of electricity straight to your core.

"I wasn't holding back, Cata," you said, your voice betraying you by coming out slightly breathless. "I was just trying to place them."

"Mhm," Cata smirked, pulling the glove off and tossing it onto a shelf. She took a slow step into the equipment room, closing the distance between you. "I think you were distracted. You kept looking at my hands instead of the ball."

"I was not—"

"Is she bothering you, chica?"

A second, much sharper voice cut through the air.

You looked past Cata. Misa had just walked in and she looked like she was ready to go to war. Her eyes snapped from you to Cata, instantly flaring with that intense, territorial rivalry that defined El Clásico.

Cata didn't even flinch. She just threw a lazy glance over her shoulder. "We were just talking about my save percentage, Misa. You know, the one that’s higher than yours."

Misa’s jaw locked. She stepped fully into the small room. "Your save percentage only looks good because your defense does all the work. When it’s one-on-one, she knows who the real wall is."

Misa didn't stop walking until she was standing right beside you. She reached out her hand wrapping securely around your upper arm, pulling you a half-step closer to her side. The heat radiating off her was intoxicating.

"Don't let the Barcelona ego bore you, YN," Misa says, her voice dropping low her eyes looking down at you with possessiveness. "Si quieres un verdadero desafío, ven a entrenar conmigo." (If you want a real challenge, come train with me.)

Cata’s easygoing smirk vanished, replaced by competitiveness.She stepped forward, effectively boxing you in between the wall and the two women.

Cata reached out with her bare hand, her long fingers gently catching your chin, tilting your face toward her.

"No le hagas caso," (Don't listen to her) Cata whispered, her thumb brushing slowly over your lower lip. She leaned in closer. *"You don't want a goalkeeper who just yells all day. You want someone who knows how to handle things... with their hands."*

Misa’s grip on your arm tightened instantly. She leaned down on your other side, her breath hot against the shell of your ear.

"I can show you exactly what my hands can do," Misa growled, the raw, unfiltered hunger in her voice making your knees actually buckle a fraction of an inch. "I promise you won't be thinking about her when I'm done with you."

You were completely trapped.

To your left was Misa, intense, passionate, and dominant, staring a hole into the side of your head. To your right was Cata, reckless, arrogant, and radiating confidence, her thumb still resting on your jawline.

Both of them were looking at you, waiting for you to make a choice. The air in the tiny equipment room was thick with tension.

You looked back and forth between the two keepers, your heart pounding.You literally couldn't speak.

They were right,you thought dizzily, your back hitting the metal shelving as Misa and Cata stepped even closer, completely caging you in.You really did have a goalkeeper obsession.

When the door opened and Cata stepped in, you noticed immediately. Her expression was weary, her shoulders tight, her movements slow and sluggish. She looked like someone who had just barely made it through the day. You slipped out from behind the bar, wiping your hands on your apron, and greeted her with a soft smile. Whoever this woman was, now she was under your care and you'd try your best to make the day better.

“Table for one?”

She nodded wordlessly, eyes flicking around the cozy little dining room as if unsure she’d even made the right choice by walking in. You guided her to a table in the corner, one of the more private spots where the candlelight softened the shadows. A sprig of rosemary sat in a jar next to the olive oil, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness. The table was cozy and had a nice chair, that probably was your favorite one in the restaurant.

You set down a menu, but she looked at it with confusion, her brow furrowing as she flipped between the sections. “This is… strange.” She admitted. “It’s not in order. Usually it’s starters, mains, desserts…”

“That’s on purpose.” You said lightly. “Think of it more as a journey. Each section is a different place. Spanish, Catalan, Italian, English… You can build your own meal depending on what calls to you.”

She scanned the pages again, fingertips brushing over the Catalan dishes. Something flickered in her eyes at Escalivada and Fideuà, before reading through shepherd's pie and Krithraki dishes, though she didn’t choose. You could sense the hesitation, the pull between familiarity and curiosity.

“You look like you’ve had a long day.” You said gently.

Her lips parted, surprise flashing across her face. “That obvious?”

You shrugged. “I’m a chef. I see it often enough. Food helps.” You paused, tilting your head. “Where’s home for you?”

For the first time since she walked in, her expression softened. “Mallorca.” The word left her lips with a quiet fondness, like it carried its own weight of sun, sea, and family.

“Then you don’t need the menu.” You said with a grin. “I’ll make you something from there. Something that tastes like home.”

Cata blinked at you, caught off guard. “You can do that?”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice as though sharing a secret. “I’ve cooked all over Spain. Mallorca too. Trust me?”

There was a beat of silence, then the tiniest curve of a smile tugged at her mouth. “Yeah. I do.”

With a small smile you told one of your servers to get the lady a drink on the house and then you grabbed the menu.

You disappeared into the kitchen, the rhythm of the restaurant shifting as you began to work. Olive oil hissed in the pan, garlic sizzling until the air filled with its perfume. You roasted red peppers and eggplant, their skins blackening, then peeled them down to their tender hearts. The scent of saffron bloomed as it hit warm broth, golden threads releasing their fragrance. You pulled out a handful of sobrasada, the island’s cured sausage, softening it slowly so its paprika-rich fat could infuse the dish.

On her plate, you built something not on the menu. A small spread of pa amb oli, rustic bread rubbed with tomato and drizzled with local olive oil, served with a side of roasted vegetables and a saffron rice dish laced with hints of sobrasada and peppers. It wasn't what you'd usually find in a restaurant, but something closer. More intimate and homemade, the kind of plate someone’s abuela might set down on a kitchen table.

When you carried it out, Cata sat straighter, the warmth of the aromas pulling her in before she even took a bite.

“What is it?” She asked.

“A little taste of Mallorca.” You said, setting the plate before her. “Not perfect, maybe, but close.”

She picked up a fork, hesitating for only a moment before taking the first bite. The flavors melted together. Simple, yet hearty, rich with the smoky spice of sobrasada. Her shoulders eased almost immediately, and when she looked up at you, her eyes were brighter than when she’d walked in.

“It… does taste like home.” She murmured, almost to herself. You smiled softly, leaning on the edge of her table. “Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.”

For the first time all day, Cata felt something inside her loosen. The world outside could wait. Here, in this small restaurant near the training grounds, with a stranger who somehow knew exactly what she needed, she finally felt like she could breathe again. When she left an hour later you had packed her a few rubiols, a pastry from Mallorca and Menorca. You had filled them the traditional Mallorcan way with some jam. “A little treat for when you feel down again.”

After the first time Cata came in, you hadn’t expected to see her again. She had slipped in quietly, worn down by a bad day and left looking lighter, calmer, like the food had worked its magic. But then she came again. And again.

At first, it was every couple of weeks. Always on evenings when training had drained her or matches hadn’t gone her way. Then it became weekly, her visits so regular you started to look up when the doorbell chimed. Already half expecting to see the goalies frame in the doorway. Sometimes she was smiling, sometimes subdued, sometimes just bone-tired, but always she left after a meal that seemed to settle her spirit.

She never bothered with the menu anymore. She’d slip into her usual corner table, leaning her chin into her hand as you walked over, her favorite drink in hand and smiling.

“Long day?” You’d ask as you put it down and smiled at the Barcelona Goalkeeper.

Her lips would twitch into that familiar almost-smile. “You could say that.”

“Mallorca or a surprise?”

“Surprise me.”

And you would surprise her. Sometimes pa amb oli with different toppings. Sometimes tumbet, layers of eggplant and potatoes, rustic and comforting. Once, when she looked particularly homesick, you even managed an ensaïmada for dessert. Perfectly flaky, sweet, and dusted with powdered sugar that clung to her lips and made her laugh when you pointed it out. When she felt experimental you'd make her Cottage pie of Pho or Kaiserschmarrn.

What surprised you most was how easily she lingered after the food was gone. At first she would eat and slip out quietly. But soon, she began to stay. Asking about your day, your cooking, your stories. You told her about learning to cook in kitchens that were too small and too hot, about recipes passed down through whispers rather than written words. She listened intently, her dark eyes warm, elbows resting on the table as though she had all the time in the world. You told her how you had traveled most of Spain and Europe to learn and study different culinary skills. And your dream did come true. A successful restaurant in the middle of Barcelona with the way of thinking and menu you always wanted. A menu that gave everyone the chance to find something comforting if needed, but also to experience a taste from far away without ever leaving the table.

And then one night, after the last table had emptied and you were wiping down the bar, she didn’t leave at all.

“Can I help?” She asked, rolling up her sleeves before you could answer.

You laughed. “What, with cleaning? You’re a goalkeeper, not a dishwasher.”

“Hands still work, don’t they?” She shot back, already stacking plates. Her grin was tired but playful, and you felt something shift in your chest.

Moments like that became common. Her laughter mingled with yours in the quiet hours. The brush of her hand when she handed you a plate. The warmth of her gaze when she watched you cook, as if the sight of you in your element was something she didn’t want to miss.

You didn’t mean for it to happen, but you started to fall. And judging by the way her eyes softened when they found yours, the way she leaned closer when you spoke, the way she always asked for food that reminded her of home just so she could see your version of it… yeah she was falling too.

One evening, the restaurant was nearly empty, the last customer had just left. The two of you sat at her usual table. A candle burned low between you. The light was casting flickering shadows. She pushed her empty plate away, resting her chin on her hand as she studied you.

“You know.” She said quietly. “This place… you… It feels more like home than anywhere else I’ve found here.” Your throat tightened. You swallowed, trying to play it off with a smile. “That’s what I wanted when I opened it. A little taste of home.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “You’ve given me more than a taste.”

The silence between you was charged, full of unsaid words. You could hear the ticking of the clock above the bar. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Slowly and cautiously, you reached across the table. Her hand met yours halfway. Warm and steady, fingers intertwining without hesitation.

Neither of you spoke after that. You didn’t need to.

It wasn’t just food anymore, or comfort, or routine. It was love, growing quietly between candlelight and saffron. Until it became as much a part of the restaurant as the rosemary jars on every table. And from then on, Cata didn’t just come in when she had a bad day. She came in because of you. And every day without fail she'd get a good healthy meal for free and kisses in the apartment upstairs after the store closed.

The rhythm of your life changed slowly. But it felt so natural, until one day you realized you couldn’t remember what it was like before Cata became a part of it. At first, she was the guest who stopped in after bad days, then the friend who lingered at closing, then the constant presence who seemed to fit seamlessly into your world. Over the next few months, the friendship tilted into something deeper until it was impossible to ignore.

Dating her felt both extraordinary and entirely natural. Like the missing piece of the restaurant’s warmth had finally clicked into place. You would close up late at night, switch off the soft golden lights downstairs and climb the narrow staircase to your little apartment on the second floor with her hand brushing yours. Sometimes you’d pause halfway, listening to her laugh echo off the walls, the kind of laugh that made you feel you were exactly where you needed to be.

Your apartment was relatively big and it was cozy. The house had three floors and you only used the ground level for the restaurant . So you had two floors for the apartment. It was a big kitchen and living room set up, four bedrooms, two bathrooms. Plastered walls painted cream, shelves crowded with cookbooks and tiny ceramic dishes, the faint smell of herbs drifting down from the roof garden above.

At first, Cata stayed over on the worst nights, curling into your sofa or your bed when training had left her too tired to go back to her own place. Then it became almost all weekends. Then longer stretches. One morning, after she’d left a toothbrush by your sink and socks in your drawer, you both realized she had already moved in without either of you saying the words or realizing it.

Still, one evening after about 6 months of dating, she made it official. You were chopping peppers for the next day’s breakfast when she padded into the kitchen in one of your aprons, hair damp from a shower. She leaned against the counter, eyes bright but serious.

“You know.” She began. “I’m here all the time anyway. And I… don’t really want to be anywhere else.” You glanced up from your chopping, heart skipping a beat. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Her smile grew slow and certain. “Yes. I want to live here. With you.”

It wasn’t a grand declaration, but it didn’t need to be. You set the knife down and pulled her into your arms. Your cheek pressed against her damp hair, your heart racing with a kind of joy you couldn’t put into words.

From then on, life above the restaurant was yours together. The second and third floor turned into a shared space. Her training gear tucked next to your kitchen equipment, her framed photos from Mallorca lining the hallway wall beside your grandmother’s recipe cards. One of the bedrooms was renovated into her space so she could have a place to go when she needed to be alone, just like you had the kitchen. On Sunday mornings, she’d brew coffee while you fried eggs. Both of you were moving easily around each other in the kitchen. Most nights you’d cook dinner for her in the restaurant and you'd share a meal downstairs before you went back to work.

And then there was the roof. The stairs from the third floor up opened out onto a little garden you’d cultivated over the years. Planters full of rosemary, basil, mint and even small citrus trees that thrived in the sun. An old outdoor sofa, a table with some chairs and even some things to give shade. Now it has become your shared refuge. After long training days for her or exhausting shifts for you, the two of you would climb the last flight of stairs and step into the open air.

Up there, the city felt quieter. Lanterns strung across the rooftop swayed gently in the breeze, casting a golden glow over the herbs and vines. Cata loved to sprawl out on the old outdoor sofa. Her hair tired up messy, shoes kicked off, watching the stars slowly appear in the sky. After your shifts ended way later at night you often joined her with a glass of wine, your head resting on her shoulder, her arm draped around you.

One evening, she traced lazy circles on your hand as you leaned against her, the smell of lavender and basil in the air. “You know what I love about this?” she murmured.

“The wine?” You teased, smiling into her shoulder.

She chuckled softly. “That too. But mostly… this whole house. The restaurant downstairs, you here, the garden above us. It feels like a world we built together. Like it’s ours.”

You tightened your hand around hers. “It is ours.”

And it was true. The three-story house had become a universe contained within its walls. Laughter and cooking downstairs, love and life on the second floor, peace and dreaming on the roof. Every corner carried both of you, woven together into something you couldn’t imagine untangling. Even if it was just your name on the deed, this was your home with Cata. You couldn't imagine not having her here.

Cata still had bad days, of course. Matches went wrong, training could be brutal. But now, when she came home. She didn’t need to order something from some take out place and curl up alone on the couch trying to keep it together. Someone was there waiting for her. Someone who made her food that tasted like Mallorca.

The change in Cata’s routine didn’t go unnoticed. Even if she thought she was being subtle. Her teammates had always joked about her habits and quirks, but recently something was different.

During training breaks, Ingrid raised an eyebrow as Cata unwrapped a neatly packed lunch, arranged with colors that could rival a professional food photo. “Since when do you bring… homemade stuff every day?” She asked, poking at a slice of vibrant roasted pepper.

Mapi smirked, nudging Pina. “Seriously, that doesn’t look like your usual stuff. Where’s the pasta? The sandwiches? that we all get from the cafeteria?”

Alexia leaned over, inspecting the neatly sectioned containers. “It’s like… gourmet. Who’s making this?”

Cata only shrugged, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks, but she didn’t answer. She had learned early that some things were better left unshared. “I like to eat healthy.” She mumbled, cutting into a perfectly roasted sweet potato cube.

Aitana tilted her head, suspicious. “Healthy, sure… but this looks like someone went to a cooking school just to pack your lunch. And I swear I’ve seen these before… same veggies, same bowls, same… everything.”

Cata’s fingers tightened around her fork, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I… cook sometimes.” She said vaguely, avoiding anyone’s gaze.

Ingrid exchanged a knowing glance with Mapi. “Cook sometimes? That’s an understatement. Who exactly is cooking for you? Because I don’t know about you, but that’s way too perfect for a hurried breakfast from the cafeteria.”

Cata laughed softly, more to cover her own flustered expression than anything else. “You’ll find out one day.” She said, neatly placing her lid back on the container. “Find out what?” Pina pressed. But Cata just shook her head, tucking the lunch into her bag with a careful precision that made it clear. This was private.

Training sessions went on as usual, but whispers began to circulate. Alexia noticed the same mango cubes in Cata’s container week after week, the spiraled zucchini ribbons, the tiny dollop of homemade dressing. Mapi commented casually, “She’s either dating a chef or she’s secretly opening a restaurant in her kitchen at home.”

Ingrid, ever the teasing one, eventually cornered her after practice. “Okay, I’m asking once. Who is making these? Because it’s not just healthy…. it’s art. And we need answers.”

Cata just smiled, a small, secretive smile that didn’t give anything away. “Some things.” She said softly. “Are just for me.”

No one pressed further. Cata had built her little bubble of privacy around her relationship with you. Her teammates had noticed the lunches, the consistent care in her meals, the glow she carried after eating them, but they didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know about the little apartment above the restaurant, the roof garden where she laughed with someone who made her feel completely at home. Or the girlfriend who insisted she eat well because she cared.

And Cata liked it that way. For now, the secret stayed hers alone, tucked into her neatly packed containers, colorful and perfect.

The weeks rolled into months, and Cata’s secret slowly grew heavier on her shoulders. Her teammates had all but stopped teasing her about the lunches, though the looks and whispers never really went away. She could see it in the way Mapi smirked every time she unwrapped one of your carefully packed containers or how Aitana tilted her head, studying her as if she were piecing together a puzzle.

So when talk of the next team dinner came up during cooldown stretches, the usual back-and-forth started immediately.

“Let’s do tapas.” Pina suggested and some people groaned. They went for tapas half the time. “No, sushi.” Mapi countered. “Something different.”

Aitana shook her head. “Please, no more sushi. I want real food.”

Amid the bickering, Cata sat up and cleared her throat. “I’ll handle it.”

Ingrid’s brows shot up. “You?”

“Yes, me.” Cata replied, a little too quickly. “I’ve got a place in mind. Somewhere… special.”

Mapi narrowed her eyes, a grin forming instantly. “Oh, a surprise? Now this I have to see.”

On the night of the dinner, she led the team down familiar streets near the training grounds. Laughter and chatter bubbled behind her as the others tried to guess where she was taking them. When she finally stopped, Ingrid blinked at the painted sign over the door. ‘Little Taste of Home.’

“This is it?” Pina asked, tilting her head. “I’ve passed here before but never been inside.”

“It looks cozy.” Aitana admitted, already peering through the warm glow of the windows.

Inside, the team filed into the small but welcoming dining room. The thirty seats were filled with rustic wooden chairs and mismatched tables. Terracotta tiles lined the walls, painted with patterns that carried the warmth of Catalonia itself. The scent of saffron, garlic and roasted vegetables wrapped around them like a blanket.

And there you were.

Wearing your apron and smiling as you chatted with a server. Flour was dusting your hands, as you emerged from the kitchen with a warm smile that faltered slightly when you realized who had just walked in. Cata’s entire team. Cata caught your eye, the unspoken reassurance in her gaze saying, It’s okay. I want them to meet you.

“Everyone.” Cata began, her voice steady. “This is Y/N. My girlfriend. And the owner… and the head chef of this place.”

For a second, silence reigned. Then Mapi let out a low whistle. “Now the lunches make sense.” Laughter erupted and Cata’s cheeks flushed pink, but she looked relieved.

You greeted them all warmly, leading them to a cluster of tables pushed together. Menus were handed out, and immediately the chatter started.

“Wait.” Alexia said, flipping through the pages. “It’s divided by cuisines? Spanish, Catalan, English, American… Italian, Greek…” She looked up in surprise. “There are eight different cuisines?”

“Eight.” You confirmed with a proud smile. “Each one with both vegan and non-vegan options. I wanted everyone to feel like there’s something for them here, whether they’re after comfort food or trying something new.”

Aitana leaned closer, scanning a section. “This is so different. It’s not starters, mains, desserts in order. It’s all… little collections.”

“That’s the idea.” You explained. “Every cuisine is its own chapter. You can choose from just one section or mix them. Build your own story through food.”

Ingrid pointed at the small line printed at the top of the menu. “What’s this say? ‘Not on the menu? Give us a recipe, and we’ll bring home to you anyway.’”

You nodded, eyes warm. “It means exactly that. If you’re missing something. If there’s a dish that tastes like home for you, I’ll make it. You bring me the memory, I’ll bring you the food. The whole restaurant is built around that idea.”

The table went quiet for a moment, the weight of those words sinking in. Then Pina smiled. “That’s beautiful.”

“And brilliant.” Alexia added, flipping through the menu again. “I don’t even know what to pick.”

“Get ready.” Mapi laughed. “Because if this is where Cata’s been sneaking off to, we’re about to eat very well tonight.” You smirked teasingly. “Well good, the monthly payments are due and my girlfriend wants new sneakers for 150€ too. So order as much as your wallets want to leave.” That made everyone on the team chuckle as they looked through the menu.

Cata chuckled, sliding into her seat beside you. Her hand brushing against yours under the table. She looked around at her teammates, their expressions filled with curiosity and anticipation. And then she looked back at you.