Poco a poco (One-shot)
Pairing: Jana Fernández x Aggie Beever-Jones
Summary: Like any disaster, it started with an Instagram like.
Word count: > 12k, one shot.
(A/N: My feirst attempt at a WOSO fan-fiction. A little unconventional as usually it’s between Footballer x Reader. But I’m quite intrigued to explore the recent dynamics seen on social media between Jana Fernandez and Aggie Beever-Jones. So this is my totally fictional take. Don’t sue me, savvy?)
———————————————————————
It started, as most catastrophes do, with an Instagram like.
Jana Fernández was finishing up her second post-training recovery shake when the notification popped up:
@aggiebeeverjones liked your post.
Not strange. They were both professional footballers. Liking each other’s matchday photos wasn’t exactly criminal behaviour. But then came the second like. And the third. The third was on a post from 2022. Jana squinted. That was deep-scroll territory.
She didn’t say anything at first. But when she opened her DMs and found a message—
“Your header clearances were so peng it hurt.”
—she dropped her phone.
“Joder,” she muttered. (Fuck)
“Who’s peng?” Vicky López asked from across the locker room, towel slung over her shoulder.
“No one.”
Vicky raised a brow and padded over. “Esperar. ¿A quién le escribes? Parece que acabas de ver un fantasma. Or worse—got followed by a Chelsea player.” (Wait. Who are you writing to? You look like you just saw a ghost.)
Jana stayed quiet.
“Esperar. WAIT. This about that English girl? Beever-Jones?”
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s what people say when it’s definitely something.”
Alexia, tying her shoelaces with casual slowness, glanced up. “Blue tick?”
Vicky nodded. “Blue tick. Chelsea forward. Sorprendentemente linda.” (Surprisingly cute.)
Alexia smirked. “Hmm. Barça-Chelsea. Forbidden fruit.”
“I am not doing anything,” Jana insisted, which made it sound instantly worse.
The thing was… she was doing something. Namely: checking her own Instagram to see if Aggie had liked anything else. She had. A team photo. A charity event. A photo of Jana eating gelato in Girona with the caption “Poco a poco.” (Little by little)
Jana didn’t reply to the DM straight away.
She did the professional thing.
She showed it to Ona.
Ona glanced at the message and blinked. “She called your clearances ‘peng’?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means hot.”
“Well.” Ona handed the phone back. “At least it wasn’t about your throw-ins.”
Meanwhile, in Cobham, Aggie was panicking.
“What if she thinks I’m a stalker?”
“You are a stalker,” Niamh Charles said without looking up from her protein bar.
“I’m just admiring her defending!”
“Sure. That’s why you scrolled to her Girona trip in July and double-tapped it.”
“I meant to double-tap the ice cream.”
“Uh-huh.”
Aggie flopped back against the bench. “She’s just… cool, okay? She doesn’t post dumb thirst traps. She reads books and eats peaches and probably listens to indie Catalan pop.”
“You’re projecting.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ve got it bad.”
Aggie buried her face in her hands. “I think I like her.”
Back in Barcelona, Jana finally replied:
“Gracias. But ‘peng’? That’s good, yes?”
Aggie wrote back immediately:
“Very good. Like… 10/10 would defend against again.”
Jana smiled.
It was ridiculous.
She was defending against this girl. Technically, they were rivals.
But it didn’t feel like rivalry.
Not when Aggie said things like “You were class” or used emoji combinations no sane adult would choose.
That night, Jana found herself scrolling through Aggie’s stories, watching a TikTok of her dancing terribly with Niamh in the gym. The caption read: Defenders hate her. Coaches fear her. She can’t dance but she can score.
Jana replied with a simple:
“🤨 esto es criminal.” (This is criminal.)
Aggie:
“Only if you arrest me.”
Jana laughed so hard she nearly choked on her chamomile tea.
Barça vs Chelsea. Champions League semi-final, leg one. Camp Nou.
It had been a bruiser of a match. Aggie Beever-Jones had nearly slipped past Patri twice. Jana had won five headers and one key interception that led to their second goal. And Aggie had smiled at her exactly three times—which, statistically, was probably illegal.
Now, in the tunnel post-match, players were doing the usual exchange: sweaty hugs, shirt swaps, murmured buen partidos and a few grumbles about the ref.
Jana spotted Aggie near the mouth of the tunnel. Alone. Strapping her wrist. Hair damp and curling slightly at the ends.
She didn’t mean to walk over.
She just did.
Aggie looked up. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jana said. “Tough game.”
Aggie gave a tired smile. “You tackled me like I owed you money.”
Jana tilted her head. “Maybe you do.”
Aggie blinked. “For what?”
She shrugged, lips twitching. “Entertainment.”
Aggie laughed. “You’re not as serious as people think.”
“Only on matchdays.”
“This was a matchday.”
“I made exception.”
Aggie opened her mouth—maybe to flirt back, maybe to just keep her there—but then a third voice joined in.
“Vale, que ya está bien,” Alexia said as she appeared at Jana’s shoulder, eyeing Aggie with the amused suspicion of someone who knew far too much for comfort. (Okay, that’s enough.)
“Ale…” Jana said, sighing.
Alexia raised a brow. “So. This is the famous Chelsea striker, no?”
Aggie blinked. “Famous is a stretch.”
Alexia looked her up and down. “You speak Spanish?”
Aggie blinked again. “Uhh… poquito?” (A little.)
“Hmm. Dangerous,” Alexia said in English, the word heavy with her accent. She turned to Jana and added in Spanish, “Habla poco, pero mira mucho.” (Speaks a little, but looks a lot.)
Jana elbowed her. “Ale, por favor.”
“Just saying,” Alexia said, holding up both hands. “No me fío. You see the way she look at you? Like… Camp Nou es tu cara.” (I don’t trust…Camp Nou is your face.)
Aggie was very obviously trying to follow the conversation, which made it worse.
“What did she say?” she asked, smiling.
“She said… you look at me like I’m Camp Nou,” Jana muttered.
Aggie laughed. “Well… you did keep me out the box like you were defending holy land.”
Alexia made a soft, dramatic tsk noise.
“Careful with her, eh?” she said to Aggie, tapping her temple. “She look sweet, but she bite.”
“I’m starting to hope so,” Aggie muttered.
Jana groaned. “Okay. That’s enough.”
Later, in the dressing room, Ona tossed Jana a protein bar and raised an eyebrow.
“So?” she asked.
“So what?”
“You talked.”
“We exchanged five sentences and Alexia tried to murder me with her eyes.”
Ona grinned. “That’s basically dating for you.”
Seville. Nations League matchday.
Spain vs. England.
The weather was brutal—32 degrees, bone-dry, the kind of heat that made defenders cranky and wingers reckless. The score was 1–1 at half-time, and both Jana and Aggie had been subbed for “load management,” which was just a polite way of saying don’t break your stars right before Champions League.
Now, the two of them sat on the bench—stretching, hydrating, watching their teammates run wild.
Aggie glanced sideways. “Hot enough for you?”
Jana, dabbing her forehead with a towel, snorted. “You call this hot? Try Cádiz en agosto.” (Cadiz in August.)
Aggie laughed. “I’d melt.”
“You’re already red.”
“British blood. We weren’t built for sunlight.”
Jana smiled, sipping from her bottle. “You run well for someone solar-powered.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that buzzes with unspoken jokes. The pitch glimmered in front of them. Leah Williamson was yelling something at Millie Bright. Aitana was clapping furiously. Someone had just missed a sitter.
Aggie leaned closer. “Do you always play this… intense?”
Jana raised an eyebrow. “You mean serious?”
“I mean, you look like you’re solving a murder out there.”
Jana smirked. “Well. Sometimes I am.”
Aggie laughed.
Then, as if rehearsed, their hands reached for the same bottle of electrolyte water.
“Sorry—” Aggie said.
“No, tú,” Jana replied. (You.)
Their fingers touched.
Neither pulled away.
Until someone cleared their throat behind them.
“Vaya, vaya,” said a voice that could only belong to Vicky López. “¿Qué tenemos aquí?” (Oh, oh, what do we have here?)
Jana rolled her eyes. “Vicky…”
Vicky plopped down on Jana’s other side, grinning. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you flirt with the enemy?”
Aggie looked at Jana. “What’d she say?”
“She said I’m flirting.”
Aggie blinked innocently. “Are you?”
Jana paused. “Estoy… being friendly.”
Aggie smirked. “Is that what they call it here?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“If you flirt back.”
Vicky groaned loudly. “Dios mío, get a room.” (My God…)
Later, in the England camp, Leah watched from a distance as Aggie scrolled through something on her phone, cheeks slightly flushed.
“You FaceTiming her again?”
Aggie glanced up. “What? No.”
Leah raised an eyebrow.
Aggie held her hands up. “I’m not!”
Niamh strolled past. “She is.”
“Bloody snitch,” Aggie muttered.
“She likes the Barça girl,” Niamh sang under her breath.
“I don’t—” Aggie started, then stopped. “Okay. I do. A bit.”
Leah smirked. “Just don’t get nutmegged by your girlfriend in the next match.”
“Shut up.”
Back in the Spain camp, Vicky leaned against the doorframe of Jana’s room.
“¿Te gusta de verdad?” (Do you like it?)
Jana looked up from her phone.
“¿Quién?” (Who?)
Vicky gave her a look.
Jana hesitated, then admitted quietly, “Tiene algo… no sé. She’s funny. And real.” (There's something about it... I don't know.)
“Y guapa.” (And pretty.)
Jana rolled her eyes. “Obvio.” (Obvious)
Vicky smirked. “Vale. Pues no la cagues.” (Okay. Don't screw it up.)
It escalated like all disasters do: through memes and thirst traps.
The DM window between Aggie and Jana was officially alive. Chaotic. Bilingual. And teetering somewhere between “friendly banter” and “pre-dating with a side of emotional repression.”
Aggie started it with a TikTok of herself and Niamh trying to copy the latest dance trend in the Chelsea gym. It was awful.
Jana replied:
“You dance like you’ve been tackled mid-air.”
Aggie:
“Better than your throw-ins.”
Jana:
“Oye, mis saques laterales son arte.” (Hey, my throw-ins are art.)
Aggie sent a voice note just to hear her say “laterales.”
That week, Jana sent her a video of Kika and Vicky attempting a “serious tactical breakdown” using tortilla chips as players and guacamole as the midfield.
Kika yelled, “THIS is the 4-4-2 diamond!”
Vicky responded, “You just ate the right back!”
Aggie replied:
“Your team is unhinged.”
Jana:
“We are artists.”
Aggie:
“Kika licked guac off the tactics board.”
Jana:
“Performance art.”
Brighton was cold, damp, and smelled faintly of chips and sea salt.
Jana loved it.
She was visiting Bruna Vilamala for the weekend. Bruna had been on loan at Brighton for almost a season now, and while she missed Barça, she had fully adopted seagull-core chaos.
They sat on a graffiti-covered bench overlooking the pebble beach, wrapped in coats, nursing overpriced takeaway coffees.
Jana scrolled on her phone. Bruna glanced sideways.
“Is it her again?”
Jana didn’t look up. “No.”
Bruna snorted. “Then why are you smiling like a lovesick Labrador?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Cállate.” (Be quiet)
Bruna grabbed her own phone and opened Instagram. “She liked your photo again. The one of us in London. Should I feel replaced?”
“You’re not replaced.”
“Just benched?” Bruna deadpanned. “I get it. The Chelsea girl’s got those cheekbones and chaos curls.”
“She’s not chaos,” Jana muttered.
“She FaceTimed you from a Sainsbury’s.”
“She was looking for the right tea.”
“She bought one called ‘Proper Builders Brew,’ Jana.”
Jana cracked a grin. “It was strong.”
“Yeah, like your feelings.”
Jana groaned. “I came here for friendship. Not psychological warfare.”
“Too bad. I’m your best friend. It’s in the contract.”
Later, at the training ground, Bruna introduced Jana to her Brighton teammates as “la que roba corazones en Champions.” (the one who steals hearts in the Champions League)
Jana blushed. “No estoy robando nada.” (I'm not stealing anything.)
“Right,” Bruna smirked. “You just ‘accidentally’ tackle her like you’re asking for her number with your shins.”
“I play clean.”
“Clean-ish.”
After training, as they walked along the pier, Bruna grew a little quiet.
“You like her, huh?”
Jana hesitated. “Sí. But… we’re on different paths. Different leagues. Different languages.”
Bruna nodded. “Yeah. But same game. Same heart.”
Jana looked at her. “That’s deep.”
“I watched a lot of rom-coms during flights between London and Barcelona. Estoy transformada.” (I’m transformed.)
Back in the hotel that night, Jana opened her phone to find a message from Aggie.
Aggie:
I saw your Brighton story. Beach girl now?
Jana:
Only if the beach has football. And you.
Aggie:
Careful. I might hop over.
Jana:
Do it. I’ll bring you guantes.
Aggie:
What’s that mean?
Jana:
Gloves. For when I steal your heart and leave you cold.
Aggie sent back an audio message of her laughing.
Jana played it three times.
One night, long after midnight in Barcelona, Aggie FaceTimed without thinking.
To her horror, Jana picked up immediately. Hoodie, glasses, hair a little messy. Her voice soft: “Aggie?”
“Sorry—I didn’t think you’d actually answer.”
Jana tilted her head. “You called me.”
“Yeah, but like… midnight brain, you know?”
Jana smiled. “No hay problema.” (No problem.)
Aggie’s voice softened. “What were you doing?”
“Reading.”
“What book?”
Jana held it up: Nada by Carmen Laforet.
Aggie squinted. “That’s… not English.”
“Correct.”
Aggie smiled. “You’re a book girl.”
“I like words,” Jana shrugged. “Sometimes better than people.”
Aggie blinked. “So… I’m an exception?”
Jana paused. “Eres una interrupción agradable.”
“What’s that mean?”
Jana smiled slowly. “A nice interruption.”
Aggie looked genuinely flustered.
“God, say something terrible so I stop liking you.”
“Your accent when you say ‘vale’ is criminal.”
“There it is.”
The next morning, Alexia found Jana still scrolling through their conversation history. They were in Alexia’s apartment - planning their trip to London after Copa de la Reina’s final - it was specifically a trip to watch Beyoncé’s concert.
Alexia sat on the bed. “You’re smiling like… una idiota enamorada.” (…an idiot in love.)
“Ale… no es así.” (It is not like that.)
“¿No?” Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Then why do I hear you giggling at 2 a.m.?”
“It’s not like that.”
Alexia nodded solemnly. “Claro. Of course. Not like that. You just want to learn British slang and suddenly drink tea at five.” (Clear)
Jana groaned. “You’re worse than Vicky.”
“Vicky thinks she’s going to be the flower girl.”
Back at Chelsea training, Niamh casually tossed a ball toward Aggie. “You seeing her this weekend?”
Aggie blinked. “What?”
“She’s coming to London, yeah?”
“How do you know?”
“Beyoncé concert. Her and Alexia.”
Aggie almost choked. “How you’d know?”
Niamh winked. “I saw your texts! Better get that hair sorted, Beever-Jones.”
It was raining in Barcelona and Jana was holed up in the recovery room scrolling through her messages when Alexia walked in, soaking wet and holding two coffees.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just handed one cup over and sat down across from her like a therapist about to begin the session.
Jana raised an eyebrow. “Gracias… pero why are you staring at me like that?”
Alexia sipped. “No digo nada… todavía.” (I'm not saying anything... yet.)
“Ale…”
Alexia smirked. “Okay, okay. Just one thing. You watch that clip of her goal how many times now?”
Jana flushed. “Once.”
“Please. You’re watching it like it’s a romantic drama.”
“It was a good goal.”
“She almost tripped during the celebration.”
“I found it charming.”
Alexia sighed. “Ay Dios… estás perdida.” (Oh God... you're lost.)
Jana buried her face in her hoodie.
Alexia continued: “You know… this is what happens when you watch too much British TikTok. You start liking girls who say ‘innit’ and call crisps ‘chips’.”
Jana peeked up. “You think it’s a bad idea?”
Alexia sat with it for a moment. “No… no es mala idea. But it is… complicated.”
Jana nodded slowly.
“She’s far. Different league. You’ll get busy. She’ll get busier. People talk.”
“I know.”
Alexia stared at her, serious now. “But… if she makes you feel safe… and seen… entonces vale la pena.” (then it's worth it.)
Jana blinked. “That was almost tender.”
Alexia shrugged. “I can do sentiment when required.”
Then, softer: “Just don’t lose yourself, ¿vale? You have a big heart. Make sure she deserves it.”
Jana exhaled. “Gracias, Ale.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I scare her at the Beyoncé concert.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Soy hermana. Es mi trabajo.” (I'm a sister. It's my job.)
Later that evening, Jana sat by the window, texting.
Jana:
If I bring you to a Beyoncé concert, would you survive?
Aggie:
Only if I’m sitting next to you.
Jana:
That’s negotiable.
Aggie:
Then I’m bringing binoculars.
Jana:
Why?
Aggie:
To study Catalan cheekbones in their natural habitat.
Jana smiled, heart warm and full of dread.
The official reason for the London trip was the Beyoncé concert.
The unofficial reason was Aggie.
Jana hadn’t said it aloud, but Alexia knew. She wasn’t born yesterday. She’d seen Jana put on lip balm three times at the airport and switch hoodies at the last minute because “this one feels more… me.”
Suspicious.
They landed at Heathrow on a gray afternoon. A black car picked them up. Alexia played DJ, putting on a mix of Rosalia and Bey. Jana stared out the window, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.
“You nervous?” Alexia asked, glancing at her.
Jana blinked. “For the concert?”
Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Sure. For the concert.”
“Shut up.”
“I said nothing.”
“You said everything.”
They checked into their AirBNB that Jana insisted on - with two separate rooms. Jana asked a passerby in the hallway as they were about to open the door to their accommodation, if there was a “good café nearby that might have Wi-Fi and no paparazzi.”
Alexia didn’t comment.
Yet.
Later that evening, they arrived at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, surrounded by tens of thousands of glittering people. Sequins, boots, rhinestones. A glittered-up universe.
They were both decked in Cowboy-inspired outfits.
They made it to their VIP row just as the lights dimmed.
And there, just across the section, was Aggie.
In a leather jacket. Hair braided loosely. Standing next to Niamh Charles.
She spotted Jana instantly. Her smile was immediate. Like she’d been waiting for this moment.
Jana waved, soft and awkward.
Alexia leaned over. “Vaya… Look who’s also a Beyhive member.”
Jana pretended not to hear her.
Midway through Love On Top, Aggie texted:
Aggie:
This song is about you, you know.
Jana:
You’re not even subtle.
Aggie:
You love it.
Jana:
Maybe.
Aggie:
Wanna meet after?
Jana hesitated. Then looked over at Alexia.
“Ale… voy a ver a Aggie un rato después, ¿vale?” (…I'm going to see Aggie a little later, okay?)
Alexia didn’t even flinch. “Claro. But if she breaks your heart… Beyoncé will hear about it.”
“You’ll tell her yourself?”
“She follows me on Instagram.”
“No she doesn’t.”
Alexia sipped her overpriced bottled water. “Not yet.”
After the final encore, the stadium slowly emptied.
Jana met Aggie outside by a pretzel stand. Their eyes met and it was… soft. Familiar. Charged.
“You looked very focused during ‘Partition,’” Aggie teased.
Jana rolled her eyes. “And you? Scream-singing ‘Alien Superstar’? Interesting choice.”
Aggie stepped a little closer. “Only because you were standing there looking like you were in a music video.”
“I was just watching the show.”
“You are the show.”
Jana blushed. “Shut up.”
Aggie offered her a bite of her pretzel. “We’ve crossed into something, haven’t we?”
Jana nodded. “And we’re not pretending anymore.”
The next morning, the rain had returned.
Gray, soft, romantic—the kind of drizzle that made the city look cinematic.
Jana stood outside a small café in Soho, tugging her hoodie over her ponytail. She texted one word.
Jana:
Aquí.
Aggie replied instantly.
Aggie:
Coming.
Three minutes later, Aggie jogged up the pavement in an oversized coat and Doc Martens, her fringe curling at the edges from the rain. She looked like a music video you didn’t mean to fall into.
They hugged.
It wasn’t long.
But it was long enough.
They ducked into the café, ordered two flat whites, and claimed a quiet corner. Aggie sat across from Jana and smiled like she already knew the ending to a story they were both still writing.
“So,” Aggie said, hands wrapped around her cup. “You’re in London for… Beyoncé? Any other purpose?”
Jana ignored Aggie’s latter question, raised an eyebrow. “It’s Bey”
“I live here.”
“And?”
Aggie grinned. “And here I thought you missed me, you want to see me.”
Jana looked down at her cup. “Tal vez.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Maybe.”
Aggie leaned forward, a little softer now. “You always switch languages when you’re being honest.”
“Me gusta tener secretos.”
Aggie tilted her head. “You like having secrets?”
Jana met her eyes. “I like when they’re shared.”
Outside, the rain picked up.
Inside, their knees touched under the table.
They talked about football, upcoming matches, Kika’s latest TikTok disaster, and how Vicky López had once told the Spanish media that Aggie looked like a “bad decision in boots.”
Aggie was still laughing about that. “Tell her I said thanks.”
“I will,” Jana said. “She thinks you’re trouble.”
“I am.”
Jana smiled. “I know.”
Two hours later, they walked in silence down the narrow streets of Soho, sharing Aggie’s umbrella. Their arms brushed. Aggie didn’t pull away.
“You know,” Aggie said, voice low, “this feels like something.”
“It is.”
“But it’s complicated.”
“I know.”
Aggie looked up at her. “You still want it?”
Jana hesitated. “Tengo ganas.”
Aggie paused. “That’s the word again. What’s it mean?”
Jana looked at her gently. “It means… I want.”
Aggie’s breath hitched.
And then, just as the rain slowed, she leaned in.
They didn’t kiss—not yet.
But their foreheads touched.
And that was somehow louder.
Back at their accomodation, Alexia opened the door to find Jana quietly slipping off her shoes.
“Y bien?” she asked without looking up from her phone.
Jana shrugged, face carefully neutral. “Solo café.”
Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Just coffee. That’s why you’re glowing.”
Jana muttered, “Ale…”
Alexia nodded. “Okay. No judgement. But please—usa protección.” (…use protection.)
Jana blinked. “What?”
Alexia pointed at her phone. “From gossip.”
Jana threw a pillow at her.
The night before Jana flew back to Barcelona, they met again.
No cameras. No teammates. No pretzels or concerts.
Just them. Quiet. Unrushed.
Aggie’s flat in London wasn’t massive, but it was warm. The kind of place where the heater ticked and the couch was too small to sit on without knees touching.
Jana sat curled up in the corner of it, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Aggie brought tea—proper English tea—and plopped beside her, legs folding like she’d done this a hundred times.
“You drink this every day?” Jana asked, taking a sip.
Aggie grinned. “Religiously.”
“It’s aggressive.”
“You’re just soft.”
“I’m Catalan. We prefer wine.”
“Classy.”
“You prefer this?”
Aggie took the mug from her hand and stole a sip. “Only if you’re drinking it too.”
Jana blinked. “That was kind of cheesy.”
“I’m trying here.”
“It’s working.”
Silence stretched, soft and full.
Aggie turned toward her. “I meant it… you know. When I said it felt like something.”
Jana nodded. “It does.”
“But we’re not in the same city. Not even in the same league.”
“I know.”
“And we’re both—what—twenty? Twenty-one?”
“Twenty-three.”
Aggie smiled. “You’re old.”
“Respect your elders.”
They both laughed.
And then, slowly, the air shifted.
Jana looked down at her hands. “Tengo ganas de ti.”
Aggie blinked. “That word again. Ganas.”
Jana nodded. “It’s hard to translate. But it’s like… longing. Craving. Wanting something in a way that’s not just physical. Like your soul wants it.”
Aggie was very still. “You have that… for me?”
Jana didn’t hesitate. “Sí.”
Aggie’s breath hitched.
And then she kissed her.
Finally.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t fireworks.
It was real.
Soft lips. A hand on a cheek. A pause that said I’ve been waiting for this, and a smile that answered me too.
When they pulled apart, Aggie whispered, “You taste like overpriced English tea.”
“You kiss like a footballer.”
“Strong?”
Jana smiled. “Precise.”
They didn’t talk about what it meant.
Not yet.
But when Jana left the next morning, Aggie walked her to the car.
And as Jana buckled her seatbelt, Aggie pressed her hand through the open window and said: “Let me know when you want to come back.”
Jana nodded. “Siempre tengo ganas.” (I always feel like it.)
There were no official declarations.
No Instagram hard-launch. No “us” photo with matching captions. No post-win kiss on the cheek broadcast to millions.
Just:
A playlist Jana made and sent over WhatsApp titled “Soft like you”.
A blurry selfie from Aggie’s couch with a caption that read “still cold but she made tea.”
An inside joke that Alexia didn’t understand but side-eyed anyway.
It was slow. Soft. Ongoing.
Poco a poco.
After the London trip, they fell into rhythm.
Morning DMs. Evening FaceTimes. Voice notes full of silence and city sounds—Barcelona rain on Jana’s window, London traffic outside Aggie’s gym.
Jana went back to defending with even sharper focus.
Aggie scored twice in the WSL and pointed vaguely to the crowd—something only Jana understood.
Alexia, of course, understood everything.
“Estás enamorada,” she told her one day in training, voice dry. “Completely.” (You are in love.)
“No digas eso,” Jana muttered, cheeks pink. (Don’t say that.)
“Don’t worry,” Alexia said, patting her on the head. “You’re just becoming British. Soon you’ll wear bucket hats and eat beans for breakfast.”
Jana deadpanned, “Nunca.” (Never.)
Bruna visited Barcelona during her Brighton break.
They sat on the rooftop, sharing sunflower seeds and watching the sky turn pink.
“So?” Bruna asked.
“So…”
Bruna grinned. “You’re happy.”
“I’m… working on it.”
“She’s part of that?”
“Sí.”
Bruna bumped her shoulder. “Then don’t overthink it. Let her be soft with you.”
One day, during an early morning call, Aggie asked:
“Do you think this will… last?”
Jana thought for a long moment.
Then answered honestly.
“Not if we rush.”
Aggie nodded. “So we don’t rush.”
“Poco a poco.”
“Together?”
“Sí.”
Aggie smiled. “Say it again. That phrase.”
Jana did.
Aggie recorded it.
They still hadn’t defined anything.
Aggie called it “slow-burn international chaos.”
Jana called it ‘lo que me hace sentir tranquila.’ (what makes me feel calm…)
But every time Aggie texted “vale,” and every time Jana replied “on my way,” something grew between them.
Something honest.
Something whole.
And in every language, it meant the same thing.
Fast forward to a few months of whatever they called their relationship, it had been a strange season.
Busy. Electric. A little bit lonely.
They hadn’t said “girlfriend,” not exactly, but Jana and Aggie had slipped into something steady—messages every morning, calls every night, Spotify playlists shared like love notes. They never rushed. Never forced the label.
Until now.
Jana was sprawled on her sofa in sweatpants, rewatching match tape with a spoonful of almond butter in one hand when she heard the doorbell.
She wasn’t expecting anyone. Alexia had gone to Madrid with her partner Olga, Ona was visiting Lucy in London, and Bruna was back in Brighton.
She opened the door.
And nearly dropped the spoon.
“Hi,” Aggie said, grinning under the hood of her coat, slightly breathless from hauling a suitcase through El Born’s cobbled streets.
“Aggie—” Jana blinked. “¿Qué… cómo estás aquí?” (What… how are you here?)
Aggie shrugged. “Wanted to see you. It’s Valentine’s. And… your birthday’s close. Felt like good excuses.”
Jana just stared.
“I brought snacks,” Aggie added, lifting a tote bag.
Jana pulled her inside and kissed her senseless.
They spent the day wandering through the Gothic Quarter, trading kisses near murals and churros under napkins. Aggie refused to tell Jana what the plan was, only insisting, “Wear something that makes you feel unfairly attractive.”
Jana obliged.
At 7:30 PM, a car picked them up and drove them along the shimmering curve of the coastline, finally stopping outside a Michelin-starred restaurant with subtle lighting and panoramic sea views.
Jana blinked. “This is… expensive.”
“You’re worth it,” Aggie said, completely serious.
Jana rolled her eyes to hide the blush. “British girls and their dramatics.”
Inside, they ate - slow. Talked softer.
Wine glasses clinked. Dishes with foam and edible flowers made them giggle. Between courses, Aggie held her hand under the table.
“You planned all this?” Jana asked, eyes warm.
Aggie nodded. “And more.”
After dinner, the car took them to the W Hotel. Towering. Glass. Ocean glitter below.
“I wanted you to feel spoiled,” Aggie whispered as the elevator ascended. “You always work so hard. Always carry everything.”
The suite was breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows, ocean beyond, soft lights and even softer sheets.
Jana turned to her. “You did all this… for me?”
Aggie stepped closer, brushed a curl from her cheek. “Not just for you.”
Jana’s breath hitched.
Aggie held her gaze. “For us.”
A pause.
Then: “I want this to be real, Jana. Official. Not just playlists and stolen weekends.”
Jana starred. “You mean…?”
“I want to be with you,” Aggie said. “Fully. I’m falling in love with you.”
The world tilted. Not in a dizzy way—but like something clicking into place.
Jana exhaled. “Yo también.” (Me too.)
And then she kissed her again—no more holding back.
That night.
They moved together like people who had memorized each other from afar and were finally free to touch the real thing.
Lips. Hands. Mouths speaking things that didn’t need words.
Clothes fell to the floor. Breaths turned ragged.
The night was ocean-lit and quiet, save for whispered yeses and te quiero, over and over, until everything disappeared but skin and safety and something dangerously close to forever.
The morning after.
The light was blue and slow.
Jana stirred, tangled in sheets, her leg wrapped over Aggie’s. They were quiet, lazy, kisses trailing from shoulders to spines, laughter buried in skin.
Aggie pressed a kiss to her collarbone. “You’re insatiable.”
Jana smiled against her neck. “You started it.”
“I regret nothing.”
“Liar.”
They were about to go for round three when Jana’s phone buzzed violently on the nightstand.
She groaned. “Ignore it.”
It kept buzzing.
Then dinging.
Then buzzing again.
Aggie reached over. “Do you always get this many messages at 8 AM?”
Jana frowned, grabbed her phone, and unlocked it.
There were 37 new messages from a group chat titled:
💥Las Reinas del Caos (ft. Ale)💥(The Queens of Chaos…)
Alexia:
¿Estás viva? No ha posteado en 48 horas. Alarmante. (Are you alive? You hadn’t posted in 48 hours. Alarming.)
Send SOS if you’ve been kidnapped by the Chelsea girl.
Ona:
At this point, I’d believe it.
Vicky:
Pics or it didn’t happen. Also: is she good at kissing? Asking for science.
Kika:
Check in or we’re calling your abuela.
Patri:
Someone call the Mossos.
Then Vicky did the unthinkable.
Vicky started a group video call.
Jana panicked. Her thumb slipped as she meant to hit decline—
—and accidentally hit accept.
The screen lit up.
Five faces.
Alexia. Vicky. Ona. Patri. Kika.
Staring.
All at once.
Staring at Jana mid-orgasm.
Or, to be fair, post-orgasm but definitely still flushed, topless, and with Aggie’s hand visibly in frame.
“OH MY GOD—” Jana shrieked.
Aggie yelped and dove for the blanket.
Alexia blinked. “Bueno…” she said, eyebrows high.
Vicky howled. “¡lo sabía!” (I knew it!)
Ona cackled. “Look at her. Can’t even lie now.”
Patri sipped tea from an invisible cup. “Esto es lo más emocionante que he visto en toda la temporada.” (This is the most exciting thing I've seen all season.)
Kika: “Wait, did we interrupt the ‘ganas’ thing again?”
Jana fumbled the phone, finally ending the call.
Silence.
Aggie buried her face in the pillow. “I want to die.”
Jana lay beside her, staring at the ceiling.
Then: “At least now they’ll stop asking.”
Aggie turned her head. “You okay?”
Jana nodded, breathless. “Yeah. They know.”
Aggie smiled. “You sure?”
Jana leaned in and kissed her. “I’m sure.”
—————————————————————
THE END.
