#futfem

Dinner had been easy, you and Frank sat at a small restaurant tucked away from the busier streets of Barcelona, talking about everything but football for once.

Old stories of the family, random nonsense that had nothing to do with contracts, minutes, or pressure. It helped. It gave your head a break from the constant noise.

At one point he’d just looked at you and said, “Nice to see you like this again,” and you’d known exactly what he meant.

By the time you left, full and a little lighter, the city had softened into night warm air, quieter streets, that low hum of life that never really disappears here.

Back at the hotel, you made your way up to your room at the W Barcelona. The second you stepped inside, you paused, even though you’d already seen it earlier it still hit the view you had.

Floor to ceiling windows, curtains pulled open, the lights of the city stretching out to one side, and the dark, endless sea on the other. The beach ran along the edge like a soft divide between the two worlds.

You dropped your bag by the door, kicking your shoes off as you walked further in, drawn toward the window for a second before letting yourself fall back onto the bed.

You lay there, hands behind your head, staring out at it all.

The glow of Barcelona, the reflection of it against the water, the quiet movement of waves in the dark and your mind went straight back to everything to with the loan, then. Her. Alexia Putellas. Her voice, her face on the call, you exhaled slowly, staring out at the horizon, because now it wasn’t just an idea anymore.

You turned your head slightly, eyes still fixed on the view, London felt far away tonight, your flat, Jana, everything familiar.

You were still staring out at the view when the knock came, it pulled you out of your thoughts instantly. You frowned slightly, pushing yourself up off the bed. Frank wouldn’t knock he’d text and you weren’t expecting anyone else.

You walked to the door, running a hand through your hair before pulling it open and froze, Alexia stood there. For a second, you just blinked at her.

She must’ve caught the confusion on your face because she shifted slightly, a little smile tugging at her lips, “Jana… tell me you here,” she said.

You let out a quiet huff of amusement, leaning against the door slightly, “Of course she did.”

Alexia’s smile grew, a little sheepish now, “I come in?” she asked.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

She smiled a little at that, clearly not denying it, “You no answer my message,” she said, like that justified everything.

“I’ve been a bit busy,” you replied lightly.

“With Barcelona?” she asked, eyes narrowing slightly in interest.

You shrugged, “Among other things.”

There was a small pause, then she stepped a tiny bit closer, just enough to close some of the space between you, “You like it?” she asked.

You held her gaze for a second, “Yeah,” you admitted, “I do.”

Her expression softened, just slightly, “I know you would,” she said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow, “Oh yeah?”

She nodded, a small, confident smile appearing, “It suits you.”

You exhaled softly through your nose, glancing away for a second before looking back at her, “And you just… what? Decided to show up?” you asked.

She gave a small shrug, “Maybe.”

“You’re insane,” you muttered, but there was no bite to it.

She stepped a little further into your space, her eyes briefly flicking past you into your room before landing back on you, “You look… different here,” she said.

You frowned slightly, “Different how?”

She tilted her head, studying you, “More… I don’t know… calm. But also… thinking too much.”

You laughed quietly, “That sounds about right.”

Your eyes rose to hers as she stepped even closer her eyes firmly watching your lips, “I” you saw her throat bob when she swallowed.

She licked her lip you could sense she was nervous but had a confidence at the same time, her hand twitched at her side before she finally lifted it, slow, hesitant at first, like she expected you to pull away.

When you didn’t, her fingers brushed lightly against your arm, barely there, but enough to make your chest tighten, “I have idea, how stop you thinking for little while”

She stepped forward again, barely a whisper of space left. Her hand, now steady, traced a line up your arm and came to rest at the side of your neck.

Her thumb pressed a half circle at your jaw and you noticed, distantly, that her palm was warm and ever so slightly callused. For a second, she just stayed like that, watching your face with a concentration that nearly made you look away.

She leaned in, kissed you, and the thoughts scattered, just as promised. You registered the line of her hip pressing into yours, the way she never smelled quite the same twice.

Her hand slid to the back of your neck, anchoring you, and you let yourself dissolve into it a little bit, just enough to want to forget where you were and why.

You catch the taste of her lip gloss something tart and effervescent, still cold from the air outside before it’s replaced by something deeper and then just the heat of her mouth, insistent and hungry.

You pull her gently, step her across the threshold, the door swinging softly shut with a click behind her. She barely notices, mouth still on yours, but her hands have gotten more sure, urgent up your sides, fingers lacing at the base of your neck and then sliding down to your waist. You walk her back with a slow, deliberate press of bodies, each step calibrated so you don’t break apart, not even for a second.

Alexia’s hands drop and she lets you manoeuvre her, lets the back of her knees come up against the edge of the bed. She sits, but you don’t stop, just follow her down, catching her mouth again, jaw tilted so her teeth scrape yours. Her hands steady against your ribcage, holding you there.

You lean over her, both knees planted to either side of her hips, and you move your hands to her face, thumbs pressing into her cheekbones. Her eyes dart up to you, and you see for a split second the surprise of being handled, of you taking control.

“You still over think?” She smiles, slow and a little dangerous, but you cut it off with another kiss, biting down on her bottom lip so she gasps, a short, sharp sound muffled against you.

You reach up, thread your fingers through her hair, and pull her in, like you’re desperate, like you’re starved for her. She goes pliant, lets you tip her chin, lets you take what you want. The weight of her underneath you is grounding, real, every muscle in her lean and tensed, but not resisting.

You shift your weight, finding balance above her, and begin to move your hips slow at first, drawing out the friction, letting the heat build in the press between your bodies. The sensation is instant, electric.

Alexia’s hands, which had been tentative, now grow bolder. Fingers skim up over your waist, grip your hips, then slide lower, palms spanning the curves of your arse. She’s hungry but undecided, one moment pulling you in, the next just holding, like she’s torn between urging you on and memorising the way you fit against her.

You duck your head, mouth working along the line of her jaw, tasting skin, salt, a hint of sweat. Her breathing is a staccato rhythm against your ear, a counterpoint to the steady, rolling pace you set with your hips. She moves beneath you, answering each push with a subtle rock of her own, her thighs tensing, feet pressing into the mattress for leverage.

“Joder,” she mutters, the word barely a vibration against your neck. You smile into her skin, not slowing, letting her feel the steady escalation. Her grip migrates, urgent, fingers sinking into the waistband of your jeans, thumb slipping under, grazing bare skin. The touch is bold, fleeting, almost a dare.

You shift, bracing yourself with one arm beside her head, the other hand threading through her hair, and take her mouth again. She opens to you, all tongue and teeth, and there’s no question left who’s in control here. Your bodies move together, friction mounting until you’re both chasing the edge of something, riding it out.

Her hands are everywhere now, tugging at your shirt, nails dragging along your spine, one hand sliding back up to cup your head, holding you to her. She grinds up into you, hips circling, meeting each movement with more intensity. You feel the bed creak beneath you, the city humming outside, her breath hot and uneven on your cheek.

You break the kiss, just enough to rest your forehead against hers, both of you catching air. “What wrong?”

You pull back, keeping your weight balanced but shifting just enough distance so that the heat between you starts to cool. Alexia’s brow knits and her hands try to anchor you but you take her wrists, gentle but firm, and set them on the bed beside her head.

“You know we can’t,” you say, quiet but not apologetic, and the words taste harsh in your mouth even as you force them out. “Not like this. Not when you’re still with her.”

Her breath catches, then steadies into something harder. She looks at you, indignant, a little wild, the flush on her cheeks deepening. “You start,” she says, and the accusation is so bald it almost makes you laugh. “You bring me in here.”

You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not single.” You lean back, letting the space between you widen, feeling the gravity of it. “I’m not your side piece, Alexia.”

She sits up, crossing her arms, her jaw flexing with effort. “Is not… ‘side piece’. You know is not.” She spits the words like they offend her, which, you suppose, they do.

You run a hand through your hair, the adrenaline of want bleeding slowly into irritation. “Then what is it?” you ask. “Because unless you’re telling me you broke up with her, it’s exactly that. You can’t have it both ways.”

Alexia stands, anger radiating off her. She turns her back to you, paces the few steps to the window and stares down at the city. For a moment, neither of you speak. You watch her spine straighten as if she’s bracing for a hit. You let the silence fill the room, let it get uncomfortable. It’s almost too much, but you stay with it, waiting.

She finally turns, arms still folded. “You tell me all this, but you want me,” she says. “You think I don’t see? You think I stupid?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” you say, sighing, “but I think you’re selfish.”

“Selfish?” She laughs, incredulous. “You say this to me?”

You nod, resolute. “Yeah, I do. You show up here, you push until I let you in, then you want to pretend no one gets hurt? Is that fair to anyone? Is that fair to your girlfriend?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she presses fingers to her eyes, like she could wipe the whole night away.

You stand now, too, crossing to the other side of the room, just to get some air between you. “You’re about to be my captain,” you say, voice softer, but no less certain. “Do you know what a mess this is if it gets out?”

She looks at you, eyes filled with something like regret, or maybe just frustration. “I don’t care,” she says, but it’s not convincing, not even to herself.

You shake your head. “You should.”

She stares at you, lips pressed thin, and you almost reach for her again, but you stop yourself. “If you’re that horny, Alexia,” you say, “go fuck your girlfriend. That’s what she’s there for.”

It comes out pointed, ugly, and final. A line drawn in the glint of city lights across the glass.

She recoils like you’ve struck her. You expect a slap, or a scream, some epic Catalan volley of curses. But instead, she just stands there for a moment, frozen. Something in her face closes off with a faint, audible click. She smooths her palms over her jeans, regains her famous composure.

“You not so different, you know,” she says, voice low and dangerous. “You like to pretend you are. But you not.”

You want to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, that you’ve spent every day of your adult life trying not to be like anyone else, especially not like her, but the effort leaves you exhausted. You’re not interested in a fight. Not tonight.

She’s at the door before you can think of a real reply, hand on the handle, staring at her own reflection in the polished chrome.

You watch her shoulders. They’re squared, rigid, the same posture she wears on a pitch in the last moments of an even game. She says, “I only want you say truth,” without turning around.

You don’t answer, not because you can’t, but because you’re not sure what the truth is anymore.

She leaves without another word.

You wait until you hear the elevator doors ping and close, then sit hard on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands. Your heart is racing, not with excitement, but with the dull thud of something crash landing. You stare at your hands, remembering the way hers had held your face, the way her body had felt under yours. You want to scrub the feeling off your skin.

You think about the possible future. The meetings, the staffers, the relentless hum of the football machine. There’s no room for this kind of disaster, not now, not ever.

You lie back and look at the ceiling for a long time.

You listen to your phone vibrate against the nightstand a text from Jana, probably, maybe your agent, maybe even her.

You leave it unread.

You think about her, across the city now, maybe on the phone to the girl, maybe standing on a balcony somewhere, pretending none of this happened. You think about the sick, magnetic pull of her, the way even her anger is intoxicating.

You think about the Barcelona badge, about your first day in the locker room, about the way everyone will look at you. You think about what it means to say no and to mean it.

You fall asleep with the city pressing its lights against the glass, the hum of the sea just barely audible and the thought of her voice in your ear, repeating: I only want you say truth.

You don’t dream of football. You dream of salt and lips and the sharp, cold taste of regret.

🦁

The next few weeks didn’t really feel real, everything moved too fast. One minute you were lying in that hotel room at W Barcelona, staring out at the sea, trying to make a decision and the next it was made.

The announcement dropped early in the morning, Loan move confirmed.

You to FC Barcelona, it spread quickly much faster than you expected.

Your phone didn’t stop, messages, mentions, notifications stacking on top of each other until it felt overwhelming to even look at it.

London City fans, they weren’t quiet about it, they were confused, frustrated. You saw the comments.

Why are we letting her go? She’s our top scorer. This makes no sense.

It hit you more than you thought it would, because you hadn’t wanted to leave like this, not when things were going so well, but at the same time there was the other side.

Barcelona fans were curious, some even excited, having watched some of your highlights, you saw clips being shared.

She’s what we need right now. Finally, a striker. Let’s see what she can do.

Packing up your life was the hardest part, it made everything real, your flat, your things.

The little routines you didn’t even realise you’d built until you were dismantling them piece by piece.

Jana was there for most of it half helping, half getting in the way, mostly just keeping things light when you needed it.

“You’re not allowed to redecorate my apartment,” she warned as she leaned against the doorframe, watching you tape up another box.

You snorted, “It’s my apartment now.”

“It’s on loan,” she shot back instantly, “Don’t get too comfortable. I want you back here in 6 months.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a smile there, because if anyone made this easier it was her.

The flight back to Barcelona felt different this time, you weren’t visiting now.

You were moving, even if it was temporary, Jana’s apartment was exactly how she’d left it. Lived in, comfortable and a little chaotic in places, but it helped make it feel like home since it was now your norm.

It didn’t feel like starting from scratch, it felt like stepping into something already warm. You dropped your bags just inside the door, looking around for a second.

This was it, a new city, new team, new pressure and you exhaled slowly, new complications because no matter how much you tried to separate it you knew Alexia was part of this now too.

The thought alone made something tighten slightly in your chest, not regret not quite, just an awareness. You moved further into the apartment, running a hand over the back of the sofa as you passed, grounding yourself.

One step at a time, that’s all this could be, even if everything around you felt like it was moving a hundred miles an hour.

🦁

Your first morning at FC Barcelona started earlier than it needed to, you’d been awake for a while, not nervous exactly, but nervous.

You got ready slower than usual, double checking things you’d never normally think twice about, then finally headed out, locking Jana’s apartment behind you. The air in Barcelona was already warm, the kind that sat lightly on your skin even in the morning.

By the time you arrived at the training ground, she was already there waiting, your translator. She spotted you almost immediately, her face lighting up as she walked over, “Good morning!” she greeted warmly.

You smiled, already feeling a bit more at ease, “Morning.”

She fell into step beside you as you walked in together, chatting easily, explaining bits of the day ahead, who you’d likely meet, what to expect.

It helped, a lot, because the second you stepped into the dressing room everything got real again.

Conversations paused, eyes lifted, then came the smiles, a few players stood to greet you properly, others called out from where they were sitting, a mix of Spanish and English blending together.

You laughed a little, introducing yourself, shaking hands, doing your best to keep up.

Most of them had a basic level of English enough to joke, to include you, to make it feel less intimidating and the ones who didn’t they made the effort anyway.

It didn’t feel cold, it didn’t feel awkward, it felt open. You found your seat, your name already set up, kit neatly folded, boots placed underneath.

Another small thing that made you pause, they were prepared, again.

You were still taking it in when your translator leaned in slightly beside you, “Just so you know,” she said quietly, “only half the first team is here today.”

You glanced at her. “Oh?”

She nodded, “They had an away match last night. The ones who played… they don’t have to come in today.”

You hummed, nodding slowly, then it clicked, you didn’t say it out loud, your fingers stilled slightly where you were adjusting your boots, you nodded once. “Right.”

Alexia wouldn't be here and weirdly you weren’t sure how you felt about that because part of you was relieved. It made today easier.

No tension, no awkwardness, no unfinished conversation sitting between you. Just football, just your first day, but another part a quieter part not seeing her felt noticeable.

You shook it off quickly, standing as one of the staff called everyone out toward the pitch. You stepped out onto the training pitch, the sun sitting high now, the grass perfect under your boots.

You rolled your shoulders slightly, exhaling, whatever else was going on you were ready for.

The whistle went and just like that there was no more time to think, your first session started fast, faster than you expected.

The rondos alone were sharper than anything you were used to one touch, constant movement, angles changing every second. The ball zipped around like it had somewhere better to be.

You stepped in, adjusting quickly, but it was the Spanish voices that threw you, quick, overlapping instructions coming from different directions.

“¡Gira!” “¡Más rápido!” “¡Otra vez!”

You hesitated once just half a second but here, that was enough, the ball was nicked off you instantly.

A few of the girls laughed lightly, not in a harsh way, just the natural rhythm of training.

You gave a small nod to yourself.

Wake up.

Next time the ball came, you moved it quicker, simpler. Let your instincts take over where your understanding lagged.

When they moved into shape work, it got harder, your translator stayed close at first, relaying instructions, positioning, little corrections Pere told her to tell you but the pace didn’t slow for you.

It couldn’t, this was Barcelona.

You found yourself a step behind once or twice, glancing around to figure out where you were meant to be, what run they wanted, when to drop, when to go.

Frustration crept in quickly, you felt it in your chest, that tightness, because physically you were there, technically, you could do it, but the understanding? That split second delay was costing you.

“Detener,” the coach called.

You exhaled, hands resting briefly on your hips as the group reset.

Your translator came over quickly, explaining the movement again, slower this time, breaking it down.

You nodded, jaw tight, “Got it.”

You had to get it, the next repetition was better, you made the run at the right time, checked your shoulder, peeled off into space.

The ball came and you finished clean it first time here was a small reaction from the group.

Nothing massive, but enough, a couple of nods, a quiet “bien.”

You didn’t celebrate it, just reset and locked back in and as the session went on, something shifted.

You stopped overthinking every instruction started reading the players instead watching their body shape, their movement, the patterns and suddenly it clicked a bit more.

Not perfect, but closer.

You pressed aggressively in one drill, winning the ball high, driving forward before slipping a pass through for a teammate to a few claps this time.

Later, you made a run in behind timed perfectly and buried the finish low across goal, this time you got a proper reaction.

“Sí!” “Good!” “Again!”

You felt it then, that small lift, that moment where frustration turned into determination.

By the time the session ended, you were tired, mentally more than anything. Your shirt clung slightly to your back, hair damp, chest rising and falling as you bent slightly with your hands on your knees.

When you straightened there was a coach standing nearby, watching you. He gave a small nod after saying something to your translator, “Good,” he said simply.

Your translator echoed it, adding a bit more detail, you nodded back, “Thank you.”

As the group started to break off, a few of the girls came over, light touches to your shoulder, small smiles, bits of encouragement in mixed Spanish and English.

You smiled back, still catching your breath, it hadn’t been easy, it had been frustrating, messy at times, but you’d got through it and more than that, you’d shown something.

You walked off the pitch, grabbing your water bottle, taking a long drink as you glanced back out over the grass.

First session done it wasn't perfect, but definitely a start.

By the time you got changed and stepped out of the dressing room, the buzz of the session had settled into something lighter. You were tired but in a good way. That kind of tired that told you you’d earned your place out there today.

You were halfway through tying your laces when a couple of the girls hovered nearby, clearly waiting for you to finish.

“Hey,” Clara said, smiling. “We go for drink… you come?”

You glanced up, a little surprised, “Yeah?” you asked.

She nodded quickly, gesturing to the others, “Small place. Near here.”

Esme smiled, “Good sangria.”

That made you laugh, “Sold.”

The place when you got there was relaxed, nothing fancy just a little bar tucked into a side street, warm lights, music low enough that you could actually talk. Exactly what you needed.

At first, you stayed a little quieter, listening more than talking as conversations bounced around you in Spanish, bits of English mixed in when they remembered to include you, but it didn’t take long.

They made it easy, Aicha switched to slower English to loop you in. Sydney translated bits quickly for you mid conversation. There was a lot of laughing some of it at you, some of it with you, mostly with you.

You found your rhythm, joking back, teasing when you could, picking up Spanish words here and there.

At one point, Clara tried to teach you a phrase, repeating it slowly while you attempted it back.

You butchered it completely and they loved that, “No, no, no,” Aicha laughed, shaking her head. “Again!”

You tried again, still wrong and there was more laughter, you just held your hands up. “I’ll stick to football, yeah?”

“Better idea,” Esmee replied, grinning, "Spanish can come later"

A drink turned into two, then food appeared on the table, the conversation shifted, football, life, random stories from away trips, dressing room chaos.

You found yourself relaxing into it, really relaxing, because this mattered, not just what you did on the pitch, but this. Feeling like you could fit, like you belonged.

At one point, one of the girls nudged you lightly, “You are funny,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow, “That sounds like you’re surprised.”

She laughed, “A little.”

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Great first impression I made then.”

That got a bigger laugh from the group, as the evening went on, you realised something.

You weren’t thinking about London.

You weren’t thinking about the decision anymore.

You weren’t even thinking about Alexia, not for a while, at least, because of course she came up in conversation.

You were just there, with your new teammates, laughing and getting to know them. Letting yourself settle, even if it was only a little bit.

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yourusername

📍london

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yourusername i love my job i love my job i love my job

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yourworkfriend girl what has happened now (liked by author)

↳ yourusername she wants 10-15 skirts from calvin klein i cant deal

↳ yourworkfriend if you cant deal with it who can (liked by author)

↳ yourusername true, i can't believe i have student debt for this

↳ yourworkfriend yeah but we're at vogue (liked by author)

↳ yourusername isn't that the truth

user9 oh to work at vogue

user10 her life seems so glam but at the same time not

user11 i so wish this was me i'd kill for this job

↳ user12 UGH ME TOO frfr

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caption: heyyy if anyone knows the cute athlete girl doing the interview please let me dm her because she's so cute

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yourbestfriend YOU DID NOT

alexiaputellas uh hey that's me!!!

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alexiaputellas

📍londres

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alexiaputellas final coffee in london

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user13 oh to go on a coffee date with alexia

user14 alexia using instagram like a middle aged mum is so dear to me

↳ user15 ikr i love it

yourusername thank you, alexia

↳ clara.serrajordi IS THIS A DATE (liked by author)

↳ vickyylopezz._ ITS A DATE

↳ alexiaputellas will you both please just give me a break on this app (liked by yourusername)

↳ alexiaputellas and you're welcome yourusername 💕 (liked by yourusername)

user16 ohhh she's flirting

↳ user17 and she's dating!

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yourusername cortado's you have my heart

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yourworkfriend hmmm a spanish drink with a catlaan someone? (liked by author)

↳ yourusername oh hush hush

user19 hmmmmm cute!

user20 is anyone else here from alexia's instagram post??

alexiaputellas thank you for showing me the sights! 💕 (liked by author)

↳ yourusername anytime! thank you for the coffee! 💕 (liked by alexiaputellas)

user21 ALEXIAS ACTUALLY HERE

↳ user22 I CANT BELIEVE IT

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fin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An ACL recovery is not a linear path”

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

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

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

Until now.

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

“Stop talking like I’m not here!”

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

A sign of irritation, for most.

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

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

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

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

No one is understanding.

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

What went wrong?

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

What can be done to fix it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not asking–”

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

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

And just like that, the meeting is over.

~

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

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

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

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

“Just whatever, I’m already late”

“As you wish”

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

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

“Done! You like it?”

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

“You think you’re funny”

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

~

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

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

She’s simply there.

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

As if someone could call it pacing.

“Can you, at least, stop grumbling?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t doubt that”

“Then what’s the problem?”

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

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

Alexia doesn’t trust you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“I trust yours”

“I know, but it’s not working”

They all know.

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

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

But, most of all, hopeless.

“Give her a chance”

~

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

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

It feels wrong, not being there with them.

On the field.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

Barcelona had an amazing season last year.

Winning, breaking records, dominating in all competitions.

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

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

Not any awards ceremony, this one time.

The Ballon d’Or.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s her first time in your office.

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

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

You will take it.

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

You pretend not to notice and she ignores your smugness.

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

“I don’t know”

That makes her hesitate, tensing up under your gaze.

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

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

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

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

“Then why should I trust you?”

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

“You’re saying there’s no plan”

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

It’s not bad, just different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The midfielder smiles, despite herself.

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

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

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

The Barça captain spots it before you, obviously.

Probably before everyone else.

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

As simple as that, like second nature.

Like it couldn’t be any other way.

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

~

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

But it’s not the same thing.

Alexia wants to get back.

“You can take over”, she states.

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

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

It makes your eyes twitch.

“You done?”

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

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

“I heard you– I just not believe you”

“Try me”

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

“You fully in?”

“Yes”

“You trust me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will take it”

~

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

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

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

You noticed everything and you noted it.

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

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

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

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

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

“I looked it up online”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a defence mechanism, really.

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

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

If someone can, it’s probably her.

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

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

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

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

“I’m gonna enjoy it more than you”

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

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

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

“I don’t like your idea of fun”

“Squeeze”

Alexia does, just to prove a point.

The line on the screen barely moves.

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

“They should take back your medical license”

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

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

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

You tap with insistence at a spot on the screen.

Finally, the line spikes.

“It’s alive!”

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

~

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

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

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

You are slowly earning it, proving something to her.

And she’s proving something to you too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Barely"

“Still means a lot, trust me”

You smile, not doubting it for a second.

~

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

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

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

Her timing should be studied.

“I’m working that week”

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

You shouldn’t have picked the phone.

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

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

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

It’s over before it even starts.

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

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

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

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

“What did she say?”

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

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

Wishful thinking.

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

“You can send emails from home”

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

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

“It could be grandma’s last Christmas"

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

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

You love Cris, but she is relentless.

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

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

“This is emotional blackmail”

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

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

“My sister is a pain in my ass”

“Younger?”

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

“She lives close?”

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

So tell her– some things.

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

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

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

~

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

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

Too swollen.

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

You trusted her to trust you.

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

Questionable tactics, but efficient.

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

“Are you done?”

“Are you done with your exercise?”

“I did a rep more”

You know, you can multitask.

“Dr. Wallace says your form was questionable”

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

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

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

“Oh, come on!”

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

“A bit late”

“Do you want it or not?”

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

“You remember how to jog?”

“Barely”

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

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

It definitely feels that monumental.

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

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

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

“I bet your family is so proud of you”

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

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

“Talk to me”

“It popped”

Oh.

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

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

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

It’s perfect.

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

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

A pause.

Then, she exhales.

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

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

“I almost died”

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

She doesn’t doubt you for a second.

~

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

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

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

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

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

You see it and you can do something about it.

Small, but still something.

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

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

She senses danger immediately.

“What is this?”

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

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

Even the stuffed animal is threatening her.

“Now, please, try to survive”

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

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

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

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

It’s research, really.

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

“Dr. Wallace has better aiming than you”

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

“Get back on the foam pad”

“Are you actually trying to kill me?”

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

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

It gets better, before it gets worse.

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

It’s irritating and empowering at the same time.

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

They don’t.

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

“The results–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not doubting you”

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

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

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

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

“So, it’s settled?”

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

You know you’re right.

Alexia is ready to get back.

~

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

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

“You scared the shit out of me”

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

Churros.

“Not exactly a healthy snack”

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

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

“You locked me up away from the pitch”

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

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

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

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

The journey is still long thought, you both know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, you’re definitely gonna regret it”

~

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

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

It’s progress.

It’s everything.

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

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

Sometimes you have to hold her back a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or should.

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

“You literally circled around that cone”

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

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

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

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

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

“I really must meet her now”

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

“You’re so mean”

“You like it like that”

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, slow movements”

“Second, I’m not a chef”

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

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

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

Much to your displeasure.

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone is doing their part and more.

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

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

So you have an idea.

Sometimes it surprises you how stupid your ideas can be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Try to survive”

“Try not to kill me”

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

She smirks almost as much as you do.

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

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

~

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

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

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

“I’m ten minutes early”

“I've been bored for half an hour”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since when do you care?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You notice it with the light still out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to respond.

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

She doesn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

“She is ready”

~

“Are you cheating on me?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Alexia?

It will be special in a unique way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it a bad thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will be”

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

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

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

You definitely aren’t thinking – at all.

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

“It’s not comforting”

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

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

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

“Perfect, you ruined the moment”

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

“You’re welcome”

~

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

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

“Can’t make any promise”

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

The kiss.

Kisses, plural.

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

“My turn?”

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

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

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

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

Is it something else entirely?

When your hands find her knee, she tense immediately

“Does it hurt?”

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

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

“Just to piss me off, you mean”

“That too”

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

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

“You kill my joy”, she jokes.

“And I take pride in it”

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

You almost make it out alive.

“About yesterday–”

Almost.

“I’m really happy you’re back”

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

“It’s the only thing that matters”

You definitely will not make it out alive.

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

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

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

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

Your choice.

“I would prefer that, yes”

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you”

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

It works perfectly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, well– it meant nothing”

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia in the meeting room.

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

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

Alexia in the secluded corner of a beachside restaurant.

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

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

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

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

It’s everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not the one playing”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Congratulation for the gold and your comeback”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

It is not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia doesn’t call, but she texts.

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

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

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

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

“Fancy meeting you here”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dr. Wallace.

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

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

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

“Don’t die down there”

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

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

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

Maybe, even something concealed, but never truly hidden.

~

Alexia is not usually reckless.

She's calculated and careful. A team captain and the kind of woman who triple-checks texts before sending them.

But today?

Today she’s feeling herself.

Post-training endorphins. Shower steam is still clinging to her skin. You’d sent her the photo right before she went for her shower. It was innocent, technically, but the way her hoodie hung off your shoulder, your thighs just barely showing beneath it? She'd lost all rational thought.

She opens the photo again and exhales sharply through her nose. The rest of the locker room is loud with laughter, towel snaps and music but all she hears is the blood rushing to her head.

And lower.

You didn’t say much. Just typed out:

“I miss you. Hurry up perezosa!”

Alexia quickly swipes to her camera. Then with her towel low, hips cocked and lips wet from biting them, she snaps a single photo of her: washboard abs, the hard line of her hipbone and her hand gripping the towel’s edge.

Then she types:

“When I get there, I’ll have you standing with your cheek pressed against the window, hands behind your back and begging loud enough that the whole block knows who you belong to. Hoodie stays on.”

Send.

There´s a few seconds of peace and then..

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, ALEXIA!!”

Mapi’s voice cuts through the locker room like a fire alarm and everyone freezes.

Alexia blinks in confusion and checks her screen.

She didn’t send the message to you.

She sent it to Barça Team Group Chat.

All. Twenty. Players.

“No. No no no no no.” Alexia groans. 

“Did she just? She did. Oh my God.” Irene’s already doubled over. 

“Cheek pressed to the window??” Salma gasps. “SHE WROTE THAT??”

“Hoodie stays on?” Ona shrieks. “This is a professional football club!”

Mapi’s on the floor, wheezing. “Capitana. CAPITANA. There are children in this chat!”

Alexia stares down at her phone in horror. Her towel threatens to slip as she scrambles to type.

[Alexia]: WRONG CHAT. DELETE THIS IMMEDIATELY.

[Patri]: She said ‘begging loud enough the block knows.’ I’m calling the mossos.

[Pina]: *gif of someone diving into holy water*

[Aitana]: I can't tell if I'm traumatized or wildly impressed.

Alexia slams her locker shut.

“I’m leaving the country,” she mutters.

“Leaving the planet,” Jana corrects. “Pack your things. Go to mars. I’ll cover for you.”

“The neighbors. THE NEIGHBORS?? Imagine looking out to water your plants and seeing Alexia Putellas, two-time Ballon d´Or Winner doggying someone while standing.” Irene cries out.

Then Patri adds a poll:

Mapi checks all of them.

And then your name lights up on her screen.

[You]: Nice aim, Cap. I mean, I’m flattered. But your team’s gonna need a lot of therapy.

She nearly groans out loud.

[Alexia]: I’m deleting myself.

Just when Alexia thought that it probably couldn't get any worse, it did. 

“I just…” Frido starts, frowning like she's trying to solve a 1000 piece puzzle. 

“I can’t believe she’s into that.” The room goes dead quiet.

“She’s been with you since what? 2019?” Salma says, already spiraling.

“I’ve literally seen her knit in public.”

“She brings muffins to away matches,” Ona blurts.

“Like. With napkins. Real napkins.”

“She once asked me if I needed help carrying my groceries,” Patri says.

“That’s not window sex energy, Alexia!”

Alexia hides her face in her hands.

“She’s the one who made that playlist for when we’re feeling anxious,” Aitana says, horrified. 

“Now I find out she’s out here steam-printing her ass on the glass like a decal?!” She shrieks.

“She taught my little cousin how to make pancakes,” Ingrid adds quietly. 

“And now I know she’s out here getting flipped like one.” She whispers in disbelief.

“I saw her organize your spice rack alphabetically,” Kika says. 

“That’s a woman who makes her bed every morning. That’s a woman who thanks the bus driver. That is not a woman who begs loud enough the block knows.”

“She sent me a TED Talk once,” Irene adds, staring at the wall. 

“About emotional intelligence.”

“She used to be one of us! Now she’s fucking window décor?!” Mapi’s already losing it.

“She offered me a lozenge after I lost my voice!” Ona yells. 

“A LOZENGE, ALEXIA.”

Alexia, still towel-wrapped, mutters, 

“She’s still the same person.”

“NO SHE’S NOT,” Mapi shrieks. 

“SHE HAS SAFE WORD NOW.”

There’s a loud thud as Salma dramatically drops onto a yoga mat. 

“I just remembered she made everyone custom Christmas gift tags. She used calligraphy, bro.”

“She has bookmarks,” Ingrid says.

“Physical bookmarks. She reads with a blanket.”

“She makes soup,” Frido whispers.

“Not from a can.”

“I’ve seen her wear matching pajamas,” Aitana adds.

“With socks. And now she’s being folded like a lawn chair?”

“She’s not just folded. She’s a mountable furniture.” Mapi wheezes, half-coughing.

Alexia doesn’t even fight it now. She just sits there, towel over her face, letting it happen.

Then Patri drops an image into the chat: Alexia, edited into the Titanic scene except instead of Jack and Rose, it’s her gripping the towel and you, face half-hidden, pressed against a fogged-up window with a caption that says: “I’ll never let go… unless it’s your throat.”

Mapi chokes and Pina types like her life depends on it, 

[Pina]: New idea. Barça Media Day, but every player has to answer one question.

Alexia doesn’t even look up. “Don’t.”

“Too late,” she says.

[Pina]: What does hoodie stays on mean to you?

[Aitana]: Someone take her phone. Take all our phones.

Patri strikes again, she sends a fake Google Calendar screenshot, zoomed in on Thursday evening:

🗓️ Event: Hoodie Stays On

🕒 Time: 8:30 PM

🪟 Location: Against the Window

💥 Guests: Alexia + You Ft. The Neighborhood

Alexia sits frozen, towel clutched like it might protect her from divine judgment. She's not moving. She’s not blinking.

“Why are you all like this?” she finally whispers.

“Because you sexted the entire team, Capi!” Mapi throws an arm around her, grinning.

And then comes the kill shot, Jana posts a fake book cover.

Title: Oh Capitana, Mi Capitana

Subtitle: How I Tactical-Fouled My Girlfriend Into A Glass Window

Cover: That cursed abs-and-towel thirst trap, filtered in soft vignette like a budget romance novel. The font was sinister looking with gold foil.

Alexia exhales like she’s aged ten years. 

“I need to go into witness protection.”

No one disagrees.

Later that night, Alexia gets home to find you exactly as she left you. Curled up on the couch, legs bare, the same hoodie hanging off your shoulder like a weaponized memory. 

You're holding your phone, clearly mid-scroll. Clearly reading the group chat.

You glance up, all fake innocence. “So… how was training?”

Alexia drops her bag with a dramatic thud. “I hate everyone.”

You smile. “Happens to the best of us.”

She groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Did you know they made a book cover?”

“I saw.” You pause. “Strong branding, honestly.”

Alexia just stares at you. “I sexted the entire team.”

You nod solemnly. 

She narrows her eyes, steps closer. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You tilt your head. “You said ‘hoodie stays on.’ That’s iconic. That’s gonna be in the locker room forever.”

Alexia leans over you, hands on either side of your thighs, her presence suddenly a little heavier, darker.

“I should be mortified.”

“You are mortified,” you say, smiling up at her.

She kisses the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, but I still meant every word.”

Your breath hitches.

“Oh?” you ask, voice softer now.

“Still planning to follow through?”

She grins, wicked and unrepentant.

-----

Rushing through an airport with a toddler was no joke. Your daughter was propped up on your hip as you were trying to reach your gate in time. Her on your right hip, your suitcase in your left hand, and a backpack digging into your shoulders. You were running as fast as you were able to.

First you had forgotten your passport at home and had to turn the car around halfway to the airport. Then there was the massive line to get through security, and when it was finally your turn, your daughter became hysterical when the TSA agent had to take her stuffed animal from her for the scan.

As if airports weren’t stressful enough, you decided to do it the hardest way today apparently. Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t even have to check it to know what it was notifying you for. Final boarding call.

Of course, your gate had been on the opposite side of the airport. The odds of you making it all the way there on time were slim to none, but you weren’t giving up until someone physically told you that you would not be allowed to enter the plane.

You knew it wasn’t going to be in the cards after everything, but still seeing the boarding closed signs at your gate stung. You spoke with the staff still there, but to no avail, they had already closed the doors and were retracting the tunnel as you spoke.

With a sigh of defeat you sunk into one of the gate chairs, and put your daughter in the seat next to you. As you were catching your breath, a stranger's feet stepped in front of you, “I’m sorry you missed your flight, I thought you could use this.” She holds out a bottle of water for you. You take it gratefully and thank her, before opening it instantly and taking a few sips.

Your chatty little girl instantly sparks up a conversation with the stranger, Aitana, you find out instantly as she reaches out to shake your daughter’s held out hand. You tell her your name as well when she turns to you.

“Did you miss the flight too?” The three of you are now the only ones left in the further empty gate. “Double booking actually. The other person was part of a couple so I said I'll take the next one.”

You were surprised by the instant kindness she had shown both the stranger on the plane and you just now with the water. “That's so kind of you. Do you by chance know when the next flight is?” 

“In two hours.” Aitana answers. While you're taking in the new information, your daughter shows off her bear to Aitana. “That's a very pretty bear! Does it have a name?” She nods proudly, “Bear!” Aitana chuckles lightly, “Very fitting.”

Aitana notices how stressed you seem and decides to try and help you out in any way that she can. “So, where are you headed?”

“We are on our way to visit my sister. She moved away for work, but we try to visit as often as we can. This one loves time with her auntie.” You share, wondering why it felt so easy to tell that to a complete stranger.

Your daughter had enough of sitting still, so she slid down and started running around the rows of chairs. You chuckle with a shake of your head at her energy. “I swear she didn't get all this energy from me.” 

Aitana was interested in knowing more, so she subtly tried to pry. “Is it always just the two of you traveling?” You nod, “Yeah, it's just the two of us. What about you, where were you traveling too?” Aitana smiles, “My friends are opening a new restaurant, and they invited me to the grand opening.”

The two of you sit watching your daughter run circles around you while filling the open space with her giggles for a moment, before Aitana speaks again. “I know we've literally only just met, but it looks like you have your hands full with this little ball of energy. I know someone that works in ticketing here, and I already have to switch my ticket, can I switch yours for you?” 

You're taken back by the offer a little bit, but surely it would go better if Aitana had an insight connection, right? “Yeah, okay. If you don't mind.” Aitana smiles as she stands up, “Not at all. I will be right back.”

She got about three steps away from her seat when your daughter ran into her and hugged her legs. “Will you play with me Tana?” Aitana hugged her back before saying, “I will when I get back, okay? Just have to make sure we can all get onto the next plane.”

You watch your daughter run around, until she finally settles down a bit in front of the big window looking out over the airplanes coming and going. After sending your sister a quick message, you hear your daughter get excited. “Mami, I see Tana!” You turn your head in the direction where Aitana headed, but don’t see her, so stand up and walk towards your daughter to figure out what she saw.

“There Mami!” She says excitedly while pointing outside. Confusion is written all over your face, but still you take a look out of the window, and sure enough there she is. Aitana’s face on the body of a passing airplane. Your confusion doesn’t fade, so you grab your phone and search up “Vueling Aitana” on Google to see why her face would be on one of their planes.

“Our seats on the next plane are secured!” Aitana says proudly when she walks up to the gate again. “Tana on plane! Tana on plane!” Your girl chants as she runs up to Aitana to pull her up to the window. You watch her expression change, like all of a sudden she feels very self aware and embarrassed. 

You turn your phone towards her, “Your ‘I know someone’ is literally having a sponsorship deal with the airline? Both with your professional football team and your own deal?” Aitana looks a bit defeated, like she knew meeting a beautiful stranger would get ruined by her career, but had enough hope left for this to go well.

“Well, this seems silly now.” She says lowering the FC Barcelona ball. ”I got it at the shop in the hall for her to get her energy out. She can still have it of course.” She hands your daughter the ball, before turning around and walking towards her suitcase that she had left with you. “We can wait in the Vueling lounge. You don’t have to come of course, I just thought maybe it would be easier with her.” She gestures to your daughter who was trying to kick the ball around. “It’s big, we can sit far away from each other if that’s what you want.”

Your brow furrows with each word that she speaks. “Why are you acting like you committed a crime or are contagious all of a sudden?” You say with a chuckle, trying to lighten the moment. “What?” She asks nervously.

“You got our tickets switched, got her a toy, and gave me water when I felt like I was about to explode from stress. Why would I not want to sit near you?” Aitana’s shoulders loosen just slightly at your words, though she still looks uncertain. She lets out a small laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “You’d be surprised how many people change when they figure out who I am.”

You close your phone, that had the news articles with her name written all over it still on the screen before you look back up at her. “While seeing your face on a plane was certainly an experience.” Aitana groans, still not believing how that could’ve happened to her. 

“To me you are still the kind person I just met who basically saved my entire day.” Your eyes land on your daughter for a moment as she hugs the football close to her chest. “So, if I end up being weird, it’s because you rescued me from a complete meltdown, not because apparently you are famous.”

Aitana chuckles, “Alright, let’s head to the lounge then.” You physically see the tension leaving her body as she turns to your daughter. “Ready to play?” She nodded enthusiastically, and takes Aitana’s held out hand.

The lounge is a lot quieter, well it was before you entered, but it was nice. No one else was around. The three of you sat down on the floor, as urged to by your daughter and formed a semi-triangle with your legs, sitting feet to feet to create a box for the game your daughter wanted to play. She rolled the ball to you first, and then told you to roll it to Aitana. The three of you sat there playing for a good fifteen minutes before she was off running around again.

You stood up and held out your hand to Aitana to help her up. “You truly are a lifesafer, I don’t know how I can ever thank you.” She takes your hand and stands up with you, “I know how you can.”

A chuckle leaves your lips at how fast she had that ready. “Oh, really?” You joke back as the two of you sit down. “Yeah, come to my friend’s restaurant's grand opening with me.” 

“Like as..” You don’t even finish the sentence, unsure if finishing it would ruin whatever relationship you were building with her. “As a date.” She finishes, “And if you’re not interested in that, which is also totally fine. Come anyways, bring your daughter, your sister, and her family if she has any there. All come, it’s just been really great meeting you, and I would love to continue spending time with you.”

Your smile grows as she speaks. It was funny now knowing that she was basically famous in Barcelona, and across the footballing world, but was also just a person that got nervous. “I am sure that my sister would like some auntie time, so yes, I would love to go with you as your date.”

When the next plane arrived, it didn’t feel like much time had passed. You had fallen into easy conversation with Aitana, while your daughter had found some plane toys to play with. Once on the plane, the three of you shared a row. Aitana gave you the window seat, and your daughter sat in the middle of the two of you.

Your daughter sat on your lap after take off, watching the clouds from the window, but was quickly done with seeing the same thing for more than two minutes. She was getting restless, and her bright red cheeks told you that she had finally used up all her energy and was going to fall asleep soon.

Not even five minutes later she had climbed back into her seat, and leaned into Aitana’s side when her eyes fell shut. It was the cutest thing ever seeing how comfortable the two of them were together. Aitana looked from your daughter to you with a loving smile. 

You smile back at her, thinking that this was probably the first time, and most likely the only time in your life that you were glad you missed your flight. Meeting Aitana so far seemed totally worth it, and you couldn’t wait to spend more time with her and get to know her better.

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