#randombush3

Alexia is making you practice penalties. Over and over again. Boots off to feel the contact of the ball, street and beach football coursing through the connection of skin and leather. Leather is skin. You look down at the ball and consider it once being made of something real, some sacrificed animal who died for entertainment. Some things are lost with time. Synthesised.

It’s madness to train like this. The grass is hot under the soles of your feet. The sun is burning, light blinding you as you squint at the goal, at Alexia in the goal, her lips held taut as she goads you, “go on, de nuevo.” 

De nuevo. She doesn’t try to save it – she’s not a goalkeeper – but her head turns as the ball rolls into the left side of the net. Powerful, sure, but not lifted. 

Can’t have this be the penalty she passed down. 

De nuevo. 

You sigh, throat dry and minty, bones aching. Five more minutes wasn’t enough. You’re tired, so tired, but Alexia is detached from tiredness, spent too many years being dog-tired and now that has become part of her routine, and therefore it has become part of your own. There’s a certain resilience to that, and you admire it. You know you’re lazy. You hold that over her head, sometimes, in moments of hatred and resentment. You have never had to practice like this, de nuevo de nuevo de nuevo de nuevo, relentless until the ball is bullied to bend to your will. It has always come naturally. Alexia had that too, but ‘natural’ has never been enough. Something above that, of course: divine. She needs you to be divine too. 

Regardless of your scorn, you’re still here, still kicking. This one hits the top corner. Perfect. Perfection must be replicated. 

“One more and then we’ll take a break, alright?” She senses your frustration. Lets you tip off the edge but never, ever has left you to freefall off it. Holding your hand and letting go, letting you feel the drop and the terror of that promise, but no, she won’t allow that to happen fully. Too dangerous and unpredictable for that. 

As you drain the bottle of water, disgustingly warm from where it has been left to cook, she gently passes a towel over your forehead, dabbing the sweat. “Gross,” she says but does it anyway, using the same towel for herself before folding it neatly and dropping it to the floor. A useless action as it unravels but she does it with intention, a snide comment about caring for one’s possessions. 

“This sucks,” you tell her decidedly, licking your lips. The bottle bounces on the grass from the force of your throw. 

“I thought you loved football?” 

“Not this much.” Your shrug makes her jaw tense, veins throbbing. She probably has a headache now – her brain rebels against this kind of slander, as incomprehensible as a made-up language. Nonsense all the same. “I mean, I do like it. It’s my job.” This is prodding the beast and the beast is growling quietly, staring at you with fire in her eyes, and she looks like she might hit you but she won’t. “Football brought me you.”

She smiles at that. 

Now is the time to ask. “So, can we go home now?”

Later, in the shower, Alexia’s lips on your neck, hands skimming down your hips, something so good about this feeling despite the deep ache in your muscles and the soreness in your bones. The water is too hot – the only thing cold about Alexia being Alexia herself, always needs to be burning up to compensate, always needs external warmth – and there is so much steam, enough to make your vision hazy. It’s good for recovery. The time passes quickly with Alexia, anyway. 

Then she has a meeting and she makes you sit to the side of her, not on camera but very much present, a shadow ready to learn. You’re yawning, sighing, rubbing your eyes, and that’s annoying, of course, because it takes a certain level of petulance to seem so apathetic about something so important. Can’t fuck a teacher and have fun all the time, you suppose. Teachers have to teach. She doesn’t seem to care much when you pull out your phone, scrolling through the text messages that sprouted in the early afternoon (when your other teammates had woken up). With a grumble of jealousy, you read through the group chat you have. You, Vicky, Salma, Jana, Kika. Jana could leave the club but couldn’t bring herself to leave the chat. Ever the comedian, she replies with a thumbs down to the invitation to a bar tonight. 

You consider Salma’s request, eyes flicking over to where Alexia frowns at her agent, arguing that no one cares if she does a campaign for juice and that filming an advert in Madrid will take time out of her training schedule. A static memory of being promised dinner and a movie tonight. Maybe it came yesterday? After the match? 

The thudding close of the laptop makes you jump. 

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Alexia murmurs, groaning. You stroke a hand down her shoulder. She pushes it off, then takes that same hand into her palms, holding it in her lap. “I’m sick to death of his bullshit. I think we should switch agencies.” Her decision to make.

… 

It’s your first season at Barça. 2023. Every time you swallow there is pride at the back of your throat. Guilt, too. You still haven’t worked out whether this has been a meritocracy – haven’t yet decided if that even exists – or if it had been your stepfather, wrought with grief for the life he interrupted and trying to repent. He’s not an unkind man. He is just not yours; neither are you his.

The city is just how you remember it. Barcelona is a city of ghosts – your own and not, some just wandering aimlessly until their gruesome place in history is forgotten and something is rebuilt on the ruins of their memory. 

You’re not alone, which is a feeling that is almost new, almost foreign. In America you were exotic. In Germany you were unusual. In Valencia you had been temporary, liminal, cautiously held onto with a bit more effort than normal from the club because they had known you were too good for them. It didn’t take much for that resolve to be bought out, though. Put a price on a name and it’s yours. Barça can do that. 

Barça is a giant. 

Jana nudges your shoulder as you hesitate at the polished door of the training facility. Birds fly into glass doors because they see the reflection of the sky. They see the promise of comfort and freedom and then they die. You wonder how many have hit this one, unaware and instantly dead – it’s a morbid thought. You shake it from your head. 

“What? You’re nervous?” Jana asks, reaching disbelief before remembering for as much as she thinks she knows you and counts you as another product of her club, she doesn’t and you are not. A weird twist of fate. It feels almost unnatural for that to have been the case. Wrong in all senses of the universe. Her voice softens, “you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough.” 

“I know that I am good enough,” you reply without arrogance. A fact. You have looked at your highlight reel, at the profile your agent distributes, and you are humble but not in denial.

“Come on,” she says. “You can’t be late on your first day.” 

…

You’re lounging around, letting the sun fall westwards in the sky. The sofa is soft under your bare legs. Alexia is on her laptop, scrolling through emails. 

A thought occurs: “what if I don’t want to move agencies?” 

Her head turns, just slightly, tension in her jaw. Her fingers don’t stop swiping the touchpad. So many emails – so many people wanting a piece of her. 

“Like, I don’t know, why are we even moving? And why do I have to move as well?” 

Her fingers stop. 

The room feels different now. Not colder, because it’s still warm from the blaze of the midday sun, but tighter, like the air has begun to seep out into nothingness. This apartment is laced with trigger wires. There are so many of them but they are almost invisible, and it is easy to forget that they exist. But they do exist. You’ve just tripped one.  

“You don’t have to do anything,” Alexia says carefully. She has decided you’re wrong and she’s trying to figure out how to express it without this blowing up. You don’t like being told you’re wrong. She doesn’t like being disagreed with. Things are good when they’re good but life doesn’t work that way, does it? “You can stay with an agency that treats you like shit.” 

The thing with Alexia is that she is made vulnerable by her love for you. Loving someone gives them the capacity to see you at your worst – to know that side of you – and once the ugliness is exposed, it is hard to shove it all back down. 

She wants to be subtle but she cannot. She doesn’t understand why you are pushing back. 

“They’ve done so much for you, Ale,” you remind her. “And they got me that Nike contract.” 

“I got you that Nike contract.” Nepotism there. 

“They got you the contract, then,” you say, not giving up. Your legs have prickled and the sofa no longer feels so safe. It’s always scary delving into the time before Alexia was la Reina. She’s not accessible to you in that way, a part of herself that she has shut off, as if it is wrong to think about her being anything but what she is now. “Why do you always make me follow you around?” 

The question hangs there. You hadn’t meant for it to sound like it did, like she had picked you up and held on tight and pulled you along with her. It’s not cruel but it’s a sensitive topic for her. It falls under the jurisdiction of the Age Gap. Not uncharted waters but a Bermuda Triangle of sorts, in that anything that ventures there gets mysteriously lost along the way. 

You watch her face for a reaction. 

She gives you nothing. 

“I thought we’d discussed this,” she says, closing the laptop with a soft click. She sets it on the coffee table beside your empty Redbull can, turning to face you properly. Her knee brushes yours and you don’t move away, magnetised by the contact even if you can feel the argument brewing. Better soak up what you can get now before one of you storms off. “Your contract is up for renewal next summer. The club is in debt. If you want to negotiate a better salary you’d be at risk of them selling you. Or pulling out of all future plans with you.” She can’t say the same for herself. Alexia plays a game of chicken with Barça and it’s clear she is not the bird. “I want you to have an agency capable of doing that. I want them to keep you here.” 

“What about what I want?” 

She raises an eyebrow. A reaction, at least. 

It sends a jolt of fear down your spine. Or, no, not fear, but shame. Shame to have even entertained the thought. You cast your mind to Jana, exiled in London, eager to come back and that is what makes Alexia proud: she is dedicated to a club that couldn’t even find a spare euro to keep her home. You want her to be proud of you like that. 

“You’re starting almost every match.” 

“I’ve been looking at other leagues.” 

“Other leagues don’t have Barça.” 

You watch her carefully, examining the threatened look she is fighting off. This is her legacy slowly slipping away from her. “Barça doesn’t have competition.” 

Her jaw tightens at that complaint. It’s one that never fails to annoy her. It’s something that she’s been asked about in the media and even then she can’t keep her irritation at bay. What a stupid notion. A pedestal and an insult to come with it. 

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, confused. Disappointed, maybe. 

“Doing what?” A shoddy defense. You always tremble. You always need to warm up to the sport of arguing with Alexia. You can see the darkness cloud her face as she gets moodier by the second. 

“This.” She gestures between you, a small and frustrated motion. “You’ve been off all day. You’ve been somewhere else and now you’re picking a fight about something you’ve never even mentioned before.” 

“I’m not picking a fight.” 

“You are.” 

“Maybe I just don’t want to be told what to do.” 

She laughs, then. Actually laughs. “Mentira.” The venom comes out with endearment. She has heard this before, has let you have this tantrum. Sometimes she wonders how so much talent fits in your body and how there is any room left for petulance. It makes no sense.

“I don’t, Ale,” you protest, lowering your voice in the hope of giving yourself some kind of credibility. She’s not taking you seriously anymore though. Frustration itches at your fingers. “You always assume what I want. You’re so fucking controlling.” 

“You lack discipline,” she fires back without missing a beat. She knows this scene, knows these lines, and it’s getting a bit old but what can she do? Sacrifices must be made. Someone would have done it for her. (Not true because Alexia never was this unruly as a teenager, never had the luxury of being so, but she is generous for the sake of it.) 

“I don’t need to be disciplined. You’re not my prison warden – you’re my girlfriend.” 

“And I love you, and I care about you, and someone needs to be there to keep you focused.” 

“Focused on what?” You cross your arms, leaning into the grumpiness of adolescence. You’ve been demoted to that already. 

“Your career. The one you’re about to see go swirling down the drain by ignoring my advice. But if that’s what you want…” 

“This is over a juice,” you say all of a sudden, sitting up. You’re glaring and she’s glaring back. Her cheeks are flushed and the heat is oppressive and the air conditioning should have turned on but hasn’t. You need to get out of here. You need to gain perspective. You need to figure out what you want and who you are. You need Alexia, really, to guide you in that but you can’t have her do that because of right now and this argument. “They want you to do a brand deal with a juice company and you don’t like it so you’re firing them. That’s so unlike you. You’re so understanding. You’re so nice! This is over a juice, Ale.” 

She doesn’t move but you can see her legs twitching, wanting to take her somewhere else. Sometimes it’s like that when you argue – a heady, unsatisfying almost-fight that leaves you both miserable and uncomfortable. There is no catharsis in that. 

“It’s over a distraction,” she says. Her voice is firm. She wants you to see where she is coming from, and while she is a little impatient that you haven’t yet caught up, maybe there is a teaching moment buried somewhere in all this. “It’s not the juice. I know it’s a triangle, sport-sponsorship-media, but come on, don’t you see? What could be wrong with it?” 

You pause. “Filming in Madrid? You’d miss training?” 

“I can’t miss training, can I? Not for an ad.” 

“You could train in Madrid.” 

“But then who would keep an eye on you in drills, eh?” She means to make a joke. You look at her and see the truth in her eyes. 

…

Alexia doesn’t know why she can’t get the thought of you out of her head. She closes her eyes and sees sweat rolling down your neck, down into your collar, as you squat in the gym. 

She doesn’t stop thinking about last season. You, drunk, in her car. In her home. In her bed. 

It’s not clear whether this obsession is the groundwork for her usual fixation. She thought about Pina lots when she mentored her, constantly going over things to tell her in her head, always watching clips of her and analysing each and every mistake. And with Jana, she spoke to her, never stopped speaking to her. She wanted them to be the best and it seemed to work. 

A few months into the season, you already own most of Alexia’s attention. She watches you in drills, she watches you in the gym, she’s always correcting. She’s always thinking about it. She’s always there, beside you. 

Irene is the only one who is brave enough to warn her. It comes after dinner at hers. Mateo is in bed and Lucía doesn’t really want help cleaning up in the kitchen – even if she did, she can see on her wife’s face that there are other priorities tonight. 

The sofa in the living room is soft (until one finds a stray Duplo block or a figurine) and Alexia lets it swallow her up, sinking back into it under the wash of her singular glass of wine. She imagines the alcohol seeping into her blood. She remembers your hands on the window of the taxi. 

“She’s not like the others,” Irene says. It’s what she chooses because she thinks the best way to lure Alexia into this conversation will be to take her by surprise. 

Alexia nods, something professional overtaking her expression, a mask that covers entirely unprofessional feelings. “Incredible. She’s so talented and she hardly works for it. Lets it flow to her naturally. No discipline at all.” 

Irene doesn’t respond immediately. The silence stretches. Lucía drops a fork in the sink and clatters, metal against metal. Somewhere upstairs, Mateo is sleeping. Alexia swallows down the domesticity with a sip of water to calm her growing unease. 

“You’re not listening to me,” the defender says finally. 

“I’m listening,” comes Alexia’s instant response.

“You’re hearing words. You’re not listening.” Irene shifts on the sofa, tucking one leg beneath her. She tries to make it seem casual but the way her gaze is fixed on Alexia exposes it for what it really is. “I’ve known you for a long time, Ale. I’ve seen you be a referente – perfect for them. Inspiring. A good leader. A captain who cares and pushes and wants them to be great.” 

A surge of pride rushes through her. She’s humble, yes, but some things do get her, do stick with her more. Her success rate as a captain-coach is one of them. But Irene’s hesitation makes her wary. She wants to get defensive. She wants to leave before a topic is broached that she has no interest in explaining to anyone but herself. 

“And?” 

“And this is different, Ale.” Her voice comes more gently now, soothing the wound. Alexia can’t look at her. She focuses on the title of a book on the table instead. Travesuras de la Niña Mala. She’s never heard of it. Didn’t pay enough attention in school to know. “There’s a difference between mentoring someone and… fixating on them.”

“Fixating.” The word feels foreign. It doesn’t belong in her mouth. 

“What else would you call it?” 

“I call it doing my job.” The job past playing and passing and scoring. The one where an armband is both power and powerlessness. How can elastic change everything? “I’m not doing anything wrong.” 

Irene nods, as if her agreement is so lacking that she must physically compensate. She won’t mention how the others have started to notice. There is a time and a place for these things and Alexia’s already unsettled. She won’t poke the bear when the bear is already on the brink of anger. “But she comes over, doesn’t she? She has dinner with you.”

“We talk about football.” 

“I don’t doubt that.” 

“And I…” She’s not sure if she wants to confess her non-crimes. She has never done anything. She has never acted on it, never let it manifest past a fantasy in her mind. “I’m not going to do it. I’m trying not to.” 

She fights the desire to run right out the door, away from this conversation, staying until Lucía says, “don’t you guys have an early meeting tomorrow?” In her head, she wins because of that. 

When she gets home, infected by your youth, she is subjected to twenty minutes of scrolling on her phone, bum going numb on the toilet as she is thrown down your rabbit hole of Tiktoks. So many videos. She watches them all.

how was dinner? is the message that awaits her like a prize at the bottom of the seemingly endless links. 

She replies: It was good. I just got back. 

You open the message and begin to type something. She shouldn’t be surprised – you’re always on your phone, addicted to the thing like its crack and you need it to feel. 

it’s late capi q mal ejemplo das

Laughter bubbles out of her. The action reminds her to get a move on with her night routine. She’s soon in bed, stretching out in a space meant for two (ignores how lonely that makes her feel sometimes), still texting. 

Her phone rests against her stomach, the screen lighting up her face in the dark. She’s constructing a response to a stupid emoji you’ve sent, typing out something to reestablish her authority, but then your message comes through first. 

no duermes nunca o qué

Alexia huffs softly, shifting onto her side, pulling the duvet up higher like it might somehow steady her.

Soy tu capitana, I’ve got to make sure you’re getting enough rest

The reply is instant. 

mentira. estás despierta x mi

She stills.

It’s ridiculous. Cocky. Too sure of itself. Exactly the kind of thing she should shut down immediately. But her thumb hovers. 

Qué confianza tienes, she types back. It’s safer, lighter, an attempt to steer it somewhere less dangerous. 

There’s a pause this time. Longer. She imagines you smirking at your screen, stretched out wherever you are, probably still half dressed from training today, hair a mess and your skin still warm. She wonders briefly what you do of an evening. Whether you visit your mother. Or go out. No – she knows you do go out, whenever it suits you, but you would have told her if that had been the case tonight. Another thing to add to the pretense of professionalism. 

don’t pretend that you don’t think about me

She reads the message twice and realises that she has no one left to lie to other than herself. Deep down, she regrets recommending you to be scouted. Further, there is a part of her that is deeply satisfied by the result. 

…

The argument stagnates when Alexia puts an old match on the TV. It’s new, this TV, because she’d broken the last one when you’d been playing two-touch together and the game got too competitive. It’s so big that you have no other option but to watch.

She keeps on pausing the footage just before you score. The build-up plays in reverse as she drags you back through the passes it took. She counts, calmly, and then makes you identify the most important player. 

Her, of course. She touches the ball five times before it’s slotted through the defence to find your feet.

“Do you see?” she asks, her voice still carrying the edge from earlier but now smoothed over with a sheen of authority. It’s so settled into her being that it is hard to separate it from her normal self. Sometimes she looks in the mirror and she doesn’t know if she can see Alexia behind the hardened exterior of la reina. Sometimes it’s why she needs you the most – for all your insubordination, at least you remind her that she is just a human. “The goal starts here, with me. Not you.” 

You nod. The tension hasn’t gone anywhere. You feel as if you’re watching a forest fire. You can feel its heat, can see the flames, but it’s not close enough for you to be scared. 

If it had been up to you, you wouldn’t be sitting in purgatory. But Alexia has decided that the argument is over and Alexia usually gets what she wants. 

She pauses the frame again. Your body is frozen mid-stride, arm raised to receive the pass. The way you have scraped your hair back into a ponytail makes your face look tighter, younger. 

“Watch it again,” she says. 

“I’ve watched it five times.” You let out a loud sigh. She doesn’t look at you. 

Her disinterest sparks a challenge. You could just storm off and tell her what you think of watching even more football on your one free day from its clutches. You could respond to the friends who have messaged with questions about bars and clubs tonight. Or you could get revenge. 

The third option is always the most alluring. 

Alexia is sitting on the edge of the sofa, the remote in one hand, her posture rigid. You move. You push her chest back. You swing a leg over her hips and settle into her lap, straddling her. Her thighs are tense as your knees brush their sides, sinking into the cushions of the sofa. 

Her breath hitches. Just barely. You smirk, because it’s nice to have an effect on her. 

But her gaze stays fixed on the television, on your frozen body on the screen. Must be weird to see something and feel something all at once – both the same and different, frozen and burning hot. 

“Did you need something?” she asks. Her voice is deliberate and steady. You almost laugh.

She doesn’t touch you as you settle deeper into her lap, although her hands twitch at her sides. On the plus, she isn’t pushing you away. Back when you first did this – years ago now – she would have tipped you off, told you to behave. Maybe she has since learned that it is hard to force you into obedience. 

The remote is still in her hand. She clicks play. 

The footage resumes. The pass arcs through the air and, on screen, you control it with your left foot (your weaker foot, the one she’s been forcing you to train), and boot it into the corner of the net. The goalkeeper had no chance. Probably shat herself when she saw you coming, anyway. 

“Good goal,” Alexia does concede. She doesn’t yet drop her gaze from the pixels. Even if the real deal is right here, waiting for her. Some things will always take precedence. 

Your hands find her shoulders. You can feel the tension there, the hard knot of muscle beneath her hoodie tender as you dig your fingers in. She flinches, just slightly. 

“Ale.” 

“Watch the replay.” She clicks the remote. The goal reverses, your body moving backwards, the ball returning to her feet.

You don’t watch. You lean in, close enough that your lips brush the shell of her ear. “I don’t give a fuck about the replay.”

“You should. Your first touch was terrible.” 

“It wasn’t, though.” 

She pauses it. Her free hand spreads out against your back. “Could’ve been better.” 

“You could’ve passed earlier and I would have been more ready,” you counter, not needing to have watched anything because you remember every assist Alexia has ever gifted you. You have a good memory like that. 

“You weren’t free.” 

“I was.” 

Her hand presses harder into your spine. She smiles, rolling her eyes. “You’re free about thirty percent of the time. The other instances are just you being cocky enough to think you can get past the defender.” 

“Which I can.” 

“Qué arrogante eres.” 

“¿Y tú qué? ¿La más humilde?” You hum, as if it requires any thought. Also unforgettable: sex with Alexia. “You like me to fuck you like you’re a goddess.”

Her hand stills against your spine. The remote hangs loose, dangling from her other side. 

She’s blushing. She hates it when you’re crass. 

“Shy?” you tease as her eyes run from yours and try to focus on a screen that isn’t playing anything. “Where did all that captain's bravado go?” 

“You can’t even focus,” she mutters, as if she’s annoyed. She probably still is. She’ll hold the grudge of the juice and the agent for a while, and she hasn’t even begun to process the thought of you going to a different team. No, that was instantly discarded – not even something to be considered. It won’t happen. Alexia gets what she wants and what she wants is for you to stay with her, after her, and then she won’t feel so far from playing when the r-word becomes her reality. 

When you open your mouth for your next retort, you’re shocked to find Alexia’s lips covering the space your sound would have filled. Her grip tightens on your hips, both hands there now, and she pulls you closer, tongue sliding against yours. Naturally, you grind down and the remote clatters to the floor as she gets infected by your lack of fucks for how many times the number eleven must be praised for being the greatest midfielder alive. 

This is still a fight. It doesn’t take many therapists to agree that the bedroom (as a concept, not a place) is a popular battleground. And if it is, you’re glad to be fighting somewhere mythical, like Troy, with a goddess as your enemy. Sing of the wrath of Alexia. 

…

Alexia’s body is a furnace beside yours. It’s so hot that the sweat has stuck to your skin and you can’t ignore it even though she has moved to the edge of the bed. Your fingertips trace the wrinkled sheet in the gap. 

It’s been an hour. She has granted you an hour of dignity but you can feel her working up the courage to kick you out. You’re not an idiot – you knew you wouldn’t be staying the night. 

You’re surprised that she caved this early. 

It has been four months of unrelenting attention; extra sessions on the weekends, low conversations over the phone when she can’t sleep and needs someone to distract her from the constant ache in her chest. She deletes your text thread every other week, just out of fear. 

Tonight it seems that Alexia stopped caring. Just for a moment. Just long enough to tell you to come over under the pretence of showing you her trophies, which you’d been begging her for. 

She slings her arm over her face in embarrassment. So weak, she thinks.

You turn over to look at her and even in the darkness you can see the hard curve of muscle, toned from so much training at the World Cup and the Champions League before that. It’s the kind of stuff she can never shed, so deeply carved into her being, as good as marble or stone on a sculpture. Eternal, in that sense. Some things about Alexia, about football and Alexia, will never, ever die. 

You reach out, wanting to touch her even more, addicted to what she has let you do to her. It will never be enough, now. You’ve had a taste. 

The thought pounds in her mind: enough. 

“I should take you home.” Her voice is strange and flat. Post-sex tiredness isn’t an excuse for it. You’ve stripped away her armour. It’s an achievement but now she is at her most vulnerable. 

And so are you. Not that you care. 

“It’s 3AM.” 

“I know.” A light blooms on her bedside table as the sheets rustle, falling down her torso as she sits up. You look and then look away. She pulls on the t-shirt she’d taken off hours before, as if that will rewind the clock. Sighing, “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you apologising?” you ask, but you feel small and childish and now, with Alexia moving about and undoing everything that has just happened, you want nothing more than to just disappear. She has that effect: she makes you feel invincible, she makes you feel defeated. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, as if that is a good explanation. When you next allow yourself to look at her, she has your clothes gathered in her hands. 

She leaves the room as you redress. 

When she comes back, you are prepared for the inevitable. But you can’t let it go. 

“Do you regret it?” You smirk. You can’t help yourself. “I’ve been told that I’m quite good.” 

She raises her eyebrows. 

You scoff. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself, capi.” 

Better than any medal is the achievement of unravelling Alexia Putellas. Someone so untouchable, unreachable, now raised up higher but not as far away. You’ll be proud of that, always. Making Alexia come. Making her feel good. It’ll be the death of you, you’re sure.

“I’ve had better,” she says, a singular engagement in your cockiness. She wants to make it clear that you have a lot to learn. You’re young. That’s the point of being young. 

“I bet I’m up there, though. Or…” You’re overstaying your welcome now, because she begins to gently herd you to the door. “Ale, how many people have you slept with?” 

“I thought I told you.” At times, she has to admit the content of your text exchanges. It’s not all professional. She’s no liar. 

“Yeah, but, like, that was a month ago.” 

You reach the door. She checks her phone; there’s an Uber waiting outside the building for you.

It’s natural for her to want to minimise the duration of her embarrassment. It’s logical. 

You down a drink at Salma’s. You arrive late but no one is leaving for the club for a while anyway. You smile and laugh when it’s required. 

You roll your eyes when Kika says, “no Alexia?” As if Alexia would be coming. 

The non-reaction makes the chaos of pre-drinks constrict for just a moment. It’s as if all conversation stops and everyone is looking at you. Your lack of insult is alarming. 

You drink more. It makes it easier to not think about the shouting and the screaming. Warfare is not foreign. Fighting sometimes feels like love more than love itself with you and Alexia. You shake your head and try to make the rubble settle in your mind. 

You drink more. 

You’re at the club now, not sure how the hours merged so easily. Or maybe you are, because you don’t feel like you’re really here. Something has been severed. You don’t know what. 

Each pulse of the music reminds you of a detonating bomb. 

“You’re fucking sick. Sick in the head.” You throw a plate. It flies into the corner of the kitchen island and smashes on impact. It’s nowhere near her. The problem about fighting as footballers is that you’re not as good with your arms. “It’s parasitic and you know it’s wrong and that’s why you can’t live with yourself. You’re poisoning yourself. It’s you!” 

There are so many bodies on the dance floor. Barcelona may be flooded with tourists but at least that means that you can be carried away by the current. You let yourself drift in the sea of people, eyes trained on the distinctive red top Cata’s wearing until you decide that you don’t care. You can take care of yourself. 

Blinded by a flash of green light, you surge forwards in time to the beat. It’s not intentional. A group of men are pushing up behind you. 

You can feel their sweaty skin dampen your own. You recoil and that sends you into someone else. 

“I’m sick?!” She’s roaring and fire would come out of that mouth if it were possible. She’s angry about the plate, too. It’s hers, after all. Everything in this place is hers. What a show of disrespect. “What are you, huh? What? Fucking attention-starved! What a brat. One thing doesn’t go your way and you’re throwing a tantrum like you’re a baby. When are you going to fucking grow up?” 

“I am grown up!” 

“Look at you. Why are you crying?” You rub your hands over your eyes ferociously. She’s not asking because she’s concerned. It’s a taunt. 

“At least I can feel something, Alexia. At least I don’t pretend I’m no longer human. You’re immortal, are you? You’re different?” You’re holding another plate. You don’t know where it comes from. There are no thoughts other than blind rage now. “If this hit you, would you even bleed?” 

A hand clasps your shoulder. You glance down and familiar rings catch the light. The body invades what space you had remaining in your possession. 

“Stop running away from me,” Salma says, laughing. “I’m the one who made these plans.” You have no idea how she has found you in the crowd but you’re indifferent to her presence. “And I believe you owe me a dance, seeing as you disappeared from our celebrations after the match.” Her lips press closer to your ear; she wants to be heard; “with Ale.” 

The match is a distant memory. Yesterday. So far away.

Salma’s hips sway and grind along with the rest of the bodies. More of your teammates join, landmarks becoming easier as the group grows. This isn’t anything new. Partying has always been popular. Celebrating is mandatory. One must know the elation of victory, must grow addicted to that drug, to ensure that they never fail to let that go. (Not an Alexia teaching, but a club belief all the same.) 

Someone grips your hips and pulls you into them. It’s platonic. Not friendly, but not something that has meaning. It’s not worth assigning meaning to this, anyway, because they’re all too scared of the consequences they would face. For however alluring you can be, you have always been clearly off-limits.

She does bleed, you discover. 

Both of you stare at the beads of red blossoming at her temple. A shard from the chandelier had got her when your next plate had been hurled at it. Her fingers press the wound and more blood comes, staining her skin. 

“When did you become such a monster?” she asks, scoffing. It feels like a case study. Or the moments preceding the use of a straitjacket. 

You feel unbound. You feel crazy. “What does that make you?” 

“Evidently not a monster-tamer.” She wipes her temple again but it only smears the blood. It has begun to drip down her face. She almost snarls.

“Yet another thing you’ve failed at, Ale.” 

There’s more laughing in your ear. This time it’s Kika, because she’s the bravest of them all. Her finger prods your neck and it’s sore. You should wince but your body doesn’t react to the pain. 

“I see you and la capi have been enjoying yourselves.” Even in the haze of vapes and dry ice you can see her raised eyebrows and her smirk. Always teasing. 

You snort. “‘Enjoying’ is certainly one way to describe it.” The hickey has lasted longer than anyone’s good mood today. It must be slightly purple by now, but that’s the only sign of rot. Some actions get immortalised. Like Pompeii: just because everyone is screaming in fear now doesn’t mean they always had been. Alexia has hickeys all over her chest and a gash on her forehead. Maybe that’s more reflective of how you’ve been spending the day off. 

For all the brutal parts of her, at least you have come out of the house unscathed. Marked in a different way. Marked by the hickey, yes, but not by her anger. Not in a way that anyone else can see. Alexia is careful like that. 

“I’m surprised she let you come out with us,” Kika says. 

You pretend not to hear. 

Your hand clasps hers where it has taken hold of your arm and you pull yourself out of her grip. 

“I’ll be back,” you tell her. She can’t really do anything but nod as you slip away yet again. 

Bodies part as you shoulder past. The air is thicker the deeper you sink into the crowd and you breathe it in, imagining black lungs and a hoarse voice and activities you wish you could partake in. So much bravado, so much rebellion, but when you did you last smoke a cigarette? Some rules are hard to break. Some smells are hard to mask. 

You’re focused. You don’t know the object of such determination but your ears begin to block and your eyes blur. It’s almost like a meditative state. Wedged between wetness from t-shirts and spilled drinks, you inhale deeply. 

When your eyes open once more, there is a hand in your face (so many fucking hands everywhere all at once). It beckons towards you. 

It’s as if you’re being reeled in. 

You lean down so that glossy lips can reach your ear. 

“Hi,” she breathes. “I’m Carla.” The next stage of her introduction is to interlace your fingers and have you spin her around until she’s grinding back into you. 

…

Patri finds out on an unsuspecting Wednesday that her captain is fucking the new signing. It’s not the best reward for deciding to come in early for once. She had been expecting a pat on the back. She had not apprehended seeing Alexia half-naked and in a compromising position the moment she walked into the changing room. 

It’s safe to say she swiftly walks back out. 

To her credit, she bottles it inside of her. Alexia doesn’t bring it up. You at least have the decorum to avoid eye contact for the rest of the week. 

Patri likes to gossip, well-versed in the chisme of such a close-knit environment, but there’s only one person she can really take this piece of information to. And her window for this conversation is brief. Yes, it’s urgent, but Irene probably does have bigger concerns than the terrible decisions Alexia is currently making. 

“Can this wait, Patri?” The defender sounds tired. She is tired. Her family is waiting for her inside the car. She wants to get out of this carpark and go home, and getting into that Cupra is the first step towards that, but there has been an unforeseen delay, apparently. “I’ve got plans tonight.” 

The midfielder can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. “What plans?” she asks, momentarily distracted. 

“Plans with my sofa and kids’ cartoons.” Irene sighs. Pinches her nose, because Patri is quite an empathetic and understanding person and most of her teammates know that evenings are sacred for Irene and that she shouldn’t be disturbed if it can be helped once training is over for the day. Training is certainly over – aside from a few other cars, Irene’s is the only one left in the carpark. Her wife is undoubtedly regretting the offer to pick her up now, she thinks. “Just… spit it out. If it’s that important.” 

Patri takes a deep breath, sucking in the whole of Barcelona. 

“I caught them. They’re fucking.” 

She doesn’t need to name the perpetrators. 

Irene is silent for a long moment. Long enough that Patri begins to wonder if she has misheard, or if the defender is waiting for the prank to be over and the laughter to break out. 

But Patri isn’t joking and Irene knows that. 

“How long have you known?” Irene asks finally. Her voice is careful. Measured. Her calmness is an instant indicator that she had suspected something was happening. Irene would trust Alexia with many things. Herself is not one of them. 

“A week.” Patri swallows, catches the memory in her clenched fist, feels the residual awkwardness flaring in her cheeks. Despite having witnessed Alexia’s relationship with Jenni, after everything that had happened since then – after the death of the old friend she had because of that cursed ligament – it had been shocking to see Alexia so exposed. So vulnerable. They’re close, Patri and Alexia, but Patri had thought some parts of her fellow midfielder had been permanently closed off. “Since Wednesday. Yeah, a week.” 

“And you didn’t think to mention it sooner?” 

“I didn’t know what to say!” Patri’s voice rises despite herself. She glances around the carpark, then lowers it again. “I don’t even know what I saw. I mean, I know what I saw. But it’s Alexia. And it’s her.” She doesn’t use your name. It feels too exposing. It feels like sensitive information. It’s exactly why she’s keeping Irene from her family time when everyone else has already gone home just to have a conversation about it. 

“Well…” Irene starts. She’s at a loss. She isn’t head of HR; she hasn’t been trained in this. “Well then,” is what she settles on. Patri lets out a strangled sound of surprise. “I won’t lie to you. I had seen this coming. I tried to speak to Ale about it and she shut that down and that’s how I knew it was inevitable.” 

The defender is seemingly at peace with it. 

Patri wants to scream. “Shouldn’t we do something about it?” she asks, hoping to access the Basque woman’s infinite wisdom. 

As Irene sighs once more, she tilts her head back to look at clouds in the sky. They haven’t even made it out of winter yet. She had hoped Alexia would have more resolve. 

“What would you have me do, Patri?” she asks, not unkindly. “Go to Jonatan? Tell him his captain is sleeping with a younger player? He’d laugh in my face. He’s gunning for a perfect season – the quadruple. Alexia’s drama just needs to be contained. If Jona does find out, then what? We lose Alexia? We lose our new talent and have the talent lose all the guidance Alexia is going to give her? The club is in debt. The last thing we need is a distraction to make things worse.” 

Achingly, while Irene’s words are in-line with Patri’s beliefs, the younger woman can tell that they are not on the same page. Frustration bubbles within the latter. “There has to be something. A conversation, a rule… a look that says ‘what the fuck are you doing?’”

“Oh, I gave her the look.” 

“Clearly you didn’t look at her hard enough!”

Patri reels herself in after that, taking a deep breath. This isn’t Irene’s fault. She hopes that her acknowledgement of that brings her some sort of ease but it doesn’t and she’s pacing, rubbing away at the white lines that divide the parking grid. 

“I don’t understand. Alexia is Alexia. She’s the one who lectures us about professionalism. She’s the most dedicated athlete I know! And she’s–” She flaps a hand, unable to finish. 

“When did you become so naïve?” Irene asks. 

The question lands like a slap. Patri stops pacing. 

“No, sorry – I’m not trying to be cruel,” comes the quick addition upon seeing her teammate’s face. “I’m asking. Seriously. When did you start believing that Alexia Putellas is above wanting something for herself? Above being selfish?” 

Patri opens her mouth and finds that she has to close it. 

She doesn’t know. 

“We’re all human,” Irene continues. “Alexia has spent her whole life being exceptional, worshipped and singled out and praised. She’s carried it on her shoulders. She carries most of it, Patri. If not all.” They suffer the same guilt about that. Nothing has seemed to lighten the burden – it’s one that cannot be shared. “She’s not young anymore. She knows what’s coming. And here’s this kid who reminds her of everything she used to be. Everything she’s about to lose.” 

But, Patri wants to argue, Alexia is far from retirement. Alexia will play until they have to drag her off the pitch. Until they have to create a rule forbidding geriatric patients to be substitutes. It feels so distant that it’s unfathomable. Yet it’s not. The day will come. It gets closer even now, as they speak. 

“But now if they’re… if they’re involved, it’s not about football anymore,” Patri says, because that’s where her concern really lies. There’s a word for this. Grooming. 

“She wants a legacy.” 

“She can’t just decide to fuck the younger version of herself.” 

Irene pushes off the car, offering an apologetic smile to her wife when she catches her eye through the window, and gets closer to Patri. The defender has thought about this a lot – has felt the need to, obviously, because someone must be responsible. That is why she has been able to act with composure. A few weeks ago, she had been tossing and turning in bed over it. 

“There’s nothing technically wrong with it. We may call her a kid but the kid’s a consenting adult. Alexia may be in a position of power but the captaincy isn’t elevated enough for it to go against the regulations. Obviously, with normal relationships, the relevant people would have to be informed. I doubt that’s going to happen. But we know.”

“It’s morally wrong to watch your friend take advantage of a wide-eyed youngster.” 

Irene shrugs. “The kid’s got fire. She gives as good as she gets, I reckon.” 

“You’ve convinced yourself it’s fine,” Patri accuses, betrayed. 

“As far as we know, right now it is.”

Irene thinks of her wife and her son and what they’re going to eat tonight for dinner. She recalls promising ice cream to a toddler who has a memory of concerning sharpness. 

“I have to go,” she says, and it comes out heavier than she intended. It’s an apology. She wishes things could be different, too. 

Patri doesn’t move, can’t even bring herself to nod, just stands there with her arms crossed and her jaw tight, watching Irene open the car door. There’s a gleeful squeal from the backseat. She can hear Lucía complain. Before Irene closes the door, she cranes her neck, pokes out just slightly, as if she’s going to say something else. She doesn’t. 

The family drives off. 

Patri is alone. 

She stands there for a long time, enough for her feet to go slightly numb beneath her and for her training bag to cut into the flesh of her sore shoulders. The silence is enormous. It’s usually so peaceful but tonight the midfielder is unsure whether she will ever feel so at ease in this place again. 

Eventually, she walks to her own car and gets in. She doesn’t bother turning on the engine because she isn’t planning to go anywhere just yet. It’s almost cruel to make herself drown in thought but she feels she must. If she is going to agree to the laissez-faire policy Irene has come up with, she must consider everything. And she doesn’t want to taint her home with that. 

She closes her eyes. 

When they open, she sees two figures emerge from the training facility. They speak, standing close together, until one reaches out to hug the other. The recipient doesn’t fulfill their end of the bargain. 

The figures part ways. 

Patri sees Alexia’s car light up a few rows in front of her. 

…

Once upon a time, Alexia had marvelled at having two sets of plates; one for everyday use and the other something much more special, custom made and one-of-a-kind. The latter had been a gift from Nike. An odd gift but something that made it click that her life would never return to how it had been. 

She sits with her knees pulled into her chest, among the broken pieces of ceramic. They will be difficult to replace. She won’t be able to ask Nike for more, and so if the set were to ever be complete again, she’d have to source it herself. Find a pottery designer. Find time to find a pottery designer.

But really Alexia doesn’t give a fuck about plates.

She just sits, staring at them. Sits and sits and sits until she can’t feel her legs. It’s always frightening when that happens – brings her right back to the day the old Alexia died, numb below the knee and numb inside her chest, heart beating but only pumping out dust. She tries to feel frightened, pushing her mind back to that day in the hospital, but the fear never comes. 

The floor is cold. The kitchen is silent. Fire and fury have left. They were taken with you when you stormed out. 

Wetness seeps into the collar of her t-shirt and she realises that she has been crying. Part of it is blood too. The thing about knowing this, knowing what a mess she looks like, is that it only makes her feel worse. There is no validation in her hysteria. She doesn’t want to be a victim. 

She’s not a victim. Her hatred of that word stems from fear. Fear that it will be hurled elsewhere – attached to a different person and then everyone’s career is ruined and what does she look like then? She would be exactly the monster you describe her as. 

A monster. 

Monsters don’t have guilty consciences. What villain has tossed and turned and ruminated on every bad decision, filled with regret? 

Maybe she’s a failure at that, too. A woman who can’t fulfill any other role than ‘footballer’. And now picture this: a footballer who has realised that the label is temporary. Time is slipping through her hands like sand. It dries out her throat, makes her chest tight. She can’t think past it – all roads lead back to her expiry date. She will meet that day with nothing but dread.

The doorbell rings. She hears it, which is good, because it means that she hasn’t completely descended into madness. Maybe the bar is quite high, though. She brushes the dust from the broken plates off her clothes and swipes a finger over her temple for confirmation that the blood has started to clot. The effort is pointless but once she feels she resembles composure and poise, she answers the door. 

“Hi!” 

The woman standing in the hallway is not someone Alexia recognises. She’s younger than you, definitely, and she’s impossibly blonde and far too tanned for her natural complexion. Her sloped shoulders are covered by a silk kimono that looks freshly unpacked from a trip to Japan. She’s holding a glass of wine. White. Alexia can smell it, because the stranger seemingly does not understand personal space. Or privacy. 

“Hola,” Alexia responds, not wanting an American in her business. She may live in an expensive building but she likes to think herself morally superior to the tourists who occupy the other luxury apartments. 

The woman doesn’t seem to notice she’s unwelcome. Or she doesn’t care. Like a hawk, her eyes move past Alexia, over the wall of tensed muscle that is trying to keep out this unwanted invader, and begin to catalogue what she can see. Her pinched nose twitches with suspicion. 

“I’m Tiffany,” she says, insistent on English now. “From downstairs. Well, I don’t live here but I’m looking after Ferran’s bulldog, Bruc? Ferran’s my boyfriend.” 

Alexia knows Bruc. Sweet dog. Slobbers lots. She looks Tiffany up and down and wonders how she hasn’t been crushed by the boulder of cuddliness. 

“Ferran’s away. He’s in Geneva,” continues the American, her voice squeaky as information pours out of her. If Alexia wasn’t mildly paranoid that Tiffany is an influencer, she would have already slammed the door in her face. But she can’t have the bad press. Not if Tiffany is here because of the argument. Which she is, because she says, “rough night?” 

She takes a sip of her wine and her gaze lands on Alexia’s forehead. Too young for botox, Alexia thinks, because the woman’s eyebrows manage to rise in surprise. 

“It’s late.” As if that explains it. Would prefer the rumour: Alexia Putellas hits head because she can’t see in the dark. She didn’t eat enough carrots in her childhood. Let this be a warning. 

“Hmph,” is the noise Tiffany makes. She leans against the doorframe, settling in. This might be a hostage situation. “I heard some… commotion. Earlier. From up here.” She swirls her wine. “Sounded intense.”

Alexia’s jaw tightens. “I dropped some plates.”

“Plates.”

“Sí.” 

“Must have been a lot of plates.” 

Alexia doesn’t answer that. The silence begins to stretch. An American twang swiftly fills it. 

“Right,” she says, as if she has suddenly just remembered something important. “I know your girlfriend! She’s American – I wouldn’t have…” 

“She is not American.” 

“Your girlfriend?” A fool for falling into that trap. Alexia sighs as she nods, resigning to her night somehow getting even worse. “Oh, yeah. I guess. Well, I was just thinking about how it is such a small world. I saw her leave. She was very upset. Obviously you’ve had a fight so, like, are you guys good?”

“How do you know my girlfriend?” 

Tiffany’s blue eyes glitter. She’s been waiting for this question. 

“We go way back! We went to the same school. She was three grades above me. Basically nothing, though, right? Time is fake.” 

The calculation forces its way into Alexia’s mind, numbers scraping and scratching their way inside. Doing this is always a can of worms. Best to throw it away and pretend it doesnt exist. 

She can’t help but do the maths, though. 

Tiffany is twenty-one. And she’s living with Ferran, who is forty-seven. He has an ex-wife and two children old enough to refuse to see him. And he apparently also has a girlfriend who is young enough to be his daughter. 

“Don’t do that,” Tiffany says abruptly. Alexia grimaces, mirroring the face before her. That is until Tiffany throws the expression away in favour of something much more unbothered. “I can see you doing the math and that’s gross. Yeah, he’s old and I’m not. Everyone thinks it’s weird but I don’t give a fuck about other people’s opinions.” 

“Tampoc–” 

“And I like him, you know? He’s simple. He wants, like, two things; company and a blowjob. I’m happy to oblige, and then, for my troubles, he buys me stuff. So much expensive stuff.” Alexia briefly thinks about what Tiffany’s life must have looked like. What kinds of girls surrounded you in your childhood? “Don’t judge me, Alexia. Sitting on your high horse when you’re fucking–” 

Alexia can interrupt too. 

“That’s not the same.” 

Her new friend looks entirely unconvinced. “Why? Do you love her?” It’s clear that Tiffany doesn’t believe in love. The question exists only to taunt, to mock. To make Alexia feel like a dirty peer of fucking Ferran from downstairs. “Maybe it’s different because you’re both girls. I was with a girl once but it was too messy for my liking.” A pointed gaze is thrown behind Alexia’s shoulder to where Tiffany has deduced the crime scene lies. “Men are so simple. He just wants to feel young. I sort of pity him for it.” She frowns, as if remembering she has left the dog upstairs unattended. “Anyway, I was just checking in. I get that sense that residents don’t ask many questions about what they hear, but, like, you understand. Go Rams!”

If Tiffany has any interest in an actual conversation, it isn’t made clear. Once her piece has been said she seems content to step back and let the door close on her face. Alexia is more than happy to oblige.

It doesn’t stop the shame from setting in. 

She thinks back to a night even later than this, so late it almost kissed morning, and a confession you once shared. “My mother never loved me,” you had said, and your voice was soft and childlike, so far from the aloof persona you’d carried around since signing for Barcelona. Alexia and you were past denial but this was the first breach past the surface of raw desire and need-to-know information. 

Despite her initial instinct to disprove your statement, to insist it was untrue because a mother always loves her children (her own mother had told her that), she had simply replied, “how do you know?” It was vague enough to not indulge in your self-deprication. 

“I only fuck older women.” Two things had hit Alexia at that moment: shame and, more concerningly, jealousy. You had scoffed at her expression, whatever that may have been. “It’s okay, Ale. You know, back when I was at Wolfsburg, I was with a married woman. Well, she stayed married, but I was there. I liked that she cared for me. She took care of me, which was nice. New. I’ve come to find peace in that – in my preference for it. Because what can I do? It’s not my fault my mother didn’t love me. Or maybe it was. But I’m not going to get that from her so I’ve stopped hoping for it.” 

The present hits Alexia in her chest with force. She’s crying. Without wiping her tears, she sits down at the dining table, at the head of the table as if she must assert her dominance over the empty chairs, and she decides that she will stay up until you get home. 

…

Alexia’s mother has a key. She was given a key a few years ago, when Alexia couldn’t be in Mollet but couldn’t live alone, couldn’t get up to sort herself out, living like a ghost in a warm body. She was given a key as a silent admission that help was needed. 

Although Alexia has made a full recovery from her ACL, although she can live alone again without worrying everyone else around her, she has never thought to ask her mother for that key back. Some part of her enjoys the safety net. Some part of her longs for a simpler time, as all grown-ups do, when they were young and protected in a house filled with their blood. 

The door clicks open a few minutes past eight on a Tuesday. It’s the evening. Alexia is on the sofa. You are on top of her. Your shirt is off. Her hands are under your bra. Your hands are low on her stomach, brushing the waistband of her joggers. 

She’s so wrapped up in kissing you, touching you, that she only hears her mother once you’ve jolted backwards and pushed her away. 

Alexia doesn’t move. She can’t. 

Eli raises her eyebrows. 

You land beside Alexia on the sofa as she tips you off her lap. 

“Mamá.” It comes out breathless. For however fit she may be, making out intensely always manages to make her lungs burn. “Què fas aquí?” 

“Millor me’n vaig.” Eli’s holding a bag but its contents are suddenly very unimportant. She can come back tomorrow, once she knows the coast is clear. She hates to intrude. She trusts her daughter. She can’t help but notice who her daughter is with though. 

Even if it's almost imperceptible, Alexia notices her mother’s unspoken question: what the fuck are you doing here? Because, maybe, Alexia had said she was seeing someone, mentioning it in passing when an aunt had asked a week ago and her patience had already been worn thin. And Eli had noted that information with private joy, glad to hear Alexia wasn’t buried in a pit of loneliness, and, obviously, when she had cooked extra food and thought to give it to Alexia without announcing herself, she did indeed consider the possibility of getting the chance to meet the mystery girlfriend just because it has always been hard to get Ale to share things like that. 

She leaves. Disappointment carries her off. 

“Will she tell anyone?” is all you can think to say, desperately trying to break the silence that is now gripping the both of you by the neck. If Alexia hears you, she doesn’t acknowledge it, eyes trained on the closed door as if she can see straight through it. What difference would that make, though? 

“I don’t know,” Alexia eventually replies. She hasn’t planned for it. Patri knows, Irene knows, but none of that has been within her control – almost orchestrated in a way that allows her not to confront the necessity of her actually admitting what she has gotten herself into. It is one thing to tell people she is off the market; it is another to explain how she has ended up where she has. “Maybe my sister.” Her eyes narrow but she is still looking at the door. “Why? Are you embarrassed of me?” 

You can’t help the snort that leaves you. “Me, embarrassed?” You don’t know if the moment has gone for good but you find yourself back in Alexia’s lap. “How could I be embarrassed of you?” 

She doesn’t respond. 

“If anything, I thought you were the one who wanted things to be a secret,” you continue. It turns out that Alexia’s mood has only been dampened, because while she cannot yet face you fully, her hands settle on your hips. You let her shift and get comfortable before you add to your statement. You’re mortified but you know that Alexia, although she may be trying to pretend otherwise, has it so much worse. “And it’s not my mother who just walked in on me halfway to having sex.”

She bites her lip, forcing herself to be amused. No one wants to deal with the true severity of the situation. Not right now. “Your mother’s never walked in on you?” 

“Ale, I went to boarding school.” 

“What, so like, a teacher then?” You shake your head. “Never?” 

“It wasn’t like that. But I did once think I was having the best sex of my life only to wake up in a lesson with my fit History teacher.” You remember both the dream (because the teacher was very sexy) and the intense fear that one of your classmates could read your mind. 

“Best sex of your life?” is all Alexia seems to get from the anecdote. 

“It was a dream,” you defend. Logically speaking, it would have been an idealised version of a reality you so wished to make happen. But your teacher wasn’t interested in losing her job. Nor was she interested in a minor. 

“That’s depressing,” she says, and it makes you feel stupid and inexperienced even though you are neither of those things. A frown briefly crosses her face then, as if her equivalent is a memory she doesn’t want to dredge up (which is a little insulting but understandable because you know that you will never measure up to a certain someone for Alexia). “That wasn’t the first time my mother has walked in on me. I will… handle it.” 

She kisses you before you can ask what that will entail. Typical Alexia: she decides that the topic has been covered. Now she wants to get back to what she was doing before you were so rudely interrupted. She wants to feel that rush of desire course through her veins once more. 

…

“So you’re a footballer?” Carla asks as you wait for a taxi. The club hadn’t been a place for conversation but now that you’re outside the fresh air at least makes you feel like you can breathe again. Her hand rubs up your back, over your shoulder, and you don’t lean into her for fear of someone noticing. 

“Yeah,” you answer. There’s no point in lying to her. 

“Who do you play for?” 

You fight off your eyeroll. “I won’t be freaked out if you know who I am, you know. You don’t have to pretend.” 

She laughs. It’s a good sound; low and warm, slightly hoarse from too many cigarettes. 

“Pretend?” She tilts her head, dark hair falling across her face. “Baby, I don’t even watch football. I went to one match with my uncle when I was younger and spent most of it flirting with the security guard.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s… not the flex you think it is.” 

That makes her laugh again. She’s closer now, too, having stepped in to move out of the way of other people trying to leave the club. Her fingers toy with the chain of your necklace. A gift from Alexia, actually. “Should I know who you are?” 

It’s tempting to tell her no. To ignore your own existence and make yourself weightless, even if it’s only just for one night. But then you wouldn’t be a professional athlete if you weren’t a victim of the affliction that is the ego. 

“I play for Barça.” 

“The women’s team?” Carla allows a hint of recognition to seep into her tone there. She may not be a sports fan but she definitely likes girls. 

“Sí.” 

“Ah.” She grins. “Then I’m supposed to be impressed.” 

“Are you impressed?” 

Her eyes have no shame as they look you up and down. The exaggeration of her appreciation makes you laugh. It takes you by surprise. 

Carla must feel the same way because she says, “you’re pretty when you laugh.” And then her hand slides to your waist and your bodies are touching, something much more intentional and less excusable than raunchy dancing inside the club. You are aware of the fact that she is going to kiss you but it stirs very little excitement within, but her lips press to yours and your eyes close and for a moment you forget why you are even upset, so maybe it has a point. 

Maybe going home with someone who is not your girlfriend is exactly what you need. 

Her lips are insistently pressed to yours the moment you slide into the back of the taxi. She neglects her seatbelt in favour of being pushed up against you. It’s desperate, from the both of you, and it makes you wonder what Carla is thinking, what she wants. What do you want? The answer to that is complicated. 

You get to her building fast enough. She leads you up four flights of stairs because the lift is broken. You’ve never been to this part of the city – or if you have, never like this. Barcelona has always been stifling and prim. Alexia’s, your stepfather’s; none of what you once knew, the normal life you fleetingly had, exists in this city anymore. Carla finds it funny. She says, “too caught up in glitz and glam?” which tells you that she really doesn’t follow women’s football, because it’s not all that. 

“I’m from here, you know.” Carla raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t believe you. “I was born here.” 

“You don’t sound like it,” she replies, but her interest in that quickly dissipates as you push her inside her flat and urge her towards the sofa. You regret sharing information about yourself immediately. Carla’s not your therapist and she certainly doesn’t need to feel like this is anything but a physical release. 

She shoves her hands into your underwear the moment you follow her down onto the cushions. You let her, even moaning to spur her on. In the light of her flat, you can see her face more clearly. Carla is almost your age. You wonder what she is doing alone in the city.

It feels good. Her fingers are deft and experienced. On a base level of human pleasure, it’s going very well. 

But you look at Carla once more, just as she pushes inside you, and suddenly you are under attack. It’s a foreign invasion. It’s a mistake. 

She freezes, noticing how you’ve gone rigid on top of her. 

“I have a girlfriend,” you say, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you can think of a different excuse to get out of here. 

“Oh,” she replies. She doesn’t push you away just yet. “Do you want to carry on?” 

The thought of Alexia waiting for you swims up from where you have been trying to suppress it. You know that you hate her, but it hasn’t stopped you from loving her just yet. You don’t want to stop loving her. 

“No,” you answer. It is time to go home.  

…

The day your father dies is also the day Spain makes history as the first champions of the Women’s Nations League. Alexia begins to worry that the team will have to go on sacrificing parents to win finals. You join a very special, exclusive club. 

She wants you to be upset, to cry and grieve and behave as expected, but she can’t shake the disturbing swirling in her gut as you celebrate as if the news had never been broken. But you’re jumping up and down with Salma. 

A hand slides onto her waist and she knows it well. She tenses. “Always so serious,” Jenni says, as if to make everything worse. Her ex takes in her expression, the furrow of her brow, the confusion that she is poorly masking. “What’s wrong, Ale?” 

“Nothing,” she grits out in return. 

Her legs are carrying her into the eye of the storm before she can register her bad decision. 

You look surprised to be approached by her. Even if you and Alexia have been together for a few months now, public interactions are always filled with trepidation from the older woman.

No one says anything as she grabs your hand and gently tugs you away.

This side of the changing room hasn’t been touched by the party yet. The coaching staff had been here not too long ago and that was enough to give it a wide berth. 

Her fingers clasp around your wrist and she pulls you face to face with her. Your smile falters at the tears in her eyes. This part of Alexia is foreign to you. 

“What’s wrong, Ale?” you ask her quietly. A tear slowly rolls down her cheek and your thumb swipes it away. “What’s making you cry?” 

“I’m not crying,” she petulantly lies. For once in your life, you let yourself be patient. 

There have been a lot of firsts that have come with your relationship with Alexia: first introduction to family; first captain; first confidant. The list goes on. First love, too. Maybe. Discounting all the other women you had thought you loved. 

The love you feel for Alexia aches deep in your chest. You have never felt anything like it before. A groaning, longing attachment, woven into your bones and your blood and your flesh as though it is the very sinew that holds you together. And now she is crying and you don’t really know what to do but you have an idea. 

“I mourned him years ago,” you tell her, pressing your forehead to hers so that she has no choice but to understand. “The day he died, for me, was when I was seven, when he left me and chose a new life. I haven’t had a father for a long time, Ale. You don’t need to be upset.” 

“But it makes me upset,” she says.  

Alexia carries pain within her. It will never go away but she has learned to live with it; has grown accustomed to it and let it become just as much a part of her as her happiness. She cannot get her father back. She knows that. She spent the first few years after his death fighting against it, all in vain, and reality has settled now. But some days she wakes up and instinctively plans to talk to him. He is gone and he is not gone. 

Eventually, she shakes her head, freeing herself from the grasp this stale grief has on her. “I hate that you have felt so alone. Your entire life, what have you had? I can’t stop thinking about it. It isn’t fair. I don’t want you to feel like that.” 

“I don’t feel like that,” you tell her. “Not anymore.” 

Her lips part to make way for her response but a rowdy shout scares her vulnerability away. 

“What is this misery-fest?” Vicky roars, laughing with excitement because it’s a novel thing, being able to tease Alexia, and the news hasn’t been shared with anyone else yet. It breaks the bubble of privacy everyone else has afforded you. You’re still in the changing room, after all. 

Alexia presses her face into your neck and you can feel your skin grow wet from her tears. Surprisingly, you realise that you have also started to cry. 

Vicky’s laughter dies in her throat. A wave of awkward silence washes over the room. She goes red. 

Alexia has gone red too. 

“I’ve just joined a new club,” you say, quirking your lips up at the youngster. You can tell she wants to know exactly which club it is but she is pulled away by Irene to be reprimanded for drinking too much champagne before she can ask. 

Although you will never get the satisfaction of revealing to her in the moment, you feel a watery laugh against your neck from where Alexia has hidden herself. 

“Dead dad club,” she murmurs incredulously, finishing your joke. Her hand is gripping your bicep to hold you in place. She’s both amused and disappointed. But you’re glad that you have cheered her up at least a tiny bit. “Eres la más idiota.” 

…

The curb grows hard and uncomfortable the longer you sit on it. You don’t know exactly how long it has been. The night has reached a point where early-morning runners have jogged past you. 

As the sun begins to rise, pink streaming into the sky, it becomes increasingly obvious that it is not appropriate for you to be staring into space in an outfit meant for the club. Some of the runners have already given you concerned looks. One of them even jogged in place and took an airpod out, considering asking if you were okay. They didn’t but the thought was there. 

You pull out your phone. Your hands are shaking. The screen glows in the dim light, precious energy you realise, quickly turning the brightness down once you see the near-empty battery symbol in the top corner. 

Your thumb hovers over the call button.

She answers on the first ring. You wonder if it injures her pride or if that has been consumed by worry. You wonder if Salma or Kika said anything to her when you left the club. 

“Where are you?” Her voice is raw. She hasn’t slept, you can tell, because her tone is laced with caffeine.

“I don’t know.” You look around. A bakery. A blurry street sign you can’t read because of the tears in your eyes. Sheer will-power isn’t enough when you are this tired. Your body feels heavy. 

On the other end of the phone, Alexia’s panic settles into dread. She swallows, her throat dry and scratchy, and inhales deeply. “¿Has quedado con otra?”

“Sí.” 

Another runner moves past, humming along to his music. He turns his head quickly to look back at you. Your eyes meet and he is embarrassed to have been caught pitying you. 

Pragmatic as ever, Alexia’s next question is, “¿te ha gustado?”

The answer to that is easy. She seems relieved, at least.

“Okay,” she says. 

“Okay?” you repeat. 

You think she must nod and then realise you can’t see her. “Okay. Where are you? I’m ordering you an Uber.” 

“I can order an Uber myself.” It’s an instinctive protest. She doesn’t take offense. 

“Use your 10% on me.” 

Despite your current state, her command makes you laugh. It comes out cracked and you discover the stale taste of alcohol in your mouth and the thirst that you have been suppressing. 

“Share your location again,” she then instructs, a bit more gently. You’d turned off the setting on your way to Salma’s yesterday. Nothing but spite. Once you’ve done it, she clicks her tongue the way she does when she’s cracking on with something. “Marco will be there in five minutes in a white Toyota.” 

You close your eyes. You can see the plates still shattered on the floor. Coagalting blood on her forehead. An empty mug that has been stained with the remnants of her third coffee. 

“Stay awake for me,” you hear her say. “When you get home, we’ll go to bed and sleep. We don’t have physio until 5.” 

A memory. Your mother, a warrior getting a divorce, brandishing her chosen weapon of her sharp tongue. There had been so much shouting. You had covered your ears but the noise penetrated your small, chubby fingers. 

“All roads lead to fucking Rome,” she’d screamed. The gap in the kitchen door revealed her pushing your father away from her. 

“Munich,” he’d answered with a death wish. 

Alexia is good at this and so scarily, confusingly attractive. And tipsy, you hope. You are at least. Perhaps that’s a futile justification. 

It’s not like you haven’t kissed girls before. Saskia, when you were younger, was full of exploration and too excitable to refuse. It had been gentle then, something tinged of trepidation and the niggle of fear that the housemaster would knock on the door. 

You’ve made out with them too. Once. When a boyfriend had requested it; begged for it with a nasty smirk and the suggestion that you do a line if you were really going to be that much of a pussy about it. She was high, too. Vomited when sucking off your boyfriend like she’d done it before. Too gone to face the consequences after you realised that it was a disgusting fantasy and that he’d been seeing her during term time, claiming a boarder would never understand the temptation. 

You quite like kissing girls, actually. Softer lips and unspoken understandings. You’re not surprised some women abstain from the cretins with whom they share the earth. You don’t blame Carlota for preferring Hannah to the boyfriend she had when you were fifteen and they were in fashion. 

“Ven aquí,” Alexia murmurs as she breaks from you, a strong hand wrapping around your wrist to tug you further into the flat. It’s modern. New. Every surface is immaculate, gleaming even with a lack of light. 

The buckle of your heels rips in your haste to take them off, but you don’t care. 

If you don’t go along with this, you’ll back out. And, really, you don’t want to. 

She leads you down a hallway that smells faintly of something superfluously expensive. Her grip on your wrist is tight, unrelenting. Her pace is confident. You’re barely keeping up, one shoe still on after an insistent repetition of her command. The strap slaps against your ankle with every hurried step. You could stop, fix it, assert some dominance. But you won’t. If you pause, you’ll think. And if you think, you’ll leave. 

You pass through a doorway and into a bedroom bathed in shadow. Large, cool-toned, the bed the only thing that looks lived in: sheets slightly crumpled, pillows dented like Alexia had been lying there earlier, bored or waiting.

She spins you before you have time to look at anything else, and your back hits the edge of the bed. Her hands are on you immediately – at your hips, your waist, sliding up your sides with deliberate possession, making you feel the curve of her fingers even through the silk of your dress.

You inhale sharply and she’s kissing you again. 

Harder. Hungrier. 

Her tongue slides into your mouth. Filthy and warm and wet, missed during its absence. 

You moan before you mean to, knees weak, dress bunching as she pushes forwards, pressing you down until the backs of your thighs meet the mattress and you sink. 

Then she follows you, straddling your lap with hard legs, dress hiking high above rippling muscle as she settles, not quite putting all of her weight on you. You want to rip the dress off her. You want to stare at her like an exhibit and touch her, feel her, like someone who really shouldn’t. You could replace it, if she wanted you to. 

Your face must make it clear. Hers replicates the sentiment, though she’d be better equipped to shred the silk that dresses you. 

Her thigh wedges between yours and her lips don’t leave and you’re gasping, keening up into her. It’s all teeth and tongue and the deep, wet sounds of wanting. Needing. You groan as her hands cup your jaw and then your throat, collarbone, until they reach the swell of your breasts. You can feel your nipples hard against silk. You know that she can feel it too. 

You arch under her, breath shallow, hands clutching at hips and then at cords of muscle wrapping around a v-line. She rolls her hips once – slow, precise – and you let out a ragged gasp into her mouth. She smiles, barely, lips still pressed to yours. She expected that. She knows what she’s doing. 

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Pupils blown wide, lips slick, hair falling in strands across her cheek. She presses her thumb to your mouth, pulling your lower lip down, then sliding her finger in. Alexia scrutinises your reaction. Tries not to moan as you instinctively suck – here’s a bit you’re familiar with, at least. Fails when you encourage her to add another. 

But it doesn’t embarrass her. This lust, this desire, is only motivation. She gets what she wants, always. She’ll get this. She wants you like this. 

You reach for her but she’s moving, dress coming off and revealing ridges and divots that tonight you want to map. To explore. To touch. 

She isn’t wearing a bra. You’re not either. 

“Expensive?” she asks, cocking her head towards your dress. 

Yes. 

Silk sent from India. Thread woven with gold. Lucrative, superfluous, but a gift for your grandmother from your grandfather. Old now. In need of excitement. 

“Rip it.” You know that it's a sliding scale of easiness. You want to see her try, selfishly. You don’t need to be more turned on, but you’re ravenous after being tempted with such strength and muscle and tattoos that you’d otherwise hate. 

Alexia’s mouth twitches at your words. Not quite a smile; too smug for that. But she’s definitely pleased.

Her fingers brush your shoulders lightly, deceptively gentle, before they hook under the fragile straps on your dress. The straps slide an inch down your arms. She leans in close, her lips brushing your ear, and you hear her accent curl around her words deliciously. 

“You’ll regret saying that.” 

You won’t.

Her hands move quickly, no virtue in it. The sound of tearing is obscene in the tense silence – delicate fabric giving way as it is reduced to scraps. The neckline splits under her grip, cool air now hitting your blazing skin, and you whimper. You don’t mourn the craftsmanship or the history behind the dress. Alexia makes you not want to think about anything ever again. 

And when you’re half-naked beneath her, dress ruined and removed, it seems entirely possible. 

Her mouth returns to yours. She tastes like a conqueror; you give in like a conquest. Her fingers are already sliding down your stomach, knuckles skimming your navel. She greedily swallows your moan.

The kiss is broken out of pride. Alexia pulls back and looks at you. She catalogues your face, the sheen of sweat and smudged makeup, like you will be added to a trophy cabinet. You probably will be, metaphorically speaking. 

But fuck metaphors when she could have her fingers inside you. 

“Alexia.” 

It’s a warning. 

She flashes you a grin before obliging. 

You reach up as she moves, desperate to touch – to dig fingers into shoulders or hips or anywhere – but she grabs your wrists and traps them against the bed. Hard. With staggering strength. And she leans in again, one thigh pressing firmly between yours, no match for the soaked thong that comprises your final defences. She grinds up and your back arches almost involuntarily. 

“No me toques,” she murmurs against your mouth. “Not yet.” 

You don’t intend to make a noise but it comes out anyway. 

Her free hand slides down your torso once more, slowly, teasingly. And her fingers dance over lace before your hips keen upwards and she relents. 

You watch as she feels what she finds. Takes it in. 

You’re panting now. Desperate. 

“Please,” you hear yourself say. You don’t remember deciding to speak. 

She groans softly at that. You feel it against your skin as she kisses your neck, your collarbone. Bites. Licks. Soothes. 

Her fingers move slightly. 

You won’t make it out of this alive, you’re sure. 

Then her tongue drags along your sternum and her fingers thrust inside. 

Your vision sparks. 

You’re gone. 

There’s only Alexia’s mouth, Alexia’s hands. The weight of her thighs pinning yours apart. Your wrists still above your head. And her voice, low and smug, barely audible between wet kisses and the relentless rhythm of her fingers. 

“You’re already so good for me.”

…

Alexia arrives at training with a satisfying ache in her bones. It’s early in the morning — a mere four hours after she went to sleep — but she is buzzing with energy. She’s ready for the day. 

It’s only a gym session, with pitch time in the afternoon that follows a sizable gap in which most of her teammates will be slinking off to a restaurant for a long lunch. It’ll be over before you’ve even woken up. She can’t help but smirk at the thought: unless you’ve run away, you'll still be in her bed. 

You were a good fuck. Unusually, she notes that she could do it twice. And then again. 

And again. 

You see her a total of three times before the week closes. 

She fucks you when she gets back from training, sweaty and slow, waking you up before you realise your crimes of the night. It’s too addictive after that, and she gives you her number. For convenience. For ease. 

She texts you late at night, when she needs to let off steam after matches, always cracking open a bottle of wine, as if that is the ticket to morality. She never really says anything to you, nor you to her. 

By the end of November, you’ve had sex with a woman – the same woman – many times. Your engagement ring tightens and burns with each orgasm, each tryst in the dark in Alexia’s flat, each frequent text. 

It’s built on I can’t sleep and Come over? but you can’t stop. You can’t stop doing it. You’ve pulled a trigger on a gun you should have never picked up, and now there are bodies that you can’t bury; blood you can’t wash off your hands. 

And slowly, as you pull into the festive season, Carlota starts to catch on. 

You’re out in an expensive club with expensive drinks and Hannah paying. You know half the people here, because they’re all the same anyway, and Carlota won’t explicitly encourage it but you can tell she sees no harm in you dancing with someone else. Richard’s not here. Fidelity is not befitting of situations like yours. 

She’s pointing at men in the crowd, growing increasingly exasperated as you refuse every suggestion. Each one is more glamorous than the last; singers, athletes, old school friends. Yet none of them are comparable to what you’ve got going for you. 

Your phone buzzes and you look at it instantly. 

Alexia is back from international camp tonight. And she has a better plan for the evening than your friend. 

You’ve already sent her the club’s address. 

“What are you looking at?” 

Carlota snatches your phone from your hand. You grasp at the air in a poor recovery attempt, but she’s already staring in confusion and you know that the damage has been done. 

“Who is Alexia?” Hannah asks over her girlfriend’s shoulder, sipping on a radioactive-looking cocktail and grinning dumbly as Carlota scrolls up. “You’re hooking up with someone.” It’s an accusation that you don’t deny. “I just thought you were really quiet at night.” 

But Carlota is still stuck on the contact. “Who is Alexia? That’s a woman’s name.” Her brow furrows as she continues to scroll, perhaps to disprove what’s right in front of her. “You’re fucking a woman?”

Hannah lets out a delighted gasp. She doesn’t know you like her girlfriend does. She doesn’t understand. 

You reach for your phone again, but Carlota doesn’t give it back. She’s not angry – not righteously, anyway – but her lips pinch into tight confusion and you can tell that she’s not impressed.

“Since when?” 

You shrug. “October.” 

Carlota blinks, processing that. “October.” 

“October,” Hannah affirms, probably feeling left out. She pats her girlfriend on the shoulder, stepping back as if sensing the impending explosion. “I guess you can’t know everything, baby.” 

It’s a flame to a barrel of oil. 

“You’ve been fucking a woman for a month and you haven’t said anything.” There’s no questioning lilt to her voice now. Carlota’s eyes hold your own in challenge, hard and angry. “You’re engaged.” 

That warrants an indignant snort. “You were literally throwing men at me seconds ago.” 

“Yeah, men.” And oh, Carlota is a hypocrite for this one. “For a quickie in the club toilet. Not some poor woman that you’re stringing along.” 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a poor woman,” Hannah interjects. Beautifully American. Carlota must like them hot and dumb. She turns to her girlfriend as if to tell her to shut up, anger overflowing and consuming everyone who dares to interact, but Hannah stands firm and earnest. A nosy, pertruding index points in your direction, and it looks like Hannah may have grey cells after all. “There’s only one Alexia that you could know, right? Only one Alexia you could know who is back from camp and needs you after games.”

You blush. They have seen far too much. 

“Like,” Hannah continues as the fire rages in her girlfriend's eyes, taking a sip of her cocktail as though this a casual discussion about the weather. “That’s Alexia Putellas.” She looks at you. “Yeah?” 

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. 

Carlota’s face twists, uglier than disbelief. She’s insulted. Like this is about her somehow. Like your silence is a personal affront. 

“Oh, fuck off,” you snap, voice low and cutting. Defending a nerve that has most definitely been nicked. “I haven’t committed a crime.” 

“You lied to me,” Carlota shoots back instantly, voice rising just enough to earn a glance from a group of women nearby. “You’ve been disappearing at night, and I… I chalked it up to needing time to yourself. Needing to work through the shitstorm. But it turns out it’s because you’re off having sex with – with gay Messi!” 

It could be argued that those aren't mutually exclusive, but intelligence and diplomacy evaporated the moment she decided to react like this. You roll your eyes instead. “I never lied. I just didn’t announce it.” 

“You hid it.” 

“It’s casual,” you hiss. “It doesn’t mean anything.” 

You barely talk to Alexia. You don’t ask her how her day was or if she’s feeling happy — not since the gallery opening, when there had been a flicker of intrigue beyond attraction. The capacity in which you get her is manageable and… perfect. It’s perfect. And like most perfect things, it needs to stay that way. 

“Casual sex with Alexia Putellas months before the wedding of the year is a recipe for disaster.” Hannah drawls her words, taking this far less seriously than her girlfriend but still allowing her concern to waft through the stagnant air of the club. 

“Alexia only cares about football.” You’ve deduced this because she seems awfully alone without it. Her decoration comes in the form of medals and team photos, immortalised glory and eternity of victories. She fucked you underneath her medal display once; drunk and too impatient to stumble to the bedroom. “And don’t call it that.” 

“What?” Carlota says, voice venomous and vengeful. “You don’t want us to remind you of what’s happening in March? Because you can’t delegate walking down the fucking aisle. A wedding planner won’t actually go the getting married part for you.” 

“You wanted me to let off steam!” you burst out, because this is becoming unfair. Carlota has always been enigmatic, but you’d expected surprise and eventual acceptance. This scandalisation is a far cry from characteristic. 

Your phone buzzes again, and you snatch it back. 

Estoy aquí. 

Carlota scoffs at the message, incredulous. You flash her a smile as you leave. 

Alexia drives a Cupra. Most of the time. 

But for her illicit activities, for those that she’d rather not monumentalise with an obvious car, she uses something else. It’s sleek and black and with only two seats. Expensive. Impressive. 

You bundle into the car with no fuss and Alexia can tell you’re annoyed. From the crinkle in your forehead. From the tightness of your lips. 

“I didn’t know you had this,” you comment once she sets off, revving the engine just for the thrill of it. 

“Mm. Good car, no?” 

She keeps her eyes on the road but you can feel her searching for something. 

Your fingers run along the familiar stitching of the seat. You’d chosen this stitching when the original designs had come out — the models have long since moved on but this is now a trademark. The options had been on your father’s desk and it was one of the few inputs he’d had with this side of the company. 

Crosses. Alexia has elected red thread and combines them with blue LEDs. Alexia truly only gives a shit about football. 

“Not the best,” you tell her. 

You half-expect her to pull over with the look she shoots you. Irritated. Invalidated. Challenged. 

“You like cars?” 

You shrug and tell her that you’re apathetic. She frowns at the word but perhaps it is your tone that salvages the answer from being lost in translation. 

“Do you like art?” 

“No.” 

“Why did you curate Cuerpa?” 

“Are you playing twenty questions?” You raise your eyebrows at her. 

She holds up three fingers. “It’s my turn.” 

“I never got to twenty,” you protest. It’s futile. No one can beat Alexia. 

“Cuatro.” She grins and the car is at a red light so she’s looking at you. She’s looking at you, really looking. And her gaze is one that exists in a paradoxical purgatory with no clear meaning and blinding significance all at once. “How do you know Carlota de Montcada?” 

“How do you—”

“You are so much more obedient in bed,” she comments, clicking her teeth. Alexia doesn’t seem tired or worked up or moody after camp. From the way Hannah had explained the whole Spanish football thing at that match that one time, it sounded pretty fucking complicated. But Alexia isn’t swamped in misery tonight, in the face of adversity apparently. 

She’s almost playful.

So you sigh, giving in. You had wanted to dissect her originally, therefore it’s perhaps only fair she gets to do the same. Even if it’s none of her business. 

In another universe, comes a fleeting thought, you and Alexia could be best friends. 

“We went to school together. And we move about in the same circles.” 

“You dislike art.” 

You laugh. “Oh, Carlota wishes that were her circle.” 

“Do you know her novia played against me once? Good player.” 

“Do you only ever think about football?” 

She tuts. The car purrs as she drives down a clear road, her complex only moments away. Hopefully the interrogation will be put on hold the minute you’re in proximity of a bed. “Me toca a mí.” 

“I hate football.” 

“No.” 

“I do.” 

“No. No se puede.” 

She parks next to the boring Cupra that Captain Alexia Putellas drives. She’s still shaking her head when she opens your door for you. 

“You don’t hate football — you don’t understand it.” She takes your hand, a sort of custom now. You notice she’s in team-issued clothing: a tracksuit (slightly off-putting if not for the way it wraps her up like an exciting present); trainers; small number 11s dotted around like logos in their own right. “But you will.” 

“I actually come here to have sex,” you reply as she leads you into the lift. Her hands brush your hips and, like a boa constrictor, the kill is slow but inevitable. 

She’s leaning in. 

“Only sex,” you murmur. 

She’s about to kiss you but she stops short. 

“One match won’t hurt.” Alexia loves football more than anything. She’s obsessed with it, clearly, because she knows you could press a button and leave. She knows you could tell her that you don’t want to, that if she insists then you will walk out and leave her high and dry. But you look so good tonight in a tight black dress and she is so ready for you after a week of pent-up energy. 

And she has a feeling you won’t say no to her after what she is going to do to you. 

…

December crawls forth and Barcelona begins to chill. It doesn’t freeze over, but the surfers come for chippy seas and everyone seems both grumpier and merrier all at once. 

Alexia and you are eating takeaway, settled on her sofa with football begrudgingly on the TV. Sushi because it’s justifiable; “it’s healthier than pizza” is what Alexia claims, only slightly jabbing at your initial suggestion. 

You’re puzzled and trying not to look at the screen, dreading the long explanations that she has prepared in her mind for situations like these. Even if it’s a Sisyphean task. 

It’s not a date. 

Originally, it was supposed to be a lesson. Carlota and Hannah were being insufferable and shoving it in your face, and you needed an escape. Alexia had been a willing haven. Her only complaint was the men’s match she’d be missing. 

When Alexia had found out you were on your period, her plans changed slightly. 

“Volume off,” you remind her sternly. 

She’s grinning anyway, mouth stuffed with two salmon rolls that render her the antithesis of the disciplined athlete she claims to be. 

“Stop enjoying this,” is your next instruction, all referencing your terms for not just putting a towel down on the bed.

A loud gulping sound turns your attention from the stick-figures aimlessly running around to the woman beside you. Alexia can be a slob when she feels like it — and you’re the one on your period. 

She slathers the back of her hand across her face as she wipes a grain of rice from the side of her mouth. 

“What football team do you support?” 

“That’s six,” you deflect. “I have no vested interest in the sport.” 

“Pues, lo que quieres decir es que eres del Barça…” she deduces. “You’re fucking the captain.” 

You bat your eyelashes at her, taking the piss after she had revealed a well-known fact with such pride. “You’re the captain?” 

Alexia groans in frustration, sushi abandoned as she stalks over your body, pressing you into the sofa. 

“You didn’t know?” 

“That’s seven,” you murmur as her face comes very close to yours. Your breath hitches at the smell of her hair — coconut. Like summer and freedom and freshness. Like smashing them on the east terrace with your au pair; Marta, she was called. She was from Colombia. She would let you watch telenovelas with her, hiding from the boys because they were rowdy and too old and not quite yours to play with.  

Alexia rolls her eyes. “I hate this game.” 

“We don’t have to play it.” 

The innuendo is hardly subtle and you are not shy in pressing a hand to her chest to feel her beating heart. It’s going quite quickly. 

But Alexia shakes her head and is suddenly sitting back. You mourn the loss just as quickly as you’d welcomed her closeness. 

Her back touches the sofa and she almost jumps. You get her jittery. She’s on a journey of acceptance about that, about how she may not be as in control as she’d like to think. 

“Brothers,” she says softly. “Brothers? Sisters?” 

“Is that two questions?” 

“No. Plurals can be male in Spanish. Mistranslation.”  

You laugh. “I know.” 

She doesn’t ask how. Perhaps she is saving up her precious questions — poison darts that loosen lips and break the rule of not talking. “You haven’t answered,” is what she says instead, feigning impatience. 

“Three brothers.” She lets out a lengthy breath and your giggle is that of agreement. “I’m the youngest. They have… they have a different mother.” 

She died. Your father was heartbroken. Your mother was sent in as a remedy by worried board members and a family in need of the bolstered reputation. 

A loveless marriage, really. Haunted by the ghost of a woman you’ll never know, who walks the halls of your family home with a blade of tension. 

“Blood isn’t everything.” 

“No, it’s not.” You love your brothers. How can one not? “But they struggled and I never quite understood why.” 

Alexia nods slowly, eyes lingering on your face, searching for whatever truth you’re ready to share. The TV flickers in the background — a glorified painting now. She’s no longer watching it. 

You hesitate, then draw your knees up onto the sofa, wrapping your arms around them. “My youngest brother—” You pause, rephrasing. “The third. He’s only eight years older than me, but it still felt like decades growing up. All I wanted to do was impress him. He had a drug problem because of… Still does, even. It got bad when he turned nineteen.” 

Alexia is silent. She doesn’t ask questions anymore. The game has evolved. 

You look at the rug instead of at her. You can’t look at her. 

“Daddy paid for rehab the first time,” you continue, “and the second. And the third. But it was always very quiet. No press. No real help, if you were to look at it and recognise the pattern. It was more about containment. Image.” 

The sofa creaks as Alexia shifts slightly, impossibly loud between your words. She isn’t close enough to touch anymore, but you can feel her attention like a burning poker. 

“I looked up to him so much. And he disappeared once,” you add, voice quieter. “A whole week. No one knew where he was. I think… I think he wanted to die. But didn’t. Or maybe he just changed his mind.”

You don’t cry. You've done that before, long ago, when the betrayal was fresh and searing and roaring in your ears that no one will ever care enough to stay. Not even him. 

Alexia leans back into the cushions beside you. For a long time, she doesn’t say anything. 

Then: “My sister, Alba, is one of the most important people in my life.” Her hand has splayed out and you could touch it — you want to touch it — but you don’t. “After my father died, I felt like I had to care for her and my mum. It’s… my responsibility.” 

She doesn't know why she is telling you this. 

This won’t help you give her an orgasm or scratch down her back just the way she needs it when she fucks you with the strap. 

This doesn’t improve her game or relieve her of stress or send her to sleep. 

And this won’t stop her from wanting more from you. 

Alexia prickles. 

“Sorry,” she mutters. You watch her eyes glaze over to something more familiar — that arrogant façade. Hazel fixates first on you and then painfully quickly onto the TV. 

The sushi has been eaten and the match clock has ticked past ninety minutes. 

She retracts her hand. Your face goes cold and she hates the stoicism but tries to convince herself that this is what she prefers. 

“I think you should go.” 

It stings. You hate that it stings. 

“Don’t worry,” you find yourself saying, feelings hurt and now ready to retaliate. “I’m going to England for the rest of the month.”

“To be with him?” she asks, the name too real vocalise. You ignore the crack in her voice. She deserves it. 

You nod. You leave with little fanfare. You wonder if she’ll want you to come back. 

…

Loss is a funny thing. Alexia hates losing, but she feels loss all the same. The aching absence of her father, the guidance of Jenni, the comfort of her dog. It’s inescapable, the psychologist at Barça had once told her – even the victorious never have it all. 

Loss is something she has had to learn to live with, like a parasite that can only be contained and never gotten rid of. 

But she feels awful when you leave. 

Guilt eats away at her for acting the way she did, and each time she tries to justify it, it worsens. You’re not anyone important – that seems wrong to say. She doesn’t care – she does. 

Alexia doesn’t message you, figures you don’t want her to. 

She thinks about it a hundred times anyway, but still, she doesn’t. It’s her pride, really. She tells herself it’s better this way – that strength comes from independence and being alone. She says it over and over until the words start to lose their shape. 

So she trains. Harder than ever. 

The season barrels forwards, relentless. It’s the business end before the break and the pressure climbs to its peak as teams fight it out before the transfer window. The group stage of the Champions League ends with a 3-0 win against Man City. Alexia doesn’t bother to celebrate it. 

Her body aches but that’s preferable to stillness. Ice baths, supplements, twice-a-day gym sessions. She’s on autopilot and she has no time for distractions. No time for softness. 

Even her teammates keep their distance now. She’s clipped in conversations, but brutally efficient on the pitch. They should be grateful. She can’t bear the concern in their eyes. 

One slip from Ingrid in training earns a glare sharp enough to dismember her. Patri mutters under her breath when she thinks she can’t be heard. 

Alexia does hear her. And says nothing. 

She plays 90 minutes with a bruised rib and tells no one. Afterwards, in the shower, she leans her forehead against the tile, eyes closed, letting the water scald her skin. She wonders if you’d have noticed the tightness in her movements. If you’d press your hand to her side and tell her to relax. 

She wonders what you’re doing. Are you having fun? Is this fun? 

But she can’t allow herself to miss you. (She just… does anyway.)

It’s Kika who breaks her out of her cycle of misery, requesting help the minute Alexia steps out of the shower. Alexia winces – her ribs pound with aching – but Kika seems too wrapped up in her preliminary explanation to see it. 

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” Alexia mutters weakly as she forces her tired legs to bend and sit in the cubby beside Kika.

Kika lets out a whiny sigh. 

“I just don’t know what to do!” she exclaims. “I’m so confused.” 

Me too, Alexia thinks. 

“Is this about football?” Alexia asks, flinching as the footballer huffs dramatically.

“Did you listen to a word I said?” Hopelessly, Alexia shakes her head. A phone is shoved into her face then, and Kika groans. “I’ve been hooking up with a girl. And it was casual, but then it started to mean something.” Alexia waits patiently, not seeing an issue with anything so far. “Ale, I like her!” 

Her voice is squeaking with frustration and heads would be turning in interest by now if the others hadn’t already gone home. 

“And she’s seeing someone else. I mean, not seriously – so she claims. She told me as she left and now she’s gone away for Christmas and I haven’t heard from her in a week. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.” 

Alexia stares at the phone (screen now dim) then at Kika. It’s as if she’s waiting for her to pull out a secret manual from her locker and hand it over, titled: A Complete Guide to Getting Rid of Unwanted Feelings for your Casual Relationship. If only. 

She runs a hand through damp hair, trying to take in shallower breaths to not aggravate the pain in her ribs. “Don’t talk to her.” 

Kika frowns. “Seriously?” 

“Sí. You just said she’s seeing someone else.” 

“We weren’t officially exclusive. But like…” Kika switches her phone off and all but throws it down. “I didn’t expect it to be anything. Now it is. I miss her. I think about her all the time. I don’t even like thinking about people this much.”

Alexia clenches her jaw, a sour taste in her mouth. It’s like hearing an echo. Not that she’d ever say this out loud. Or think the same thing.

Kika squints at her. “You’re being weird. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing.” 

A beat. A sigh. 

“I just don’t like people I care about getting their hearts broken,” she says eventually, hoping to come off confident and captainly and responsible. She is all of those things – she doesn't have to pretend. “It changes you. You think you’re in control of something and then suddenly–” She lifts a hand, waving vaguely in the air to pluck out the right metaphor. “Suddenly, you’re not.”

“You’ve had your heart broken?” 

It almost makes her laugh. Clearly the younger girls no longer see naive, excitable Alexia, ready for the real world and so out of her depth in it. Her eyes are unreadable, though, because she doesn’t want to laugh right now. “Not for a long time.” 

But she remembers you. Giggling at her expense, legs curled on her sofa, fingers brushing the skin above her waistband, featherlight and innocent in a way that was so much worse than the dirty passion of sex. She remembers how quickly you left. How easy it seemed to be for you.

It’s not the same. That's not possible. 

Kika’s eyes are scathing; she’s watching her too closely. She's the wrong person for this: young and impulsive and too open-hearted. Too prepared for the fairytale of love. Too excited to care so much that it makes your body reject the thought of living without them. Yet Alexia sees the mirror anyway. Clear as day. 

“You need to tell her how you feel,” she hears herself say. 

Kika perks up. Her captain will never fail her — her captain is always there for her. “Even if it ruins it?”

Alexia doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even force herself to. 

“It’s already ruined.” 

Kika scuttles away after that, grateful and satisfied and ready to embrace love once more. 

Alexia can’t stop thinking about that word.

Ruined. 

It gnaws at her flesh, at her bones, at the very biology of her existence. 

Ruined. 

Sharron takes her out to dinner. A nice place. Fancy. Fitting for an agent rewarding their successful client. 

It’s too cold and too late and Alexia should be at home drinking protein shakes and pretending to sleep. 

Sharron won’t let her decline. “Don’t ruin your success,” she teases as Alexia protests to the very threshold of the restaurant. 

There’s that word again, Alexia thinks. Distracted, she is pushed inside. 

They sit at a nice table but not the nicest. Alexia Putellas is a famous name but it takes more than fame for them to care here, and so she submits to being secondary. It’s an odd feeling, but a feeling that reminds her of you. 

You were never fazed. It made her wonder. 

But she ruined that. 

Anyway… she orders a lobster salad. Sharron laughs and calls her expensively healthy. Alexia can only return a tight-lipped smile and mutter about a big lunch she’d had earlier. 

Sharron talks. Deals, contracts, photoshoots. “Did you know that they want you to be sponsored by mayonnaise?” She sounds far too excited about it.

Alexia nods — what more can she do? 

And when the time is right and the wine is half-drained, she excuses herself to the bathroom. “I must have overhydrated,” she says as she bows out. 

The bathrooms here are ridiculous. Gold trims, hand-placed mosaic. It’s a far cry from where she wants to be (in bed, in sweats, planning her next day of training before the world feels like it’s caving in). 

She wants to drown herself under the gilded tap. She wants to stop breathing so that maybe her rib doesn’t throb and her heart slows and calms and leaves her alone. She wants to leave and run far away — away from the expectations and the pressure and the idea that she has gone and ruined everything. 

Feelings were never meant to be involved. That's how being casual works. Not the food after sex and the conversations extending past friendly with both heads on pillows and a soft sheen to your skin. Not what she’s gotten herself into. 

But she doesn’t want to get out. 

She’s punishing herself for that. She doesn’t deserve to keep having you but she doesn’t even have long to do it. And it’s already ruined. And it’s on a timer. 

Alexia looks at herself in the mirror. Really looks, even if it’s unbearable. And she decides — there and then — that she is not going to tell you anything. 

…

There’s no snow in Buckinghamshire just yet. 

The house succumbs to the chills all old homes fail to keep out, with fires roaring in all the main rooms, but, still, no snow. 

“Staring out the window won’t make it happen.” The blanket you’d been hiding under bunches at your waist as you sit up, pressing your face to the cold glass of the window before you swing your legs off the window seat and attempt a smile. 

“Minnie,” you breathe. The housekeeper nods, comically, as if she needs to affirm her identity. “You made me jump.” 

“Did I catch you in a deepest, darkest brood?” she teases, eyes creasing with age and laughter and a life full of happiness. 

You shake your head. “No, no. Just wishing it would be colder. I miss it sometimes, when I’m in Barcelona.” That word is almost taboo; your mother thinks Carlota is running a six-month hen party where she indoctrinates you with her liberalism. Your lack of enthusiasm leaves a gaping cavity in her wedding fantasies. 

“There are enough corners in this house to hide in, dearie.” Of course Minnie knows exactly what you are doing abroad, unable to be tricked. She has always seen right through you. 

“More in a different city,” you point out. 

She sighs and comes to sit beside you, arm wrapping around your shoulder. She smells of cloves and oranges. She must have come up here to ask if you wanted to help decorate. You enjoyed that when you were younger; when everyone was home and festive and things weren’t so regimented. 

Minnie doesn’t need words when it’s like this: warmth, comfort. You lean into her, breathing in and wishing you had never come home in the first place. The candles on the mantle flicker as they burn the scent of cinnamon into the air, red wax dribbling down each small tower  as the minutes pass. 

Then, when your mother calls from outside your room, asking Minnie to help her with dinner, the embrace is broken and a kiss is pressed to your forehead. “Go and enjoy love before Christmas,” whispers Minnie, the words brushed into your ear like a secret. 

If you want snow, Barcelona is the wrong place. The neighbouring mountains, certainly. But the city? No, the city is for unnecessary coats and quiet celebrations about the drain of summer’s tourists. Stupid traditions that Carlota overexplains. A lack of German markets, which you overexplain in return. 

You’re not too sure of Alexia’s schedule, never quite concerned enough about her whereabouts to ask. 

She probably trains and then comes home. You know that she’s there in the evenings; dusk at the earliest is when you have ever dared to appear.

You wonder if she goes away at Christmas. Would you be disappointed to find the door you have knocked on unanswered? Would you mind? 

You think it awfully presumptuous of Minnie to instruct you to fuck off for love. Love! Like that’s likely in your shackles. 

Lust. Boredom. Curiosity. Tradition. 

A simple outline. Even if Carlota insists it’s not just a phase – “you’re ever so accepting of me, so why is it a different story with yourself?” 

It’s rebellion, at best. 

You think about it. Flights can be booked at any time. You don’t need a place to stay. You don’t need to pack. 

But you can’t. 

You leave your phone in your room when you go down to dinner, finding it a lead weight in your hand that causes more harm than good. 

The table is set for three. 

You frown, your hand resting on the doorframe to the dining hall. Oak. Touched by many a dead relative. 

“Where’s Daddy?” 

“He had to get to the airport,” your mother says crisply, never looking up from where she’s adjusting the centrepiece. It makes it feel like you have company. “He’s going to Shanghai for an investors dinner. Terribly important.” 

Before you can concoct a response to that information which avoids the sound of well-known disappointment, there’s the sound of polished shoes against polished floors. A man wearing a suit, definitely.

You turn, expecting a brother or an uncle or even an inconveniently timed booty-call for your mother. 

Instead, you see Richard. Utterly unwanted and completely necessary. 

“Darling,” he says with a happy smile. An ignorant smile. “Surprised?” 

You nod. 

He kisses your cheek in further greeting — nothing more than brisk and controlled. Plainly appropriate: just the thing that’s needed to maintain the façade of ravenously missing each other and having to see him (as he explains, following an apology for coming straight from the London office). 

You take your usual seat in compliance. He’s already at the head of the table, phone slipping into his pocket as though he can detach himself from his job. Your mother lets out a fluttery laugh as if to break the tension, and dinner commences. 

“I’m so glad you're here, Richard.” She’s pandering to him as if it’s not a grace to be allowed to marry you. “I know how my daughter gets — so busy with her comings and goings. I knew you needed to spend some proper time together. It is nearly Christmas.” 

The emphasis is deliberate, and so is her glance at your wine glass. Minnie has opened a bottle you like. You look at the room through a yellow lens. 

Isn’t Richard supposed to be in Switzerland?

”Thank you for your generosity. The boys were sad to hear I wouldn’t make it to Valbella but they came around. Married life takes commitment.” 

“We’re not married,” you find yourself pointing out. 

“Yet,” your mother brushes off. 

He looks at you then. You try to enjoy his handsome jawline and pleasant bone structure. You hate failing. 

“You look exhausted,” he says conversationally. “Carlota must run you ragged. Absolute nutter.” 

“She’s good entertainment. God knows this life is boring.” 

“She took you to a football match, didn’t she? Fucking obsessed when we were younger. Her girlfriend—”

“That American,” your mother chimes in with disdain. 

“She used to play. Typical lesbians for you.” 

A the sound of a detonating bomb would have pleased your mother more.

“Oh, it’s a weird phase, isn’t it?” chips in your mother, expecting bated breath as she shares a rare but casual anecdote. “I was a lesbian once, but women are so complicated and men are just the balance we need. Carlota’s mother is more patient than I am.” 

“Certainly,” you mutter, your fork dragging lazily through a lake of chicken and leeks oozing from golden pastry. It’s a good pie, but you have suddenly lost your appetite. 

Your mother picks up her wine glass, refilled by Minnie after she had drained the first, and takes a triumphant sip. Her insights into human sexuality are apparently intelligent and gripping. Even Richard risks an eye roll in your direction. 

“She’s always been difficult,” Mother goes on, turning to Richard like he’d understand. He knows Carlota well. “Catalan wildness. It’s in the blood. Her mother was in Paris during the riots, you know. Had an affair with a French artist. No one knows for how long — just that one daughter looks very similar…” 

It’s nothing but gossip. Despite her adamant belief that she does not partake in such lowly activities. 

“Everyone looks the other way, of course. That family always lands on its feet.” 

Richard chuckles politely. “I suppose things don’t count when you have that kind of money.” 

Your mother looks at him. 

You know what it means. 

We have that kind of money, Richard, but you will never see us stoop to that level. 

And so he attempts to reconcile with a: “well, everyone agrees that your family is a privilege to be welcomed into. Nothing but integrity and elegance.” 

“Exactly,” your mother beams, delighted. You feel nauseous at the notion of this conversation — the implication of silent competition and selfishness and absolute fucking irony. Integrity was last seen at your grandfather’s death bed, when he had asked your father to promise not to sell off heirlooms for the sake of money lost to years of estate maintenance and gambling. 

The rest of dinner is chewed with bitterness in neat bites. Your mother is pleased with herself and her illusion of family unity — purring at Richard’s suggestion for shooting tomorrow with your brothers or his friends. ‘A welcome back for my lovely fiancée’ is what he calls it. You’d call it transforming into a show pony. 

She retires to her bedroom under the sound of an old Aretha record playing from the sitting room, plucked from your father’s collection with an ever-quelling passion for the musical instruments that gather dust a few rooms away. 

Richard remembers that you play the piano. You tell him you don’t play for other people anymore. 

You’re brushing your teeth when he comes in, his tie hanging around his neck, collar undone. The pinnacle of intimacy, so he thinks, catching your eye in the mirror and grinning. 

“I always forget how bloody big this place is.” 

You spit, rinse. “And yet it feels so small.” 

He laughs, too loudly. Other women must find him charming. You don’t join in. 

The bed creaks under his weight as he sinks onto your side. He wears an uncomfortable pride on his face, as though occupying this space is proof you are his conquest. His fucking Helen of Troy. His to marry. 

“Hope you don’t mind me staying in here,” he says after you peer at him with horror in your eyes. “Just figured we should get used to it. Try it on for size.” 

You say nothing, slipping out of your dressing gown and welcoming the chill of the air that follows. At least that reminds you that you’re alive. 

The silence is heavy, weighing down on your shoulders as he smiles. He clears his throat. 

“Do you remember when we got engaged?” It’s not really a question. Of course you do. A private dinner at the Louvre with Saskia (the two of you certainly not the fifty necessary people but rather the children of people who one cannot refuse). An ambush, really. “Felt fast, didn’t it? But right. Practical.” 

You think about the woman he’s supposed to be sleeping with. Does he love her? 

“Sure,” you reply with diplomacy that destroys the haven of your bedroom.

He glances at you. “Are you still happy with it?” 

You pause. 

“With the practicality?” 

He nods like you’ve agreed with him. “Exactly.” 

You flick the lamp off without warning and lie back against the cold, starched sheets. His body is war beside yours, but it only makes your skin crawl. This preview is rather unpleasant. You’d like him to fuck off out of your bed. 

He shifts slightly, trying to gauge if he can get away with putting an arm around you. 

“The house you’ve bought… How many bedrooms?” 

“Enough for a family.” West London somewhere. Notting Hill, perhaps, with decent travel links. He dropped a lot of money on it. “An underground pool, too.” 

You hum in mild, faux impression. “I’d like my own bedroom.” 

The rejection is stark and clear. 

He sleeps with his arms by his sides. 

Minutes pass. The grandfather clock ticks away. You’ve always hated it, but it’s been there for at least a century so you can’t get rid of it. 

Richard breathes. Strained, careful. He must be scared of you. 

You think of Alexia. 

Of her hand at the small of your back, guiding you into her home safely and hungrily. The sound she makes when she yawns without meaning to. Her strong arms and the brutality of their capability. Her eyes – those eyes – which speak three thousand words before her lips even part. 

Discipline, restraint, passion. 

She’s like a fire. 

You wonder if she even cares that you’re gone. 

You pretend she doesn’t, because that hurts less. It’s easier to imagine she’s forgotten and moved on; returned to her routine of cold plunges and protein shakes and captaining a circus. 

In the dark, Richard turns over. The mattress dips towards you. 

You don’t sleep.

The next morning, it’s still grey when the Landy pulls up the gravel drive to another house in Oxfordshire. It all looks the same, but your mother would describe this as a cottage in comparison. 

Still, Richard takes your hand as you jump out of the car. “Don’t want you to slip,” he says to excuse the action, palm scolding your skin with how wrong it feels. You won’t slip in your wellies, and these are hunting trousers anyway, but you let him get away with it. 

“Fez!” comes a delighted shout, voice deep and coarse from countless cigars. A pack of men approach. “Oh, Fez, you’ve outdone yourself.” 

Another pats your fiancé on the back. 

They’re all wearing matching outfits, far too used to uniformity and conformity and stupid tradition. The rifles are apparently being checked for a final time. 

“Darling, meet Hugo, Anton, Raffie, and Ade.” 

You know them all, of course. Anton captained his rugby team to success. Hugo’s father ran away to Thailand with an eighteen-year-old after squandering his children’s inheritance. Raffie married Saskia’s friend last year – the wedding was elegant and simple, and most interestingly, fast enough to cover up the baby that was born eight months later. Ade has just been promoted to COO of his uncle’s shipping business. 

God, they are so dull. 

“Worcester College Summer Ball,” is all Ade says as the others kiss your cheeks and compliment your wax jacket. “Too much champagne.” 

The memory brings a smile to your lips, finally. A long dress torn to shreds, drenched in alcohol. Your tutor eyeing you with amusement. Ade helping you to your room. 

Richard guffaws and punches his friend’s arm. “Oh, fuck off, swot.” 

“You went too!” Ade protests. 

“I did Classics,” Richard declares. “Piss easy, that. We learnt half of it in year 5.” He juts an index out, flicking it between you and Ade. “Law was not a joke.” 

“Thoroughly uninteresting,” you affirm. That makes them laugh.

Hugo claps his hands together, perhaps feeling a bit insignificant with his measly degree from Exeter. “Right, enough nattering.” Clearly, this cottage is his. “There are pheasants to shoot, and a woman to impress.”

“I think you’ll be reasonably humbled after this,” you say with a smirk.

“You’re talking to the best shot on Stowe’s shooting team,” Hugo challenges. His competitiveness is reminiscent of a woman you can’t bring yourself to name, but she floats to the surface of your mind regardless. She’d find this barbaric. Confusing. They love their hunting in Spain, but you’d assume that Alexia’s family does not have a penchant for bloodsports. Aren’t they super against bull-fighting in Catalonia anyway?

Richard clears his throat and drapes his arm around your waist, kissing your cheek again in what feels like a threat. They don’t want to lose their precious pew-pew game to you. He’s probably begging for mercy. 

A miraculous smile tugs at your lips – something you felt was going extinct. And just like that, you let normalcy wash over you.

…

“You’re seeing someone.” 

Midnight. Barcelona. A city full of stars. 

Light obscured by the thought of someone finding out. 

Alexia gulps, turns to her sister, wishes she’d vanish from her flat and slink back to the prying hole from which she emerged. She’d made a promise after all – she doesn’t break those. It’s too precious to ruin. 

“I’m not seeing anyone,” she replies, lying through her teeth. Or perhaps not lying. She doesn’t know what it is. She hasn’t been allowed to name it. 

“Fucking someone, then,” Alba presses, smirking now, swirling what’s left of the rioja in her glass and letting it drip into a mouth like the most prestigious award for sleuthing. 

It’s too late for this, Alexia thinks. She feels the ache in her bones, the pull of tired muscles as they beg for reprieve. She should have told Alba to leave when the rest of their family did. Then again, these days Alexia supposes she should do a great deal of things that she inexplicably doesn’t.

“You know how I can tell?” The question is almost rhetorical. Arrogant and filled with pride. “You’re constantly fighting yourself not to care. To focus on football.” 

“It’s an important point in the season.” 

“Not as important as her.” 

That one is provocative. It’s like a dagger dripping in honey; alluring, tempting, but dangerous. Alexia knows what Alba is trying to do. She’s hardly subtle, and whether it is Alexia’s obsession over her fucking job or the idea of her actually loving someone that Alba wants to punish her for is simply irrelevant. 

Alexia sits back into the creased leather of her sofa, once brand-new but now accustomed to luxury and fortune. “There is no her,” she says, standing on this hill like an idiot who doesn’t know it’s not worth it. “And if there were, football would still come first. Football is what I love.” 

“Being the best in the world doesn’t resurrect the dead.” She doesn’t mean to say it. Really, it just slips out, dropped from wine-loosened lips like a nuclear bomb exploding on impact. “Papá wouldn’t want you to live your life like a soldier.” 

“How do you know what he would’ve wanted?” Alexia hisses. 

Alba holds her hands up in apology. Her little sister can be naive, Alexia accepts, forcing herself to take in a deep breath. Her little sister has no idea what she’s talking about. 

She doesn’t push. Not immediately. 

She blink at Alexia, lips parting for a response that doesn’t arrive. Hurt flashes across her face, and their shared grief is a mirror and a curse and a weight too painful to carry alone. So Alba searches in her sister’s eyes for something. 

The silence stretches on as Alexia lets her, too tired to hide it anymore, despite her knuckles tightening around the base of her own wine glass. Her jaw ticks. The shadows cast by the soft lamp in the corner, discreetly branded with a black tick, only exposing the lines of exhaustion indented in her skin. 

Alba tilts her head. “So…” she says eventually, lightly, like it might soften the blow she’s winding up. “You are seeing someone.”

This time, there is no satisfaction to be found in her discovery. 

Alexia doesn’t deny it any longer. She just lets the admission hang in the air, an open wound ready to bleed out. 

Her sister’s eyes shut briefly. She exhales. “Is it Kika?” 

Alexia lets out a low, humourless laugh. “No.” 

“Fine,” Alba mutters. It’s a torturous game of Guess Who? but Alba is a resilient woman if anything. “Is it the English girl?”

Alexia doesn’t flinch. That’s confirmation enough. 

Alba sighs again. This time it's deeper; a visceral echo of their mother. “Ale. Come on.” 

“What?” 

“You can’t be serious.”

Alexia doesn’t reply. 

Alba stands abrupt, pacing now, glass forgotten on the table. “She’s engaged, Ale. Her wedding is supposed to be the posh event of the century. Her fiancé is on the board of the brand that made your fucking car, per l’amor de Déu. You told me that!” Alexia’s agent had explained it after she’d questioned exploring a sponsorship deal. She has yet to find out the owners. She’d stopped listening to the conversation. “You said it like a joke and now you’ve gone and – what, fallen for her?” 

Alexia doesn’t look. Can’t look. 

She stares out the window instead, where the traffic lights turn red and make the street look infernal. Her eyes don’t move. 

“You haven’t thought this through,” Alba says, more firmly. She’s switching into reality-check mode. The worst mode. The one that she inherited from the hard, strong women of the family, who really needed a bullshit detector to deal with the rest of them. The one that dragged her from a disastrous night out in Ibiza after Jenni left. The one that makes Alexia blink and wonder where the baby she’d once held has gone. “This is a very, very bad idea.” 

“I know!” Alexia snaps. 

That catches Alba off guard. She quiets. 

“I’m not stupid.” Alexia’s voice is weak and unrecognisable. Defeated. Succumbent. “I know it’s doomed. I know this doesn’t end with her choosing me. Or staying. Or… whatever.” She finally turns to Alba, fire alight in her eyes and making her tears blaze. “But I’m not asking you for permission. I don’t need permission.” 

Entirely a lie when thought about, but a raft to keep her afloat nevertheless.

Alba’s gaze narrows. “You want permission. You’re hoping that I’ll say it’s okay, that it makes sense, that love is complicated or brave or whatever fucking poetry you’ve got stuck in your head. She’s… she’s changed you! She has filled your head with nonsense that you don’t get to subscribe to. A world that you don’t belong in.”

Alexia’s still stuck on ‘love’, concreted in ridiculous Epicurean notions that have never plagued her before she met you. 

God, she doesn’t love you, does she? 

How can she love you when you will never love her? 

How can she lose like this?

“You worked your whole life to get here,” Alba says, voice low and penetrating. “You’re going to throw that away for what? Stolen hours in the dark? For a girl who doesn’t even call you when she leaves?” 

“I told her to leave.” 

“But she hardly needed convincing.” Alba sits down now, as though her anger has depleted and now she only wants to protect her sister. “I’m trying to look out for you. I know it doesn’t seem like it. But I’m not trying to be cruel. I just… I don’t want to watch you ruin yourself over someone who doesn’t even know what she wants.” 

“She does know,” Alexia says, quietly. “She just can’t choose it.” 

Alba scoffs because her sister seems assured that that’s better. She opens her mouth to deliver the final blow, obligated to by simple preservation of her sister’s wellbeing. 

The doorbell rings out before she can get there. Exasperated, Alba marches off to the bathroom.

Alexia answers, quite happy for a break in the argument. 

You’re standing. Waiting. 

One of you gasps. You don’t know who.

“You’re in England?” she murmurs as you step over the threshold. 

“Obviously not,” you reply. 

Her expression changes. Slightly. Not pleased to see you, but not upset either. 

You don’t want to talk to her more than these pleasantries that have now been exchanged, so you don’t. She grabs your hips in response. Her hands are warm. 

Alexia kisses like she must train – sharp and focused, timing blended with artistry. Warmth slides up beneath your coat as she pulls you even closer, lips parting as if to speak but finding better use elsewhere. 

It’s consuming when it’s like this. Nothing else matters here, in this liminal space that relies on silence and accepts its fragility. You wouldn’t call it an experiment, but Alexia knows that she has to get everything exactly right for this to work. 

She tastes like wine tonight. You must smell of plane and people and the lingering stench of animal guts. She won’t ask why. You won’t either. 

That’s the point.

As you moan and gasp into her ear, pressed against her kitchen worktop now, you decide that that’s the point. 

Here is a release. Something physical and tangible, that has ten fingers and knows how to use them, and a tongue that is just as talented as the world claims her left foot to be. And it feels fucking good. 

So, so good. 

“Ale?” 

The second is how terrifying your glare is as you laser through her, dismembering limb from limb. 

She’s not welcome anymore.

It’s a feeling she doesn’t know. Not here, not in Alexia’s home, which is an extension of her home. An extension built with gold, but the gold comes from hard work and the hard work comes from Papi, so the gold comes from home. Home with Alexia, like always. Like she had promised her in a hospital years ago, holding scrawny baby-Alba and declaring it with the kind heart and the soft eyes that she gets from Papi, too. 

This home is strong. Has seen a lot. Perseveres. (That’s Mami.) 

Alba learnt once about sisterly love. Pushing and pulling but the rope never breaks and the free fall never comes. 

Tonight it’s like seeing Alexia jump off a cliff. Still attached, still bonded, but with little care for anything other than what’s at the bottom. Feels the drop in her stomach. 

It’s going to drag them all down. 

You’re staring and Alba’s staring but Alexia is saying nothing.

She has moved away from you now, leaning on the opposite worktop, wiping her lips dry as if she can make Alba believe she hasn’t seen a thing. 

Alba says, “Does she speak Catalan.” Not really asking, not surprised you don’t. Says it in Catalan too, just because it stings Alexia more. The silence is enough. “You’re going to kill yourself when this ends.” 

Alexia flinches. 

“You’re in love with her and she is never going to choose you.” 

“Get out,” Alexia replies. 

This is a catalyst. 

This is the tug of the recoil start that jolts the generator into action. The generator whirs and grumbles, getting hotter. Hotter. 

Hotter. 

A fan won’t cool it this time. Water might start a fire. 

Hotter. 

Alexia is kissing you and pressing you into her bed. Alexia will message Alba tomorrow and ask her not to be angry. Alexia is jerking the rope between her and her sister and she is pulling the cord for the generator and she is licking between your thighs. 

Alexia will one day think about this moment in her life and remember. But she can’t know now what she’ll remember then, because then that universe crumbles and that universe — this universe — is a good one, despite all that she is and does. 

It just keeps getting hotter. 

Hotter. Hotter hotter hotter.

Blackout. 

Then you’re no longer there. A flight is booked. “My father’s finally home.” Not a real excuse, but said like one and accepted like one. 

Alexia’s chest aches with brief jealousy. The monotony of your voice quickly snaps her out of it. 

You think of your father as Augustus Caesar. The first Roman Emperor, though he was not an emperor and not a dictator and not violating the Roman Republic, to the knowledge of the Roman Republic.

Augustus was careful and curated. Neat categories of propaganda, neat projects lined up with the greater good in mind, neat expectations for every member of his family. Pax. Latin for peace. Augustus was the bringer of pax. 

Augustus’ daughter was not neat. Wild like a caged animal. Wilder because she is caged. Rabid at the thought of being free, rabid at the thought of being captured once more. 

Your father is tempted to exile you to a remote island when you walk in through the front door. 

“Daddy’s angry,” Minnie whispers in your ear as if you haven’t gathered. She points to his study. Past the library, down a corridor you don’t know. You don’t know it because he’s never there. When he’s there, he doesn’t speak to you. If he’s there. 

It’s a nice lamp, you think, as your father throws it. 

Not at you. You look like the woman who caressed his cheek and wiped his tears and found the strength to ignore the way he’d pant a dead woman’s name into a living corpse’s ear until the corpse had a baby and the baby became something new. So not at you.

“I expected so much more of you,” he says between the fragments of glass and clank of metal. Red bleeds from your palm as you try to pick up the pieces. “You’re so clever. So brilliant. You’re going to be wasted in that marriage, but you’ll tell Richard things when no one else is around and you’ll give him ideas. You’d be working for me if you had agreed to.” 

Your father is Augustus who is desperately searching for a successor but is finding them all dead. Dying. 

Companies and meetings and dinner parties with clients don’t make more children. More children don’t make better children. Fewer children still make worse. 

His head is in his hands and your blood stains his white shirt when you try to comfort him. You don’t know why you’re comforting him. “You’re all spoilt.” 

There’s a knock at the door. 

“Your brothers are home.” Dead. Dying. His eyes squint as though he has a headache and he reaches over to his cures. A globe set in mahogany. Fucking imperialism. He flicks open a latch, flicks open the globe. “Whisky?” 

You shake your head. 

“Too much of it. Dinner with the Lord Mayor, remember?” 

“Oh, yes. Wouldn’t shut up about Hong Kong.” 

“Had to drown him out.” 

“You had to drown him out,” echoes your father. As explicit a dismissal as he will ever give. 

Minnie is waiting outside.

“Heard a crash,” she says as she cradles your head and holds you. 

“Daddy wouldn’t,” you say back, but you’re not sure and you know that this is lost. “Do you know where the boys are?” 

“Caravan.” 

You’re not surprised. 

The Caravan is the pimp-seat of many a party. Far back in the field behind the garden, far away enough for the smell of weed to dissipate and the sounds of whatever event of the night to be inaudible. 

The boys like the Caravan because they can talk about things your mother would scold them for. They can hide and be easily found but not easily disturbed. They can be the three brothers they were before the woman your father loved was gone and your mother replaced her. 

It feels sacrilegious to step inside. Every time. But you do it. 

“Hello,” your older brother says immediately, half-shocked to get a look at you. He blinks a few times. “I thought you were in Spain?” 

“Obviously not.” It feels a little bit like when you had stood in Alexia’s doorway and she, puzzled, had let you in. They don’t want you here. They do want you here. No one can ever decide. 

You size the three of them up. All fatter. Rounder faces, happier faces. Circles of stress underneath their eyes regardless. Matching unintentionally in quarter-zips and chinos, wellies muddy just like yours. Muddy from the walk to the Caravan. A walk you despise. 

You point at your favourite. The third brother. The one who leaves and dies and returns to his sybaritic life because that’s how it works. 

“I need to talk to you,” you command. The boys — men, you should say — share a look. One that they wear when a woman tells them something and they cannot refuse: this one’s not a choice, mate. So he gets up, an obedient dog called to heel for once in his life, and follows you outside. You look back over your shoulder, nose scrunching at the stench of stale weed and dried bodily fluids. “Daddy’s cross with us, by the way. Says we’re all spoilt.” 

A guffaw. A rumble of protest.

Your third brother leads you to where you have always gone: the fence by the line of trees, the seat which the two of you carved out for each other. 

The confession bubbles out before you realise what you are saying. 

“I was fucking a woman. In Barcelona.” 

He smiles and you see the diamond-head of a poisonous snake before you. Even if the poison is slow to work. Even if you love the very thing that bites. 

“Fez won’t be too happy.” 

The look you give him is a pained one. How could he get to you too? The hurly-burly is almost done and you will be the only loser here. 

Maybe Alexia, as well. 

“I was fucking a woman too,” your brother then says, starting like a parable against merciless indulgence. Not that he speaks with a hint of regret. “She left. Didn’t want to see me ever again.” 

“What did you do?” you ask; this doesn’t feel like a diversion. 

He taps the side of his nose. “She wanted me to stop. I told her she couldn’t stop the inevitable.”

“The inevitable,” you mutter. Duty. Legacy. Maintenance. 

How has your family survived this long? 

How have they overcome their greed and cowardice? Mismanagement and selfish decisions? 

Duty. Legacy. Maintenance. 

“You’ll marry him, you know. You would choose this life every time.” 

“Would I?” 

His eyes meet yours. Nothing like yours. Haunted and still haunting. Your father must have relished in the shame of this son — an excuse never to look at those eyes — because this son is the picture of his love. And for all that precious love, he is still corrupted. 

Once upon a time, he would have told you what you wanted to hear. 

Yes, I’ll come to your concert. 

Yes, I’ll be home to see you. 

Yes, I love you more than anything in the world. 

Yes. I promise. 

Life is no longer a fairytale. 

“Every time.” 

You dream of Alexia that night, but then what happens doesn’t count. It’s a dream. Not real. 

Kisses empty, hands too light. An illusion. 

It’s all an illusion. All a trick. 

…

You fucking hate football and you fucking hate football matches. It’s far too jovial and loud and the colours give you a headache. Bad company, too. 

Carlota’s rather smug today. You’ve ventured to Madrid for some final, not too frustrated as the last Christmas present you needed to dole out had to be picked up anyway. Alexia has mentioned a Supercopa the other day when explaining why she’d be gone for a few days. “You have a TV,” she’d stated, breathless as you tried to shut her up with wandering hands. 

It wasn’t your idea to come to the match, though. If it were, you’d at least be in a box (although the godforsaken stadium doesn’t have a single one). Yet Carlota insists that pitchside is more fun, eyes glimmering with sparks of subterfuge. “The players feel real, like people rather than Papá’s investments. Not that you needed more proof.” 

And so, because you neglect to tell her and she neglects to scan the stadium before the match, Alexia doesn’t know that you’re here. 

She’s not playing selfishly. Not really. Her passes are crisp and her transitions fast, and she feels so alive. She always feels alive when she’s playing football. Even when the match is theirs and Madrid is simply scrambling for a consolidation-goal. 

She lets herself enjoy it. A little flair, a step over and a nutmeg. A long ball to change play. A pass that makes her instrumental on the pitch. 

The Madrid player panics as she comes towards her, white shirt waving like a white flag and her surrender slightly pathetic. She doesn’t even try with her tackle; it’s just plain dirty. Ankles. Studs. 

It hurts a little bit but Alexia will get over it. She trained enough in December to have reinforced her steel and bolstered her hatches. 

Mapi points at her and then at herself. Alexia presses her finger into her chest. 

She’ll take the freekick. 

The referee hands her the ball, shouting at the Madrid players to stop jostling the Barça players and for the Barça players to be patient for a moment. It’s a tense moment. The football is grassy and slippery and everything she knows. 

The football is her life, her focus, her reason. 

Not you. No. 

The football. 

Football. 

Alexia turns to the crowd, absorbing the energy from already-celebrating culers. 

And you. A hallucination, because she obviously thinks about you too much. Because she can’t stop, not even when she’s playing football. 

Except, she wouldn’t imagine Carlota beside you with her arms crossed and a smug smile plastered on her lips. Nor would she have this fantasy with you in a white jumper, because she’s not an idiot and it’s naked or her Barça jersey. Nor would you be trying very hard not to look at her like you’re enjoying it, glaring futilely as if the whole debacle is a nuisance. 

You’re not going crazy, you mouth to Alexia when she stares for a moment too long, never abandoning your quest for indifference. 

Alexia takes in a deep, deep breath. 

She barely cares when she kicks the ball and it flies into the back of the net. 

After, there is singing and dancing and cheering in the changing rooms. Steam rolls out from the showers like a warrior’s mist on a Homeric battlefield, engulfing Real Madrid’s wounded as they crawl away in a staggering defeat that renders them humiliated and far from catching up to Alexia’s favourite team in the whole, wide world. 

Your text is better than the medal slung around her neck and the trophy Mapi has forced her to chug champagne from. 

Meet me afterwards? You’ll see me when you come outside. 

Oh and keep the medal on.

Her response is instantaneous: 

10 mins.

She’s showered. She’s changed. She’s victorious. 

And then she’s ambushed, and it feels a lot like the engagement party last September. This wolf pack’s average age is considerably lower, though. 

“Jana, Patri, Kika.” Her voice is firm. The names blur into one. It’s also too impatient for someone who doesn’t have somewhere else to be. 

Patri is grinning, face tinged with red from the exertion of the conga line around the room that has only just ended. Her medal is on, too, although the ribbon must be very durable to have coped with the movement. 

“You,” Patri says as she plonks down beside Alexia conspirationally, “were impressive. Impressing.” 

Alexia doesn’t bother looking up, choosing instead to adjust her socks as if a wrinkle would ruin her outfit. She’s in team-issued sweats. She’s a footballer and that’s clear and so she plays dumb, even to her kind. 

“I was enjoying myself.” 

Jana sits down on her other side. “If I nutmegged half of Madrid and smirked about it, you’d give me a talking to about egos and sportsmanship and not letting ‘it’ get to my head.” 

“You’d never do that,” Alexia states with the implication of that scenario being impossible for reasons other than Jana’s profound professionalism and maturity. When she gets called ‘feisty’, she digs her grave deeper. “And maybe I was in a good mood.” 

“Mmm,” Patri hums, glancing at Jana and then at Kika, who’s blocking Alexia from scurrying away. “See, I only get that kind of good mood when my family is visiting to watch me play. A rare occurrence, which you don’t understand. But it’s a case of caring about them caring. Wanting to make it worth coming to.” 

Alexia’s eyes dart between the three. 

“What are you getting at?” 

Kika peels a banana and takes a bite out of it, the smell pungent and unwelcome amongst the waft of sweat and alcohol. She raises her eyebrows in encouragement and that seems to be the signal to abandon subtly. 

“Was she here?” 

Alexia stares. Not at any of them in particular. Just gormlessly and innocently, as if she’s going to get away with this. 

“Who?” 

“Oh, come on,” Jana groans. “Your woman. The girlfriend. She was in the crowd!” 

Alexia exhales, slow and measured but only for practicality. Only because she will protest but doesn’t know how just yet. “I don’t have a–”

“Don’t insult us with that bullshit,” Patri cuts in. “We’re not blind. You completely froze and looked into the crowd right before your freekick. Like you were soaking up someone else’s support.” 

“I have no recollection of that. Could’ve been anyone.” 

It’s a poor defence. 

“Sure,” Jana snorts. “Anyone you let tear up your back and leave scratch marks that show up through your training shirt.” 

(That had been a good night.) 

The banana in Kika’s mouth soon becomes a choking hazard, but there is hardly anyone left in the changing room to care. Most people are now celebrating on the bus. 

“I’m just saying,” continues the stupid, naive, and nosy defender, voice steady like she has become the team’s latest statistician. “The hickey under her jaw last week wasn’t subtle. And she missed that one team dinner. When I asked where she was, Mapi said ‘occupied’.”

“Occupied,” Patri repeats, pretending to be solemn. It’s a jarring situation to be in. “That must have been in the biblical sense, right, Ale?”

Alexia covers her face with her hands, because this is embarrassing and she probably doesn’t have enough time to be interrogated. 

“You’re both disgusting.” 

Jana’s correction comes in swiftly. “We’re observant. You think you’re subtle, but we literally watched you try to a hide a smile when you got a text just now–” 

“Smiles can be prompted by things other than my imaginary girlfriend.” Lie. Twists the knife, the lie, but she’s saving herself here and she’s left with few options. 

“Yeah, yeah, capi.” Kika’s not convinced. It’s like the three of them can smell dishonesty. 

Patri leans in. “So, was she there?” 

Alexia shrugs. 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe, she says!” Patri rolls her eyes. “That was a give-me-another-Balón-de-Oro performance but for one woman who will probably sleep with you tonight. You don’t need to do that stuff to impress people, Ale, because you already do.” 

The compliment is wrapped in betrayal, but Patri is never serious enough for Alexia to feel guilty. 

Her phone buzzes again. 

It’s been 8 but hurry up. I have a surprise for you. 

Alexia sighs dramatically, but her smile is audible and the girls almost shriek. “Well. I’ve been summoned.” Jana’s finger is spasming as she points at the device, like she’s pressing a self-destruct button over and over again. Before they can scream that the ‘maybe’ has just texted her and they caught her at the scene of the crime, Alexia stands up. “Adéu. Estoy orgullosa de vosotras.” 

Barbed comment lingering in the air as she reminds them of her position as captain-wisewoman-mentor, Alexia saunters off. She’s quite intrigued about the surprise. 

The press gets ignored as Alexia marches towards you. They shout questions and congratulate her for her goal and the win, but not even her favourite journalist can get her to stop. The dregs of the players following her are swept up in their storm instead.

It’s funny. 

The first thing she sees when she leaves the stadium is a barrage of fans pressed against a few metal barriers. So much excitement, so much anticipation. 

The fans aren’t her prying teammates or the journalists who weave different meanings into her words and make her stop reading the news. The fans are supportive and loving and they worship her. They are a reward for her victories and hard work. They are like diamonds set in gold, each competing to shine the most for her attention. 

She can’t walk past them. It wouldn’t be right. 

Alexia gives her softest smile to the little girl in front of her, crouched slightly to be eye-level, the weight of the medal around her neck brushing the girl’s jacket as she leans in for a photo. It’s a tender moment – a reprieve that makes her forget about the ache ache in her thighs, the raucous changing room, the endless questions. The little girl beams, cheeks flushed with happiness, and Alexia ruffles her untidy curls gently before standing back up. 

Then a horn blares. 

A sharp, confident beep-beep that slices through the clamour. 

She turns instinctively, brows furrowed. The tide of noise goes out before rushing back in like a haphazard crescendo, full of reactions to the Porsche 911 cruising towards their beloved footballer. Her jaw tightens, not out of irritation, but because her stomach is suddenly tight, too. 

You’re behind the wheel, shades on as though you can’t be fucked to show the rest of the world where you choose to fix your gaze. It’s ridiculous. Perfect. And when you pull to a stop, stepping out slowly, the car door closes with a soft thunk and you don’t say a word. You just fold your arms across your chest, smirk set deeply, nails painted a new shade of fuck-me red after you had them trimmed for increasingly frequent acts of lesbianism. 

Alexia short-circuits. 

Absolutely freezes for half a second before reality shoves time forwards. 

Doesn’t know if this reality is a reality her body can take. 

She looks away, quickly, just in case the way her mouth goes dry can be seen on the videos that are undoubtedly being recorded. She’s still next to the cluster of fans, but her attention is now a tornado that will shred anything that isn’t you. 

Her gaze flickers back to the girl she’s just taken the photo with, suddenly remembering that she’s still there, clutching a sharpie and looking up at her idol with wide eyes. A very selfish part of Alexia also remembers that the girl has already got her photo.

“I–” Alexia begins, then stammers, then resets. She crouches back down, hands on her knees, not sure what she’s going to say until the words come out. “I have to go now, nena. My… my friend is here.” 

The girl’s mother pats her on the shoulder. “Even footballers need to get lifts,” she says calmly. Responsibly. 

Alexia thanks her with her eyes. The woman cocks her head ever so slightly to the side: she gets it. 

She waves goodbye, thanking the rest of them outloud, and then turns. She starts walking towards you. 

Each step is a test of strength. Stay composed, don’t run, don’t trip, don’t drop her toiletries bag. Her hands are sweating. 

By the time she reaches you, you’ve already walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. 

It’s declaratively possessive. 

She doesn’t even try to hide the way she oggles. You look maddeningly good. She can smell your perfume – the one that you wore at the exhibition opening, the one that acted as a fucking pheromone and drove her crazy until she could finally fuck you. She clenches her jaw. 

“You could’ve warned me.” 

The seats are wine-red and leather. Comfortable in an uncomfortable way. She places her toiletries bag by her feet and the car roars into life once more. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” you tease.

You’re pouting. You’re fucking pouting. You leave her and you fuck her and you do things like this. Things that mean you care but prove that you don’t. 

The engine sings as you drive out of the stadium carpark. Alexia’s body harmonises. 

“You could’ve told me you were coming,” she says next, because it’s easier than telling you how happy she is that you did. 

“I didn’t know I was.”

“So you were going on a drive around Madrid in this? Por casualidad.” 

You click your tongue and take one hand off the steering wheel, flicking your shades up as if you’ve had enough of the show. You’re clear of spies now. 

“It’s not my car, actually.” And Alexia thinks you’ve gone mad. You’ve finally cracked – your family, your engagement, your thing with her… it has gotten to you! It was only a matter of time, she supposes. 

You laugh. 

“Ale, your face.” 

You called her Ale. 

“Hm. No, it’s not my car. It’s a belated Feliz Navidad.” 

“A belated…” she trails off. Commits the word ‘belated’ to memory for when she needs it. “Carlota gave you a car?” 

You laugh again. This feels cruel. She doesn’t know where you’re taking her. 

“Carlota’s never bought me anything past a packet of gum at a Tesco.” Alexia groans. She hates being at your mercy like this; when it’s obvious that you have her ensnared and begging to stay. “You’re very slow, hunky footballer.” 

She opens her mouth to protest but words don’t come fast enough to beat you to it. 

“Obviously, this is your Christmas present.” 

Alexia blinks. 

Then she blinks again. 

She stares at you, at the road, at the leather interior like maybe it’ll explain what’s happening. Like maybe the seats will sprout lips and vocal cords and the ability to say, this is yours. Start crying now. 

“No lo entiendo…” she finally mutters.

You glance at her quickly, smirk muted now, before slowing down and turning onto a quieter street lined with trees that are ready for winter to be over. To the right, there’s a small restaurant with warm lights and a waiter standing outside smoking a cigarette. 

“You heard me.” 

“It’s mine?” Where would she even park this? She only has two spaces in her complex. 

You hum. “Yours.” 

Alexia scoffs. “You–” she gestures vaguely at the dashboard, the doors, the image of you sitting in her car saying ‘yours’ like it refers to something else. “You can’t just buy me a car. For Christmas. I didn’t get you anything!” 

“It came late,” you offer kindly, as if that is going to make her feel less confused. “You make me come so hard I think I’ve met the most controversial man of omnipotence.” 

Alexia chokes. Actually chokes on spit. In her mouth. It’s ungraceful and pathetic and it makes your smile widen. 

“I’m just kidding. I thought it was a practical gift and I hate your other car.” 

“I have to drive the Cupra. It’s a sponsorship deal.” 

“Not the Cupra,” you reply. You’re pulling up on the curb, parking the Porsche on the road as though it’s a bog-standard Ford that’s running out of miles and missing a window. “The other one. I’m so sick of seeing the buggers zip around.”

You’ve always wanted to stick your middle finger up at your father. Being photographed with a footballer, driving her like a chauffeur, and doing all of that in a Porsche? So deserved. Possibly stroke-inducing.

“Your family owns the make.” 

A flicker of surprise crosses your face. Alexia must have finally looked you up. “And it’s not as cool as this. This is yours. Free from shackles. No sponsorship deal here.” It’s also not tainted by the other girls Alexia has presumably picked up in her sleaze-car. It’ll be claimed by you (the two of you) when you have sex in it later. 

Forcefully, Alexia breathes in and out until she feels a bit calmer. You seem to encourage this, staying put for as long as it takes. 

When she’s done, you tap her thigh lightly. 

“Let’s get some lunch. Afterwards, I’ll take you back to the team hotel.” Alexia briefly wonders where Carlota must be if you’re here with her. “Then tomorrow, when you’re recovered, come pick me up. You’ve got to drive this thing back to Barcelona and it would be bad manners to leave you in solitude.” 

Captain Alexia Putellas is wearing a medal that she has won multiple times before. She has so many golds that she’d probably lose track of this one on the shelf. 

She has led her team to greatness once more. 

She has come out on top. 

She is the best. 

Yet she can only nod at you, limp and turned on and confused.

“Como quieras,” she breathes.

…

It’s sunny outside today. It’s nice. Pleasant. 

Alexia looks good with her hair down like this. Relaxed in spite of her life and this mess. Sexy. 

She doesn’t understand the concept of buttons when she’s with you, leaving her oversized shirt open like a glorified coat. You can see her nipples through her bralette. You curse the breeze on the balcony. 

A thought swims into mind. 

Lick them. 

You shake it out of your head. It would be an absurd reaction to her ranting about her sister and her opinions or whatever it is she is so passionate about. You have no idea how you have crept into morning coffees like this. 

But Alexia notices your eyes lingering too low down. Of course she does. 

She pauses midsentence. Her lips stay parted, but the words evaporate. 

You’re still holding your mug (a ghastly thing she made at a pottery workshop and claims to remind her of you), but drinking from it seems impossible. As if you can’t remember. The ceramic is warm in your hands, but your gaze is warmer, drifting up only when it’s too late. 

You’ve been caught.

She arches an eyebrow. “¿Estás escuchándome o qué?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You like when she speaks Spanish. When she husks it out in acquiescence, as if she’s given into something. A fantasy. A present just for you even though she speaks it all the time. 

Bumbling, you settle on, “sort of.” 

“Sort of,” she repeats, a little smirk curling the corner of her mouth. She shifts on the metal chair, and the shirt falls further off one shoulder like it’s a provocation. “What were you thinking about?” 

The mug makes a soft clink as you set it down on the chairs’ matching table. “Does it matter?” 

Alexia leans forwards, arms crossing under her chest, abs flexed beneath that. You could take a photograph. You’d submit it to National Geographic. You’d buy Carlota’s painting of her too. So that no one else can see it: no one else should get to see this. 

“That depends on your answer.” 

You should look away and dig deep for a slither of self-restraint. Instead, you exhale slowly through your nose. “I was thinking,” you say, voice low, “about how silly it would be to pretend I wasn’t staring.”

“Oh?” She’s standing up now, every muscle flexing and tensing and bulging and stirring up something very primal. “Honest and horny? What a woman you are.” 

It sounds a little too soft. A little too like she’s just as in awe of you as you are her. But you don’t care or you don’t hear it, because you’re only looking hungrier and Alexia is too addicted to that to come clean. She really should come clean. 

“I try,” you murmur, and in two steps, she’s in front of you. Not kissing you, but close enough that the fabric of her shirt brushes your leg. 

She smells like the coconut from her morning shower. You think of your au pair, of her fingers stroking down your back as you cried and cried and cried, distraught with having too many people and distraught with having no one at all. Alexia’s skin is warm from the sun, her thigh brushing yours as she leans in. 

“I know you want to kiss me,” she states, grinning. She looks pretty when she grins. You like her teeth. And that it’s not playful, not innocent. Her eyes drop to your lips. “Bésame, idiota.”

You lean forwards. Her hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, journeying to your jaw and grazing the bone there. 

Bone could touch bone. Bone wants to touch bone. So desperately. So earnestly. 

And there’s a gap of longing before you kiss her. She doesn’t know if you feel it; the throb of her feelings, the need and the want and the pure power of having you. She doesn’t know if she’d want you to. If that would be moral. Or fair. 

But it’s there. No one can deny that. 

You chalk it down to her being attractive and you, ovulating. 

You might be ovulating? 

The kiss lands slowly. Deliberate, at first. A test of will and a taste of bitter coffee because sugar isn’t allowed like that. Her mouth is soft, steady: she knows how to kiss away the layers of your lips until she can finally get to the truth. Even if that truth is never heard. 

One hand slides behind your neck, firm and coaxing, pulling you in deeper. You tug gently at the edge of her shirt. This is the forbidden fruit but it is sweet and it is warm and the shirt is gone – on the floor where it doesn’t matter. Good, you think, the chair creaking quietly under the combined weight of new hips on your hips, thighs on your thighs. 

“Alexia,” you gasp into her mouth, words becoming breath that she chooses to ignore. Alexia has blinded herself when given a warning. She no longer heeds them. She doesn’t have it in her. 

She kisses you again, tongue moving with a hungry rhythm. Her weight settles more fully in your lap, strong muscle a force that is satisfyingly suffocating. She’s warm. The chair protests again but it possesses no authority, and it could go on groaning as much as it’d like because it would never be heard. You can’t exist past Alexia and her mouth and her tongue and the coffee and everything that makes your insides twist. 

You reach up, fingertips trailing over the strong planes of her back. Her skin is pulsing under your touch. Her shoulder blades extend and contract like wings – like Icarus, like she is chasing the golden luxury of the Sun. You pretend not to know how that story ends. 

Her kiss stutters when your palm slides under the bralette, lifting it up. You hear her sigh, sharp and shaky. You feel it in your mouth, too. Her hands dig into you, holding herself steady as she tenses and relaxes and tells you to keep touching her. You’re craving. 

Her nipples are hard against your fingers and you can’t help yourself. You circle your thumb once. Slowly. 

She shudders. A snake bites in the back of your mind and you wonder if this is too intimate. Too special. 

Too good to be true. 

But she responds with a throaty sound of approval. Or demand. 

She breaks the kiss, breath coming fast. “You’re…” Her voice falters, lashes fluttering as her forehead dips to yours. “You’re worse than me.”

It has no meaning, really. You’re both as bad as each other. 

You’re grinning proudly anyway. “You like that.” 

She doesn’t argue. She rolls her hips once, firm and intentional. You bite your lip so hard you taste metal and red. She’s still straddling you, powerful and deliberate and trembling under your touch. 

“You’re so warm,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Podría vivir dentro de ti. Quiero vivir dentro de ti.” 

“You’re too big,” you tease, but in this context it feels like something different and it only spurs another roll of her hips. 

You bury your face into the crook of her neck, biting lightly, tasting the sweat just starting to form. She chuckles at your groan, but you only murmur, “this is what you do to me,” into her and she leaves you be. Until her hand brushes yours, latches onto it, pulls it down from her chest and pushes it towards the waistband of her pyjama shorts. 

“I need you,” she whispers when you resist the guidance into her underwear. 

“The neighbours are getting a show.”

“A good show.” Her voice is breathy and weak and she needs you (she told you that already). 

Your eyes dart from the blonde hair hanging over your face like a canopy to the eyes that go with it and then to the other balconies in your view. There’s an old lady sitting not too far away who has made a point of turning her chair around. 

“Inside,” you say. 

There’s no more fuss after that. 

She’s wet and ready and it doesn’t take much. A few strokes of your fingers  have her falling into your body like she trusts you to catch her. The floor is cold against your bare skin but it’s fine. You don’t care. 

And then Alexia stands – chiselled as though Doryphoros and Aphrodite have become one. You can’t resist worshipping that. She seems to feel the same. 

Her tongue is skilled and precise. Meticulously. Competitive. 

She makes you come quicker than you did her, wiping the sweat from your brow after you point that out like it’s supposed to be a complaint, shutting you up by kissing you with messy, greedy lips. Hates when you complain. Hates that you’ll never be satisfied and she’ll never be satisfied and none of this will never be enough. 

“Easy-peasy,” she says when she flops onto the sofa with you in her lap. 

You laugh. 

“Who taught you that?” 

She scoffs. “I know English.”

You scoff too. “If you say so.” Then, when you have caught your breath and decided that this is the best exercise and this is what keeps your heart beating and this is something you cannot live without, you pose your challenge: “Do you know what a hen party is?” 

Her face twists with the effort to come up with an idea. “I need a hint.” 

“It’s before a wedding.” 

The wedding, specifically, but that would taint the feeling of her arm around your waist and your head on her chest. 

“Una despedida de soltera. With the women and the bride. Friends, no?” 

You smile. “Yeah. Americans call it a ‘bachelorette party’.” 

“Eso,” she says, triumphant. Her accent curls around the ‘r’s when she repeats it in English and you don’t correct her. You like it too much. 

You look up at her: a flushed face and parted lips. A bruise blossoming just behind her ear. You want to touch her, to reach out your hand and press it along your face, feel each indent and mould it into clay. You could have it done. Have a portrait made. Have it hung in Notting Hill and pretend you care about women’s sports.

You could immortalise Alexia if you wanted to. 

You realise you want to. 

“Come to mine.” 

She’s tensing under you now, her heartbeat speeding. But she has to act normal. She has to. 

“Where is it?” she asks, painfully drawn out as though it has been forced. 

“Zanzibar.” 

She shakes her head. “That’s too far. I don’t have time.” 

“I’d move it,” you murmur sincerely. “I would. But I can’t.” You frown, desperate to convince her. “If it’s money–” 

“It’s not money–” 

“It’s all paid for. A private island. There’ll be, like, five other people. And you can meet my friends.” That’s not quite the correct number, but you’d argue a case of semantics. 

Alexia’s not sure she wants to do that. 

“Carlota will be there.” 

It’s held out like a prize, a reward. She has to give you this. It’s fucking February. 

“Carlota hates me,” Alexia points out, her voice squirming to get out of this even if she physically remains underneath you. 

“Hannah will be there?” you offer instead.

Alexia sighs. She remembers everything everyone has said. She knows she will hate this and she… she loves you, but– “I am out of place in this life.”

Really, she means she will be out of place in a celebration of your marriage to someone else. The feelings are buried but they are not gone, instead having taken root deep in her stomach that leaves it churning at every mention of her impending doom. 

“I want you there,” you set out firmly. “The girls are harmless, really. And they’d be impressed by you.” You run a hand up her arm. “We’d have our own villa. Right in a lagoon. It’s two in each one.” 

“Do people not care?” 

You shrug. “Doesn’t matter what they think.” 

“This is fucking insane.” She shakes her head. “You’re insane.” 

“I had my… assistant—” Not your assistant, but rather your handler. “Check your calendar. We arranged it to coincide with the international window. Apparently, you can miss that.” 

She groans, because it’s tempting but it’s not putting her career first and that’s what should be her priority. “Montse already hates me.” 

“I’ll talk to her myself.” 

“She’s not a reasonable woman.” 

You smirk. “Neither am I.” 

“I don’t want to miss camp.” 

“It’s two matches. Belgium and England. If you really want, I’ll have you on a chartered flight to London before you play England. I know you’re taken with the country.” 

“Taken?” She knows the word in various contexts — has studied it in gruelling English lessons. She can’t tell what you meant though. 

“Well, I’m from England.” 

“You support England?” 

She’d never thought about this properly. 

“Darling, you know I don’t give a fuck about football.” 

“Oh, sí que sé.” 

“So. Coming? Or going to leave me alone in a lagoon villa with seven other insufferable brats, unfucked? In a bikini… in the sun… on a private island that’s basically just you and me.” 

“It is your bachelorette party.” 

You laugh. “Yeah, so I’m still perfectly on the market.” 

“I need to go back for the England game.” 

“I’ll call my father and ask for the family plane.” 

She thinks you’re joking. 

You’re not. 

You don’t know what you want with Alexia half the time. She’s too confusing and you’re too elusive and the wedding date is constantly crawling closer, so you need this. 

It can be the end. It can be the middle. It can be anything. 

But it needs to be real. 

You press a kiss to her neck, the silence now far too emotional and heavy and distracting. You should probably get going – Alexia has training and you have, well, whatever you have. Maybe you’ll pester Carlota at the studio. Maybe you’ll call Saskia. 

A cord of muscle protrudes from her neck and you want to bite it. She stops you. 

“You have a plane?” 

You don’t answer. 

She moves, unsettled. The wild animal stays wild and cannot be tamed. It can be befriended but bangs and pops will always scare it away. 

“I need to go to training.” You stand up, too. You don’t want to be the only one with fingers in the pie. “I can take you to Carlota’s house.” 

“No need. Same destination.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Fucking another footballer on the side?” 

It’s barbed. Thorns to hide a soft fleshy middle. Insecurity. She wants to be the only one. 

“Richard is there.” 

She’s not the only one. Can’t be. Not when you’re you and you’re beautifully greedy, so politely soul-destroying. She knows she’s not but it still hurts every time she remembers. 

“Car deal with the men’s team. Scam, again. We benefit more. The cars are getting a reputation for being too classic and chic.” It’s said like a bad thing. Her confusion spurs you on, and you’re now in nice clothes that are hers, taken from her wardrobe and suddenly made classic and chic, too. “Money needs business. Footballers have more money than the gents these days.” 

“Too much money,” Alexia finds herself agreeing, swept downstream and no longer fighting the current. She opens the car door for you; you slip into the passenger seat. Let her hold your thigh until the training facility comes into view. You say nothing when she pulls over quickly — not late because she always leaves early — and leans over the console, leans over with one objective in mind. 

“You left a hickey,” you say as you pull your jumper down. Cashmere. Her jumper, actually. You reapply your nude lipstick and wipe the old coat from Alexia’s lips. 

She plays dumb. 

You sigh. 

“I guess it can’t be seen unless someone tries to kiss me there again.” You say it teasingly. Her jealousy is sweet. Cute. A joke. 

She shouldn’t be jealous. 

The girls are confused by her bad mood. Alexia doesn’t have bad moods these days, since these days are good and happy. 

“What happened?” asks Irene very gently, because she knows about fragility and love. She knows about this, too, because Mapi knows. Alba can’t keep a secret so big: Alba needs to let it out sometimes. “You need to smile. The big boss is giving a tour today. They’re going to watch us train for a bit. Before the men’s team.” 

“We’re an appetiser,” Alexia says. Irene gives a bitter laugh. Alexia knows that laugh, has laughed that laugh herself. So much change but so much change is needed still. A whirlpool really. Circles.

“Ponte las botas.” 

She goes out. 

The girls are chattering until she tells them to be quiet. Silence ripples with fear. 

“The club has an important sponsor touring today.” Murmurs of excitement. Poor sods. “Sports cars… for the men’s team. But we want them to look at us too. Don’t we?” 

They nod. Soldiers in their ranks. Agamemnon is speaking and telling them not to give up on the ninth year of the war. 

“Train hard. Keep the intensity high. Mistakes will be punished.” 

This morning’s Alexia is dead. Soft, sun-kissed, sipping coffee and kissing lithely. It all disintegrates now. She’ll be made a fool of in her home, but this team will not suffer at your hands.

The whistle blows and things should make sense. The drills should be simple and comforting. But Alexia just feels stupid. 

She’s a fucking idiot. 

And you’re watching. You’re watching her quite intently, hand in the man’s hand. Smirking. Having your cake and eating it. 

There’s a water break. Vicky’s got a cramp and the physios call for a reprieve. It’s only training, but training harder does make you stronger. 

Jana and Salma are talking and they pull Alexia in. She’s half grateful to have avoided Irene’s pity. Salma and Jana are saying things that make Alexia feel sick, though. 

“Hostia, qué guapo.” Salma likes boys but it’s Jana who says this. “Y rico.” 

“Eres lesbiana,” Salma says as she squirts water in Jana’s face. “Le tengo yo. Yo me quedo aquí para ver si le gusto.” 

Alexia’s face twists. “No seas desesperada. Tiene novia.”

“¿Novia? Un hombre como él puede tener to’ lo que quiere. De cualquiera.” 

“Tía,” Jana says, resting her hand on Alexia’s shoulder. “Mírale. I would fuck him. For money or for fun.” 

“I’d let him do dirty, dirty things to me.” 

“I’d suck—”

“Basta,” Alexia warns. “He’s decent. Probably a horrible person. You could do better.” 

The girls look at their captain for a moment. A rare occurrence to wind her up enough and get a response. Alexia takes a sip of her drink. 

“The girlfriend’s hot too. I’d have a threesome,” Jana continues anyway, with no trepidation or sense of self-preservation. Dumb kids. 

“Yeah, me too. I mean, look at those tits.” 

Alexia’s jaw tightens. Someone is in her pantry stealing her food.

She inhales sharply. 

The vultures turn on their heels with hungry stares. She’s suddenly becoming very interesting. 

Salma smirks, elbowing her lightly. “What? You’re thinking it too.” 

“I don’t objectify people I don’t know.” 

“That’s the only type of people you can objectify!” 

“No.” It’s firm. They’ve crossed the line. Who knows why. “No, they’re our sponsors. Not some fantasy.” 

It’s not a fantasy. Not anymore. Not when she can see how perfect you look with him, slotting into place in the machine which you built and own. His hand holding your hand. Joan Laporta remarking about beautiful couples and his invite to the wedding. 

The whistle blows. Training resumes.

I’m a fucking idiot, Alexia thinks again. 

…

Every fortnight, the Barça girls get a day off. Alexia hates them, trains anyway. Wakes up early so she doesn’t lose the routine — you get out of the routine, you get out of the habit of winning. If you don’t win, what have you done then? 

She doesn’t care today.

Today she is asleep. With you. Dozing until the afternoon because you do this a lot and you don’t want her to leave for the gym or her massage or any stupid sponsorship deal. “I’ll give you more money than them,” you grumble, face in her neck.

The threat feels real. She stays. Can’t not stay. Wishes she could get up and leave you but won’t be able to ever leave you, will only be able to be left.

You’re warm. Soft. Cuddled into her side, leg slung over her hips, deadweight but nothing, too. Asleep, breathing deeply. 

Alexia’s not asleep. The sun is too bright and her body is screaming in contradiction and pleasure and pain. All at once. It’s slightly overwhelming. 

You don’t wake up. 

She lies there. Patiently. 

Thinks about how used to this you are. So much money, so much time. Time is yours to mould, malleable under your command. Alexia is like time, in regards to you. A toy, isn’t she? A doll whose arms move when you want them too. Life revolves around you. You’re too enticing. More enticing because you know you’re enticing. More privileged because you know it’s all yours for the taking. And she’s taken. All of her. 

She wants to die here. Die and live in this moment. There’s not an afterlife, has come to terms with the fact that Papi is dead and dead means gone. Gone means not here, though she feels him in her bones. Alexia’s only a footballer, reckons you’re better equipped to ponder about the meaning of things. A purpose for someone who does not need one. She assumes that the philosophers she has never thought about were the same. Alexia has no time for wisdom like that. 

“Thinking?” 

You’re awake. She checks the time. It’s late to have just come back to life. 

“I made a bad pass,” she says. She can’t subscribe to your thoughts. Needs to show you that she’s different. Needs to convince herself that she’s thinking about football. 

“I’ve never… been with an athlete before you. But I like the simplicity.” You’re calling her stupid, probably.

She pokes your stomach. Wants it to feel like a dagger, like Macbeth with his illusions and his guilt and passive blame. Could blame someone else. When asked about this later, she’ll say she was fogged by too much pressure. This can’t be her fault. 

“You sleep so long.” 

“Hopefully, one day I won’t wake up.” You smile. Alexia hated the thought of that, more than she’s growing to hate you. Hated you because she loves you, though. Hates that you don’t feel the same. 

She caresses your cheek, leans in to kiss you. Her phone rings instead. 

“On ets?” Oh. It’s her mother. 

“Hola, Mamá. A casa.”

You turn over, bare skin exposed as the duvet folds over on itself. Alexia reaches out to touch you. Draws her hand back in. 

“Doncs, afanya’t. Avui dinem juntes.” You wake up really fucking late. “Porta la noia també — ja ho sé, amor, ja ho sé.” 

Hates her mother too. Perceptive. Knows her too well. 

Her mother knows that she has bought a new bikini. Had asked her where she’s going, because it’s February and Alexia doesn’t get breaks. Or doesn’t take them. Whatever. 

Zanzibar, Alexia had revealed. Had said the hotel was sponsoring her. Lying to her mother was something she did to protect her. 

Yes, I’m fine. 

Yes, I can sort out the funeral. 

Yes, I can pay for this, Mamá. 

Yes, I like the fame, because the fame means I can pay for you now. The fame makes me rich, Mamá, for you, Mamá, and I like it. 

“Was that your mum?” You’re sitting up and cupping her cheek. You’re naked and she wants, wants, wants, but her family calls. “Can I stay here? Carlota and Hannah are in Capri.” 

She kisses you. Delays her answers, wants to think about what she’s doing even if she’ll do it anyway. Your hand brushes across her knee, across the surgery scar. It hurts when you touch it — a phantom ache but an ache nonetheless. You touch it and it isn’t healed. Wants you to heal her, though. Wants you. 

“¿Tienes hambre?” 

The drive to Mollet isn’t long. She lives close to home. An amusing thought. Buckinghamshire can go fuck itself, because West London is a microcosm but at least it’s a different county. Alexia must love home. Must not want to escape it. 

A clamour surrounds the Porsche as it rolls through narrow streets. Streets narrowed by cars parked on both sides, mind. No driveways here. No estates. No crunching gravel underneath expensive tyres. Not here, not in Mollet del Vallès. Only the clamour of little children squealing at the sight of the woman behind the wheel, hands reaching out to run along the shiny metal until Catalan barks out of the car and warns them not to get fingerprints on such a pristine surface. Still, they engulf the car with footballs in their small arms and questions of when said footballs will be kicked around in the cages with their idol. On the streets, they offer. Anywhere. 

They’re excited to see her. Alexia smiles. Hopes you’re smiling too. 

Eventually, after a slow journey to her final destination, she parks up. You look out of place against the satellite dishes and plastic balcony chairs. She leads you inside the building she once called home anyway. 

“You’re taking me to your family.” There’s that Oxford degree. Genius. Worked it out the moment you left. For some reason, you chose not to demand she turn around. “Why?” 

“You said you were hungry.” Not the real reason. Alexia couldn’t name the real reason if she tried. Desperation, probably. Alexia can’t just be a body if the body has a family and a home and a life that you can be tempted into. 

The lift’s broken. You’re happy to take the stairs – it’s only three flights. The lights make a buzzing sound. You imagine that for all Carlota has tried to give you, this is the true life of the Catalan people. Carlota can speak the language all she wants. Doesn’t compare, though. 

3A. Nice. “Alba and I shared a room until we moved here,” Alexia says quietly. “We hated being separated. She used to sleep in my bed.” It sounds pained. The bond can never be broken but this rope is taught. She opens the door because it’s never locked. You drop her hand, following her inside. 

You have grown up in a stately home. That’s what they’re called. You can’t escape the name. Minnie is a servant, really, as much as she is a mother and a wisewoman, too. Minnie lives in fear that she will lose her job to the National Trust. That the money will run out and the wings will close one by one, from west to east like a setting sun. For dignity’s sake, the sun should’ve set decades ago. But duty, legacy, maintenance. Sell out to a corporation. Make money like it’s new money. Grow up in a stately home and cling to being stately. Buy a Louis Vuitton bag in anger of growing up in a stately home. Give the bag away to a friend from China, whose father is a CCP tycoon with a packing peanut empire. Resign to the notion that you have grown up in a stately home and all other walks of life will hate you. Resent you. Eat you, because that is what they should do. 

Hope one day to say we lost Belle Reve and go crazy. Instead, you know that Richard brings salvation. Not an heir, but a reinforcement if the dead and dying brothers kick the bucket and Caesar Augustus is truly fucked. 

You look at the flat. Small. Loved. Frayed at the edges but the fraying fabric has been kissed and smells of sweet, old perfume. You wish you could marry Alexia in this moment. Absorb the life, be absorbed by the life. Die in the smell of something traditional and secret, with the soft chatter of her mother berating her for losing track of time. Hear the words ‘family is important’ and not want to bring a knife to your wrists. 

A kiss is pressed to your cheek. “Hola, cariño. ¿Qué tal?” 

Familiarity even where it’s not warranted. 

“Pleasure to meet you.” Politeness has been drilled into you. Reception, learning to pour from a teapot. Eight-years-old, dinner, finally allowed, with esteemed guests who pinch cheeks and ask you about horseriding. “You must be so proud of your daughter.” 

“You speak Spanish.” Alexia’s mother is a short woman with a kind face. A face twisted in impressed confusion. 

“We’re working on the Catalan,” Alexia says with a laugh. 

Her mother seems charmed. Another one bites the dust. It’s far too easy a game – doesn’t even require much effort. Alexia feels sick. She likes it. Sort of. 

You sit in the chair that her father once took. The fourth chair at the table, not really your fault that you touch the dormant volcano. The other unoccupied seat has sunglasses in front of it: Alba must be here, just hiding for now. 

“Now, the food is almost ready. I always overcook, so don’t you worry. If I had known–” she glares at Alexia, “then I would have made something more extravagant. Just simple fideuà. Have you tried it before?” 

You shake your head. Doesn’t feel right to nod when it had been from the de Montcada chef after a night out in Monaco. You’d been helicoptered back when things started to get a little too rowdy. Carlota had been so embarrassed. 

“It’s like paella,” Alexia explains. Hums at something her mother says to her in Catalan. Takes your hand under the table. “Would you like a drink?” 

“Alba’s just gone to get some beers. Your uncle drank us dry the other day. Those stupid men and their stupid men’s matches.” 

“It was a good match,” Alexia protests in her uncle’s defense. A pseudo-father. Forever in-need of his approval.

“Sure it was.” 

You smile. Alexia Putellas’ mother doesn’t really like football. Maybe she’s gotten sick of it. Maybe hates how it twisted her daughter; chewed her up and spat her back out when she couldn’t walk and couldn’t eat and couldn’t sleep. Eli is a woman hardened by grief. Softened by it, too. Sorrow recognises sorrow. You grieve a parent too, but you don’t know her and she isn’t yours.

A few moments later, Alba returns. Places the six-pack in the fridge before she notices your presence. Takes her seat and picks up her fork and then feels the suffocation of her father’s ghost when the table is overfilled and her sister won’t make eye-contact. 

She realises it’s you. The fork becomes a potential weapon. It’s old and every prong is blunt, but she could do it. Oh, she could do it if she used enough force. 

Calmly asks Alexia what the fuck you’re doing here. Won’t take the bullshit answer she’s given. 

“This won’t make her love you.” Catalan again. Eli flinches because mothers like to think they can’t be fooled but are often blinded by their longing for their children’s happiness. Mothers do terrible things. Medea. Eli could break down like Medea and curse her husband’s betrayal – gone too soon – and absolve her children of their suffering. Should’ve done that sooner, though. A bit too late for murder. “Alexia.” 

“Alba.” 

“Alexia, this is such a bad idea.” 

“This is… nothing. It’s nothing. She’s just here.” 

“Here. Here at home, because that’s normal. Alexia, she’s–” Turns to her mother because she can't look at Alexia anymore. A corruption of her sister now. “Mami, she’s engaged! She's engaged to a man.” 

Alexia stands. What a ridiculous thing for her sister to say. Wants to rip off her mouth. Alexia is so angry. 

“You have no right to say that.” 

“The truth belongs to everyone.” 

“Truth is a fucking illusion.” Illusion. Everything is an illusion, but that epiphany has already come to you. “Mami, it’s not like that. It’s not like that.” 

Alba used to climb into Alexia’s bed at night and ask Alexia to tell her stories. Stuff about her day – the matches she played, the boys she humiliated. The girls Alexia slowly realised she liked. The girl that one day kissed her. The ball she kicked so well the Barça scout called their parents. Alba left the bed when Alexia said the girl had come over and they had done stuff. Stuff for adults, Alexia had said with a blush and Alba standing in the corner of the room in disgust. Didn’t take much to coax her back into the bed then. Needed to be close to her sister. Would overlook things.

You look uncomfortable. Alba doesn’t care. Lets it settle into you and bury itself deeply, because she can’t do that with the fork. Won’t put down the fork now. 

“It is like that. Alexia has fallen in love with an engaged woman. I warned her, oh, I warned her. Told her: this is a very bad idea. Have you noticed how Alexia has started lying to us?” That’s a hook. Catches their mother’s attention with that one, who looks at Alexia with a heartbroken gaze. Hurts to see her daughters like this. Kill them both to save them, or save them by not killing them. “Zanzibar. That’s not a sponsorship, is it, Alexia?” 

Alexia’s hands are fists on the table. She wants to bang the wood and break it. Looks at her bulging muscles and knows she’s strong enough to do it, if she wanted to. “I didn’t think you’d like the truth. I didn’t mean–” 

“What is Zanzibar, then?” Eli cuts in. She only wants the facts. Will leave the thunder and lightning to the girls. 

“A bachelorette!” 

No one speaks then. 

Alba gets up. “I’m sorry, Mami, but I have to go. I can’t sit here and watch my sister become who she’s becoming. I can’t be complicit in this. I can’t even look at her.” Doesn’t look at her. Simply mutters, “you can’t have us both, Alexia.”

…

They can’t stop her from going to Zanzibar, so they don’t. 

Alexia arrives after everyone else. Goes to Las Rojas for a day just to remind Montse how much she owes her. Flies out from Madrid. 

You need to get a speedboat to the island. She lets the sea spray onto her straightened hair and flexes her stomach, stretching out from the flight and the tense anticipation. Forgets all stress when she sees you. 

Bikini. Oh, it’s a nice bikini. 

Your hair is wet from a morning swim and you’re grinning as she steps onto the jetty. “You made it!” you squeal, running towards her and jumping into her arms. Could be a different life, she thinks. 

She holds you tightly. “That flight almost killed me. And I have a training plan to follow while I’m here. And I’m going back soon.” 

“I know, I know.” It’s honey dripped into her ear. You sigh. “Put me down. You’re squeezing the life out of me.”

“You like how strong I am.” 

Your fingers curl around her bicep. She flexes. “I’ll take you to the suite first. You can freshen up, and then I’ll introduce you to the girls.” 

“The pack of wolves?” 

“Oh, darling, when they see you, it will be like throwing an antelope steak to a pack of hungry lionesses.” 

Alexia follows you down the jetty, the sun warm on her back. The island is ridiculous: white sand, green lawns, absolutely no one here. A helipad. Far too expensive to be worth it. Too expensive to exist in the overlap of Alexia being rich and you being rich. Even if you somehow make the gap not matter.

You take her hand as you pull her along wooden decking raised above a lagoon. The lagoon you’d promised. Suites lining either side. 

“We’re all staying here. I put you in mine,” you say like you’re offering her fruit. The same forbidden fruit. Sweet and inevitable. “Couldn’t have you anywhere else. Too far.” 

She hums. “Too far for what?” 

You look over your shoulder, walking backwards for a few steps, wet hair sticking to your collarbones. “For anything I might want.” 

Feels her jaw clench. The humidity clings to her. Her abs tighten under the weight of your gaze. You’re not even trying. You never try – Alexia always tries. You don’t try and the world orbits you anyway. Too irresistible. 

The suite is stupid. Made with local materials, you explain. A private pool. A sun deck. She steps inside and smells you. Perfume citrusy for the holiday and the tang of suncream. You drop your towel, pick up a glass of passionfruit juice from a shell made into a tray like you’re not half-naked and making her whole body burn. 

“Would you like to shower?” you ask, already slipping out of your bikini top, undoing delicate bows with delicate fingers. Not even glancing at her. “You smell like an airport.” 

She stalks towards you. Irresistible, like she said. Unfair. Enticing as you let her back you into the shower, which is outside, which is absurd, which is much like you to have booked. To have seen and gone, yep, that’s how I want to spend my last few moments of freedom. 

“You’re insane,” she says in a low voice. Means it. Really means it. 

“I know,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to her jaw. “But here you are.”

Her hands are already at your hips. Doesn’t kiss you yet. Breathing too hard for that. You tilt your chin up: a dare, a challenge. You know she hates those. 

“This isn’t part of the training schedule.” 

You lean in closer, whispering. “Fuck the training schedule.” 

And she breaks. Kisses you hard, hands grabbing skin, forgetting everything else, all the logic she twirled between her fingers on the plane, everything except the curve of your thigh when it lifts against her hip. You laugh into her mouth. She swallows it.

She’s meant to be rinsing off the travel. Meant to be getting ready. But instead you’re gasping against wet tile, her fingers inside you, her mouth at your shoulder. No idea when she pulled down those pathetic excuses for bikini bottoms. Doesn’t care. You’re already undone, holding on to her neck like that’s a worthy anchor. When you come, it’s desperate and it’s an Alexia Alexia Alexia as if that is allowed. 

Afterwards, she lets you drape her in white linen from her suitcase. Lets you unbutton the shirt scandalously and kiss her sternum and bite down. “Greedy,” she calls you, but it’s taken as a compliment. You douse her in your perfume and run your fingers through blonde hair. Peel her fingers off your thighs as she holds onto you and decides the meet-and-greet can wait. 

“Can’t wait,” you disagree, because you’re a hostess. “They’re waiting at the Beach Bar. How many cocktails deep do you want them to be?” Sort of a warning. She smirks at how possessive it sounds. Like a queen who is scared she will be dethroned. 

The walk is short, shaded by palms. She can hear them before she sees them. Sharp-voiced, glittering, expensively tanned. Daughters of terrible fathers who love their fathers because that is what they have been taught to do. Daughters of Eden, who are so tempted but somehow not yet exposed to the real world. And Hannah, of course. Who’s standing beside Carlota. 

Alexia steps into view and suddenly it’s very quiet. An outsider. Something new to unravel. Alexia wants to reach out and touch you but you’re too far away for that.

“This is Alexia.” Your voice is sweet, threatening. They might as well bow to you. Feels like you’ve never been hated – this is where that all comes from, Alexia thinks. “She has become a dear friend in Barcelona. Basically royalty over there. Be nice.” Awkward to say such a thing in front of Carlota de Montcada, but it seems your opinion holds more sway than the history books on the shelves of Catalan schools. 

The girls descend. 

Ravenous. 

Gets saved by Hannah, Carlota’s girlfriend. An American, equally an outsider. Asks her girlfriend to remind everyone about their next round of shots and then asks Alexia if she’d like something to drink. Hannah tries to hide her pity as Alexia watches you dive into the ocean with women she doesn’t know. 

Hannah hands Alexia a glass of something cold and green — a cucumber, mint, and gin concoction. Not bad, surprisingly. Still, she doesn’t drink. Not while she’s in season. She sips anyway, because she’s supposed to look like she belongs here. 

“Come on,” Hannah says under her breath, nodding towards a pair of empty loungers under a palm. “I’ll do the rounds for you.” 

Alexia follows. Grateful, maybe. Or too confused to resist. Her gaze darts back to you. Wants you to acknowledge she’s watching. Tries not to care when you don’t. Her fists tighten on the lounger.

“So,” Hannah says, settling beside her with a sigh. “That’s Saskia and Bea–” she gestures to two girls in matching bikinis, lounging on one big sunbed like they’re one being with four legs. “Boarding school with her. Typical gentry, family friends, ‘all our estates were built by the same architect’ malarky. Saskia’s dad had to apologise to the people of Zimbabwe on behalf of the family exploits. Bea’s mother owns, like, half of Mayfair. Saskia’s the Maid of Honour, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t… Well, Saskia doesn’t stand for bullshit. Let’s just say that.”

Alexia’s eyes land on the pair with interest. Maid of Honour. The woman tonguing the straw of her strawberry daiquiri, thigh being slapped for Bea’s attention, is apparently your best friend. No wonder you’ve never mentioned her. 

“Then you’ve got the Oxford bunch.” A horrible Americanism. Hannah does it to herself. She counts them off with her fingers nevertheless. “Siya’s the one in the Hermès cover-up. Brilliant. Scary brilliant. Has maybe three degrees. Has the money to keep doing them. Writes articles for just about every important publication and owns a few of them, too. I think she hooked up with your girl once. Carlota might’ve said.” 

Alexia swallows. Holds back the reaction. Doesn’t blink so she can watch Siya adjust her sunglasses and toss back her hair like she knows she’s being watched. Watches her shout something at you as you wade back to shore. Watches you laugh. 

“Cassie,” Hannah goes on, because it’s never-ending. “Also Oxford. Massive ego. Nearly married a Saudi prince but refused to convert. Was offered a job at the UN but turned it down because she ‘didn’t like Geneva’. Fucks women almost exclusively but calls herself pansexual because she thinks it makes her sound more generous.” Alexia’s eyes are being opened against her will. “And that’s Georgie – red hair and trying to get her drone to work. Went into AI but got bought out by a tech firm. Now she’s basically a retired billionaire. Most likely to go ‘I’m not political’ while dating someone who’s technically under sanctions.” 

Furrowed brows. “She’s dating one of them?” This is more confusing than trying to play a major tournament and keeping up with which teammate needs a hug because they just knocked out their girlfriend. 

“No. She’s dating some guy who’s richer than God. He lives in Dubai.” Hannah takes a sip of her own drink. “But she’s got a thing for your girlfriend. They all do, in some obscure capacity.” 

Ignores that she’s called you her girlfriend. Nonsensical to do such a thing while she’s here as you prepare to get married to someone else. A cruel blow or a quiet mercy. Hannah won’t choose and won’t let Alexia get off so easily. 

“And finally,” says Hannah, pointing to the last undescribed woman with a jut of her chin. “That’s Sara. Quiet one. Not really sure what she does but I’m fairly certain it involves several offshore accounts and a few diamond mines. You don’t notice her until it’s too late.” 

Alexia blinks. “Too late for what?” 

Hannah shrugs. “I think you know.” 

Too late is something Alexia does know. Hates that Hannah knows she knows. 

They sit in silence for a moment. Alexia keeps her expression steady, thoughts locked behind her teeth. You’re now ordering something at the bar, twirling a lock of hair around your finger as you point to the infinity pool at the sirens grouping around it. 

“You alright?” Hannah asks. 

Doesn’t answer yet. Watches you as you let Cassie braid your wet hair, positioned away from Saskia because she had whipped you with her tongue as you’d walked past with more drinks. You’re annoyed at Saskia, and Alexia remembers that she doesn’t take any bullshit. Reminds her of Alba. She’s not speaking to Alba. 

“These girls…” Alexia starts. 

“...are all the same.” Hannah’s resigned to it. She’s probably been on holiday with half of the friend group and suffered and coped and loved Carlota through it all. “I’ve made my peace with it. Carlota has the same blood as half the Spanish monarchy. I just hang on and enjoy the ride.” 

Alexia studies her. Hates studying anything other than match footage but feels the need to assess Hannah’s intentions. “Why are you helping me?” Hannah understands Spanish, too. Feels like a perk. Or a trap. 

Hannah shrugs again. “I’ve been there. But with you… they’re all going to be in love with you in about three hours. I figured you might want a friend.”

The days in Zanzibar stretch like silk. They slip through calloused fingers. 

Each morning, she’s up before the sun burns too high. The sand is still warm beneath her feet and her sports bra is damp with sweat before she even starts the first set of sprints, but she will beat the oppressive heat because that’s what she needs to do. There’s a routine. Always a routine. She runs the length of the beach, back and forth, back and forth. Won’t keel over. Takes a sip of water from a glass with cucumber shavings in it. Moves onto burpees. Squats. Planks. Footwork drills. Brushes off sand and cools off in the sea. The salt of her sweat meeting the salt of the earth. She’s the salt of the earth; knows it now after coming here. The ache in her body is the point. 

She doesn’t look up when they start watching. When they have well-dressed servants drag out the loungers early. Just after sunrise. Bea and Saskia matching again – always, like it’s a uniform. Books with titles she would never pick up. Theories and speeches and histories explained like they aren’t tapestries hanging in their homes. 

They ogle without shame, whispering in French, in clipped code, in old family words that she tunes out anyway. They’re fascinated. Of course they are. Alexia is different. Alexia is built from something real. Sweat drips down her back and she hears it in their sighs. 

And you hate it. She’s aware you hate it. You don’t join them, too proud to do so. A show of possession, to be so tired from long nights that you can’t make it to the loungers in time. They know she comes from your suite. They know and they’re jealous, but it won’t leave this island. 

You emerge like you’ve been waiting. A silk robe from Japan. A sleepy smirk. Bare feet on the deck of the suite, arms folded, hair unbrushed. You don’t whistle – you give her the credit of not coming when she’s called. Even if the rabid dog is addicted and wants to return. You just wait. Arrogantly. 

And like always, when Alexia is just breathless enough, just worn down enough – when her hands go to her hips and her chest heaves and everything is burning – you tilt your head, raise a single brow, and disappear back inside.

The rabid dog is addicted and wants to return. 

Forces herself to walk back. Waves at Saskia, because Saskia is always glaring. 

Moans as you press your palms to her lower back, sweaty in your bed. The bed is damp. The bed is always damp. Makes you make it wet and then lets you lead her to the outdoor shower like a sacrificial lamb. A ritual. Take the bowl and knife and drain her blood because she will obey. 

Lets you work coconut shampoo into her hair. Kiss the sweat off her collarbone. You moan when you taste salt. She moans when your thigh nudges between hers. You tell her she’s being good. You tell her deserves a reward. 

You tell her you want her again before dinner. 

Dinner is long tables and flickering candles. Hair blow-dried because there wasn’t enough time to get ready. Alexia orders a salad with salmon on the side – knows it’s not on the menu but that you had sent the chef her nutrition plan because you’re grateful she came during camp. You always sit far away from her, though. Can’t be too grateful. 

She’s trapped beside Hannah and Carlota. The latter has been quiet all evening. Composed, cool, cheeks tinted with red, though, as if she has been in an argument. Alexia almost jokes about trouble in paradise but pulls back because that’s really not the right thing to say.

When dessert arrives, which Alexia won’t touch, Carlota finally speaks. Not to Hannah. Hannah is checking her emails. To Alexia. 

“She’s not being fair to you.” Carlota’s Catalan is so smooth, so refined. She could wear the crown. Royalty opposite royalty, here. 

Alexia startles. Glances at her. “Sorry?” 

“I said: she’s not being fair to you.” 

Hannah stills beside her. Does she speak Catalan too? Does she love Carlota that much?

Alexia doesn’t respond at first. Her fingers curl tight around the stem of her glass. She doesn’t drink much. Not while she’s in season. But this is needed. This is needed to swallow the heat rising in her throat.

Carlota continues, fork delicately slicing through meringue. “It’s obvious, you know. To everyone. You’re the special event. Being shown off. There’s a gym here, but you’re not in the gym, because she never told you where it was.” Alexia hadn’t asked. Likes the sand because it’s punishing. Likes how you don’t correct her because you can see her from a window in the suite. “But she… she does what she’s always done. She can’t help it.” 

Alexia feels embarrassed, briefly. Then chooses not to be. “I don’t expect anything from it,” she says, voice clipped. 

The lie is brushed away. “It’s so cruel,” Carlota murmurs. “She doesn’t want to marry him, but it’s so ingrained in her to do it, and you’ve got to be afraid, right? If this were all you’d known? But it isn’t okay. To have brought you here.” 

Alexia thinks back to Carlota’s studio and the smell of paint. Paint smeared on her cheek. So far from the woman opposite her now. 

All hiding. Blue pill or red pill. 

Hannah’s hand slides under the table and finds Calota’s knee. It’s a quiet gesture. Reproach or support, one cannot tell. But she’s there. You’re not here. You’re at the other end, talking to Saskia about why you don’t like Plutarch. Who even is Plutarch? 

“Why are you telling me this?” Alexia asks. 

Carlota’s head turns to you. You wink at her. Point to Saskia and roll your eyes. 

She turns back. “Because you don’t deserve it, Alexia.” 

What do I deserve, then?

…

Midnight. The suite is dark. The sea is calm. 

Alba has messaged her. Her sister must have seen the date creeping closer to March. Funny because Alexia thinks of the word marcharse and March and how it has all been obvious from the beginning. 

Lets you kiss her anyway. It’s not March yet. Plays England tomorrow. Will probably not step onto the pitch, because Montse will see her tan and get angry, call her lazy and useless. Alexia will have to bite her tongue and not retaliate, because then Jenni was crucified for nothing. Nothing. Life would be nothing if Alexia can’t play.

You slide over her languidly. So much skin, so much heat. A soft groan of, “I don’t want you to go,” and a laugh that doesn’t mean to demean Alexia’s one true passion but does so anyway. 

She closes her eyes as your hand slides down the ridges of her stomach. Down into the depths of muscular thighs. Hungry. Wanting.

Gasps as you thrust inside her. Two fingers. “Feel good?” 

“Yes,” she says to feed your ego. Loves to feed it because then you speed up, and you straddle her and find a better angle. 

Her thighs tense around your wrist, hips stuttering, breath catching in her throat because she’s trying not to make a sound. Always holding back. Always controlled. Winning, still. 

You lean down, press your mouth to her neck. Hot tongue. Sharp teeth, too. She shudders, shudders underneath you because that’s what you make her do. Shudders because you make her feel so good. 

Keeps her eyes shut as you keep moving in and out. Another finger. Desperate, tonight. The both of you. Chasing something that’s running away, that has always been running away. Decaying. Dying. Dying, dead. Alive. 

So alive like this. Could be an illusion but you love the illusion. You love her, you love it. You’re already planning visits to Barcelona after the wedding. Could see Carlota, too. Ask for her forgiveness. 

You love her, you know. A sick kind of love. Not the love she deserves, but then again, who are you to decide what she deserves?

And she comes. Cries out, restraint gone. Back arches and the tattoos burn like embers that can still be lit. 

You stroke her cheek. Kiss away the tear that has rolled down it. Kiss her lips, her temple, her chin. 

“This feels like our honeymoon,” you say. 

He’s a nice guy, you suppose. Richard. Goes by ‘Rich’, or ‘Fez’ to his old boarding school roommates. 

He works with your dad. Or, rather, for your dad. 

He gets on with your brothers. All three of them – even the rogue drug-addict who refuses to acknowledge that the family business does in fact lend to him a certain sort of privilege. 

“He’s quite dreamy,” your best friend argues, just as she has been doing since the day the medieval betrothal was announced. “Handsome. Successful. He goes to the gym.” 

“Saskia.” Her smile is tight-lipped and failing to be sincere. “He drinks blended eggs and probably takes steroids.” 

“At least he’s clever.” She looks pretty in the light of the early evening, with September slowly fading into a golden autumn and the garden of your parent’s house descending into a gentle chill. It doesn’t surprise you, the glow of her skin and the shine of her hair – she’s always been like this. You’ve always been like this. 

Perfect. Put-together. Poised and ready to be moved as a pawn on the chessboard, only given one direction. 

“It’s hardly difficult to get into Oxford when your chief master is best friends with the professors,” you say, because you don’t want him to have good qualities. And it is also true. 

Saskia’s eyes — bluer than the Italian mosaic of the floor — narrow. “I thought your mum said you didn’t have to marry him if you hated him. Didn’t she hate your dad at first anyway?” 

You sigh, twisting the engagement ring around your finger with enough force to suggest you want the diamond to come loose. It won’t, of course, because it’s a family heirloom on his side and has lasted through generations of uncomfortable yet practical marriages. “Yes. But the implication didn’t match what she said and it was right before reminding me that hate is just passion without direction.”

Saskia snorts into her peppermint tea. “She’s a romantic.” 

“She’s insane,” you mutter, eyes flicking towards the back of the garden. Some poor stablehand has been tasked with weeding the flower beds. He looks awfully uncomfortable without his horses nearby. “She gave me a list of ‘acceptable names for a child’ yesterday. And a bump of coke.” 

Saskia laughs properly now. “At least we know where you get it from.” 

You allow yourself a crooked smile. “I’m not my brother.” 

“No, but you value your life just as little as he does.”

The smile drops.

“Do you think I’m being ridiculous?” you ask, voice quieter now. The doubt feels like a betrayal, but you can’t help shrinking under her narrowing gaze. 

She doesn’t answer right away. Saskia examines you, perceptive and scrutinising. Unafraid to tell you the truth, yet hesitant with how she phrases it. You know she is treading lightly because she leans forwards, over the metal bistro table and her mug, and her mouth is pressed into something gentle, but not without heat. 

“I think you’re in love with being miserable.” 

You blink. “Wow.” 

“I’m not saying Richard is your soulmate,” she rushes to clarify. “Personally, I think he’s a walking-talking concoction of protein shakes and cigars, humming to the tune of his glory days on the rugby pitch. But he’s not confining you to his bed, nor is he forcing you to spend more time with him than you have to.” She’s not wrong in that respect, though it is a terrible observation to have to make. “You’re choosing to be dragged, really.” 

You scoff, but it’s half-hearted. 

She continues. “You don’t love him, sure. But you haven’t told him no. You haven’t even told your parents no. You just keep waiting, hoping someone else will cause the explosion for you.”

It would be ignorant to pretend the passivity is not self-inflicted. You showed no interest in anyone at university nor at school nor when you were granted entry into the family business. Every man you slept with, tried to eat breakfast with, and then failed to love has blended into a blur of mundanity and beige. 

A fire first needs a spark. 

You sit back, suddenly exhausted. A silence grows between you, its net familiar and safe, yet somehow still suffocating. 

Saskia’s shoulders drop as she finishes the last of her tea, resisting the urge to suck on the teabag in case the housekeeper, who is always hovering in your house, appears and disapproves. She softens at the despairing contortion your face has moulded itself into. 

“Richard agreed to a week. One week before you start planning the wedding.” She exhales, as if she has no more advice left to give. You stare at her hopefully. “Do something with it.” 

You nod. 

Then, a beat. 

“I don’t want to be her, you know.” 

“Who?” she asks. 

“My mother. Trapped in a life she has convinced herself she loves.” 

Saskia reaches for your hand. “Okay,” she says. “Don’t be.” 

The stablehand cries out as he picks up a handful of nettles without his gloves on. You both watch for a moment as he scrambles to find a dock leaf. And then, without another word, you stand up and walk inside the house.

You hear the restrained urgency of Saskia’s footsteps as she follows you through the winding corridor that leads to your room. She makes no move to interrupt the journey, but she’s present and she’s willing to entertain it for the time being. 

She watches as you pull out a suitcase from underneath your bed.

You start with counting pairs of knickers. Socks, next. 

And you’re halfway through packing before you tell her where you’re going. 

…

You like Barcelona as a city. History is crammed into every paving stone and brick. The people are similar. Everything is kissed with the sun and holds the rays in its heart with cosmic secrecy. 

There’s no need to book a hotel. An old friend – Carlota – lives in one of those flats only parents could gift. She’s welcoming. Says only ‘congratulations’ with the right balance of sincerity and sarcasm. Gets it. 

“I’m here for a week,” you tell her firmly. 

She nods like she doesn’t believe you. 

Her older sister was just named the most influential woman in this financial year. She probably says similar things to you. 

“So,” Carlota says when you have smoothed the creases in your linens and joined her for a glass of wine on her balcony, “he seems pretty accommodating. Enamoured?” 

You laugh. Red wine drips down the glass, falling on white trousers. It won’t come out. You don’t want it to.

“I don’t want to get married yet.” 

Carlota loved poetry at school, taught you that you needn’t try too hard if you read her annotations over her shoulder and copied them into essays. She loved art and perspective and reading into things. She purses her lips as you sit before her now: “Why do you elongate your sentences?” 

You push her shoulder. She holds onto the balcony rail for balance, grinning like she’s glad she ripped off the scab. 

Later, she takes you to her studio. Carlota lives a fantastical life too, but she plays the part well. It’s a room in a warehouse in Poblenou. Trendy, apparently. From where you’re standing, among canvases and paint splatters, it seems to be nothing but a mess. 

Out of politeness, you refrain from pinching your nose at the overwhelming smell. 

Carlota explains that she’s exploring representations of the female body. Curves, muscles, hard lines, soft fat. The difference between Aphrodite and today’s supermodels. The lens of love or hatred or jealousy. 

Her art is uncomfortable, like it is shouting at you to look inwards and correct yourself. You suspect Carlota has grown tired of the life she was born to lead. 

In the corner, away from the collection of outspoken women crafted to criticise, is a smaller, more intimate series of canvases. A woman, again, but the same face in each painting. You can feel the emotion seeping out of the dried bursts of colour and you almost don’t have to ask who she is. You do, just in case. 

“Is that your girlfriend?” 

Carlota holds her breath, as if you’re not supposed to know that. Her eyes meet yours for a moment, deep and earnest, before she exhales – the only sound in the room. She looks at the canvas currently set on the easel: laughter, a head that’s tipped back and immortalised in happiness. 

“She’s in LA,” she says eventually. “Working on a new project. We’re trying long-distance.” 

The steadiness in her voice surprises you. Carlota has always been stoic, grounded, but this is… different. You catch the hint of defensiveness like the swift flick of a blade to the throat. 

“It’s good, actually,” she continues, a small smile tugging at the edges of her lips. “Hard, but good. And it’s mine. She’s mine.” 

This is not a performance. This is a choice. 

Carlota doesn’t mean to do this to you, but she has and she cannot take it back. 

You clear your throat, finding it suddenly raw and scratchy. “What did your parents say?” 

She shrugs. Playful, though. “Mamá sends her the headlines and talks about them over dinner. Papá calls her my amiga especial, but he’s stopped looking like he’s choking as he gets the words out. It’s… coming together.” 

You think about what your parents would say about Carlota if they heard this. “Oh, they’re so much wilder in Spain,” your mother would laugh. “And Carlota has always been one to rebel.” 

She’d wave it off and continue to wait for a wedding invitation with forenames and surnames that match her idea of marriage. 

Carlota no longer looks afraid. 

“That’s nice,” you decide, happy for her. 

“It is.” She’s grinning.

You move to the corner of the studio, brushing your fingers lightly along the edge of one of the canvases. The woman is beautiful, not just in the way she has been depicted. Your fingers tingle at the passion in the paintings. You blush. 

“Do you love her?” 

Calota nods. “Madly.” Her mouth opens, but she pauses before continuing. Perhaps she is about to deliver a blow. “I want to marry her.” 

It strikes you deep in the stomach. 

“I desperately want to marry her.” 

You know what Carlota is doing. You know why she feels she has to. 

“You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to.”

She wants to save you. You’re not sure if she will ever admit that she can’t.  

…

This engagement party really sucks. The lights are too warm, too cosy. The drinks are too weak. It’s getting too late. 

Alexia, for all these reasons and more, is hiding in the corner, arms folded across her chest as some aunt from her mother’s side guns for the nosiest-woman-of-the-year award. She’s all, “what happened to that friend of yours?” and “when will you get married?”. Every question is a grain of sand dropping into a growing pile. Alexia shrugs off the feeling of time running out. 

And they flock like pigeons on telephone wires. A chorus of prodding and poking. 

It’s Tia Martina who says, “it’s about time you settled down. You should let us help you!” 

Tia Anna nods enthusiastically. She’s a valiant drainer of the bar – she’s actually managed to get herself drunk. “I have a friend, whose friend’s daughter is a lesbian.” She pauses, humming. “No, no. She’s – what are they? Bisexual? That’ll do, no?” 

Alexia shifts her weight, feet aching from wearing new boots at training. The lights are still too soft, and the cava Tia Montse (who has left her swaying husband in favour of the gaggle of gossipers) hands her is flat. She’s backed herself into a corner here. If she had thought this would make her invisible, she was unfortunately wrong. 

“Nena,” coos another one, blinking at her with that squint that means the probe is incoming. “What happened to that pretty one who was older than you? Your teammate?” 

Alexia exhales through her nose. “She moved teams.” 

“You can still be together though, no?” Tia Anna says, confused as Alexia shakes her head. She doesn’t need to know about the fights and the screaming and the tears that slowly killed them. “Shame.” And it’s like Jenni no longer has purpose to her. 

Another one swoops in. Briefly, Alexia curses her cousin’s pursuit of marriage with all the hatred she can muster within. “You’re not getting younger, and football won’t warm your bed when you’re fifty.” 

“It might,” Alexia says, dry as her throat at the thought of the future. “The Champions League trophy is quite large.” 

Laughter prickles nearby: Alba, eavesdropping from behind a tower of croquetas. But the women are undeterred, as if fighting a second revolution. They carry the resilience of women with a cause. Bold. Unrelenting. 

“It’s about time you settled down,” Tia Martina repeats. “You should let us help you.” 

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “Help me to do what, exactly?” 

“I have a different friend,” Tia Anna offers, expecting gratitude and receiving none. “Her niece works in Girona. Or is it Granollers?” The women around her laugh, all finding this fun and amusing and charity work that really does bring a sense of satisfaction. “She plays padel! She’s got strong legs. You like that, don’t you?” 

The sip of flat cava that Alexia takes does nothing to improve the situation. 

“She’s bisexual as well,” Tia Anna adds. “That is close enough, no?” 

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “Not how that works.” 

“Oh, but she’s lovely! And she follows you on that app. Instant-gram.”

“Brilliant,” Alexia mutters. “I’ll pick a wife out of my DMs.” 

They don’t know what that means. 

Tia Martina leans in, lipstick on her teeth and breath tainted with tobacco. “Just think about it. A nice Catalan girl. Local, easy. A family we know. None of this jet-setting to Paris and Rome and London–” 

“It’s part of my job.”

Everyone else shrugs, as if that is a ridiculous statement and far from justification. 

“All that travelling… no wonder you haven’t settled!” 

Alexia’s jaw tenses. She loves her family. She does. 

They want her to be happy. Even if they assume that means ignoring her clear signals for them to fuck off right now. 

Alexia drains the rest of the cava just to give her hands something to do. The glass is now warm, her fingers damp with condensation. She wants to throw it. She knows she won’t. 

“Do you know what would help?” The sharpness of her voice cuts through the conspiring. Her aunts listen eagerly. She grins, but she is not about to tell a joke. “If you all stopped trying to auction me off like livestock at the village fair.” 

There’s a pause. A twitch of silence. 

Then, from an aunt she doesn’t even remember being part of the conversation, the first volley of offence: “We just want you to be happy, petita.” 

“I am happy.” 

It comes firmly. A few of them blink and shuffle their drinks in nervous hands. 

From the corner of her eye, Alexia catches Alba raising her own glass of cava towards her older sister. A salute. Everyone’s been here before. 

Only Tia Anna dares to go in again. “You always say that, Alex. But look at you. You’re so alone.” 

Inhaling deeply through her nose, Alexia restrains herself. She’s had hours of media training. She knows how to mould herself into composure. 

“I’m not alone,” she says with as much diplomacy as possible. “And I’m not interested in being paraded around like a prized pig.” 

“Alexia!” someone gasps, scandalised by the word ‘pig’ more so than the implication behind it. 

To her relief, Alba appears beside her then, sliding in like a shield. The escape is on. 

Alexia will remember to stick with her uncles next time. They can talk about football. Something simpler, with less controversy. Something she knows and can deal with. 

Love is not what she’s looking for. It doesn’t shine? It doesn’t help her career, and it certainly isn’t important on her journey to merge her being with football until her name and the sport become synonymous. 

She craves victory. 

Everyone else will always come second. 

…

You’re covered in paint, laughing at Carlota’s stupid jokes, when your phone rings. She’s adding white paint to the last of her installations, claiming it is the most important part. Your phone case gets smudged with red as you pick up the device. 

“Rich, hi.”  

“Hello.” He sounds surprised you’ve answered. “I hear you’re in Barcelona.” 

“Saskia,” you mutter, half a confession. 

“In all fairness, I did say ‘pretty please’.” 

You smile tightly, rubbing green paint off your thumb with the edge of your t-shirt. In front of you lies a bad imitation of a daisy that Carlota calls ‘abstract’. “She worries.” 

“Naturally.” He’s rather dismissive. “Anyway, no problem. I called to ask you if we’re still on for March. The caterer’s asking. Also, your mother’s suggesting orchids. That’s fine, right?” 

You blink at the ease with which he barrels through the call. Efficient. Another task on a busy to-do list, you presume.

“I’ve not spared a thought for flowers.” It’s a petulant response but you don’t care. Carlota hides her smirk behind a comically large paintbrush.

“I’ll tell her to run with it, then.” He clicks his tongue as though he is waiting for an opportunity to wrap this up. 

“You do know I haven’t agreed to marry you yet,” you point out, hoping you don’t sound too afraid of the prospect. “Before you finalise anything.” 

“Yes, I’m aware. That’s why you have, what? Three days left? Get it out of your system.” Saskia had said, before it became apparent that Richard was to be your husband, that he was sleeping with his secretary. A northern girl. Manchester, maybe. Fake blonde with long eyelashes and longer nails. All the boys do it. “Oh, and, darling, you can’t ignore the wedding planner. I’m too busy to be her first port of call.” 

You sigh. “What’s her name again?” 

“Gosh, no idea.” 

“Richard,” you groan. “I’m supposed to have a week.” 

“Three days.” 

“Carlota’s asked me to organise her latest exhibition.” You hear her laugh, shaking her head. It’s a lie, but you assume that’s why she was eager to bring you into the studio anyway. It’s like a passion project. “I’ll need at least a month.” 

“Just get plane tickets on the Amex.” 

To him, that seems to settle it. A month, a week, three days – time doesn’t exist when it can be charged to a card and buried under ‘miscellaneous expenses’. 

Your scoff is not entirely fair. “You’re serious?” 

“Of course I’m serious. That’s what it’s for. Christ.” He sighs as though you have overstepped. You suppose you already know how this works; playing dumb simply brings a temporary tingle of satisfaction. “Your mother’s already moved the florist and bumped the dress fitting. She’s having the time of her life. There’s so much talk that Vogue are interested – the tacky bastards.” 

Carlota snorts. You stifle a grin, imagining your mother’s face when she receives that email. 

“I mean, fine. I’m just throwing money at it at this point.” 

“How deeply caring of you,” you drawl, hypocritical but with a valid point. 

“Oh, darling, I care.” He doesn’t. “It’s just that this whole thing’s turned into a spectacle. Not what I agreed to, but whatever. Apparently that’s the vibe now.” 

You bite your tongue. He’s using air quotes, you can hear it.

“Have I reiterated my point sufficiently?” 

Richard is as obnoxious as he has been cultivated to be. 

“I’m supposed to have a week,” you say again. 

He groans. In all fairness, you’re discounting the time spiralling in England. And not mentioning the additional weeks needed to plan Carlota’s show. “You do know it’s Barcelona, not a spiritual retreat. Do your tapas, wear linen, whatever. But let’s not drag this out. You’ve got to be here so that I can, you know, work.” Or make the most of his last fucks with the secretary. But that goes unsaid. 

“I did say Carlota’s collection will need a month.” 

You feel Carlota freeze behind you, then quickly resume humming. Her parents are good friends with Richard’s, which had initially slipped your mind. There’s pressure on all sides here. 

“Right, well, that sounds terribly artistic. Just please don’t forget the RSVP deadline for the meat options.” 

You close your eyes. “I still haven’t said yes.” 

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Sure, but you will.” You hold your breath. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Your father’s calling a board meeting and, well, as the newest member…” 

“Bye, Richard,” you sigh. 

“Yeah, bye, darling.” 

There’s a retching sound echoing through the room once the call is finally finished. Carlota’s shameless about it, laughing as she goes, hoping to make you smile too. All you can think about is how you will have to spend the rest of your life with him. 

“When we were little,” she says as she resumes painting, prompting you to follow suit, “he would let me paint his nails and do his makeup. Until the shooting came, and with that, the fatherly voice of elitism. He’s a good man.” 

“Are you convincing me?” you ask, eyebrows raised. 

She shakes her head, lips pressed against each other in conflict. Maybe she means: don’t torture him, don’t make him suffer. Maybe she just said it, because she’s Carlota and she is unpredictable and wild and too creative for the confines of this world. She doesn’t seek to elaborate, and you’re not sure you want her to. The only thing that Carlota must grill you on now is this: “So how are you going to curate the exhibition, señorita?” 

With no answer just yet, you watch as Carlota’s brush makes one last satisfied flick against the canvas. She leans back, stretching in her (unintentionally) colourful apron, staring at her work with the satisfaction of someone who is done. 

You blink at the chaos around you – canvases leaning against the walls, some still glistening with wet varnish, others already sun-dried and cracked. They fill the room, and now this is your circus, so you better at least ask properly about her project.

“This is the whole collection?” 

“All of her.” 

You tilt your head. “Her?” 

“The body. Mine, yours, the woman across the street wearing polka dots. Fuck me if I know. But her.” She gestures broadly with a roll of her eyes, then points to a large canvas propped near the back wall. It’s striking: deep blue saturated with bloody crimson, each wrinkle of a rolled-up shirt painted to precision, each line of the skin equally as vivid. She bears no face but her power is unmistakable. 

“That’s a footballer,” Carlota says, already half-distracted, digging through a pile of tangled wires and paintbrushes for a misplaced lighter. “From here. Barcelona. You wouldn’t know her, but the whole country does. Stares at her. Marvels at her. Stuff you see in documentaries.” 

You step closer. Her body is rendered with aching precision, muscles sinewy with strength and endurance. Elegant. Controlled. Reverent in the way Carlota’s brush has captured the angle of the spine, the bulge of her quadriceps. The posture of a victor.  

“She trains nearby?” you ask. 

Carlota shrugs. She was asked to attend a match but she doesn’t remember much. “I saw her play,” she settles on, sparing misconstrued details. You don’t even like football. “She’s… captivating. The world holds its breath.” 

You stare. You’re no better than the rest of them, scrutinising each divot in the stomach, qualifying her physique. The thought stings your throat with ridiculous guilt. 

You move on. Carlota has more interesting paintings, anyway.

…

Alexia doesn’t know how she feels about the news her agent has just given her. 

She understands fans: edits, drawings, posters. People look up to her like that, because she’s successful and she has been cleverly marketed into being the face of Barça Femení. And it’s no surprise that people do analyse her – she knows she’s not ugly, she knows that the muscles she obtains for work have superficial benefits too. 

But an actual artist – a well-known artist – painting her? Adding her into a collection titled Cuerpa that explores the female body to a level of intellectualism she gets imposter syndrome just imagining?

“Well, Ale, you’re going to have to see it in person.” When Alexia hired this agency, made for stars not footballers, she knew it was because there was too much fame for Josep to handle. Sharron understands these big things, like being hung in a gallery and immortalised in an art collection estimated to be worth quite a lot. “The artist herself has invited you.” 

“Who is the artist?” The tips of her ears go red as she hopes she at least knows their name. 

“Carlota de Montcada.” 

The name means nothing and everything. “As in the family that invested in the club?” 

Sharron nods. “But their daughter is an artist in her own right, and a good one at that. The exhibition is nearly finished, curated by another… you know. Very prestigious, if not because of nepotism.” 

“She painted me without telling me?” Alexia says, blinking. “Why would she even want to paint me?” 

Sharron doesn’t answer right away. She’s used to this: an athlete out of her depth, using resistance to mask the insecurity of attending anything that isn’t strictly earned through training, matches, and sweat. Although she does wish Alexia’s tunnel vision would widen so that she could understand that this is all part of her success. 

“It’s a compliment, you know,” she says lightly, when Alexia has frowned enough to stretch out her face. “You’re compelling. Visually. Culturally. You’re an icon, whether you like it or not.” 

Alexia scoffs, pushing her hand through her hair, damp from the shower she had after training. “Compelling? I’m not a… ballerina. Or a politician. I kick a ball around and lift weights until something breaks, and then I do it again. That has nothing to do with her fancy little intellectual body collection.”

“Cuerpa,” comes Sharron’s fast correction. 

Alexia’s aching feet hit the wooden floorboards with relentless panic-anxiety-confusion. “And I’m supposed to visit this stranger and… thank her for it? Where does that fit into my schedule?” 

Sharron looks down at her phone, already with Alexia’s calendar open. “You have a sizable gap tomorrow afternoon.” 

The pacing stops. “No, I don’t.” 

God, please don’t let her. 

“Yes, you do,” Sharron says, voice light with amusement. “You’ve got recovery in the morning, and the rest of the day is clear unless you want me to rebook that call with Hellman’s you cancelled on last week.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got time, Alexia.”

Alexia exhales sharply, folding her arms. “I didn’t sign up for this.” 

“Technically, you did. There’s a likeness contract with your signature on it. Digital.” Sharron knows Alexia never bothered to read that, getting her lawyers to summarise while she focused on whatever important match she had next. 

Her glare has no real heat behind it. “She’s from that family. The Montcadas.” 

“Yes,” says Sharron, neutrally frustrated with the prolonged duration of this chat. 

“The ones who invested in the club.” A redeeming factor, at least. 

“Yes.” Sharron is growing bored of this conversation and Alexia is growing tired of having her agent in her kitchen when all she really wants to do is rewatch the footage from last season. 

“She must have seen me before.” 

“Like the rest of Spain.” 

Alexia stares at the floor for a long beat, jaw clenched. Then, finally: “what if I don’t like it?” 

“Then you don’t like it. But you’ll still be in it, and that will mean something.” 

Alexia’s quiet again, head swirling somewhere between irritation and curiosity. She doesn’t like the feeling of being seen without permission, but there’s also a part of her – hidden, sharp – that wants to see what Carlota saw. What she thought was worth immortalising. 

She huffs. “Fine. But I get to bring my sister.” Alba likes this kind of stuff. 

Sharron’s smirk is of satisfaction – the kind that the owner has deemed inevitable. “Good. I’ll message you the address.” 

They end up trekking up two flights of concrete stairs in Poblenou, until they reach a floor with a small plaque (carlota de montcada, it read in lowercase) by the door and a doorbell that looks like it is often pressed and ignored. 

“This is so cool,” Alba murmurs, trailing behind as Alexia knocks, half-hearted. She chooses not to touch the paint-stained button. 

Inside, it smells like chemicals, varnish, coffee, and faint incense. The space is tall and open, with large windows that let the autumn sun flood the room before it hides for winter. The floor is a mess of footprints and old paint spills. Everything feels like it breathes.

And then: “you’re early.” 

Carlota de Montcada appears from behind a freestanding canvas. She’s wearing wide-leg trousers splattered with what looks like ink, and a thin black tank top. Her hair is clipped up in that haphazard elegance she of course carries. 

Instinctively, Alexia sizes her up. She’s cool. Very obviously knows she’s cool. There’s something even theatrical about it, and Alexia already knows, without question, that Carlota and her exist in different worlds. 

“Hi,” Carlota says, stepping forwards. “It’s lovely to meet you, Alexia.” Carlota glances at Alba. “And you must be Alba?” 

Alba beams like she’s been personally invited to Versaille at its peak. “Hi. This place is amazing.”

Carlota shrugs modestly, then turns to Alexia with an expression that sits somewhere between curiosity and professional detachment. “Want to see it?”

Alexia nods. She doesn’t really want to talk to Carlota. The intensity of her annoyance is stuck in purgatory. 

The painting is propped near the centre of the room, still uncovered. It’s bigger than she expected. Technically, it’s a portrait – that much Alexia does know – but it’s not stiff or traditional. It’s a captured movement: a turn, sweat rolling down her stomach as she pulls up the hem of her shirt. And it’s faceless. 

Alba lets out a breath. 

“You’ve never met me.” Alexia, unlike her sister, is quite sceptical about this. 

Carlota’s head tilts slightly. “I watched you. Last season.” 

“You like football?” 

Although Carlota would like to say she was in search of a muse, the truth is far more routine and boring: “I was with my father.” 

Alexia nods with a triumphant hum. She doesn’t know what game she’s playing, but she is sure that she is currently winning. 

Her eyes are caught by the painting once more. Power strikes her – the power of her stance, her body. The boldness of the colour. The brilliance of the hand with which it was painted. 

But she bites her lip, uncomfortable with this notion. Not provoked, definitely not complimented, but not exactly wanting to look away. 

It is then that Alba clears the tension. A quick, “Carlota, is that your girlfriend?” and all heads are turned to the corner of the room. “She works in film, no?”

“Yeah.” Carlota says it slowly, as though she isn’t clear of Alba’s intentions. Her sister isn’t either, and Alexia catches herself wondering if Alba has been influenced by her aunts. 

An alarm goes off silently that tells everyone: don’t talk about Carlota’s private life! Alexia remembers that Carlota is far more important than she is. She thinks. She’s not sure. 

Carlota turns to her again, after she parries any further questions. “You don’t like it.” The statement lacks disappointment. 

“I didn’t say that.” It comes out with indignation. 

“You didn’t need to.” 

Alexia shrugs. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.” 

A voice interrupts before anyone can break the moment further. 

“Carlota, your bloody front door’s impossible.” 

The sisters exchange glances at the whiplash the accent gives them. Carlota mutters something under her breath, smiles in the way that preludes an apology for changing the language, and holds her hand up in surrender. 

You walk in barely looking up from your phone, mid-text, scowl so deeply set that you’re certain it will leave a mark. The cable-knit you’re wearing is too warm for the atmosphere of Carlota’s studio, and Alexia notes that white linens may not be the safest here. She decides very quickly that you are not a fellow artist. 

“I swear to God, if I have to talk to Richard once more about flights home, I will fake my own death.”

Carlota hums. “Perfect timing.”

“I know.” You finally glance up, freezing when you see two strange women staring at you like you just screamed Hala Madrid in the middle of Las Ramblas (oh, yes, you are true catalan now after one month of inhabitance). “Ah.” 

“Meet Alexia Putellas.” Carlota is wearing a smirk that you cannot place, but you know that she is conspiring. “And her sister, Alba.” 

You hold out your hand for Alexia to shake, but she seems positively puzzled at your appearance. Her sister gladly grips on to save you from total embarrassment. 

“Those—” Carlota points at the defined muscles on the canvas. “Belong to her.” 

“Football,” you mutter, but it’s not a question. Just exhaled air. A sound. 

Alexia nods, stiffly. Unsure of how to look at you, unsure of how you look at her. Your eyes are penetrating, like a bird of prey scanning for its next kill, and you hardly seem impressed by her job title. That’s not something Alexia is used to. She doesn’t like it – doesn’t think it’s fair. 

“Carlota did a marvellous job. I’m having it right in the middle with a comfortable bench in front of it.” It sounds like an insult. “Very left-wing. An exploration of hard-working women.” 

“Foreign concept?” Carlota chimes in, grinning as you swat her shoulder. 

“Anywho. I must dash. Do you have that folder I left in here? I’ve got to take it to the gallery.” 

“Where is the exhibition being held?” Alba asks, looking at Carlota and hoping she will translate. Or, perhaps, know herself. 

“MACBA,” you answer. “The opening is in two weeks. You should have been invited.” 

“I haven’t asked my agent,” Alexia explains, feeling the need to. That must annoy you, because your smile disappears and something else replaces it. “I’ll be there.” 

You pause. Something ignites with the words — you’re almost excited for it. The reminder of the exhibition is a reminder of purpose and hard work. 

You can add something else to your name that doesn’t connect to your family or your idiot fiancé. 

You can slide pearls around your neck like armour and ride into battle. Be thrilled by it. 

You can see what footballers look like when they are out of their depth. When they’re not arrogant and uninterested and glorified chiselled statues. When she won’t carry the cockiness that makes your fingers tingle.  

“Good.” You regain control of yourself and your musings. The time will come, and Alexia will be there for you to enjoy. “You’re the main event.” 

The artist, whose artwork actually should be the main event, clears her throat: a very obvious reminder to back out of the conversation and save the intensity for the meeting you are about to be late for. 

You rush off before Carlota can whine in your ear. You feel the footballer’s gaze linger on your back. You try to force your mind to think about flight times. 

…

The first thing that goes through your mind when Carlota’s father dictates that both of you appear at the Barcelona women’s team Champions League match is that you don’t want to go. Never have you ever wanted to go. 

Granted, you went to your boyfriend’s matches at school, back when you’d be on exeat and the Westminster boys insisted on kicking balls around, losing to the creators of the sport consistently and embarrassingly. 

But. 

Well, that was different. 

Now you’re in a seat that is far from comfortable, surrounded by businessmen and Carlota’s family, being subjected to watching athletic women run around for an hour and a half. 

And her girlfriend is here. Carlota’s girlfriend.

Hannah. 

An American, which she admits with a grim smile as you glance at your friend and wonder how she did it. 

“You know,” says Carlota, sipping a lemonade contentedly as the second half begins, Barça comfortable in their five-goal lead. “Hannah played football for Harvard.”

“Charming.” 

“You just have to give it a chance,” Hannah says, fingers intertwining with Carlota’s as though to prove something else. You glance at their hands and roll your eyes. Fuck them both. 

For once, when Richard calls you, you don’t delay in picking up. 

“Darling,” he says with a laugh, already amused. “What’s this I hear about a football match? Hardly you.” He doesn’t really know you, but you bite your tongue. “And a women’s match. Full of lesbos, isn’t it?” 

“I’m with Carlota and her girlfriend.” 

Richard is out — you can hear the raucous rabble of his mates from university, the echoes of ‘Fez is pussy-whipped’ resounding on the other end of the line. You grit your teeth. He chuckles. “No need to be so… PA. Lota’s one of my best friends. But don’t you start with it.” 

Carlota’s interest suddenly grows, alerted by the nickname and the voice that said it. 

“Dickie!” She grasps the phone out of your house. “What’s this about lesbians and football matches?” 

“Don’t turn my fiancée into a—” And you’ve stopped listening by then. 

 Carlota has him now, tangled in some biting rebuke about misogyny and laziness and the ignorance it takes to be unable to distinguish between a team of elite athletes and a Pride parade. You let her have him. She’s good at making men flinch. 

You turn your face back to the pitch. The fans are screaming. They chant a name you know. The one name you know. 

She wears the number eleven. You wonder if there’s a reason for it, or if she closed her eyes once and the digits stuck. 

The light has shifted, an early evening chill seeping in through the bodies. Alexia turns to shout at a teammate. The captain’s armband rides high on her bicep, stretched over muscle that tightens every time she moves. 

And she moves like she’s solving something. Like football is a puzzle to her — one that she has already worked out. It’s full of instinct: the way she runs and tracks back and controls the game. It’s full of blood and work. 

Early mornings, late nights. Passion. Dedication. Grace. 

You don’t even like football. You don’t know why you’re watching her. You don’t know why you can’t stop, either. 

It’s captivating. So you don’t even care when Hannah leans over to her girlfriend and murmurs, “I don’t think it’s us he should be wary of.” 

…

Hammarby are utterly destroyed by the end of the match. Alexia still doesn’t feel satisfied. 

She had come off in the seventy-seventh minute. She could’ve at least gotten a brace, but the opportunity had vanished. 

But she doesn’t yet class her mood as annoyed. 

Until Kika bounds over with a grin on her face. A grin that means mischief. A grin that Alexia is too defeated to cope with.

“You’ve just become a trophy wife.” 

The crowd hasn’t disappeared yet and they are still standing on the pitch, yet no amount of publicity training can school the expression in Alexia’s face. 

“What?” 

Kika pats her captain on the back and then the guilty hand raises until Alexia sees three women in the stands; two of them familiar. 

“Isn’t she the daughter of that guy we had to kiss up to?” Kika’s index points at dark hair pulled back into a messy bun — the best way to identify Carlota from afar. 

“Carlota de Montcada,” Alexia supplies, wearily.

“Mm-hm. And that,” Kika says as she now lands on the woman beside Carlota. She’s wearing dark aviators even though it isn’t sunny and she’s holding Alexia’s favourite artist’s hand. “That must be her girlfriend. The one who Jana kept talking about — that American who was wearing a senyera when she collected her Academy award.” 

Alexia shrugs. She has heard of Carlota de Montcada’s girlfriend (Alba made sure of that), but it’s really none of her business. She has more important things to worry about: footage, a new technical drill, maintaining her reputation as the best footballer in the game.  

“So…” Kika turns to Alexia. “Who is the third one? The one who was staring at you like she wanted to eat you?” 

Oh, Alexia thinks with disappointment. It’s the curator.

You’re talking to a man in a suit. His arms gesticulate wildly as though congratulating you, though Alexia isn’t convinced you’ve done much to be praised for. 

“Carlota de Montcada. Her girlfriend. And then her,” Kika prompts impatiently. 

“Carlota’s friend.” 

Kika raises her eyebrows, bouncing gleefully on the balls of her feet. “You’ve met?” 

“That’s a strong word for it.” A beat passes and Alexia feels the need to justify her exit from this conversation. “Don’t get too excited, anyway. She’s not interested in people like us.” 

“People with abs and thighs that she has been politely drooling over for the entire second half? I mean, you’re enough to make anyone squeeze their legs together and blush. Especially on the pitch.” 

“Can you name three Picasso paintings?” Kika shakes her head. Alexia’s point is proven. “And, in case you still don’t get it, she’s straight. Probably dating Carlota’s cousin.” 

Venom drips from her words, sliding down her throat and pouring out of her mouth, so overwhelming that Kika’s playfulness fades until she is scrutinising the pure disgust in her captain’s tone. It’s not clear why this conversation has bothered Alexia so, but the line was crossed and Kika is eager to rectify it. Alexia’s always been touchy about relationships. She should have known better. For her next sentence, it doesn’t matter which language she speaks it in, because Alexia will always understand. 

“Let’s bask in our victory.” 

Bask they do. Even if Alexia is convinced that the best reward is more time spent in the gym, because that will make her stronger and better and keep the rush of winning going. And she finds a new personal coach who’s insistent on her solely training on her right foot. 

She’s sweaty and she’s busy and she’s happy like this. 

Obviously, Sharron ruins when she brings her the dress she needs to wear for tonight’s gallery opening, the jade satin sliding over her skin like a very fashionable chain. “I was sorry to hear about Alba’s food poisoning,” says Sharron as her accompanying message.

This is a big betrayal on her sister’s part. 

“You’ll be fine on your own,” she continues. No one is convinced. “Just stick to football. Stuff you know. People you know.” 

“Will there be people I know?” It drips with sarcasm. 

“You know Carlota. And the curator.” 

Two bullets fired that wound Alexia further. 

She traipses into the event with faux enthusiasm that is only believable the bluntest tools in the shed. Even if she looks good. Even if she knows they want her to be here. 

Champagne flutes clink against inherited rings, laughter full of a certain quality that money cannot buy. There are lots of people here, each selected for their own unique purpose, just as elite as the next. The chatter they make, often ‘oohing’ at each installation as they go, is accompanied by a string quartet (all women, of course). Alexia doesn’t remember the last time she heard music that wasn’t to encourage her body to move; to dance with her mother, to train, to celebrate a win. 

The jade satin catches the gallery lights and refuses to let go – it clings, cuts across her back, reminds her of every time someone has called her beautiful when they had meant to say marketable. She knows how to own a pitch, how to own a moment, but this isn’t familiar. This is something else. 

Cuerpa consists of a number of canvases, varying in size and medium. She recognises a charcoal pair of breasts, darkly shaded in and etched with streaks of red oil pastel. 

Mitjanit, that one’s called. 

It has a crowd around it. Or rather, around Carlota, who is thriving and laughing and holding the hand of her girlfriend as though no one here cares. Her presence cuts through the crowd like a knife, slicing clean lines of attention. The girlfriend is prettier in person, which Alexia finds interesting, and she kisses Carlota’s cheek like she’s whispering a threat. 

Alexia tries not to stare. 

And then there’s a hand on her shoulder. Manicured. Unadorned. 

“They’re sickening.” 

It’s you. 

Why are you talking to her? Why are you not busy in that same crowd, drinking in that same praise? 

Why are you not walking around with a man on your arm, regaling family-friends with details for your boutique wedding?

“You were at the match,” is all Alexia can think to say, realising her accusation only when you sharply retract your hand from her shoulder. As your hands clasp together, she notices your engagement ring. “You don’t like football.” 

“It wasn’t my choice.” 

“Why stay?” 

“It’s the polite thing to do,” you reply with a smile that doesn’t reach earnestness. Her eyes narrow but you don’t seem to wither in your desire to bother her. “Did you not want me there?” 

Alexia considers it for a moment. “I don’t think about things like that when I’m playing.” 

It seems to amuse you, and you laugh, taking her hand and leading her further into the gallery. 

She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t expect to receive an answer. 

You reach a bench – a comfortable bench, as you’d promised – that is not yet occupied but the old and frail who have tired of playing at liberalism in Carlota’s company. You tell her to sit. She complies. 

“You don’t like the painting,” you point out as Alexia feels herself frown upon realising where you have brought her. “Too humble?” 

“Has anyone ever painted you?” she retorts, along the lines of ‘you will never understand me’. 

She soon understands the error of her ways when you laugh again. A note that belongs in tonight’s key signature, perfectly harmonising with the noise around you.

“Of course they have. Never as flattering as this.” 

You sit beside her, neatly pressing your legs together with the sort of elegant indifference that belongs to people who have never had to look at a bill or sell a car or worry about tomorrow. You look like you have never once been unsure of what to do with your hands. 

Alexia can’t decide if she hates you or just wants to work you out. 

You lean back, glancing sideways at her with a smile she doesn’t trust. It’s one that has betrayed her before. “Do you want to play a game?” 

“No,” she says, immediately. 

“Good. It’s called twenty questions.” 

“I don’t—” 

“First question.” You ignore her. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” 

Her scoff is automatic. “No.” 

“Too sensible,” you say with a nod, like you’re taking an emotional inventory. “Do you believe in fate?”

“No.” 

“Ah, you wouldn’t. Someone who has to fight for everything.” 

Alexia turns to look at you properly now. You’re not smirking, not yet, but you’re definitely enjoying yourself. There’s something behind your gaze that doesn’t belong here. Curiosity, maybe. Or maybe it’s something worse. 

You continue, undeterred. “Do you prefer early morning or late nights?” 

She shrugs. “Mornings. A question of discipline.” 

“Naturally.” It doesn’t seem like an agreement. “Do you believe people can change?” 

This one makes her pause. 

“Yes,” she says finally. “But most won’t. Don’t. Can’t.” 

You nod again, almost thoughtfully. “Favourite place in the world?”

This game seems very unfair. 

“The pitch,” Alexia answers, wishing she were there right now. 

“Place, not concept,” you answer with a shake of your head. 

“It is a place.” 

She watches as your lips twitch. “Five questions in and already you’re evasive.” 

“You're asking me ridiculous questions.”

“You wanted to play a game.” 

She’s about to point out that she didn’t – doesn’t. That you had coerced her here with some kind of intoxicating mysteriousness and she really should be talking to one of the Barça board members that she has just spotted in the corner of the room. That she’s not sure you’re supposed to be talking to her, anyway. 

But you don’t give her a chance. 

You turn slightly to face her. “Here’s one: are you happy?” 

She blinks. 

You can’t ask this. “It’s none of your business.” 

“Wrong. Everything is my business when I’m interested.” 

Alexia’s mouth tightens, frustrated. Who the fuck do you think you are, really? She should square her shoulders and point at the massive painting herself opposite the two of you. She should say, “that’s me. I’m important. I mean something.” Put passion behind the words – make it worth it, because she’d be winning then. 

But she doesn’t say any of that and you don’t stop. “Have you ever been in love?” is what you next fire out at her, seemingly uninterested in her answers and achieving in being perceived as a total narcissist. 

“Yes.” It’s an honest answer. 

“How many times?” 

She thinks back to Jenni and the girls that came between. Hates that you’ve made her look inwards in the middle of a sophisticated gallery opening that she isn’t meant to have attended. She definitely regrets coming now. 

“One and a half.” 

That makes you laugh again. “How delightfully cryptic.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” she replies, frowning. 

You nod, once. “Does it scare you? The idea of being seen. Not by fans or cameras or the analysis they have on those boring shows. By a person who knows you; who understands you.” 

Alexia takes a long time to answer. 

She searches for it, eyes flitting to where you have placed your hand between the two of you, engagement ring gleaming but not sitting as proudly as it should. She looks at your face; the crinkle of your brow, the blurred line between amusement and boredom. The mask that it all is. 

Maybe it’s a self-indulgent question, she thinks. Maybe you are projecting.

And she feels a glimpse of pity. 

Whatever has drawn you here to her – she pities you for it. 

“Yes, it does.” 

The air shifts.

You glance at the floor for a second. Then you look back up with a smaller smile, one that feels like it has been earned. It makes Alexia smile too. “You’re very good at this game.” 

She laughs incredulously. “I haven’t asked you any questions.” 

“Exactly.”

Alexia tilts her head, studying you, drowning out the sounds of the other guests making their way to her painting, treating it with the same awe and bemusement of the smudged boobs in charcoal. 

“Why me?” 

You look away for a moment, giving a polite smile to a woman with a severe string of pearls and an even more severe expression. 

“What do you mean?” you ask her. Truthfully. 

“You know so many people in this room. You have your friends, Carlota, her girlfriend, whoever you’re engaged to.” Her eyes flick to the ring at the same time as yours. “Why are you sitting here?” 

You seem surprised she’s asked. As if it hadn’t occurred to you she might turn it around. Really, it hadn’t, because you had assumed the footballer would tolerate your taunts in lieu of actually socialising, probably finding it easier to suffer at the hands of one of you than multiple. It had felt a bit like a favour – more so an experiment. You think she’d prefer that you tell her it was an experiment. A less sympathetic response, perhaps. 

“I want to see what it would take to make someone like you uncomfortable.” 

She sees no cruelty in it. For the moment. 

“And?” 

“Not much,” you admit. “But also… not in the way I’d expected.” Less brute force and more emotional intelligence, is what had gone down in your mental research journal. 

Alexia frowns nevertheless, not fond of being a test subject. She feels control slipping from her grasp and grieves it. With piercing eyes and piercing questions, you have opened her chest and stared – studied – and she is not glad to be at your mercy. 

Your hand twitches on the bench. Moves closer to her dress, but not near enough to touch. “Can I ask you something I shouldn’t?” 

“No.” 

You lean in anyway. “When did you decide you wanted to fuck me?” 

Alexia doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. 

But her breath pulls tighter in her chest, and she feels the way your words settle into her skin; bruises buds bursting to bloom. 

You’re waiting, frozen too. She’s trapped but she hasn’t bitten. It’s an aching moment between two inevitable events. 

“Who’s your fiancé?” 

Your face falls. Only briefly, but she is scrutinising you so she catches it. Of course she catches it. 

“His name is Richard. He is very wealthy and very darling, but I don’t love him and I’m afraid he doesn’t love me back. We’re to be married in March.” It comes out rather impatiently – an obstacle in a path that is still clear and easily found. 

“Spring,” Alexia states like an idiot, too confused by the situation to absorb anything else. It’s not spring yet.

“New beginnings.”

Alexia laughs. It’s a surrender. She waves the white flag. She falls for it. She should never have come. 

“You’re an awful person,” she says, which she means with her whole being. But she knows that she is playing a game, and the only way to lose is to sit back and let it pass her by. It’s no secret that the winner has been clear from the start, but that doesn’t quite deter her. She answers your question instead – her next move. “One hour ago.” 

You can’t really warm your voice up any more, you’re wearing your chosen stage outfit, and you’re sitting on a flight case. You feel like a little girl, swinging your legs about and hoping you don’t accidentally roll onto stage and ruin the set of the artist two heads in front of you in the line-up. 

You could smoke, but you can’t do that here. You could go and snort cocaine with the rest of your team. You could pick up the guitar lying in its open case on the floor beside you. You could run laps around the muddy fields in your Docs, proudly putting them to use as though they don’t live at the foot of a clothing rack with the rest of your costumes. It’s still part of my aesthetic, you would tell your stylist, as if real mud doesn’t ruin the ‘cool and nonchalant’ thing you’ve got going on. 

As if you didn’t spend most of your childhood in the dining rooms of important people or at Evensong services in one of the Oxbridge colleges. 

In a state of inertia – because even though you could do anything you wanted to, you won’t – it is very easy to be excited by the familiar voice calling your name from the other side of a large smoke machine that will be wheeled out behind you when you eventually get to perform. 

“Babe,” sings the voice with its inherent boisterousness. “You’ve got two hours to go. That’s at least three drinks.” 

You don’t grace her with eye contact just yet, still contemplating your state of self-pity. 

“Drinks,” Jess says again, more insistent. “Now. Come meet my girlfriend!” 

The case rolls backwards with a low rumble as you hop off it, feet landing precariously between thick cables. “I’ve met your girlfriend already, Jess.” 

She grabs your wrist and drags you along with her anyway. You let her, whisked through the semi-organised chaos of the VIP corridor – past handlers, stylists, and an ex-boybander deep-throating a Calippo. Orange, naturally. You try not to smirk. It’s Glasto, after all. No one is above anything here. Not even you.

The VIP bar is tucked just behind the main stage, buzzing with poorly-veiled networking and celebrities who aren’t sure where they stand amongst the spattering of artists who are internally crippling with nervousness. Everything smells like stale cider and cigarettes, although neither you nor Jess wrinkle your noses at it. A few heads turn at your appearance, but you don’t pay it much attention. 

Alex Scott is already holding court at a picnic bench strewn with empty plastic cups, sunglasses, and a large plate of loaded fries that look cold and soggy. Perhaps she had been waiting for her girlfriend to return – perhaps it is your fault her food is ruined. 

She stands when she sees Jess, arms thrown around her in a way that makes you smile, despite yourself. There’s real warmth there. Unforced. You don’t envy it, but you award them a certain level of respect. 

“Hiya,” Alex says to you, flashing that pearly grin. She reaches out a hand, placing it on your bicep. She knows you don’t like hugs. “You’re up soon, yeah? Big set.” 

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Same as last year.” 

She laughs. Alex likes your cockiness. Finds it effortless. “Far too smooth.” She places a limp chip in her mouth, humming in delight for a reason lost on you. “Ready to party with us afterwards?” 

“I know we’re not your preferred crowd,” Jess teases. “Seeing as neither of us are an option for you to fuck and then ghost in the morning.” 

“Don’t sound so jealous,” you reply, rolling your eyes. 

Jess snorts, pleased with herself, while Alex shakes her head. She’s used to this particular brand of cattiness. 

“Actually,” she says, glancing past Jess, “we’ve got someone new in our little VIP girl gang today. Sort of a plus one.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you adopt someone?” 

“Basically,” Jess says, stepping sideways to make space for a bobbing blonde head that is meandering towards the picnic bench.

And that’s when you see her.

She’s a footballer. You know her name. You’re sure of it.

“This is Leah,” Alex says when the blonde reaches her destination. Leah leans against the back of the bench in that way footballers must spend ridiculous amounts of time mastering in the mirror – loose-limbed, confident, wearing baggy denim and a tank top that rides up enough to hint at her toned stomach. Her eyes are shadowed behind shades, but she lifts them now, peering at you over the top. 

“Leah knows who you are.” Alex punches her girlfriend’s arm. “What? That’s quite a normal thing! She’s used to it.” 

Leah smiles. It doesn’t hide her slight apprehension, but you’re used to that, too. 

“I like your dad’s music.” 

The air stills, just for a second. You blink at her. 

It’s not the worst thing someone could say. It’s not even surprising. But it is lazy. 

Jess winces in slow motion beside you, and even Alex seems to pause her slow consumption of the soggy chips for a beat too long. 

Clearly not an idiot, Leah clocks the tension. “I mean… I like your music too. Obviously. That’s why–” She shrugs, trailing off. “Sorry. Shit opening line.” 

You don’t reply. Not verbally, anyway. She suffers in your silence and it’s a satisfying compensation for the can of worms she has unintentionally opened. Your head tilts slightly to one side, gaze narrowing, curiosity blending with amusement. And maybe something sharper. 

“I’ve had worse,” you offer, just before she is about to suffocate. 

“Have you?” she asks, with that footballer grin (Alex is good at it too) – the one that suggests she wins things for a living and isn’t afraid of getting mud on her knees. 

“Someone once said I reminded them of Lana Del Rey. But with ADHD.” You look at Jess; “Or did they say coked up?” She snorts her drink.

“I mean, I see it,” Leah says, eyes glinting behind the tinted lenses, pushed arrogantly back up her nose as if you don’t all know that she’s probably just shielding herself from her hangover. “Angsty but feral.” 

“Oh my god,” Alex mutters. “Leah. Inside voice.” 

But you laugh. Soft. Unexpected. The first real laugh you’ve given anyone all day. She beams, as though she knows that, and you don’t plan to figure out the sudden clarity in your vision before your set. 

“So,” Leah says, casually looping her arms across the back of the bench. “Do we get a preview? Or do I have to stand in a field jam-packed with strangers and pretend I’m not sweating my tits off waiting for you to start?”

“What makes you special, Leah?” you ask, voice steady and innocent. Her indignance is the last thing you see before someone from your team (you had felt a demon sneaking up on you) pulls you away, back to your cage in the VIP corridor. 

The encounter, while intriguing, does not quite satiate your need for excitement, and with an hour left on the clock, you have nothing better to do than give in. 

Your greenroom is full, bustling with the joy of getting to exist here without the pressure of performing. You don’t share that privilege but you do like being a dancing monkey and so you let them get away with it.

Almost every surface is littered with cigarette butts and energy drinks, empty bottles of champagne and tequila lined up neatly against the make-shift walls.The coffee table in the centre of the room is the hearth, grounding everyone in a relative circle around it. The familiar sight of white powder being diligently scraped into lines is comforting — at least this year is no different. 

Like always, your presence is noticed in the room. Most of these people are glorified groupies, anyway. Apart from the head that stays level with the table. A head you know very well. 

“Cecily, what would Mummy say if I let you do coke backstage?” The room goes silent out of respect for your voice, but it feels stilted and forced. Your half-sister looks up at you only when she has finished her line. 

“She doesn’t know I’m here.” You frown. Neither did you. “Daddy said not to tell her. Said that she’d worry.” 

“She would!” 

“She’s a hypocrite,” Cecily replies with a whine in her voice that no amount of maturity will ever rid her of. “What was she doing when she was twenty-one?”

You wince. 

You know what’s coming. Everyone knows what’s coming. 

Perhaps that is why she never gets the chance to make the comparison, because someone swoops in (you really should learn these people’s names) and rescues the mood: “I think we should head into soundcheck.” 

You pretend not to hear the collectively exhaled sigh of relief. 

It’s so much sweatier backstage now. The sound engineer is fussing over the guitar amps and a scratchy undertone of feedback. Your manager’s assistant is standing to attention, holding a Lemsip in her hands in case you want some. Your stylist is moaning about the dirt on your shoes. 

No one talks to you. They know that the last thirty minutes before it’s time are yours. Your silence, your thoughts. Your preparation. 

You shed the layers of yourself that aren’t the woman that is going to appear on the stage. You quell the niggling doubt that whispers that you’re not good enough. 

…

“You were fucking amazing!” Jess shouts in your ear as you appear in the VIP bar once again. Now, your hair is twisted back, glitter brushed into it by your relentless younger sister, the same colour smudged on your eyelids. Your clothes are fresh – a tight skirt, old shirt, wellies. Something that makes you look chic. Refined enough to be worth the school fees. Ready for a festival, even if there are only a few hours left of tonight’s live music. 

You smile because you’re used to this. The compliments, the attention, the sweaty half-sincere praise from people who watched you from behind tinted lenses and forgot to clap. It’s fine. You didn’t do it for them. You did it because you like the power of watching a crowd swell and bend beneath you. 

“Thank you,” you say, reaching for the lukewarm drink someone hands you. You don’t check who or what, simply taking a sip and letting your mouth scrunch into a grimace. Whiskey. You hate whiskey. 

“You looked like a fucking rockstar,” Jess continues, buzzing with the kind of energy that always makes you tired. “Like, everyone’s obsessed with you. Even Leah said–” 

You hold up a finger. “Don’t ruin it.” 

“How was she supposed to know–”

“She wasn’t,” you grant your friend. You shrug. “But she’s annoying. You know I hate footballers.” 

“You like Alex.” 

“She’s retired.” Your sigh is deep, drenched with the exhaustion of performing. “What’s the deal with her, anyway? Is she Alex’s friend? Here on a sponsorship deal?” 

“I thought you found her annoying.” Jess raises an eyebrow, catching you out with the ease that only someone who’s seen you at your worst can manage. With a profound lack of subtly, she gestures to where Leah is standing at the bar, engaged in an animated conversation with Cecily, of all people. 

You roll your eyes. “I do. But I’m curious as to which brand of annoying she is.” 

“She’s not with sponsors,” Jess says, grinning now like she knows something you don’t. “She’s just here. A civilian, apparently.” 

“Doesn’t exist.” The speed of your response makes her laugh, but she gets it: no one’s a civilian in the VIP bar. 

Jess shrugs, sitting into her hip like she’s bored of your cynicism. “She came with Alex. Something about needing a break before the Euros. I don’t know. She’s nice.” 

“She’s a defender, isn’t she?” 

Your friend looks vaguely impressed. “Look at you pretending not to know who she is.” 

“I only know because she did that weird hand-ball thingie in that final. I can’t remember when, but Stephen was shouting so loudly at the TV that Cec and I literally left the house.” Your stepfather doesn’t care much for football but a fellow producer (younger and therefore naturally woke) had called him a bigot for abstaining from women’s sports and so he had no choice. Apparently it’s the second sport at Westminster, though. They used to thrash Eton. 

You sip the whiskey again, just to punish yourself. 

“She’s hot though,” Jess offers, too lightly. And she has a girlfriend, so there really is only one hint she could be giving. You’re not taking her bait. 

There’s a beat between you. Your eyes dart over to the enthralling chat Leah and Cec seem to be having. Jess is smirking. 

“I’ve seen that look before,” she says. 

You scoff. “The one with blinking and open eyes?”

“No.” You wonder if Jess ever tires of your tendency to irritate the fuck out of her. “The look you gave her back at the picnic bench.” 

You pull your face into something as neutral as possible. Unimpressed, even. “She said she liked my dad’s music.”

“Well, he was in The Smiths. Pretty sure lots of people do.” Jess is far too reasonable for her level of drunkenness.  

“Yeah, but as an introductory statement? It was basically a hate crime.” 

“And yet you laughed. I was there. I saw it.” 

You let the moment hang. Let Jess think she’s right. Then: “It was politeness.” 

“Politeness?” Jess is openly laughing now. You wish Alex would return from whatever adventure she has embarked on and save you from her insufferable girlfriend. “You’re never polite. You told Victoria Beckham her boots looked like bin bags.” 

“They did.” You sigh, gaze drifting lazily across the bar. Of course, it lands on Leah. 

She’s still there. Still talking to Cecily, now joined by two other vaguely familiar faces – some actor, maybe, and a girl who used to date someone who used to date you. Leah’s smile is easy. Careless. But you’re not an idiot and you know performative charm when you see it. You invented it. 

As if sensing your attention, she glances over.

Your eyes meet. 

She holds it, just long enough to be cocky. Just long enough to challenge you. Before you look away in repulsion, she raises a brow: are you going to talk to me or just stare all night?

The whiskey finally hits your bloodstream. 

“She’s looking at you,” Jess says, entirely unhelpful. 

“No, she’s not.” 

“She is.” 

“Fine,” you sigh, already bored of yourself. “I’ll just pop over there and make sure Cecily hasn’t invited her to the family Christmas.” 

Jess clinks her drink against yours as you step away. “Be nice.” She remembers who she’s speaking to, laughing at her own words. “Or don’t. Just don’t shag her in a Portaloo.” 

You glare at her. “That was one time.” 

She shrugs. “I still don’t understand the mechanics of it.” 

It’s something you have refused to explain to her time and time again. She knows the scar GCSE Physics left on you, and therefore should know better, but a defining feature of your friendship with Jess is her incessant over-stepping and your forgiving nature. (Here, you tell a lie – you don’t forgive her, you just gave up on chiding her.) Anywho, the best way to avoid denying her of her mythology story-time is to get on with interrupting Leah and your sister.

The conversation stops when you approach, Leah’s voice dying in her throat, her sentence doomed to be unfinished. The four of them – actor and ex’s ex both staring gormlessly – seem to wait for you to announce what you have deemed important enough to grace them with. 

You fix your eyes on Leah. “I hope Cec hasn’t bored you with the logistics of maintaining an eating disorder.” 

Cecily doesn’t even blink. “You’re just jealous that I’ve walked runways and you haven’t.” 

“Not at all,” you murmur, gaze unwavering. 

The actor, aggressively toothy in a leather waistcoat, sporting a generic face you’re pretty sure you scrolled past on Netflix last week, takes the opportunity to interject, apparently confusing the silence for an invitation. 

“I’m Edward, by the way.” He leans in as if this matters. Cec subtly glances at you – you’re both thinking the same thing. “I won the BAFTA for Best Short Form Performance. Web-based narrative – all very pioneer and such. You might have seen it? Houndstooth?” Only the ex’s ex reacts, and it is unconvincing at best. He recovers, undeterred. “Anyway, I was just saying how much I love your dad’s music. Real Manchester grit. Proper lyrics, you know?” 

He gestures between you and Cecily. You weigh out what would be more fun: expose his mistake or ask him whether he can actually point Manchester out on the map. 

Cec gets there first. “He’s not my dad,” she says, tone sickly sweet but laced with a level of mocking she has learnt from you. “Just hers.” She jabs a finger in your direction. “See” – and here’s where she gets you back for earlier – “my half-sister is my mother’s daughter. Don’t you recall that big affair? ‘96, ‘97. Well, here she is, walking and talking.” 

You laugh, hoping she hears the special kind of fury you reserve for this topic lurking in the brightness of your voice. 

Leah’s eyes flicker to you, apologetic. “Shit. Right.” She swallows. “I shouldn’t have – back at the table – about the whole, uh…” She trails off, waving her hand as though it conjures up the rest of her words. You briefly wonder if this woman has ever finished a sentence. 

You tilt your head. “The whole ‘I like your dad’s music’ thing?” 

She winces. “That.” 

Cecily grins, clearly enjoying the awkwardness she hasn’t had to cause for once. The actor looks confused and the girl takes an abrupt interest in her drink. 

“Well, I think I’m going to mingle with the… common folk,” Cecily says then, voice light as a feather. Edward laughs – of course he finds that funny. “Coming, Leah?” 

You’re about to say no, as though you have authority to do so, when Leah smiles, a little tight around the edges. “I’m good, thanks.” 

Cec shrugs, already turning away. “Suit yourself. Come on, darlings,” she chirps to the others, acquiring tonight’s entourage. “Let’s leave the artist alone with her muse.” 

You don’t dignify it with a response. You watch them go.

Something settles in the atmosphere. Probably a sigh of relief that your sister has fucked off. Things feel quieter. 

“You know, when you meet a nepo-baby, you’re not supposed to remind them of it.” The whiskey you sip to chase your first teaching burns your throat. “Much less talk about the fame of their parents.” 

“I liked your set.” She is defiant in the way she says it, shoulders squared, jaw set. You assume she hates being patronised more than the average person. The small amount of empathy in you connects that to being a female athlete. Or maybe just a woman. 

You nod, noncommittally. A truce. “Thanks.” 

“I hadn’t connected the dots about your dad.” She really should stop talking about it, else you’ll have to find a way to make her shut up. “Must be terrifying to have him watching you on days like today.” 

Your laugh is involuntary. Startling. She jumps. “He’s not watching. His son has a gig in some pub in Manchester.” You hope she doesn’t pity you. “Glasto’s televised,” you say, feeling the need to justify it. 

“He missed out.” 

She doesn’t understand the weight of that statement. 

“Perhaps. Anyway, you know I’m more nepo through my mother? My grandfather was the CEO of Sony Music for a long time. Then he died and they got the new guy in, but such is life.” 

“I should have been more diligent when reading your Wikipedia.” And that makes you laugh, you’re embarrassed to admit. She smiles, almost proud of herself. “I am quite a fan of The Smiths though.” 

“They’re a bit angsty.” 

“Mate,” she says incredulously, “have you heard your lyrics?” 

You roll your eyes. “But I don’t listen to my own music. Do you watch yourself play football?” 

Leah thinks about that for a moment. Her expression softens, as though you have just said something completely idiotic. 

“Well, yes. We have film sessions – hours spent pouring over how we play, how the other teams play.” 

“I don’t know how sports work.” 

“Well, I don’t know my C major from my A minor.” 

Her confusion is amusing. “They’re the same,” you say gently, though you’re not sure why you’re enjoying this conversation or educating her on entry-level music theory.

Leah frowns. “They don’t sound the same.” 

You take a slow sip of your drink, let it burn just long enough. “They’re not supposed to, even to an ignorant ear.” 

“Are you calling me ignorant?” 

You gesture lazily with your glass. “No. Just your ears.” 

The doorbell rings right on time. Alexia had promised to arrive before three and she is, of course, here at 2:59. Very typical. It somehow feels like a challenge, but you push that feeling down. 

Hair scraped back in a ponytail, make-up half-finished, clothes for this evening still up for debate; a great sight to do the hand-over. At least things have progressed from neutral locations and a third party. You were sure Alexia would be curious enough to drive here, anyway. 

“So this is the new place.” You open the door and she’s already smirking, holding two neon backpacks, surrounded by bickering children, and she’s still smirking. Still looks good doing it. 

You watch as she assesses it, eyes scanning over the driveway and the expanse of white house situated behind you. You can see her dart inside, scrutinising the design. She also has thoughts about the location. It’s further out. Fucking Sitges. Views of the sea, though, that Mediterranean that courses through Nico and Elena’s bones just as it does in hers. 

“What do you think?” 

The question is loaded. She doesn’t want to think too much. 

“Big,” she says with sufficient disinterest. It crosses your mind, briefly, that your children are so engrossed in their argument that they haven’t thought to greet their other mother yet, but then you’re looking at Alexia again and you experience a similar distraction. 

“You live in a two-floor penthouse.” 

“You’ve just bought a mansion.” 

You glance down to Nico and Elena, maternal instincts tingling as Elena’s hand pops out as she goes to smack her older brother. Alexia catches her arm before contact is made. “I thought they’d like to run around in the garden. There’s a pool. A gym.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Which footballer have you bought this off, then?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you reply, snark in your tone but hardly felt. “Nico, Lela, do you not love me anymore?” 

The children pause, Alexia’s fingers gently letting go of the small arm as they turn towards you, grinning and a little more tanned than they were when you last saw them. 

“Mummy!” Nico bursts out, rushing towards you, colliding with your body. He’s so much stronger. Seven. That’s a big number. 

Elena, as always, follows her older brother, previous crimes now forgiven as they unite in the shared love for the brief moments of their family being whole again. You swallow the bitterness of this feeling, this relief but everlasting disappointment. They go and they come back. They shouldn’t have to. 

You know Alexia has looked away because she tries to look back at the scene before you notice. Naturally, you notice regardless. Can’t know someone as well as you know Alexia and not notice the small things, the things that serve as a reminder for the love between you. Whatever of that there is left. 

When they detach themselves from you, something that always feels a bit like losing part of yourself, they’re back over the threshold, Nico jumping excitedly. Elena joins in. 

“We had so much fun on holiday!” she squeals, five-year-old voice hardly far from a squeak, especially with the energy she has just found. “Mami took us into the desert. And we went in big cars over these things called sand dunes! And we saw animals!” 

“Animals?” you ask with an eyebrow raised. You don’t tend to get many of those in the UAE. 

Alexia shrugs. “The resort had a conservation project.” You let it go, and had let her go on that holiday, too. A weak will to say no when the itinerary had plopped into your inbox after being reviewed by your lawyer. Sacrificing one Christmas to spend with your family in England was worth it when pictures came through of Elena and Nico having such a good time. And, to be a very gracious coparent, Alexia’s schedule often inhibits her from genuine quality time with them during the season. 

“I’m glad you had fun,” you say earnestly, more to Alexia. Nico and Elena have already dodged past you and are now inside, their lively conversation echoing in the open space of the house.

“Thank you,” she replies. 

An awkward silence stagnates. 

“Thank you for bringing them tonight.” Tonight is an inconvenience because it’s New Year’s Eve. Alexia should be heading to Mollet soon to help her mother set up for their family gathering. She would’ve hosted it at hers but it’s always slightly hollow and empty in the fresh hours after the handoff. “I would’ve picked them up but I’m waiting for the caterer to appear.” 

“Caterer?” Interest piqued. She’s still holding the backpacks but now she swivels to hook them onto the handlebars of the colourful suitcases beside her. 

“I’m throwing a party tonight. We got some fireworks. Sparklers for the children.” You frown. “Didn’t I tell you?” 

Alexia holds her tongue for dignity’s sake, giving it enough time for it to not come off like a big deal. “No, you didn’t.” 

You hum. “It’s quite a big thing. Lela’s so excited. I invited some of the parents from the school and so there’s going to be tons of kids running around tonight.” 

“Unlike you to host a family-friendly event,” comes the swift response. You laugh and she loves that sound, feels so proud every time she hears it and she’s the reason.

“Duality,” you offer, holding the moment. Then, “no, I’m setting up a sleepover room. There’s a cinema in the basement and I’ll put a film on. We’re having a champagne tower and live music upstairs.” A smile tugs at your lips, just a small brag. You’ve got to find joy in being kid-free for a few days somehow. “You having them actually gave me a lot of time to plan.” 

“So while I was dealing with petty spats and tantrums–” 

“It was only fair.” 

She huffs, annoyed. Lost count of the amount of arguments she had to dissolve, now that Elena still admires her brother but has reached the correct amount of consciousness to take everything he says with a pinch of salt. Waiting in theme park queues and they’re shouting at each other about who gets to sit where, who gets to sit with her, who gets to have candyfloss afterwards and who should get popcorn instead. That shit’s not for the weak. 

“Who’s on the list? Anyone super famous?” Her curiosity is supposed to be masked with pragmatism but the flicker of her eyes past your shoulder exposes her. She’s pissed off. You didn’t tell her and now she’s being left out. 

Casually, you reply, “the usual.” A thought. “Some footballers, actually. I thought it was only neighbourly.” 

Her arms fold over her chest. “Men’s?” Knows the answer to that, as if any of her teammates are living in multi-million euro mansions with seaviews and swimming pools. 

“I think maybe Mapi and Ingrid, too. And Irene and Lucía.” Your explanation for that is, “Nico spilled the beans to Mateo and I felt rude. Plus, Mateo has been over here for a playdate already and it was Lucía who said the best way to christen a new house is by hosting a party.” 

She scoffs. “No, the best way is to have sex in it.” 

The laugh that erupts from your throat pairs with a blush. Alexia doesn’t regret saying it but her stomach sinks in apprehension of your next sentence. Just in case it’s something she doesn’t want to hear. But you’re still laughing so that settles her, because you haven’t yet flaunted a new relationship so there must not be one worth flaunting. 

“What happened to that model?” pries Alexia, still standing outside your house with no intention of coming in. She really does have to set off soon if she wants to make it in time to help Mami. “The one that was, like, twenty?” 

“In New York.”

“Saw the kids and ran?” she teases, barbed now, claws coming out. Hated the thought of that stupid woman touching you in pictures. Alba told her not to read the tabloids but sent her every article anyway. One day, Nico will relate to the pain in the arse it is to have a younger sister. 

“Never met the kids,” you shoot back, defensive but only in push-back. You’re not enabling her jealousy. “Why do you care, Ale?”

Too mean, too direct. You want to retract the statement but words can’t be unsaid. Alexia has to reply with something responsible. Chooses: “I care because I don’t want some air-headed twenty-year-old around Nico and Elena.”

That’s rich, you think. “Aren’t you with your Portuguese teammate?” She looks young too. Maybe you both cling to a better, easier time. Things were much simpler then.

“What?!” 

The sound is loud enough to reverberate. Moving the furniture to maximise space has created an echo chamber. Physics is so unkind. 

“I don’t know,” you confess. “I saw an article.” 

“Why are you reading the tabloids?” 

“Why are you reading the tabloids?” Ricocheted like a bullet on steel. 

Alexia sighs, wanting to put this one to rest. “I’m not dating Kika. I would’ve told you if I were dating someone.” You know that’s true. It would be bragging or apologising or something else entirely, all wrapped up and disguised as a practical safe-guarding update for the children. 

“Oh.” 

Clever response. 

You stare at her for a moment. She’s glowing, rejuvenated from the desert sun and back to her golden glory, even now, in her tracksuit. Part of you wants to roll your eyes at her outfit anyway, so sporty all the time, ready to kick a ball at a moment’s notice. But then again, maybe she had no other plans and privacy is a big thing in this area to shield every celebrity from the paparazzi.

“How’s your mum?” you ask next, because you don’t really want her to go just yet. 

“Good,” she says, nodding. “She enjoyed our holiday too, complained that I spoil everyone and we’re going to raise brats.” Of course Eli would say that. Alexia probably used you as an example and said, ‘she turned out fine.’ 

On cue, though, you can hear Elena telling Nico to get her sparkling water from the sparkling water tap. “I don’t like still,” the girl declares from the kitchen. The novelty of that bastardly tap hasn’t worn off. You theorise that she likes the bubbles on her tongue and therefore will one day drain you of your champagne supply. 

“Brats,” you echo, wiggling your eyebrows. Alexia chuckles at that. 

“So did you get the whole place refurbished?” Another extension. Maybe you should invite her inside. 

No. That’s a slippery slope. So slippery and steep, only leading to yet another accidental hookup. Your excuses for them will run out soon. 

But it’s only polite.

“Would you like a tour?” 

Alexia’s impressed with the house. She hates to show it, but she is. Your architect has done a good job redesigning it while keeping the exterior colonial and rustic. It’s beautiful, really; flowing spaces, a playroom, the cinema in the basement, the pool and its corresponding jacuzzi. Feng shui or whatever it’s called. She’s glad Nico and Elena get to grow up here.

Even with the clear help, you’ve personalised it completely. Every wall is decorated with frames of memories. You smile shyly when she catches the pictures of her in the children's bedrooms. Some of her favourite moments are nailed onto the walls. Some of yours, too.

Alexia lingers there longer than she means to, fingers brushing the edge of a particular frame. 

“That one,” she says quietly, nodding towards a photo of Elena, Nico, and her, the World Cup trophy in front of them, Nico and Elena squeezed together so they can fit her medal around both of their necks (taking turns was not enticing back then). Her smile is so wide. You had taken that picture. “My favourite.” 

“It was a good day.” Your voice is soft, almost careful. Kind in giving her that, because your country lost. Nico and Elena had been swiftly changed out of their England shirts before they were set free onto the pitch, and you had come down sheepishly, a bit worried about what the media would have to say about your appearance, but still proud to see Alexia become a world champion, still connected to her in that way. There was a time – a time of hatred and resentment – where you’d never have considered attending the match, so hurt by her stupid actions. You’re still hurt, somewhere deep inside of you, but it’s dull. Chronic; it will die with you. But it’s manageable. You’ve made peace with it.

You move on before your throat grows hoarse and your eyes start to sting, hurried along by the puppies at your heels, eager to show Alexia their rooms but also hyper from the sweets you had mistakenly left out (they are supposed to be sorted into cones for each child to take away later on but the caterer is late and Alexia is still here). 

“There was… debate about who got which room,” you preface as Nico leads Alexia past his door, tugging at her wrist. 

“I’m shocked,” she deadpans. 

Equally as unsurprising is the temple to football that your son has constructed. Posters, bedsheets, even tacky blaugrana wallpaper – the fucking works. You’d relented because he had been very polite about it, calmly negotiating with the interior designer about the shades of the reds and blues and the positioning of his shelves. They groan under the weight of his awards already. Coach’s player from last season, top goal scorer in the division, most-improved, best attitude, most enthusiastic (that was from the summer course he took). Alexia had told you that they give trophies away like old footballs when you’d expressed mild concern for it, but the truth is that Nico is easily the best in his team. He plays at one of La Masia’s feeder clubs. Alexia doesn’t want him training with Barça yet, just to help him grow outside of her shadow while he still can. 

The altar is arguably the bookshelf filled with memorabilia from Alexia’s teammates. So many signatures in one place. A framed photo of Alexia’s Champion’s League final goal in the middle, the biggest of them all. Alexia looks away for a guilty moment – you’re tortured by memories of her in this room. 

But in all fairness, Nico’s room at her place has a keyboard to ensure he practises in between piano lessons. And a guitar he occasionally strums. Each note strikes her in her heart, with nights of listening to you compose resurfacing each time, talent derived through DNA.

By the time she makes it to Elena’s room, she is suppressing the usual constriction of her throat and tightness in her chest that she experiences whenever she is forced to see the acute ways in which she ruined her family. Elena’s only nails to hammer in the coffin (far too young and independent to care about football or music past copying Nico when he sits at the grand piano or accompanying Alexia when she visits her foundation) are more pictures, this time curated by the five-year-old. 

“She basically wanted it to be another playroom. But I put them in because you know how she gets.” A nice family picture on her bedside table. The teddy-bear Alexia brought her from the Olympics. Toys scattered everywhere, as if not even the cleaner could deal with this mess. “And that’s your CD in there.” You point to a retro contraption that makes Alexia laugh, plugged in beside an iPad charger. 

“I love my CD,” Elena says, racing over to the player. Says it in Catalan, for Alexia’s ears. The recordings are in Catalan, too. Hours of stories and messages from Alexia for when Elena can’t sleep. 

Alexia makes a mental note to arrange another session with the man that helped her with it. A contact of yours, some producer. He seemed to know the full story and didn’t ask questions. In fact, he brought in some of his daughter’s favourite stories when their supply ran low. She should record more. Time will only get longer, and schedules have become more rigid anyway with both of them in school properly.

The doorbell rings then, sharp and insistent, cutting cleanly through the growing sadness. 

“That’ll be the caterer!” you say, relief flashing across your face. 

As if summoned by the word, Nico bolts past you, socks skidding on the hardwood floor. “I’ll get it!” 

“Don’t–” you start, but it’s already too late. You hear the front door yanked open with all the ceremony of a child who believes every arrival exists solely for their benefit. In this case, Nico must have read the list of food that is being delivered. That is certainly going to benefit him. 

You follow as quickly as you can, Alexia and Elena in tow despite the two of them now involved in their own private conversation in a language you can’t understand without concentrating. 

A man in black, headset crooked, clipboard tucked under his arm, blinks down at Nico. 

“You’re late,” Nico informs him gravely. Brats. 

“Nicolau,” you warn. Obedient brats: he steps aside. You smile at the caterer, Luis. “Sorry. He’s very excited.” 

Luis laughs easily. “No pasa nada. We had a delay with the dishwashing service but we’re all good to go now. The pyrotechnic team is unloading at the back gate. Could you unlock it?” 

“Perfect,” you say, taking the clipboard he holds out to you. The familiar hum of logistics kicks in – lists, timings, glasses, staff. There are one hundred people set to come tonight. You thrive under the attention, under the pressure of glamour, wrestling Nico into a suit (compromising on trainers), wrangling Elena out of a spider-man costume. Brings you back to Highgate, sometimes, and those dinner parties you threw. Legendary. That’s one freedom you have without Alexia. No introvert complaining at your side, at least. 

As more catering staff filter in, following Luis in a workhorse line, Alexia clears her throat, lightly but with conviction, checking her watch. “I better go.” 

You look up. “Right.” 

Nico and Elena reappear, suddenly aware of the impending goodbye, clinging to her with synchronised precision. Good job overpowering Alexia Putellas’ legs. The kids will only beat her emotionally. Manipulative little shits, pouting at her and giving her those wide eyes. Wide eyes that cleared out her wallet on holiday. 

“Mami, you’re staying?” Elena asks, voice hopeful despite knowing better. This is always the hard part. 

“Not tonight,” Alexia says gently, crouching to their level. “Vaig a casa de la iaia, us n’enrecordeu?”

She needs to speed up this process before she doesn’t leave. Gives them both a hug and a kiss and a ‘thank you’ for joining her on holiday. Holds them both tightly, the last time this year. 

Your head is tilted when she looks at you. She can see what’s coming, can see it on your face, good at reading your mind like that. 

You say, with as much of a non-committal expression as you can muster, “if it’s not too late, you can always come by here. If you want to see the fireworks.” Alexia’s thoughts go to the guest room. Apparently people have hotels. That’s the caliber of guest tonight, not crashing on sofas because they can afford to fly out to Barcelona for your New Year’s Eve party and stay in a hotel afterwards. “If your family doesn’t get too rowdy.” 

Alexia snorts, remembering the time you celebrated with them and had to hold her cousin up before she collapsed on top of you, drinking way too much wine at dinner and barely even making it to midnight. “Alba has so much wine from the kids at school. So many parents want them to get good grades, even at infant level. It’s psychotic.” 

“I’m sure Alba’s not complaining.” 

“I’m worried there’ll be an investigation about bribery.”

Your laugh comes naturally, as it always does regarding situations about the more chaotic Putellas. “I invited Alba,” you admit abruptly, enough to make Alexia freeze for a moment. “I… yeah. So come. Before midnight.” A change of tune, slightly. Just a bit more desperate. 

“Worried you’ll have no one to kiss at midnight?” Alexia asks, trying to recover herself from the shock. Wants to make you squirm but instead you roll your shoulders back defiantly, recognises that motion in Elena when you tell her something she doesn’t want to hear. 

“Get out,” you command, playfulness present in your tone but underlying venom seeping into it, not quite fine with Alexia prodding at such vulnerability. “Go, before your mother slaps you for shirking your grape-counting responsibilities.” 

…

Eli seems to already know about these arrangements. She ushers them out, sharing a look with Alba. Those two collude. Always whispering when it comes to you and Alexia, always scheming. 

Alexia takes one look at her family’s celebrations, full of food and happiness, soaking it in before she drives off to enter the world of stardom. This is the kind of stuff her publicist encourages her to do – go to parties, make contacts. Not that Alexia likes this kind of party. Or wants to make contacts. 

Her thought process is that she wants to welcome the new year with the most important people in her life: her children. She missed Nico’s seventh birthday for a Champions League match in Paris. Vicky making a heart for him in her goal celebration is hardly a good birthday gift, even if the boy watched the clip multiple times (per your information). 

“Can’t believe you’re doing this sober, Alex,” says Alba in the car. You’d sent a text saying she could park in the driveway. Privileges. 

“What? It’s not a big deal.” Alexia keeps her eyes on the road because the lie will be even less believable if Alba can see her face. She’s nervous. She’s not sure why. “We’re on good terms.” 

“You haven’t slept with anyone else since Olga.” 

Alexia shrugs. “I don’t have time to indulge in random hookups. I have a sleep schedule to maintain.” 

“Alexia, I literally caught your ex-wife leaving your place a few months ago.” That had been a bad morning. You weren’t supposed to fall asleep afterwards but you were tired and the bed was so warm. You’d tried to escape early, rising even before Alexia, and that had meant Alba, on her way to drop off some groceries at Alexia’s, ran into you. She’d given you a look. I know exactly what you’ve been doing. You made a swift getaway after that. 

She forces herself to take a deep breath. These admissions are few and far between but if they’re going to be told to anyone, it will be Alba. Alba understands Alexia like no one else. Her soul is made from the same stuff, after all. Some bonds are unbreakable. “It’s different with her. I’d do anything she asked of me.” 

“You’re still repenting,” Alba deduces. 

“I deserve it.” Don’t cheat on your wife if you don’t want your wife to leave you. “But I want more than just sex. I want it back.”

Her sister has to be honest here, can’t break Alexia’s heart with false truths that will only make her feel worse. Shakes her head at the mess Alexia got herself into, undoing the divorce. She’s baffled by it sometimes. Alexia had to send her itinerary for her holiday to your lawyer but can come over for a fuck almost anytime. Best of both worlds, she guesses. 

“Good luck with that,” she says. Clear that it’s not going to happen. Tough luck. 

The house is now teeming with people, loud music bursting out of speakers, a jazz band that’s probably famous. The car slots home in the driveway and they have barely gotten out when Elena (friends chasing behind her) darts out of the front door and barrels into Alba. Loves Alba. Everyone loves Alba. 

“Lela, what about me?” Alexia finds herself asking with a pout. 

The girl shrugs. “Saw you earlier.” Lives in brief statements and borrowed time. And checkboxes of which parent she gets to spend time with. She’s more accustomed to it now but that doesn’t stop it from being a shit situation. 

Alba strokes the girl’s hair and grins. Younger sister club. Alexia has to urge them to go inside so they can join the party, using compliments about Elena’s sparkly dress to gain her favour before picking her up and plonking her down in the hallway. 

Inside is… People everywhere, waiters carrying trays of champagne. There’s a champagne tower as promised. A chocolate fountain too, which is definitely a hotspot for child germs. Everyone is dressed up. Alexia is glad to have had a similar dress code for Mami’s (even if that one felt redundant). 

The house feels bigger now, stretched out by bodies in slinky dresses and furniture that has been rearranged. Alba lets out a low whistle at the sight, very impressed. “Why can’t my sister do fame like this?” she mutters to herself, pointedly. To Hell with Alexia’s penthouse, then. As if Alexia doesn’t spend every spare penny on making her family happy.

“No fangirling,” Alexia reminds the younger woman as they wade through the sea of people, pushing themselves further inside. Notices that all the pictures have been taken down in the space where the party is happening. Probably for privacy, to preserve some moments and keep them just for the true owners, not caught in the background of Instagram posts to be analysed by strangers.

Alexia spots you near the kitchen island, hair actually done now, make-up finished in a way that looks effortless but absolutely wasn’t. You’re mid-conversation with someone she doesn’t recognise – a man in a suit with no shirt, looking very artsy – and you’re smiling, completely in your element. The room bends around you. The epicentre, wherever you are. 

“Wow,” Alba murmurs beside her. “That’s a nice dress.” 

Alexia hums noncommittally, eyes transfixed on you. Lets them drag down your body, the top half visible before the rest is hidden by the worktop, over the sheer fabric, moulded to your body like molten gold. She watches you laugh again, head tipping back just slightly, and has the absurd thought that she knows exactly how that laugh feels against her neck. She shoves it down immediately. 

Focus. 

Her children have already vanished into a screaming-giggling-singing gaggle of other kids, apparently not able to be contained downstairs in the cinema room despite your honeytrap of popcorn and candyfloss. The horde moves as one, gravitating towards the chocolate fountain like moths to a flame. Alexia makes a mental note to intervene later. Can’t turn those instincts off and can already picture Nico with his mini tuxedo covered in sludgy brown stickiness. 

It’s Alba’s nudge that pulls her back to reality. “Go say hi.” 

“I already did,” she replies. It might be dangerous to approach you when you look like that. 

That’s not acceptable for Alba, though. “That was earlier. Now the house is filled with half of Barcelona. What will they say if Alexia Putellas can’t even greet the mother of her children upon arrival?” 

Rolls her eyes. “No one cares about that stuff anymore.” The noise around the divorce has died down. You got a statement across that it has been amicable. You never let on as to why it ended. That album was a big hint, but so what? You’ve never made her stick her neck out on purpose.

“I care.” 

“You’re different. You’re annoying.” She pushes her sister away slightly to punctuate it. But in the end, it’s Alba who wins, because Alexia weaves through people and eventually winds up in front of you. 

You notice Alexia before she gets there, of course. Your smile falters for half a second, recalibrates into something warmer, more private. You excuse yourself smoothly, hand brushing the man’s arm as you step away. 

“Hello,” you say, like it hasn’t been mere hours. Your interactions tend to be sprinkled between weeks of not speaking. Today has been a lot. A lot more, now that Alexia is here, hair down, dress wrapped around her like a delicious present. The sight, as always, hits you low in your belly. The tracksuit was enough, but this is even better, especially after a few glasses of champagne. 

“Hi.” Alexia gestures around the room. “This is very impressive.” 

You grin, pleased despite yourself. “I try my best.” 

“I’m surprised the champagne tower is still standing.” 

As if on cue, there’s a crash. 

“Tempted fate,” you tell her, shrugging. You’ve hired staff so no need to worry about the clean-up. Those towers smash twice a night on average, so it was only a matter of time. But to lure people out of the way, an announcement rings out over the speakers, Luis’ voice blearing through the mic. 

“There will now be an opportunity for sparklers in the garden.” 

Very to the point. 

Similarly, your fingers curl around Alexia’s wrist. “I’m sure that will keep everyone occupied.” It’s predatory. She knows where this leads, knows what happens when you feel like this, on cloud 9, knows exactly what you crave. Hates the cycle yet can’t stop being a part of it because she is sure she would hate that even more. “So what I left out earlier on the tour was my bedroom. I didn’t want to rub it in.” You lean closer, lips to the shell of her ear. “But let’s go. Please. I’ve been waiting for you to come.” 

Alexia inhales sharply when you touch her. The reaction is instinctive; muscle memory. Your fingers are warm, familiar. You’ve always known exactly how to get her attention. You’ve always known how to pull. 

She should pull away. For the sake of balance. Equilibrium. Had all of you, had none of you, now exists in purgatory. Yours, though. Until the stars fall from the sky. Until death puts an end to her misery. 

Somehow, she lets herself be guided just far enough that the noise of the room dulls, your confidence intimidating enough to make people avert their curious eyes. Her pulse is loud in her ears. 

Your bedroom isn’t too far away, only up a flight of stairs, the opposite direction to the children’s rooms. You let her open your door, step into the space. Smells like you. Clothes strewn across the floor from where you had gotten ready. Toys left behind. Three guitars lined up against one wall, and big glass doors that lead to a balcony, outside promised by the quiet gush of the waves in the sea. 

It’s perfect but it’s lonely. A space made to be shared. Too big for one person. Her heart aches at that.

“That bed is massive,” she finds herself saying, eyes drawn to the expanse of mattress, covered in pillows and blankets. 

“I like to spread out.” 

Already knew that. You’d spread out even if you weren’t alone, a foot in her thigh, a hand on her face. “You’re a duvet-hogger.” 

“No, I’m not,” you reply with an indignant scoff. 

“Yes,” she says, frowning, “you are. I would know.” 

“Maybe I’ve changed.” 

Your eyes find Alexia’s. She smirks. “Of course you haven’t. What did the model think about that?” Probably didn’t take up much space, skinny thing that she was. 

“Why are you obsessed with this topic?” Patience waning thin. A loud cheer from outside. Two sets of eyes flit to the clock on your bedside table. Nearly midnight, you suppose. “I was so subtle about my hatred for your free childcare.” 

“Stop calling Olga that.” 

Alexia sighs. It always has to be this way. Can’t even begin to entertain the thought of having sex without having to fight first, just to keep up the pretence of hatred. She figures it makes you feel better about it. Something to do with frustration instead of what it really is. 

“You fucked the England captain,” she then says, because she can’t help herself. “And then you put my children in England shirts at my match.” 

“It was the Euros!” you defend, as if the fact that England won makes a difference. 

“They should have been wearing the Mami shirts los Reyes Magos got for them.” 

“Getting football shirts is not a good present from los Reyes.” That had been a shoddy gift. You’d called her self-centred behind her back, even if both Nico and Elena were elated. “You’re a footballer, Alexia! You almost blew your cover.” 

“They don’t believe in them!” she shoots back. Too clever for their own good. “Nico asked me about it, told me to be honest. And about Santa. He knows.” 

The anger bubbles to a stop. “Why didn’t you lie to him?” 

“I’ve had enough of lying.” 

Your head turns as a unanimous countdown begins. Alexia jumps at the sound. On edge for many reasons. 

It grows louder, voices overlapping, numbers tumbling over one another through the walls and the crack where the balcony doors have been opened for fresh air. 

“I didn’t know,” you admit. “About Nico asking.” 

“He’s decided he wants to grow up.” Can’t cling onto the baby forever. Won’t be fully grown up for a long time but perhaps this is where it starts, how it begins and ends. A matching ache in both your souls about that. Parents don’t want to let go. 

“You’re such a good mother,” you say. No room for argument. It harks back to your shortcomings, something you don’t forget and don’t forgive yourself for. You carry part of the blame, in that way. If things had been different, maybe Alexia would never have needed to seek comfort elsewhere, however harmful that logic is. 

Her eyes flicker. “So are you.” 

“Debatable.” 

She takes a step closer, hands carefully placed on your waist. Fabric could be non-existent. Your breath hitches. You feel a bit like crying, but you always do when Alexia is near. “You are,” she repeats firmly. Hands squeeze. “And I’m so proud of you.” 

Three. 

You swallow, letting her eyes absorb yours, pupils dilated and dark now. Wet, too. So many fucking tears have been shed over this. 

Two. 

Alexia’s tongue darts between her lips, wetting them. Pink tongue smearing away her lipstick. A talented one. 

She opens her mouth to say something else and you’ve got to shut her up. You'll start crying otherwise and that would really ruin the night.

One.