The restaurant was in Tribeca, the kind of place that did not have a sign outside and did not need one. Kate had chosen it, which meant Vivienne had chosen it, which was something Alexia understood before she had even walked through the door.
YN held it open for her.
She had noticed, over the past weeks, that YN did not do this performatively. Did not make it a gesture. The door was simply open when she needed it to be, the way the coffee was the right temperature and the book was already in her hands and the blanket appeared without announcement. She had stopped remarking on any of it because remarking on it seemed to diminish it somehow, to pull it out of the natural register where it lived and make it self-conscious.
They were shown to the table.
Kate was already there. She stood when she saw them and the hug she gave Alexia was warm and real, both arms, her chin on Alexia's shoulder for a moment, and Alexia felt the old familiar pull of her and also, underneath it, the new knowledge that the pull was the feeling and not the answer. Those were different things. She was learning to hold them separately.
"YN," Kate said, warmly. "Good to see you again."
"You too," YN said.
"Vivienne's just in the bathroom. She'll be a minute."
They sat. Kate was in something emerald and well-chosen and she looked lovely and she knew it in the easy unselfconscious way of people who have always known it. She poured water for all three of them and asked about their week with the genuine interest that was simply how Kate moved through the world, making people feel like the room had been waiting for them.
YN answered pleasantly. Alexia watched the door.
Vivienne arrived four minutes later.
She was, as the photographs had suggested and the reality confirmed, exceptionally beautiful in a way that was also a kind of armour. The kind of beauty that had been cultivated and managed and understood as a resource. She moved through the restaurant with the ease of someone who had spent a great deal of time in rooms like this and knew that rooms like this were looking at her.
She was also, Alexia registered in the first thirty seconds, very good at reading people.
Her eyes moved over Alexia with a sweep that was so brief as to be almost undetectable, and what came back in her expression was a smile that was warm and welcoming and contained, underneath its warmth, a conclusion she had already reached.
"Alexia," she said, sitting down. "Kate talks about you constantly. It's so lovely to finally put a face to the name."
"Likewise," Alexia said.
"And YN." Vivienne turned the smile. "What is it you do?"
"I write," YN said.
"How wonderful. What sort of thing?"
"Fiction."
"Published?"
"Yes."
"Anything I'd know?"
"Possibly," YN said, pleasantly and entirely without elaboration.
Vivienne held the smile for a beat longer than necessary, the way people did when they were deciding whether to push, and then she turned back to the table and picked up the menu and the moment passed.
The first twenty minutes were fine in the way that dinners were fine when everyone was being careful. Kate anchored the conversation with the skill she had always had, moving between people, drawing things out, making the table feel like a room that had chosen itself. She was good at this. She was genuinely good at it and it was genuinely her, the warmth was not manufactured, and Alexia thought about what YN had said weeks ago. She makes people feel chosen. Yes. That was exactly it.
Vivienne, for her part, was charming in a way that was also pointed.
It was subtle enough that Alexia spent the first twenty minutes wondering if she was imagining it. A comment about how quaint European football was compared to the American game, delivered to no one in particular and landing squarely in Alexia's direction. A question about Barcelona, "it's very small, isn't it, compared to New York," asked with such genuine-seeming curiosity that it took a moment to understand what it was doing. An observation about how difficult it must be to maintain a relationship given how much you travel, with the eyes moving briefly, precisely, to YN.
Each one landing. Each one wrapped in enough warmth to be deniable.
Kate said nothing.
Not nothing in the way of someone who had not noticed. Kate noticed everything. She said nothing in the way of someone who had decided it was not her place, or who had decided it was easier, or who had told herself it was all fine, which amounted to the same thing.
YN, across the table, had been pleasantly and completely unreadable since Vivienne sat down. They answered when spoken to, asked one good question about a gallery opening Vivienne mentioned, listened to the answer properly. They were so aggressively normal that Alexia, who had learned to read the register of YN's silence, knew that something was being managed with some effort.
Then Vivienne said, turning to Alexia with the smile fully deployed: "You must be so proud of everything you've achieved. I always think it's remarkable when athletes manage to sustain a career this long. It takes such dedication. Especially," the pause was almost imperceptible, "at your stage."
The table went briefly still.
Kate's eyes moved to her wine glass.
YN set down their fork.
The movement was quiet. Unhurried. But it was a full stop, and it drew Vivienne's eyes.
"At her stage," YN said. The voice was pleasant. Entirely pleasant. "You mean as one of the most decorated players in the history of the sport."
Vivienne blinked. "Of course. That's exactly what I mean."
"Because Alexia has won more in her career than most people accumulate in a lifetime," YN continued, in the same pleasant conversational tone. "The Ballon d'Or. Multiple Champions Leagues. The Euros. If that's what a sustained career looks like, I think most people would take it."
The smile on Vivienne's face was still there but it had changed quality slightly, the way a room changes quality when a window opens and the temperature drops by two degrees.
"Absolutely," she said. "I meant it as a compliment."
"I know," YN said. And picked up their fork again.
Kate had been looking at the table. She looked up now, and her eyes went to Alexia, and what Alexia saw in them was something complicated and private and not entirely comfortable.
The conversation moved on. Vivienne steered it smoothly, she was skilled at this, and within five minutes the table had found its way back to something that functioned as ease. But something had shifted in the room's architecture and everyone at the table knew it even if no one named it.
Under the table, YN's hand found Alexia's.
Not the light touch of the restaurant weeks ago. This was different. Steadier. The hand of someone who was telling her something they did not have words for right now and would find them later.
She turned her hand over and held it back.
They walked home.
The night was mild and the city was doing its usual thing around them, full and indifferent, and they walked for two blocks before either of them spoke.
"She does that a lot," Alexia said. "Doesn't she."
"Every sentence," YN said. "Every single sentence was placed."
"I noticed some of them."
"I noticed all of them." A beat. "I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for."
"I'm sorry you sat through it," YN said. "And I'm sorry Kate let you."
Alexia was quiet for a moment. The thing she had been not-saying for several blocks was the thing YN had just said, more simply and more exactly than she had managed to shape it herself.
"She didn't say anything," Alexia said.
"No."
"Not once."
"No."
"I kept waiting," Alexia said. "Every time Vivienne said something I kept thinking, this is the one Kate will push back on. This is the one."
"And?"
"She looked at her wine glass," Alexia said. "Every time."
They walked. The streets were quieter now, the residential blocks, the trees overhead making the city feel briefly smaller and more manageable.
"She loves her," YN said. Not kindly or unkindly. Just as a fact. "That's not nothing."
"I know."
"And loving someone doesn't make you brave."
"I know that too," Alexia said quietly.
YN was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, "Kate will come around. I think she will. Don't lose hope."
Alexia looked at the side of their face. At the steadiness of it, the conviction being offered freely, the person who was still holding the plan together even now, still putting her first.
She did not say what she was thinking.
YN stopped walking.
Alexia stopped beside them. They were on a corner, a streetlight overhead, the city continuing its business in every direction.
YN looked at her. The direct, unperformed look that Alexia had stopped trying to be opaque for.
"You deserve someone who says something," YN said. "Every time. Without thinking about it."
Alexia looked at them. At the jaw and the dark circles worn without apology and the hands that had covered hers at thirty-five thousand feet without being asked and the person who had, without ceremony or announcement, become the person she looked for in every room.
"I know," she said. And this time it meant something different than the other two times.
YN held her gaze for a moment longer.
Then they started walking again, and Alexia fell into step beside them, and neither of them said anything else for the rest of the way home, and the silence had the quality of something that had been decided, even if neither of them had said so yet.
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Some love stories end at the airport. This one begins there.
Masterlist
Season 2 - Chapter 2 : The Beginning
The hug did not end.
That was the thing. It had started in the doorway and it had not ended and neither of them had any intention of ending it, and at some point in the middle of it YN said something into her hair, quiet and unsteady, not a sentence at first, just the beginning of one.
"I thought I lost you."
Alexia held on tighter.
"I was so scared of losing you," YN said, "that I convinced myself I'd already lost you."
The words arrived the way YN's truest things always arrived, without performance, just placed directly into the air because there was nowhere else to put them. Not self-critical. Just honest. The specific honesty of someone who had spent months being careful and was not being careful anymore.
Alexia pulled back enough to look at them.
YN's face, wet, open, entirely itself, looking back at her with the expression that had nothing left between it and the world.
"You," Alexia said, "are an idiot."
YN blinked.
"But my idiot," she said.
Something broke across YN's face that was almost a laugh and almost a sob and landed somewhere between both, and Alexia felt it move through her own chest, and then she was serious again, because there was something she had been carrying since the cab and she needed to put it down in front of them.
"How could I go home without you," she said. "Somewhere between the plane and this apartment, you became home. I kept thinking about Barcelona. My club, my mother, everything. But every time I imagined getting off that plane, all I could think was." She stopped. "You weren't there."
YN looked at her.
"I lost Kate because I waited," Alexia said. "I wasn't going to lose you because I was afraid."
The corridor was very quiet.
The words sat between them, real and irreversible, and Alexia watched YN receive them, watched the whole thing move through their face, the understanding of it, the weight of it.
YN raised both hands.
Held her face.
Not moving. Not speaking. Just looking at her the way you looked at something you had believed was gone and were now not entirely sure was real.
"You're really here," YN said. A whisper.
Alexia smiled. The real one, the one that arrived before she decided to let it. "I missed my flight."
YN laughed. Through the tears, through all of it, a genuine and helpless laugh. "I noticed."
And for a moment it was just that. Two people laughing in a doorway, wrecked and relieved and entirely themselves, the laughter doing what laughter did when it arrived in the middle of something enormous, making it briefly survivable, making it briefly light.
Alexia looked at them. At the laughing face, the wet eyes, the person who had written three books about love and had put one in her bag and called it a goodbye and had not quite managed to make it one.
She loved them so much she did not have words for it yet.
She would find them. She had time now.
YN took her hand.
Did not let go.
Turned. Walked her inside.
The apartment door closed behind them.
Not dramatically. There was no moment made of it, no pause or emphasis. It just closed, the soft certain click of a latch finding its place, and the world stayed on the other side of it.
The airport. The gate. The boarding announcement. Kate. The waiting, all of it, the entire long patient careful waiting of two people who had been not-saying something for months. All of it on the other side of that door now.
In here, just this.
YN led her to the couch almost without deciding to. The couch that had been the centre of gravity of this apartment since the beginning, the one with the blanket that had appeared over her the first night she fell asleep here, and YN sat, and Alexia sat beside them, and then she was not really beside them, she was into them, practically falling, and YN's arms came around her and that was where she stayed.
Neither of them spoke.
It was not like anything she had seen in a film. It was not elegant or composed. It was two people who had spent months being brave and careful and measured, who had managed their faces and chosen their words and held things back because the holding back had seemed necessary and was not necessary anymore, and the not-having-to was enormous, and they held on.
Alexia buried her face in YN's neck.
YN's hand moved into her hair. Slow. Certain. The hand that had covered hers at thirty-five thousand feet and had not, in any meaningful sense, let go since.
Alexia's fingers found the back of YN's jumper. Gripped it. The specific grip of someone who had nearly walked out of this person's life forty minutes ago and was not yet fully convinced that the floor was solid.
"I've got you," YN said. Into her hair. Quietly, the way you said something that was simply and completely true.
Alexia did not answer.
She just held tighter.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Really a long time. The city outside did its afternoon work, indifferent and ongoing, and the apartment was warm and the record player was silent and neither of them moved, and the long time continued, and neither of them shortened it.
At some point YN laughed. The helpless kind, the kind that arrived because the alternative was something larger and less manageable. "I can't believe you're here."
Alexia did not lift her head. "I know."
A beat.
"Neither can I," she said.
Neither of them was trying to stop crying anymore. That was the thing that was different, the thing that all those weeks of careful management had never allowed. Everything before this had been composed. The carefully held face and the controlled breath and the things said sideways because saying them directly required more than either of them had been ready to spend.
Not now.
YN cried because they had stood in this apartment and looked at the made bed in the guest room and believed she was gone. Because they had picked up the phone and called their mother and said the thing out loud for the first time and had been crying before they finished saying it.
Alexia cried because she had stood at Gate 7 and held a boarding pass and known she was about to make the same mistake she had made for seventeen years, and had chosen not to, and the choosing had been the most frightening thing she had ever done and she had done it anyway and she was here, she was here, she was here.
These were not sad tears.
They were the tears of people putting something down that they had been carrying for a very long time.
Relief. That was the word for it. The specific overwhelming physical relief of arriving somewhere you had been afraid you would never reach.
After a long time, Alexia looked up.
Not quickly. Slowly. She lifted her face from YN's neck and looked at them, really looked, the way she had looked on a plane and on a bench and in a kitchen and on a rooftop, but differently now, with none of the careful distance of before, just her eyes on their face and nowhere else to be.
YN looked back.
Neither of them said anything.
YN raised a hand. Found a tear on her cheek. Brushed it away with a gentleness that was entirely characteristic and entirely devastating, the touch of someone who had been this precise with their care from the very beginning and had never made a performance of it.
Their foreheads came together.
Just that. The same gesture as the jewellery store, after the glass and the blood, the thing Alexia had done in the middle of all that noise and chaos because she had needed to know YN was intact. The same thing now, in the quiet, in the warmth, for a different reason.
They stayed like that.
Eyes closed. Breathing. The apartment around them and the city beyond it and everything that had happened between a gate in Barcelona and a doorway on the Upper West Side present and accounted for and finally, finally still.
YN said it quietly.
"Stay with me."
Not the way it was written in the book. Not the longing of something that had not yet happened. The asking of it, directly, out loud, to her face.
Alexia smiled.
She felt it start in her chest and arrive on her face and she could not have stopped it if she had tried.
"I already did," she said.
YN laughed. Soft and helpless and entirely real.
And then, because it finally could, because there was no waiting left and no not-yet left and no more managed distances between them, the kiss happened the way all the true things happened in this story.
Without ceremony.
Without announcement.
Just the thing itself, quiet and unhurried and entirely certain, and Alexia felt it move through her the way the truth moved through you when you stopped arguing with it.
She held on.
YN held on.
The lamp burned low. The city continued outside. The apartment was very still and very warm and the door was closed and the world was on the other side of it, and in here there was only this, the two of them, finally, without the waiting and without the fear, with nothing left to prove and nowhere else to be.
Summary: For three years, Arsenal vice-captain YN has been Alexia Putellas's everything—best friend, safe space, and home—until a night in Paris forces them to finally admit they're in love. Their happiness feels invincible as they build a life together, but when a devastating injury leaves YN broken and pushing Alexia away, everything they've built is tested. Now Alexia must prove that love means staying through the storms, just like YN always did for her.
Chapter 2: The Storm (Masterlist)
Two Months Earlier
YN's POV
The party was in full swing when YN checked their phone for the third time in ten minutes.
Weather alert: Severe thunderstorm warning. Heavy rain, low visibility expected through midnight.
They frowned, glancing across the restaurant's private room toward where Alexia stood with Leah and Beth, laughing at something, wine glass in hand. The team had rented out a place in Surrey to celebrate Steph's birthday—beautiful venue, great food, terrible timing.
It was nearly forty-five minutes from London. And the sky outside had been darkening steadily for the past hour.
"You good?" Katie asked, appearing beside them with a fresh drink.
"Yeah. Just checking the weather."
Katie followed their gaze to Alexia. "You drove together, yeah?"
"I drove. She came with me."
"Course she did." Katie's grin was knowing. "You two are attached at the hip."
YN didn't respond, still watching the windows. The first drops of rain had started, spattering against the glass.
"It's going to get bad," YN said quietly.
"The storm? It's just rain."
"It's more than that." YN pulled up the radar on their phone, showing Katie the angry red mass moving across the map. "This is the worst of it. And it's going to hit right when we need to drive home."
Katie's smile faded slightly. "Shit."
"Yeah."
"You could stay. Get a hotel nearby."
YN considered it. The smart choice, probably. But they looked at Alexia again, saw the relaxed happiness in her posture, the way she was fully present and enjoying herself, and knew she wouldn't want to stay. Alexia liked her own space, her own bed. And tomorrow was a training day.
"I'll be fine," YN said. "I've driven in worse."
They hadn't. But Katie didn't need to know that.
By ten o'clock, the storm had arrived in earnest.
Rain hammered against the windows, and thunder rumbled in the distance, growing closer. The party had started to wind down, people checking their phones and making worried noises about the drive home.
YN had stopped drinking after their first beer two hours ago. They nursed a water instead, standing near the windows and watching the storm intensify.
"Thinking about making a run for it?"
YN turned to find Alexia beside them, having appeared silently. She'd changed from her heels into the flat shoes she kept in her bag—always prepared—and had YN's jacket draped over her arm.
"You brought my jacket," YN observed.
"It's cold. And wet." Alexia held it out. "You'll need it."
"What about you?"
Alexia gestured to her own leather jacket. "I came prepared."
Of course she had. Alexia was always thinking ahead.
"We should probably wait it out," YN said, even as they took their jacket from her. "It's going to be bad out there."
"Or we could leave now, before it gets worse." Alexia checked her phone. "The radar shows the worst of it hitting in about twenty minutes. If we leave now, we might beat most of it."
"Ale—"
"I know you're nervous." Her voice was gentle. "But I trust you. And I really don't want to get a hotel out here. I just want to go home."
Home. The way she said it made something in YN's chest tighten. They both knew she meant her flat, but the word felt bigger than that somehow.
YN looked out at the rain again, at the dark sky and the water already pooling in the car park. Every instinct said to wait. But Alexia was looking at them with those eyes, that trust, and YN had never been good at saying no to her.
"Okay," YN said quietly. "But the second it gets too bad, we're pulling over. I don't care if we have to wait it out at a service station."
Alexia smiled, relieved. "Deal."
They said their goodbyes quickly—Steph trying to convince them to stay, Beth looking worried, Leah making them promise to text when they got home safe. The team knew YN was a good driver, steady and careful, but this storm had everyone on edge.
"You've got this," Leah said, squeezing YN's shoulder. "Just take it slow."
"Always do."
In the car park, the rain was already coming down hard. YN unlocked the car and moved to open Alexia's door first, shielding her with their body as she slid inside. They were soaked in seconds.
"YN, get in!" Alexia called.
YN jogged around to the driver's side, shaking water from their hair as they settled behind the wheel. Their hands were already shaking slightly. They gripped the steering wheel to hide it.
"Okay," YN said, more to themselves than to Alexia. "Okay. We've got this."
Alexia's hand found theirs on the gearshift, warm and steady. "We've got this," she echoed.
YN took a breath, squeezed her hand once, and pulled out of the car park.
The first fifteen minutes weren't terrible.
Rain, yes. Heavy rain, even. But the motorway was well-lit, and traffic was light. YN kept their speed careful, both hands on the wheel, hyper-aware of every other car around them.
Alexia had her phone out, watching the radar. "We're making good time. If we can just get past—"
Thunder cracked overhead, so loud it felt like it shook the car.
Alexia went quiet.
YN's hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles white. The rain had gone from heavy to torrential in seconds, the wipers struggling to keep up even on their highest setting. Visibility dropped to almost nothing—just red taillights ahead and the dim glow of streetlights through the downpour.
"YN?" Alexia's voice was smaller now.
"I'm okay." They weren't. Their heart was racing, palms sweating despite the death grip on the wheel. "Just focus on the radar. Tell me when it eases up."
"It's not going to. Not for another thirty minutes at least."
Thirty minutes. They were twenty-five minutes from home. They could do this.
Lightning flashed, bright and sudden, and Alexia made a small noise in the back of her throat.
"Hey." YN risked a glance at her. Alexia was pale, staring out the windshield with wide eyes. "Ale. Look at me."
She did, and YN saw the fear there. Alexia hated storms. Hated thunder, hated lightning, hated the feeling of being out of control. And here they were, trapped on a motorway in the worst of it.
"Give me your hand," YN said.
Alexia reached over immediately, and YN let go of the gearshift to take it, lacing their fingers together. They brought their joined hands to rest on their thigh, thumb brushing over her knuckles in slow, steady strokes.
"I've got you," YN said quietly. "I promise. I'm going to get us home safe."
"I know you will." But her hand was trembling.
YN held on tighter, splitting their focus between the barely visible road and the feeling of Alexia's hand in theirs. Every crack of thunder made Alexia flinch. Every flash of lightning had her squeezing their fingers. And every time, YN squeezed back, steady and sure, even as their own fear threatened to choke them.
They'd never driven in conditions like this. The rain was so heavy it felt like driving through a waterfall. The road was flooding in places, water spraying up from their tires. Other cars had started pulling over, hazards flashing, but YN kept going because stopping felt more dangerous somehow. Momentum. They needed momentum.
"Talk to me," Alexia said suddenly. "Please. Just—say something."
YN's mind went blank for a second. Then: "Did I ever tell you about the first time I drove in London?"
"No."
"I got lost for two hours. Ended up in Westminster when I was trying to get to Colney."
Alexia let out a shaky laugh. "How did you manage that?"
"Refused to use GPS. Thought I could figure it out myself." YN changed lanes carefully, giving a lorry a wide berth. "Took me three weeks before I admitted I needed it."
"Stubborn."
"You're one to talk."
Another flash of lightning. Another squeeze of hands.
"What else?" Alexia asked. "Tell me something else."
So YN did. They talked about nothing—about the coffee shop near their flat that never got their order right, about the book they were reading that Alexia had bought them, about the new trainers they'd been eyeing but hadn't bought yet. Anything to keep Alexia's mind off the storm, to fill the silence with something other than thunder.
And slowly, gradually, Alexia's hand stopped shaking quite so much.
They were ten minutes from home when YN's fear peaked.
The rain had somehow gotten worse. A car hydroplaned in the lane beside them, fishtailing wildly before the driver got it under control. YN's breath caught, and for a horrible second, they saw it all play out—losing control, the car spinning, Alexia screaming—
"YN." Alexia's voice cut through the panic. "Eyes on the road. You're doing amazing."
"I'm terrified," YN admitted, the words coming out before they could stop them.
"I know." Alexia's thumb traced circles on the back of their hand. "But you're still doing it. You're still getting us home. That's what matters."
"If anything happened to you—"
"It won't. Because you won't let it."
The certainty in her voice steadied something in YN. They took a breath, loosened their death grip on the wheel slightly, and focused.
One mile at a time. One breath at a time.
They could do this. For Alexia, they could do anything.
-
Alexia's POV
Alexia had never been more grateful to see YN's street in her entire life.
The rain was still coming down in sheets as YN pulled into their usual spot, the car finally, finally still. For a long moment, neither of them moved. YN's hand was still tangled with hers, and they were both breathing hard, adrenaline slowly draining away.
"We made it," Alexia said quietly.
"We made it." YN's voice was rough, exhausted.
Alexia looked at them—really looked. YN's face was pale, jaw tight with lingering tension. Their hands were still shaking slightly on the wheel. They'd been terrified the entire drive, Alexia realized. Absolutely terrified. But they'd done it anyway.
For her.
"Thank you," Alexia said, and her voice cracked slightly on the words. "Thank you for—"
"Don't." YN shook their head. "You don't have to thank me."
"Yes, I do. You were scared. I could see it. But you still—"
"Of course I did." YN finally looked at her, and the intensity in their eyes made Alexia's breath catch. "It's you, Ale. I'd drive through anything for you."
The words settled between them, heavy with meaning neither of them was ready to examine.
Outside, thunder rumbled, and Alexia flinched instinctively.
"Come on," YN said, already unbuckling their seatbelt. "Let's get inside."
"It's still pouring—"
But YN was already out of the car, jogging around to her side. They opened her door and immediately shrugged out of their jacket.
"YN, don't—"
Too late. YN held the jacket over Alexia's head like a makeshift umbrella, their other hand reaching down to help her out. "Ready? We run on three. One, two—"
They ran.
YN kept the jacket over Alexia the entire way, shielding her from the worst of the rain even as they got absolutely drenched. By the time they reached the building's entrance, YN was soaked through—hair plastered to their head, shirt clinging to their shoulders, water dripping from their chin.
Alexia had barely gotten wet.
"You're an idiot," Alexia said, but her voice was fond. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did." YN was already unlocking the door, ushering her inside.
In the elevator, Alexia couldn't stop looking at them. YN was shivering now, the adrenaline fully worn off, looking exhausted and waterlogged and somehow still more concerned about Alexia than themselves.
"You're staying over," YN said. It wasn't a question.
In YN's flat, Alexia immediately went into caretaker mode. "Shower. Now. I'll make tea."
"You don't have to—"
"Shower, YN."
YN went, too tired to protest.
Alexia busied herself in the kitchen, putting the kettle on and finding the chamomile tea she knew YN kept for her. Her hands were shaking slightly as she pulled down mugs, the events of the night catching up with her.
They could have crashed. Could have hydroplaned like that other car. Could have been hit by someone who couldn't see them in the rain.
But they hadn't. Because YN had been careful, and focused, and so incredibly brave even when they were terrified.
Alexia thought about YN's hand in hers, the steady pressure, the constant reassurance. The way they'd talked her through her fear even while managing their own. The jacket held over her head in the rain.
I'd drive through anything for you.
Alexia's chest felt tight with something she couldn't name. Or maybe she could name it, but wasn't ready to. Not yet.
The shower turned off. A few minutes later, YN emerged in dry clothes—soft joggers and a hoodie—hair still damp, looking slightly more alive.
"Better?" Alexia asked, handing them tea.
"Much. Thank you." YN took the mug, wrapping both hands around it. "I'm sorry about tonight. I shouldn't have driven in that. We should have stayed."
"I asked you to take me home. You did exactly what I wanted."
"Still—"
"YN." Alexia set down her own mug and reached for their free hand. "You got us home safe. You took care of me. You always take care of me."
"That's not—" YN looked away. "That's just what you do. For people you care about."
"Is it?"
YN met her eyes, something uncertain flickering there. "Yeah. It is."
Alexia wanted to push, to ask what she meant by that, but YN looked exhausted. So instead, she squeezed their hand and picked up her tea.
"Movie?" she suggested.
"At midnight?"
"We're both wired. And I don't want to be alone."
That decided it. YN never could say no when Alexia said things like that.
They ended up on the couch, Alexia tucked against YN's side, some documentary playing that neither of them was really watching. Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, Alexia felt warm and safe.
"You're my favorite person," Alexia murmured, half-asleep.
Above her, she felt YN's chest rise and fall with a long breath. "You're mine too, Ale."
"Don't know what I'd do without you."
YN's arm tightened around her. "You'll never have to find out."
Alexia drifted off to the sound of rain against the windows and YN's heartbeat steady beneath her ear. When she woke briefly in the night, disoriented, YN was still there, still holding her, and Alexia felt something shift in her chest.
She'd known YN was important to her. Her best friend, her family, her home away from home.
But tonight, she'd seen something else. The way YN's hands had shaken on the wheel. The fear in their eyes. The fact that they'd driven through that storm anyway, just because Alexia had asked.
I'd drive through anything for you.
Alexia closed her eyes and settled back against YN's chest, pushing the thoughts away. They were best friends. That's what best friends did.
Even if it felt like more.
Even if some part of her was starting to wish it was.
-
YN's POV
YN woke up to sunlight and a weight on their chest.
Not a metaphorical weight—an actual one. Alexia, fast asleep, curled into their side like she belonged there. One of her hands was fisted in YN's hoodie, the other tucked under her cheek. Her hair fell across YN's shoulder, and she looked peaceful in a way that made YN's heart do something complicated.
They should move. Should wake her up, suggest she go to her actual bed instead of sleeping on the couch all night.
But YN didn't move.
They just lay there, feeling the rise and fall of Alexia's breathing, the warmth of her against them, and tried not to think too hard about how right it felt.
Last night had been terrifying. Not just the storm—though that had been bad enough—but the realization that had hit YN somewhere around the twenty-minute mark.
If something happened to Alexia, if they'd crashed or hydroplaned or been hit by another car, YN didn't think they'd survive it. Not because they'd be physically hurt, though that was possible too. But because losing Alexia would break something fundamental in them.
She wasn't just their best friend. She was—
YN's phone buzzed on the coffee table, making them jump slightly. Alexia stirred but didn't wake. Carefully, moving as little as possible, YN reached for it.
Leah: You two make it home okay?
YN: Yeah. Rough drive but we're good.
Leah: Ale okay? She hates storms.
YN: She's fine. Sleeping now.
Leah: At her place or yours?
YN looked down at Alexia, still curled against them.
YN: Mine.
Leah: Of course she is.
Leah: You know what, never mind. I'm not even going to say it.
YN: Say what?
Leah: Nothing. See you at training.
YN frowned at the phone, but before they could respond, Alexia made a soft noise and shifted closer, burrowing into YN's side.
"Too early," she mumbled, not opening her eyes. "Go back to sleep."
"Ale, it's almost nine."
"Exactly. Too early." But she was smiling slightly, that little curve of her lips that meant she was more awake than she was pretending to be.
"We have training at eleven."
"Mm. Plenty of time." She finally opened her eyes, blinking up at YN. "Hi."
"Hi."
They looked at each other for a long moment. Alexia's hair was a mess, her makeup from last night smudged slightly, and she was still wearing her dress from the party. She looked beautiful.
She always looked beautiful.
"Thank you," Alexia said softly. "For last night."
"You already thanked me."
"I'm thanking you again." Her hand moved from YN's hoodie to rest on their chest, right over their heart. "You were amazing."
YN's heart kicked against Alexia's palm, and they wondered if she could feel it. "I was terrified."
"I know. That's what makes it amazing." Alexia pushed herself up slightly, propping her chin on YN's chest so she could look at them properly. "You did it anyway."
"For you," YN said quietly. "I'd do anything for you."
Something flickered in Alexia's eyes, there and gone too quick to read. "Anything?"
"Anything."
"Even let me steal your hoodies?"
The tension broke. YN huffed a laugh. "You already do that without asking."
"True." Alexia grinned. "What about making me breakfast?"
"Is that why you stayed over? For the breakfast?"
"Obviously. Your omelettes are excellent, even with the too-big peppers."
YN rolled their eyes but was already sitting up, careful not to dislodge Alexia too quickly. "Fine. But you're changing first. You slept in your dress."
"It's a very comfortable dress."
"Ale."
"Fine, fine." She stretched, catlike, and YN tried very hard not to notice the way the dress shifted with the movement. "I'll borrow some clothes."
"You mean steal some clothes."
"Semantics." She was already padding toward YN's bedroom, calling over her shoulder: "I'm taking the grey hoodie!"
"That's my favorite!"
"Exactly!"
YN listened to her rummaging in their closet, heard her delighted noise when she found what she was looking for, and felt that warmth in their chest again. The one that appeared whenever Alexia was around, whenever she smiled, whenever she looked at YN like they were the only person in the room.
They'd felt it for a while now, that warmth. Had gotten used to it, accepted it as just part of being around Alexia.
But last night, holding her hand through the storm, feeling her trust even when YN was terrified—
Last night, the warmth had felt different. Bigger. More urgent.
YN pushed the thought away and headed to the kitchen. They had training soon. No time for whatever existential crisis was trying to take root.
Alexia emerged a few minutes later in YN's grey hoodie and a pair of their joggers, rolled up at the ankles because YN was taller. She looked ridiculous and perfect, and YN's hands faltered slightly as they whisked eggs.
"Perfect fit," Alexia announced, spinning once.
"That's my entire weekend outfit you're wearing."
"I'll give it back."
"No, you won't."
"You're right, I won't." She hopped up onto the counter—her spot—and watched YN cook with that same fond expression she always wore. "We should talk about last night."
YN's stomach dropped. "What about it?"
"Just—" Alexia paused. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do things like that for me. Drive through storms, or—"
"Ale." YN set down the whisk and turned to face her properly. "I didn't have to. I wanted to. There's a difference."
"But you were scared."
"So were you. And I wasn't going to let you be scared alone."
Alexia looked at them for a long moment, something soft and searching in her gaze. "We're weird, aren't we?"
"What do you mean?"
"The team. The way they talk about us. The matching outfits and the constant carpooling and—" She gestured between them. "All of this."
"Does it bother you?"
"No. Does it bother you?"
"No."
"Then I guess we're just weird together." Alexia smiled. "I'm okay with that."
"Me too."
But later, after breakfast, when Alexia went to shower and YN was getting ready for training, they caught sight of their reflection in the bedroom mirror.
They looked the same as always—dark jeans, grey t-shirt, Arsenal jacket. But something felt different. Like last night had shifted something fundamental, and YN was only just now noticing.
I'd do anything for you.
They'd meant it. Would mean it again, without hesitation.
But standing there, holding Alexia's borrowed pajamas that she'd left on the bed, still warm and smelling like her perfume, YN had a sudden, terrifying thought:
Am I in love with her?
The thought was there and gone in a second, too big and too frightening to examine. YN shoved it down, deep down where they didn't have to look at it.
They were best friends. That was all.
Even if it felt like more.
Even if last night had felt like everything.
At training, Leah took one look at them and raised an eyebrow.
"Rough night?"
"Something like that," YN said.
Across the pitch, Alexia was laughing with Beth and Steph, animated and bright, looking none the worse for wear. She caught YN's eye and waved, smile widening.
YN waved back, that warmth blooming in their chest again.
"You're staring," Leah observed.
"I'm not."
"You are. You always do."
YN finally looked at Leah. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Leah's expression was knowing, almost pitying. "Nothing. Forget I said anything."
But as they headed onto the pitch for warm-ups, and Alexia immediately gravitated to YN's side like she always did, Leah's words echoed in YN's head.
You always do.
Did they? Stare at Alexia, follow her with their eyes, track her movements like she was the only person that mattered?
YN tried to pay attention to training, to focus on the drills and the plays. But every time they looked up, there was Alexia. Smiling at them. Passing to them. Existing in YN's orbit like she'd always been there.
Like she belonged.
And that terrifying thought from this morning crept back in, insistent and undeniable:
Am I in love with her?
YN didn't have an answer.
But they were starting to suspect they might need to find one.
They agreed: just sex, no feelings, no complications. But somewhere between the late-night texts and lazy Sunday mornings, the arrangement became something else entirely. A FWB story about falling in love when you promised not to.
Chapter 3: The Storm [Masterlist]
Three weeks after Paris
Alexia couldn’t stop thinking about it.
It had been three weeks since the Champions League final. Three weeks since that night in the VIP section. Three weeks since she’d felt your hands on her body, your mouth on her skin, the way you’d made her come apart.
Three weeks, and the memory hadn’t faded even slightly.
She’d tried everything. Threw herself into training with extra intensity. Took on additional sponsor obligations. Spent hours reviewing game footage until her eyes blurred. Anything to stop her mind from wandering back to Paris, to you, to the way you’d looked at her in that moment.
It didn’t work.
The worst part was that nothing between them had changed—at least not outwardly. You were still the same charismatic, goofy presence you’d always been. Still made terrible jokes during training. Still did ridiculous celebrations when you scored in practice. Still had the entire team wrapped around your finger with your easy charm.
And Alexia still laughed at your antics, still rolled her eyes at your terrible puns, still high-fived you after good plays. Professional. Normal. Teammates who’d played together for three years.
Except now, every casual touch felt electric. Every time you smiled at her, Alexia’s stomach flipped. Every time she watched you move on the pitch—all power and grace and confidence—she remembered how that body had felt pressed against hers.
It was torture.
“Ale, you good?” Mapi asked one afternoon after training. “You’ve been spacing out a lot lately.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You sure? Because you’ve been staring at the tactics board for like five minutes and I’m pretty sure you’re not actually seeing it.”
Alexia forced herself to focus. “Just thinking about the next match.”
“Uh huh.” Mapi didn’t look convinced, but she dropped it.
In the locker room, you were engaged in some animated argument with Patri about the best pizza toppings in Barcelona, complete with dramatic hand gestures.
“I’m telling you, pineapple belongs on pizza!” you insisted.
“You’re English, your opinion doesn’t count,” Patri shot back.
“I’m English and I’m right. Pineapple adds a necessary sweetness—”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Alexia found herself smiling despite everything. You caught her eye across the room and grinned, making an exaggerated sad face that made Patri look like the villain in your pizza debate.
“Capi, back me up here,” you called out. “Pineapple on pizza—yay or nay?”
“I’m staying out of this one.”
“Coward!” But you were laughing, and Alexia felt that familiar warmth in her chest.
This was the problem. You made everything seem easy. Normal. Like nothing had changed between you.
Maybe for you, nothing had. Maybe Paris really had just been a drunken mistake you’d moved past.
Maybe Alexia was the only one still caught up in it.
-----
The team group chat was constantly active, mostly dominated by you and Mapi sending memes and terrible jokes.
YN: [Photo: A cat looking annoyed]
YN: This is Patri every time I mention pineapple pizza
Patri: I’m blocking you
YN: You love me
Patri: Debatable
Mapi: Can confirm, she does love you
Mapi: We all do, even when you’re wrong about pizza
YN: I’m never wrong
Alexia: You were offside twice in the last match
YN: …okay I’m occasionally wrong
YN: But never about pizza
Aitana: This conversation is giving me a headache
YN: That’s just because you’re hungry
YN: You should eat some pizza
YN: With pineapple
Patri: I’m going to murder you
Alexia found herself smiling at her phone more than she wanted to admit. You were ridiculous. Impossible. Completely yourself.
And she couldn’t stop wanting you.
-----
It started during their evening training session—light at first, just a drizzle that made the pitch slick. But within twenty minutes, the sky had opened up completely, rain coming down in sheets.
“Alright, that’s it!” the coach called. “Everyone inside! We’ll finish in the gym.”
The team sprinted for cover, laughing and shoving each other, completely soaked. The gym session was shorter than usual—mostly stretching and recovery work—and by the time they finished, the storm had intensified dramatically.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and through the training center windows, Alexia could see the rain coming down so hard it was almost horizontal.
“This is mental,” Claudia said, peering outside. “I can barely see the car park.”
“Weather alert says it’s going to get worse before it gets better,” Mapi reported, checking her phone. “Flooding warnings for half the city.”
“Great,” Patri groaned. “Just great.”
People started trickling out slowly, those who lived close braving the weather, others waiting to see if it would let up. Alexia changed out of her training gear, packed her bag, and checked her phone.
The weather alert was serious—severe thunderstorms, dangerous driving conditions, people advised to stay home if possible.
She debated waiting it out, but she was exhausted and her apartment was only twenty minutes away. She could make it.
By the time she made it to the car park, most of the team had already left. Her car was parked in the far corner, and she made a run for it, immediately getting drenched. The rain was ice-cold and relentless, and by the time she reached her car, she was shivering.
She tossed her bag in the back, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the key.
Nothing.
She tried again. The engine turned over but wouldn’t catch.
“No. No, no, no.” Alexia tried a third time, then a fourth. Nothing.
“Fuck.”
She grabbed her phone to call for roadside assistance and saw the battery icon flash red before the screen went black.
Of course. Of course her phone was dead.
Alexia dropped her forehead to the steering wheel. This was perfect. Just perfect.
A knock on her window made her jump. She looked up to find you standing in the rain, holding an umbrella, looking concerned.
You made a motion for her to roll down the window.
“Car won’t start?” you called over the sound of the rain.
“Dead battery, I think.”
“Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Ale, you’re soaked and stranded and there’s a massive storm. I’m not leaving you here.” You opened her door, holding the umbrella over both of you. “Grab your stuff. My car’s right there.”
Alexia gathered her bag and let you walk her to your car—a sleek black SUV parked a few spaces away. You opened the passenger door for her, making sure the umbrella kept her covered, then jogged around to the driver’s side.
Inside, the car was warm and dry and smelled like your cologne. Alexia buckled in while you shook water from your hair.
“Where do you live?” you asked, starting the engine.
Alexia rattled off her address, and you nodded, pulling out of the car park.
The visibility was terrible. The windscreen wipers were on full blast, but it barely made a difference. The rain was so heavy that Alexia could barely see five meters ahead.
“Jesus,” you muttered, leaning forward, squinting at the road. “This is worse than I thought.”
Thunder cracked overhead, making Alexia flinch. You glanced at her.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just… this is bad.”
“Yeah.” Your jaw was tight with concentration. “We’ll be fine. Just need to take it slow.”
But it kept getting worse. The streets were already flooding, water rushing across the road in places. Other cars had pulled over, hazard lights blinking through the downpour.
Lightning flashed, illuminating everything in stark white, and Alexia’s hand shot out instinctively, grabbing your arm.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, but she didn’t let go.
“It’s okay.” Your voice was calmer than you probably felt. “I’ve got this. We’re okay.”
But Alexia could feel the tension in your arm, could see how tightly you were gripping the steering wheel. The visibility was getting worse, not better, and they were crawling along at barely 20 kilometers per hour.
“YN—”
“I know. I’m looking for somewhere to pull over.”
Another crack of thunder, and Alexia’s fingers tightened on your arm. She hated storms. Hated feeling out of control. And right now, in this car with visibility near zero and water rushing across the road, she felt completely helpless.
“There,” you said suddenly, spotting something. “That car park. We’re pulling over.”
You turned into what looked like an old service station—closed and dark, but with a covered car park area that was empty. You pulled into the furthest corner, under the shelter, and killed the engine.
The rain pounded on the roof, but at least you weren’t moving anymore. Weren’t at risk of hydroplaning or hitting something in the limited visibility.
“We’ll wait it out,” you said, turning to face her. “It has to ease up eventually.”
Alexia realized she was still holding your arm. She started to let go, but your hand came up to cover hers.
“Hey,” you said softly. “You okay? You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine. I just… I hate storms.”
“I know. I remember.”
You did remember. From a match two years ago when thunder had delayed the game, and Alexia had been tense and quiet in the locker room until you’d sat down next to her and made terrible jokes until she’d smiled.
“Thank you,” Alexia said quietly. “For not leaving me there.”
“I’d never leave you anywhere.” Your thumb stroked over her knuckles. “You know that, right?”
The car felt suddenly very small. Very intimate. You were close enough that Alexia could see the water droplets on your eyelashes, the concern in your eyes.
“YN—”
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,” you said suddenly. “Paris. That night. I know we said it was a mistake, and maybe it was, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Alexia’s breath caught. “You can’t?”
“No. And it’s driving me crazy.” You laughed, but it sounded strained. “Being around you every day, pretending everything’s normal, when all I can think about is how you felt. How you tasted. The sounds you made.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it either,” Alexia admitted. “I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But I can’t.”
“So what do we do?”
The rain pounded overhead. Lightning flashed. And Alexia made a decision.
She leaned across the console and kissed you.
For a second, you went still with surprise. Then your hand came up to cup her face, and you were kissing her back, and it was exactly like Paris except better because you were both sober and this was a choice.
The kiss deepened quickly, desperately. Alexia’s hands fisted in your jacket, pulling you closer despite the awkward angle. Your mouth moved to her neck, and she gasped.
“We shouldn’t,” you murmured against her skin, even as your hands slid into her hair. “This is—”
“I don’t care.” Alexia pulled you back to her mouth. “I need this. I need you.”
“Fuck, Ale.” You kissed her harder, your tongue sliding against hers, and Alexia moaned into your mouth.
Your hands moved to her neck, her shoulders, pulling her closer despite the awkward angle over the console. Alexia’s fingers worked at the buttons of your shirt, desperate to feel your skin, and when she finally got it open, her hands splayed across your chest.
“You’re so warm,” she breathed, and you shivered under her touch.
“And you’re so fucking beautiful.” Your mouth moved to her neck, sucking at her pulse point, and Alexia’s head fell back. “I’ve been dying to do this again.”
Your hands slid under her jacket, under her shirt, finding the sports bra underneath. You palmed her breasts through the fabric, thumbs brushing over her nipples, and Alexia gasped.
“Take it off,” you said, tugging at her jacket. “I want to see you.”
Alexia shrugged out of her jacket and pulled her shirt over her head, leaving her in just her sports bra in the dim light of the car. Your eyes went dark, hungry, and then your mouth was on her—kissing her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, sucking at her nipples through the fabric.
“YN,” Alexia moaned, her hands fisting in your hair. “God—”
“You taste so good,” you murmured against her skin. “Even better than I remembered.”
Your hands moved to her back, unhooking her bra with practiced ease, and then she was bare from the waist up, the cool air making her nipples harden further. You took one in your mouth, sucking hard, and Alexia cried out.
“Shh,” you said, but you were smiling. “Someone might hear.”
“There’s no one here.”
“Still.” You moved to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. “I love how responsive you are. How you react to every touch.”
Alexia pulled you up for another kiss, this one desperate and messy. Her hands worked at your shirt, pushing it off your shoulders, and then you were both shirtless, skin against skin, the windows completely fogged around you.
“I want you so badly,” you breathed against her mouth. “Want to touch you everywhere. But this fucking console—”
“I know.” Alexia kissed you again. “This is enough. Just this.”
You kissed her neck, her shoulders, your hands roaming over her bare back, and Alexia lost herself in the sensation. The rain pounded overhead, thunder rumbled, and she was pressed against you in the front seat of your car, half-naked and desperate.
“We should stop,” you said, but you were kissing down her chest again. “We should wait until we get to my place.”
“I know.” But Alexia’s hands were in your hair, holding you to her. “Just… a little more.”
You spent what felt like hours just kissing, touching, learning each other’s bodies above the waist. When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, lips swollen, hair messed.
“We should go,” you said reluctantly. “Before I completely lose control.”
“Yeah.” Alexia reached for her bra, her shirt, trying to make herself presentable again. “We should.”
“So,” you said eventually. “We should probably talk about this.”
“Yeah. We probably should.”
“My place or yours?”
Alexia checked outside. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle. Still bad, but drivable.
“Yours is closer. And you have that view.”
You smiled. “I do have a great view.”
“The apartment, I mean.”
“Sure. The apartment.” But you were grinning as you started the car.
The drive to your place took twenty minutes, both of you careful on the wet roads. When you pulled into your private garage, Alexia felt nervous for entirely new reasons.
They were about to have a conversation that could change everything.
You led her to the private elevator, entered the code, and the doors opened directly into your penthouse.
“Make yourself comfortable,” you said, shrugging off your wet jacket. “Do you want something to drink? Change of clothes?”
“Just… can we talk? Before anything else?”
“Of course.” You sat on the couch, and Alexia joined you, leaving space between you this time. “So. Paris. Tonight. This thing between us.”
“I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t exist,” Alexia said. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”
“Neither can I.” You turned to face her. “So what do we do about it?”
“I don’t know. We’re teammates. I’m your captain. This could complicate everything.”
“It could. Or…” You hesitated. “What if it didn’t have to be complicated?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if we kept it simple? No relationship, no expectations. Just… this. Us. The physical stuff.” You searched her face. “I’m not good at relationships, Ale. I’ve never been. But this? The sex? I’m very good at that.”
“So you’re suggesting…”
“Friends with benefits. Casual. We’re both attracted to each other, clearly. The sex is incredible. Why not just… enjoy it? Keep it private, keep it simple, don’t let it affect football.”
Alexia should say no. Should walk away right now before this got any more complicated. But the memory of your hands on her body, the release she’d felt, the way you made her feel alive—she didn’t want to give that up.
“Rules,” she said. “We’d need rules.”
“Okay. Like what?”
“No one can know. Absolutely no one.”
“Agreed. What else?”
“Exclusive. I don’t want to worry about… other people.”
“Done. I’m not interested in anyone else anyway.” You smiled. “What else?”
“Football comes first. Always. If this starts affecting our performance or the team, it ends.”
“Obviously. Anything else?”
“If either of us wants to stop, we stop. No questions, no drama.”
“Of course.” You held out your hand. “So we have a deal?”
Alexia looked at your hand, then at your face. This was insane. This could blow up in both their faces. But the alternative was going back to the torture of wanting you and denying herself.
She took your hand. “We have a deal.”
Your smile was brilliant and a little bit wicked. “Good. Because now that we’ve gotten that settled…” You stood, pulling her up with you. “I want to do this properly.”
“Properly?”
“The car was… intense. But rushed. Limited.” You led her toward the windows, that stunning view of the Mediterranean and the beach below, the city lights reflecting on the water. “I want to take my time with you. Make you feel everything.”
“Here?” Alexia looked at the windows. “Someone could see—”
“We’re twenty floors up. No one can see in.” You turned her to face the view, standing behind her, your hands on her hips. “Trust me.”
Your lips found her neck, and Alexia’s eyes fluttered closed. Your hands slid around to her stomach, then higher, cupping her breasts through her shirt.
“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” you murmured against her ear. “About touching you properly. Seeing you properly. Not drunk, not rushed, just… you.”
You turned her around and kissed her, deep and slow, and Alexia felt herself melting into it. When you pulled back, your eyes were dark with want.
“Can I undress you?”
“Yes.”
You took your time, peeling off her jacket, her shirt, her bra. Each piece of clothing removed with care, your eyes tracking over every inch of exposed skin. When she was bare from the waist up, you just looked at her for a long moment.
“You’re stunning,” you said quietly. “Absolutely stunning.”
Then your mouth was on her again—her lips, her neck, her breasts. You took your time, lavishing attention on every sensitive spot, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan. When your hands worked at her pants, Alexia helped, stepping out of them, and then she was completely naked in front of your windows, the city lights painting patterns on her skin.
“Lie down,” you said, gesturing to the plush rug in front of the windows. “I want to see you against that view.”
Alexia lay back, the rug soft beneath her, the view of Barcelona spread out above her. You stood over her for a moment, just looking, and the hunger in your eyes made her shiver.
Then you were kneeling between her thighs, and your mouth was on her, and Alexia’s back arched off the floor.
You took your time, using your tongue and fingers in combination, bringing her to the edge again and again before finally letting her fall over. When she came, it was with your name on her lips and stars behind her eyelids.
“Beautiful,” you murmured, pressing kisses to her inner thighs. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come.”
“Your turn,” Alexia managed when she could speak again.
“Not yet.” You moved up her body, settling between her thighs. “I’m not done with you.”
You made love to her thoroughly, patiently, using your hands and mouth until Alexia lost count of how many times you made her come. The view of the city blurred and sharpened, the lights streaking across her vision, and through it all you watched her with that intense focus that made her feel like the only person in the world.
Finally, when Alexia was boneless and sated, you let her return the favor. She learned your body the same way you’d learned hers—thoroughly, carefully, paying attention to every reaction. When you came, it was with your hand tangled in her hair and her name falling from your lips like a prayer.
After, you both lay on the rug, breathing hard, the city lights twinkling beyond the windows.
“That was…” Alexia started, but couldn’t find the words.
“Yeah.” You turned your head to look at her. “It was.”
You both got dressed slowly, the atmosphere shifting from charged to something more comfortable. When Alexia was fully clothed again, she checked the time. Nearly midnight.
“I should go,” she said.
“Yeah. Early training tomorrow.” You walked her to the elevator. “So… same time next week?”
“We should probably be less predictable than that.”
“Right. So I’ll text you?”
“Yeah. Text me.”
At the elevator, you kissed her one more time—soft, almost sweet. “This is going to work, you know. We’re adults. We can handle this.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.” You smiled. “Goodnight, Ale.”
“Goodnight.”
The elevator doors closed between you, and Alexia rode down to the garage, her body still humming with satisfaction, her mind trying to process what had just happened.
She’d just agreed to a friends with benefits arrangement with her teammate. With you. And they’d sealed the deal by having incredible sex in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Barcelona.
This was either the best or worst decision she’d ever made.
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They agreed: just sex, no feelings, no complications. But somewhere between the late-night texts and lazy Sunday mornings, the arrangement became something else entirely. A FWB story about falling in love when you promised not to.
Chapter 2: The Morning After [Masterlist]
Alexia woke to sunlight burning through her eyelids and a headache that felt like someone was using a jackhammer inside her skull.
She groaned, rolling over, and immediately regretted it. Her mouth tasted like champagne and bad decisions, and her body ached in ways that had nothing to do with the match.
The match.
They’d won. Barcelona were Champions of Europe.
And then—
Oh god.
It all came flooding back. The club. The VIP section. Your hands on her body. Your mouth. The way she’d come apart underneath you.
Alexia sat up too fast, her head spinning, and pressed her palms to her eyes. What had she done? What had they done?
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—multiple notifications lighting up the screen. The team group chat was exploding with messages, photos from last night, videos of the celebration. Alexia scrolled through, looking for any evidence of what had happened, any photo that might show her and you disappearing together.
Nothing. Everyone had been too drunk and caught up in their own celebrations to notice two people slipping away.
Small mercies.
There was a knock on her door, and Alexia’s heart jumped.
“Ale? You alive in there?” Mapi’s voice, entirely too cheerful for someone who should also be hungover.
Alexia stumbled to the door and opened it. Mapi stood there in sunglasses and yesterday’s clothes, holding two bottles of water and a packet of painkillers.
“You look like death,” Mapi said cheerfully, pushing past her into the room.
“Thanks.”
“Here.” Mapi pressed a bottle and two pills into her hand. “Drink. We have team breakfast in an hour.”
“An hour?” Alexia checked the time. 10 AM. She’d only slept for a few hours.
“Coach’s orders. One last meal together before we fly home.” Mapi collapsed onto Alexia’s bed. “Last night was insane. I don’t remember half of it.”
“Lucky you.”
“Did you see YN?” Mapi grinned. “They were absolutely wasted. Dancing on tables, kissing the trophy, making out with—” She stopped. “Actually, I don’t know if they made out with anyone. Everything’s kind of blurry after midnight.”
Alexia’s stomach clenched. “I didn’t notice.”
“You disappeared for a bit though. Where’d you go?”
“Bathroom. Needed air.” The lie came easily. Too easily. “It was loud.”
“Fair. I probably should have done the same instead of trying to drink Patri under the table.” Mapi groaned. “I’m never drinking again.”
“You say that every time.”
“This time I mean it.” Mapi checked her phone. “Come on. Shower, get dressed. We need food and coffee before I die.”
After Mapi left, Alexia stood under the shower for longer than necessary, trying to wash away the guilt and confusion. It had been a mistake. A drunken mistake fueled by champagne and adrenaline and the insanity of winning the Champions League.
It didn’t mean anything.
It couldn’t mean anything.
She was your captain. You were teammates. And they’d just crossed a line that could complicate everything.
-----
The team breakfast was in a private dining room at the hotel—coffee, pastries, and conversation at a volume that made Alexia’s head pound. She found a seat next to Aitana, poured herself coffee, and tried to look normal.
You arrived fifteen minutes late, sunglasses on despite being indoors, and looking remarkably put together considering how drunk you’d been. You grabbed coffee and found a seat across the room, next to Patri.
Your eyes met Alexia’s for just a second—something unreadable flickering across your face—before you looked away.
Alexia’s stomach twisted.
The breakfast felt eternal. People laughed and recounted stories from the night, compared hangovers, made plans for the flight home. Alexia smiled and nodded at appropriate moments, but she was hyperaware of you across the room, the way you laughed at something Claudia said, the way you very deliberately didn’t look at her again.
Finally, mercifully, breakfast ended. The team filtered out, heading to pack and prepare for the afternoon flight.
Alexia was almost to the elevator when she heard your voice behind her.
“Ale. Wait.”
She turned. You’d taken off your sunglasses, and she could see the exhaustion in your eyes, the tension in your shoulders.
“Can we talk?” you asked quietly. “Somewhere private?”
Alexia glanced around. The lobby was full of teammates, staff, people who could overhear. “Where?”
“My room? It’s just—we should probably discuss… last night.”
Everything in Alexia wanted to avoid this conversation. But you were right. They needed to talk.
“Okay. Give me five minutes.”
She went to her room, brushed her teeth again, tried to make herself look less like someone who’d made a terrible decision. Then she took the elevator to your floor.
You answered on the first knock, stepping aside to let her in. Your room was identical to hers—standard hotel, unmemorable except for your suitcase open on the bed, half-packed.
“So,” you said, leaning against the desk. “Last night.”
“Last night was a mistake.”
You flinched slightly. “A mistake.”
“We were drunk. We’d just won the biggest match of our lives. We weren’t thinking clearly.” Alexia kept her voice steady, professional. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“But it did happen.”
“I know. And we need to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Alexia met your eyes. “We’re teammates. I’m your captain. What we did—it could complicate everything.”
“So we just… pretend it never happened?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what we do.” Alexia crossed her arms. “We go back to Barcelona, back to normal, and we don’t let one drunken mistake ruin three years of good partnership.”
You were quiet for a long moment, jaw working like you were holding back words. Finally, you nodded. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what’s best for the team.”
“Right. The team.” You pushed off the desk. “So we’re good? Professional? Nothing weird?”
“Nothing weird.”
“Okay then.” You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “We should probably get packed. Flight’s in a few hours.”
Alexia recognized a dismissal when she heard one. “Right. I’ll see you on the plane.”
“See you on the plane.”
Alexia made it back to her room, closed the door, and leaned against it. Her hands were shaking.
It was done. They’d agreed. One drunken mistake, forgotten, never to be repeated.
So why did she feel like she’d just made an even bigger mistake?
-----
The flight home was uneventful. Alexia sat with the coaching staff, reviewing match footage and discussing the performance. You sat in the back with the younger players, your headphones on, pointedly not looking in her direction.
Professional. Normal. Exactly what they’d agreed.
When they landed in Barcelona, the airport was chaos—media, fans, celebration. Alexia did her captain’s duties, gave interviews, held the trophy for photos. Through it all, she was aware of you on the other side of the crowd, doing your own interviews, smiling for cameras.
You didn’t look at her once.
By the time Alexia made it home, it was late evening. She dropped her bag by the door, fell onto her couch, and stared at the ceiling.
Champions of Europe.
It should have been the best moment of her career. And it was. It absolutely was.
Kate chose a café in the West Village for their one-on-one, a small place with good light and mismatched chairs that felt carefully chosen to seem unchosen. Alexia arrived first this time, on her own, without the plan or the notebook or the steady presence of someone who knew which button to press on the coffee machine.
She felt the absence immediately.
Not as panic. As something more ordinary than that, the low-grade wrongness of being in a space that called for something she had left at home.
She ordered and found a table by the window and told herself she was fine.
Kate arrived at quarter past, coat over one arm, and her face when she saw Alexia was warm and open and entirely Kate, the version of Kate that had always made everything feel possible. She sat down and ordered without looking at the menu and immediately reached across the table to squeeze Alexia's hand.
"I've missed you," she said. "Properly. I forgot how much until I saw you the other day."
"I've missed you too," Alexia said.
And she had. That was the thing, she still had. Whatever had been shifting in her these past weeks, whatever the apartment on 51st and Ninth had been quietly doing to her understanding of things, she still sat across from Kate and felt the old familiar pull of her, the specific gravity of someone you had loved for a very long time.
"Tell me everything," Kate said. "Barcelona. The club. Your mum. All of it."
So Alexia told her. The season, the new coach who was good but not yet trusted, her mother's garden project that had taken over the entire back terrace, the young midfielder who had come up through the academy and reminded Alexia of herself at nineteen in a way that was equal parts flattering and alarming.
Kate listened the way she always had, fully, making you feel chosen.
And after a while Alexia noticed that Kate had not asked about YN.
Not once. Not a single question about the person she had sat across from at lunch last week, the person she had texted about afterward, she seems wonderful. Kate had arrived full of warmth and questions and not one of them had pointed in that direction.
Alexia filed this without commenting on it.
"You seem settled," Kate said, after a while. "Different from before. Calmer."
"I am," Alexia said.
"New York suits you."
"I think it's the company," Alexia said. Watching Kate's face carefully.
Something moved there. Quick and managed. Kate smiled.
"They seem good for you," she said. Easy. Generous. The smile of someone being gracious about something they had not fully absorbed yet.
"They are," Alexia said.
Kate looked out the window at the street. A beat of something that was not quite silence because the café was full of its own noise, but that functioned as silence between them.
"I think about Barcelona sometimes," Kate said. "That summer. The flat on Carrer de Còrsega."
"I think about it too," Alexia said. Carefully.
"We were so young."
"We were."
"Everything felt like it was about to happen."
Alexia looked at her. At the profile she had known since she was twelve, the line of the jaw, the way Kate looked at things slightly sideways when she was thinking about something she wasn't ready to say.
"Did it?" Alexia said. "Happen?"
Kate turned back. The look on her face was the closest thing to honest Alexia had seen from her since arriving in New York, something unguarded, something that knew what the question was really asking.
Then it closed.
"I think so," Kate said. "Differently than I expected. But yes."
Alexia nodded. Picked up her cup.
The door had opened, just slightly, and then shut again. As it always had. As it always would. She understood this now with a clarity that arrived quietly, without drama. Kate would always open the door just enough to keep the question alive and never enough to answer it. That was not cruelty. It was something more ordinary than cruelty. It was just who Kate was.
She thought about YN at the desk last night, feet up, manuscript pages spread across the coffee table, saying read me the bit you found when she picked up In The Shadows again, and then listening with their eyes closed while she read, and saying afterward, that's the line I rewrote seven times, and then refusing to say anything more about it.
She thought about how that had felt, being listened to like that. Being known.
"I should get back," Alexia said. "YN's been stuck on a chapter all week. I told them I'd be home for lunch."
Kate's eyes moved to her face. Something in them, quick and involuntary, that was not the managed warmth of the past hour.
"Of course," she said. "Let me know if you want to get dinner this week. All four of us."
"I'll ask," Alexia said.
She walked back to the apartment in the mild May morning, through the streets that had started to feel like routes rather than directions, and let herself in, and found YN exactly where she had left them, at the desk in the study with the door open for once, which meant they were thinking rather than writing.
"Well?" YN said, not turning around.
"She almost said it," Alexia said. "And then she didn't."
"She never will."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Alexia sat on the edge of the study doorframe and looked at the back of YN's head. "I'm starting to."
YN turned around then. Looked at her. The particular reading they did of her face, the one she had stopped trying to make herself opaque for.
"Kate wants to do dinner," Alexia said. "All four of us. This week."
Something shifted in YN's expression. Not reluctance. Recalibration.
"Alright," they said. "Tell me which night."
They ran into Kate before the dinner.
Saturday afternoon, entirely by accident. Alexia and YN were in a bookshop on Bleecker, the kind that required an hour minimum and rewarded it, and YN was making an argument for a novel Alexia had not heard of while Alexia held it and read the first page and decided she agreed without telling them yet, and they were standing close the way they stood everywhere now, the few inches of distance that had eroded over weeks without a decision being made, and Alexia had her shoulder against YN's arm and YN's hand was at the small of her back because there was someone trying to get past in the narrow aisle and the hand had arrived naturally and then simply stayed.
"The first sentence alone," YN was saying. "Read me the first sentence."
"I already read it."
"Out loud."
"You're very demanding for someone whose book this isn't."
"I'm demanding because I'm right. Read the sentence."
Alexia read the sentence. It was, as YN had said it would be, very good. She looked up to say so and found YN already watching her with the small private smile that she had catalogued without meaning to and that was now one of the things she looked for without admitting she was looking.
"Fine," she said. "You're right."
"Say it again."
"Absolutely not."
"Just once more, I'm begging you."
"Alexia."
Kate's voice.
They both turned. Kate was standing at the end of the aisle with a book in her own hand and an expression on her face that she had not quite managed in time. The warmth was there, it arrived a beat later, but what had been there first was something else. Something that saw the hand at the small of Alexia's back and the close distance and the way they had been looking at each other and understood something about it that could not be untaken.
"Kate," Alexia said. Warm. Easy. The voice of someone who was exactly where she was supposed to be.
"I didn't know you'd be here," Kate said. Her eyes moved to YN briefly, then back to Alexia.
"Neither did we," YN said pleasantly. "Good book?"
Kate looked at the cover in her hand as though she had forgotten she was holding it. "I think so. Just started it."
"We won't keep you," YN said. Not unkindly. Just with the ease of someone who knew exactly what was happening and was choosing to let it be simple.
Kate looked at Alexia.
And Alexia looked back at her, and what she gave her was not the hopeful open look that Kate had been receiving for seventeen years, the look that asked without asking, the look that waited. What she gave her was simply herself, present and settled and somewhere she wanted to be.
Kate's face did something then that Alexia had never seen it do before.
It flinched.
Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else in the bookshop would have noticed. But Alexia had spent seventeen years reading this face and she saw it, the small involuntary contraction of someone who has just understood something they cannot ununderstand.
"I'll see you Wednesday," Kate said. "Dinner."
"Wednesday," Alexia confirmed.
Kate went to the register. Alexia turned back to the shelf. YN said nothing, just reached past her to pull out a second book and put it in her hands with the quiet certainty of someone who already knew she would like it.
She looked down at it.
She looked up at YN.
"How do you always know?" she said.
"Know what?"
"What I need. Before I ask."
YN looked at her for a moment. The bookshop was warm and close and smelled of paper and the afternoon light came through the front windows in long diagonals and everything was very still.
"I pay attention," YN said simply.
Alexia held the book. Held the answer. Felt it settle somewhere that had nothing to do with Kate, and everything to do with who was standing in front of her.
She did not say anything.
She turned to the register.
But she did not put either book down.
That evening Kate called.
Not a text. A call, which was different. Alexia was on the couch and YN was in the study and she looked at the name on the screen for a moment before answering.
"Hey," Kate said. Her voice was different from this afternoon. Quieter. Something underneath the warmth that had not been there before.
"Hey," Alexia said.
A pause. The kind that meant something was being decided on the other end.
"You look happy," Kate said. "I know I said that over text before, but seeing you today. You look genuinely happy, Ale."
"I am," Alexia said.
Another pause.
"I used to think," Kate started, and then stopped.
"What?" Alexia said softly.
"Nothing." Kate's voice recovered its warmth. "I'll see you Wednesday. I can't wait for you to properly meet Vivienne."
"Looking forward to it," Alexia said.
She hung up.
She sat with the phone in her lap and looked at the middle distance and listened to the sound of typing from behind the study door, steady and continuous, and thought about what Kate had started to say and not finished and about the face in the bookshop and about seventeen years of a door that opened just enough.
She thought about YN saying I pay attention. Simply. As a fact about themselves, not an offering.
She thought about how she had held both books all the way to the register without noticing she had done it.
From the study, the typing continued.
Alexia put the phone down and picked up the book YN had chosen for her and opened it to the first page, and read the first sentence, which was as good as she had already known it would be.
The Patient Heart (Alexia Putellas x Reader) - Season 2
(Masterlist)
Season 2, Chapter 19: Champions
May, Oslo
The envelope appeared on the kitchen counter three days before the final.
YN found it in the morning, Alexia already at training, the apartment quiet. It had YN's name on the front in Alexia's handwriting, no other explanation. Inside were two pitchside access passes for the UEFA Women's Champions League Final, Ullevaal Stadion, Oslo. And a note, small and folded, four words in the same handwriting.
I want you close.
YN stood in the kitchen for a long moment holding the note.
Then they sent a message to Marcus: check your front door.
Marcus replied eleven minutes later with a single word: Oslo.
YN typed back: Oslo.
* * *
The family and friends group assembled at El Prat on the morning of the final with the organised chaos that accompanied any gathering of people who all knew each other well and had strong opinions about airport logistics.
Mapi's partner had taken on the role of coordinator with the resigned efficiency of someone who had done this before and knew it would end in someone being at the wrong gate. She had a printed list. She used it.
YN arrived to find Eli and Alba already there.
Eli looked at YN with the expression she reserved for moments she had been anticipating. She pulled them into a hug without preamble.
"She arranged the passes herself," Eli said quietly. "She told me. She wanted you pitchside."
"I know," YN said.
"She hasn't stopped thinking about it for two weeks. Making sure you'd be there. Making sure you'd be close."
YN held that for a moment.
Alba appeared at YN's other side and took their arm. "Right," she said. "Let's go watch my sister win the Champions League."
The flight to Oslo took two hours and forty minutes. YN sat between Eli and Alba and the conversation moved through everything, the match, the team, memories of the recovery, the season just gone. Eli talked about watching Alexia grow up, the specific quality of her determination, how it had never looked like effort from the outside even when everyone who knew her understood the cost.
"She has always played like she was proving something," Eli said. "Not to anyone else. To herself. Some standard only she could see."
"I know that standard," YN said.
Eli looked at them. "Yes," she said. "I think you're the only one who does."
Oslo received them in May sunshine, the city clean and bright and preparing itself for an evening it had been building toward for weeks. The stadium was visible from the approach road, the UEFA flags already up, the particular suspended energy of a final day gathering around everything.
* * *
The run had taken four months.
Group stage in the autumn, Barcelona moving through it with the efficient authority of a team that knew what it was doing and intended to do it. YN at every home match in section seven, every away match via whatever screen was available, the pre-match text always sent and always answered.
Alexia had developed a ritual somewhere in the group stage. The night before each Champions League match she would come to find YN wherever they were in the apartment and sit close and say nothing for a while. Just the proximity. Just the steadiness of being near someone who believed in her without condition or complexity.
YN never asked what she needed. Just stayed close and let her have it.
The quarter final had been Chelsea, two legs, tight and physical and decided by fine margins. YN in section seven, gripping the barrier with both hands for the final twenty minutes of the second leg as Barcelona held on. Alexia everywhere on that pitch, defending from the front, organising from the middle, leading by force of presence when the game got tight.
When the final whistle came and the team had collapsed into each other, Alexia had found YN in the stands from sixty metres away in the middle of all of it. Just for a second. Just a look. Then she was pulled into the pile.
YN had stood in section seven with their hands over their mouth.
The semi final had been Arsenal, a neutral venue, the kind of match the football press had been building toward for weeks. Barcelona won 2-1. Alexia had scored the second, a goal of such precision that the commentary had simply gone quiet for a moment before finding words.
YN had not gone quiet. YN had made a considerable amount of noise.
Mapi had found them outside the tunnel afterward and looked at the state of YN's voice and said: "You're going to lose that before the final if you're not careful."
"Worth it," YN had said, hoarsely.
Mapi had laughed and pulled them into a hug that said everything else.
And now the final.
Now Lyon.
Now Oslo.
* * *
Ullevaal Stadion held just over twenty-eight thousand people and tonight every seat was taken and every voice was ready.
YN stood at the pitchside barrier in the ALEXIA 11 jersey with the access pass around their neck and felt the electricity of a stadium that knew it was hosting something worth remembering.
Marcus was beside them, his own pass around his neck, both of them quiet in the way of people who understood the weight of the occasion and did not need to fill it with words.
This was the Champions League final. Alexia Putellas, two years after an ACL injury that had threatened to end everything, was about to walk out to captain her team in it.
YN thought about the hospital waiting room. The physio sessions. The cold nights and the long months and the morning she had walked across the kitchen without her crutches and YN had had to go to the balcony.
We got here, YN thought. After everything. We actually got here.
Barcelona came out of the tunnel and the stadium went up.
YN stood at the barrier and watched Alexia walk out and felt the particular quality of loving someone whose greatness you got to watch up close. The specific privilege of being the person they came home to.
Alexia's eyes found the pitchside barrier before she had taken ten steps onto the pitch.
She found YN immediately. She always found YN immediately.
She touched two fingers to her lips and pointed, the same gesture as always, quick and private, and then she was captain again and the match was beginning and Oslo was a wall of sound.
YN pressed their fingers to their own lips.
* * *
The first half was tight.
Lyon had come prepared. Organised and physical, refusing to let Barcelona settle into the rhythm they wanted. Alexia was marked closely throughout, double-teamed at times, the opposition having studied her and decided she was the thing to stop.
They were not wrong. She was the thing to stop.
They could not stop her.
She moved through their attention like water finding gaps, appearing in spaces that hadn't existed until she created them, wearing the opposition down with the patience of someone who understood that the right moment would come and the only requirement was to be ready.
Barcelona went in at half time goalless.
YN stood at the barrier and watched the team disappear into the tunnel and held the same belief they had held all season, all year, all the years before that: she was worth waiting for. Whatever she was building toward was worth waiting for.
The second half opened differently.
Something had been adjusted in the tunnel, a collective decision visible from the first minute. The pressing was higher. The movement sharper. Barcelona came out looking like a team that had decided the time for patience was over.
The first goal came in the fifty-third minute, a forward arriving onto a through ball with perfect timing. The stadium erupted. YN erupted with it.
Lyon responded, because Lyon had not come to a final without the quality to respond, and the next fifteen minutes were the tightest of the match.
And then Alexia.
The seventy-first minute. A ball played wide, worked back inside, and Alexia arriving into the box with the timing that was hers and no one else's. The product of ten thousand hours and a body rebuilt from the ground up and a will that had never once stopped believing this moment would come.
One touch.
She shot.
The net moved.
YN was already at the barrier, already as close as the boundary would allow, and Alexia was turning, her arms wide, Oslo an absolute wall of sound, her teammates running toward her from every direction.
But first.
She turned to the pitchside barrier.
She found YN.
And she pointed.
The specific, deliberate point. Her arm extended across the pitch toward the barrier, toward the ALEXIA 11 jersey, toward YN who was already crying because some things apparently never changed.
This one is yours. This one was always going to be yours.
Then her teammates reached her and she was pulled into the pile and the stadium was still roaring and YN stood at the barrier with both hands pressed against their mouth and felt nine months of waiting and one year of loving and everything in between come loose all at once.
Marcus put his hand on YN's shoulder and said nothing. That was the right thing.
Lyon scored in the eighty-third minute.
The last seven minutes were the longest of YN's life.
Barcelona held.
The whistle came.
* * *
The noise was beyond noise. It was weather. It pressed against the chest and the ears and it did not stop.
YN watched Alexia fall to her knees on the pitch.
Not from exhaustion. From the weight of it. Two years. The injury and the recovery and the comeback and the season and this match and this moment, all of it landing at once on the grass of Ullevaal.
Her teammates lifted her. The coaching staff came on. The stadium kept going.
The trophy ceremony took twenty minutes. YN stood at the barrier and watched Alexia move through it with the contained quality of someone who was saving something, holding the best of it back until the right moment.
The trophy was brought out. Barcelona lined up. The captain stepped forward.
Alexia took it in both hands.
She lifted it.
Oslo went up one final time, the biggest sound of the evening, and the confetti came down in waves of red and blue and the lights caught it all, and it was exactly what it was supposed to be.
Alexia held the trophy above her head.
And then she turned.
Away from the cameras. Away from the celebration. Away from everything.
She looked at the pitchside barrier.
She found YN.
She lowered the trophy slightly to one side and with her free hand she pointed. The same point. Always the same point.
You. This is for you. All of it.
YN pressed both hands flat against the barrier.
I know, YN thought. I know it is. And you have no idea what you have given me.
A steward opened the barrier gate. YN was through it before they had consciously decided to move.
Alexia walked straight into them.
One arm around YN. One arm still holding the Champions League trophy. Her face against YN's neck. YN's arms around her. The stadium still going. The cameras finding them. Neither of them caring at all.
"We did it," she said against YN's neck. Her voice was wrecked and wonderful.
"You did it," YN said.
"We," she said. Firmly. No room for argument.
YN held her tighter. Felt the weight of the trophy against their side, the cold metal and the warm person, both of them real.
She pulled back and looked at them. Her eyes were wet and her face was lit with the particular quality of someone who has arrived somewhere they have been walking toward for a very long time. She looked at YN the way she always looked at them when there was no one to perform for, which was completely, which was everything.
Then she kissed them.
On the pitch. In Oslo. With the Champions League trophy in her hand and the medal around her neck and twenty-eight thousand people around them and the cameras rolling and the confetti still falling.
She kissed YN the way she kissed them at home. Completely. Without reservation. Like the world could watch if it wanted to and that was absolutely fine.
Somewhere close Mapi made a sound of pure delight.
Somewhere further Eli and Alba were watching from the stands and YN would find out later that Alba had been filming and Eli had simply stood with her hand over her heart.
When she pulled back she was smiling. The real one, the one that arrived before she could decide whether to let it, the one YN had catalogued every version of over two years.
"Come on," she said. "I have to lift it again. With the team."
"Go," YN said.
She stepped back. Looked at them once more. Her eyes still bright.
"Don't go far," she said.
"I'll be right here," YN said.
She turned back to her team, to the trophy, to the celebration that was hers and had been earned over years and years of work and one very specific year of everything else, and YN stood on the pitch in Oslo in the ALEXIA 11 jersey and watched her go.
Watched her raise the trophy again with her teammates around her, their voices carrying even over the crowd. Watched her throw her head back and laugh, really laugh, the kind that came from the deepest part of something.
Watched her be exactly who she had always been, exactly who she had rebuilt herself to be, exactly who she deserved to be.
