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Your first morning at Barcelona felt like stepping into someone else’s life.
Everything was familiar in theory. The crest. The colors. The names you had watched on television for years. The training ground you had seen in videos, interviews, and social media clips. In person, it was different. Bigger somehow. Louder.More intimidating.
You had spent the entire drive telling yourself you belonged there. The contract in your bag said so. The staff who had called you for weeks said so. The fact that Barcelona had wanted you badly enough to pull you away from England said so. Your stomach apparently had not received the message.
By the time you walked through the doors of the training facility, your hands were cold despite the warmth outside.
“Relax.”
You looked toward the member of staff walking beside you. “I am relaxed.”
She smiled. “You’ve checked your bag six times.”
You glanced down. You had. “Just making sure everything’s there.”
“It was there the first five times too.”
You laughed awkwardly. “Right.”
The truth was, you had spent the last few weeks pretending this move didn’t terrify you. Leaving England had been your choice. Barcelona was the opportunity you couldn’t turn down. New football. New country. New language. A club where almost every player seemed to carry some kind of impossible reputation. You wanted the challenge. You just wished wanting it made you less nervous. The tour went quickly. Medical. Gym. Dining room. Analysis spaces. Hallways you were positive you would forget within an hour. Then came the changing room. Voices carried through the door before you even entered. Spanish. Fast Spanish. You understood enough to follow conversations most of the time, but that depended heavily on people speaking at a speed intended for human beings rather than auctioneers. You took a breath. The door opened. Heads turned. For approximately two seconds, you considered leaving. Then Alexia smiled. That helped.
“Y/N.”
You stepped inside. “Hi.”
Introductions came quickly. Some players you had met briefly before. Others you knew only from matches. Patri offered you an easy smile. Jana immediately told you which shower had terrible water pressure. Mapi asked if your Spanish was good enough to understand insults. You stared at her.
“Probably.”
“Perfect.”
Alexia sighed. “Ignore her.”
“I usually recommend the same thing,” Ingrid added from nearby. Mapi looked offended. You laughed. Some of the tension in your shoulders disappeared. Maybe this would be okay. Then you noticed someone sitting near the far end of the room. Vicky López. She was pulling her boots from her bag while half listening to a conversation beside her. You had obviously known who she was before joining Barcelona. Everyone did. Young, ridiculously talented, fearless with the ball. When she looked up, your eyes met. You smiled instinctively. Vicky froze for half a second before smiling back. Small. Almost shy. Then she looked down again. You frowned slightly. Interesting.
“Your locker is here.” You turned toward Alexia.
The space beside yours had already been arranged with training gear, your name printed neatly above it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
You set down your bag and began unpacking. The conversations around you slowly started again. You tried to follow. You really did. Then Mapi said something incredibly fast, Patri responded even faster, and half the room burst into laughter.You smiled because everyone else did. You understood absolutely nothing. A quiet voice came from beside you.
“She said Mapi runs like someone is chasing her for money.” You turned. Vicky had moved closer without you noticing. You blinked. “Oh.”
She smiled. “And Patri said nobody would chase Mapi that far.”
You laughed. Actually laughed this time. Mapi looked over. “Why is she translating my bullying?”
Vicky shrugged. “She looked confused.”
“I wasn’t confused,” you said. Vicky looked at you. You held her gaze for a second. Then sighed. “I was completely confused.”
Her smile widened. “Your Spanish is good.”
“Until all of you start speaking at the same time.”
“That happens a lot.”
“Great.”
“You’ll get used to it.”Something about the way she said it made you believe her.
Training was easier. Football always was. The second your boots touched grass, the nervousness faded enough for instinct to take over. You didn’t have to worry about language when the ball was moving. A run was a run. A pass was a pass. Pressure looked the same in every country. The first few drills were simple enough, mostly designed to ease you into the team’s rhythm. Even then, you could feel the difference immediately. The ball moved faster. Players demanded it sooner. Everyone seemed to know where the next pass should go before the current one had even arrived. You loved it. That scared you a little too. During a possession drill, you received the ball with your back to pressure and turned directly into Vicky. She stole it cleanly. You stopped. She was already gone.
“Seriously?”
Vicky glanced back over her shoulder. There was that smile again. This one wasn't shy. “Too slow.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Oh, okay.”
Five minutes later, you returned the favor. Vicky tried to shift the ball around you. You read it. Stepped in. Won possession. As you passed it away, you looked at her. “Too slow.” Vicky stared at you. Then laughed. That sound did something strange to your stomach. You ignored it. Training continued. The two of you somehow ended up matched against each other more than once. There was no aggression to it, only a growing competition neither of you acknowledged out loud. Vicky won one challenge. You won the next. You blocked her shot. She nutmegged you twenty minutes later.
You stopped dead. “Oh, you’re joking.”
She turned around laughing. “I’m sorry.”
“You are absolutely not sorry.”
“No.”
“At least you’re honest.” She jogged away.
You couldn't stop smiling.
By the end of training, you were exhausted but lighter than you had been that morning. Maybe joining Barcelona wasn't going to feel terrifying forever. Lunch brought the nerves back. You stood in the dining room with your tray, looking across several tables and realizing you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to sit.
Everyone seemed to have settled into groups without thinking about it. You considered picking an empty table. Then someone tapped the back of your arm. You turned. Vicky. She nodded toward a table nearby. “You can sit with us.”
“Oh.”
Very articulate. “Unless you don't want to.”
“No. I do.”
Vicky smiled. “Okay.”
She started walking. You followed. Mapi was already sitting there. Of course. She looked between you and Vicky as you took the empty seat beside her. Something passed across her face. You didn't like it.
“What?”
Mapi blinked. “Nothing.”
“You’re making a face.”
“This is just my face.”
“It looks suspicious.”
Patri laughed from across the table. “You’ll learn not to ask.”
“Good advice.”
Conversation started around you. This time, whenever it became too fast, Vicky quietly translated the parts you missed. Not everything. Just enough. Sometimes she leaned slightly closer to explain a joke. Sometimes your shoulders brushed. Neither of you reacted. At one point you misunderstood a word badly enough that Vicky started laughing so hard she had to put her drink down.
You stared at her. “That was rude.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that earlier too.”
“I meant it this time.”
“No, you don’t.”
Vicky tried to stop laughing. Failed. You smiled despite yourself. Maybe you didn't mind being laughed at when she looked like that.
The first week passed more quickly than you expected. Every day became slightly easier. Your Spanish improved simply because you had no choice. You stopped getting lost on the way to the gym. You learned that Mapi could not be trusted with information unless you wanted the entire changing room to know it within twenty minutes. And somehow, without discussing it, Vicky became the person you looked for whenever you entered a room.
If she was there, you relaxed. If you didn’t understand something, she explained. If you arrived late to lunch, there was usually a seat somewhere near her. You told yourself it was because she had been one of the first people to make you feel welcome. That was all. You were new. She was kind. Simple. At least, it was supposed to be.
Friday afternoon, you remained behind after training to stretch. Most of the team had already left the pitch. You sat near the bench, working through the tightness in your legs while mentally trying to decide whether you had enough food in your apartment to avoid another trip to the supermarket.
“You’re still here.” You looked up. Vicky stood a few feet away with her bag over one shoulder.
“So are you.”
“I asked first.”
“You didn't ask anything.”
She paused. “True.”
You smiled. Vicky shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. For some reason, she looked nervous. You had seen her dribble through three defenders that morning without hesitation. Apparently speaking to you after training was more intimidating.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.” She answered too quickly.
Your smile grew. “Okay.”
Vicky looked down briefly. Then back at you.
“Do you want to get coffee?” You blinked.
“With you?” Her eyebrows pulled together.
“No. With the other Vicky standing behind me.” You immediately laughed. Vicky smiled at the sound. “Sorry.”
“That was a stupid question.”
“A little.”
You stood and grabbed your bag. There was no reason for your heart to be beating faster. Coffee. That was all. Two teammates getting coffee. Completely normal.
“So?” Vicky asked.
You looked at her. “Yeah.”
Her expression softened. “I’d like that.”
The two of you started toward the exit together. You had been in Barcelona for less than a week. The city still felt unfamiliar. Your apartment barely looked lived in. Half the jokes at training still went straight over your head. But as Vicky walked beside you, already arguing that she knew a better café than the one someone else had recommended, you realized something. For the first time since you arrived, you weren't thinking about how far away from home you were. You were thinking about tomorrow. And whether Vicky would ask you to get coffee again.
-
Coffee with Vicky became a problem.
Not immediately, of course. The first time was perfectly innocent. You followed her out of the training ground and into the passenger seat of her car, expecting maybe twenty minutes somewhere nearby before both of you went your separate ways. Instead, you spent the first part of the drive becoming increasingly convinced that Vicky had absolutely no idea where she was going.
“I live here,” she argued when you pointed out that the same enormous yellow sign had appeared outside your window for the second time.
“And yet we’ve passed that building twice.”
“We have not.”
You twisted in your seat and pointed toward it as it disappeared behind you. “I remember the giant yellow sign.”
“There are lots of yellow signs in Barcelona.”
“That one says furniture.”
“Maybe Barcelona has lots of furniture.”
You stared at her until Vicky finally cracked, laughing as she tightened her hands around the steering wheel. “Okay, fine. I missed the turn.”
“I knew it.”
“Don’t be annoying.”
“You’re the one getting lost in your own city.”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
Her eyes flicked toward you so quickly that you almost missed it. “Nothing.”
You didn’t think much of it then. Later, you would. Eventually, Vicky managed to find the café she insisted she had been going to for years despite apparently needing twenty minutes to locate it. It was small and tucked away from the busier streets, with a handful of tables beneath an awning outside and the sort of atmosphere that immediately made you understand why she liked it.
“This better be good,” you said as you followed her inside.
“It is.”
“You also said you knew how to get here.”
Vicky turned around with an unimpressed look. “Do you want coffee or not?”
You smiled. “Yes.”
“Then behave.”
That first coffee lasted almost two hours. At first, you talked about football because football was safe. Vicky asked about England, what you had liked about playing there, what had finally convinced you to make the move. You asked her about growing up around Barcelona, about the academy, about what it had felt like when she first began spending more time with the senior team. She told you stories that made you laugh, and you admitted that when Barcelona had first contacted your agent, you had been convinced someone was playing an elaborate joke on you. Eventually, football disappeared from the conversation entirely. You learned that Vicky hated mornings despite somehow always being irritatingly cheerful at training. She learned that you called your family almost every night because you were still getting used to being so far away. You found out what music she listened to, and she discovered that you had watched the same comfort show so many times that you could quote entire scenes without thinking. By the time either of you noticed the café had begun to empty around you, the afternoon was disappearing into evening.
Vicky glanced at her phone. “Oh.”
“What?”
“We’ve been here forever.”
You checked the time and raised your eyebrows. “Apparently.”
Neither of you made any immediate effort to leave. Vicky traced one finger around the rim of her empty cup for a moment before looking up again.
“Same time tomorrow?”
You smiled. “You’re going to drink coffee with me every day?”
“Maybe.”
Coffee simply became your thing. Not every day. At least, not technically. Some afternoons one of you had media obligations. Sometimes training ran long or recovery left both of you too exhausted to do anything except go home and collapse. But more often than not, you ended up together. Sometimes you went back to the same café. Sometimes you wandered around Barcelona with takeaway cups in your hands. Other times you sat in Vicky’s car in the training-ground parking lot because one of you had started talking and neither realized twenty minutes had passed. Your phone slowly became filled with her too.
Vicky: Are you awake?
You: No. I’m replying in my sleep.
Vicky: Coffee tomorrow?
You’d smile down at the screen despite yourself.
You: Yes.
You never really stopped to ask yourself why it was always yes. It was easier not to. Your Spanish lessons began almost by accident. One morning, you were sitting beside Vicky in the changing room when Patri said something from across the room. You frowned and asked her to repeat herself. Patri did, slower this time, which somehow made you understand even less. You looked at Vicky for help and immediately realized she was biting her lip.
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
Her shoulders started shaking.
“Vicky.”
She finally lost it.
You shoved her lightly. “Help me!”
Still laughing, she translated, and you immediately looked toward Patri with sudden understanding. “Oh!”
Patri nodded. “Sí.”
You tried to answer in Spanish. Judging from the reaction around you, you answered very badly. The entire area erupted into laughter.
You closed your eyes. “I hate this place.”
Vicky was practically folded over beside you.“What did I say?”
She couldn’t answer. “Vicky!”
That only made her laugh harder. Eventually, she managed to explain that instead of telling Patri you would bring something to training the next day, you had apparently announced that you were going to marry it.
You stared at the floor. “I’m transferring.”
Vicky wiped beneath her eyes. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been here two weeks.”
“Long enough.”
“You can’t leave.”
The words were light, but something in the way she looked at you afterward made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You smiled. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
“Good.”
“On one condition.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What?”
“You’re teaching me Spanish.”
Vicky laughed. “You already speak Spanish.”
“Clearly not.”
“You just need practice.”
“Then practice with me.”
She considered you for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”
“And you’re not allowed to laugh.”
“No.”
“Vicky.”
“That’s impossible.”
You sighed dramatically. “Fine.”
She held out her hand. “Deal?”
You looked at it before taking it. “Deal.”
Her fingers closed around yours, and for some reason neither of you immediately let go. Your eyes dropped toward your joined hands at the exact same time Vicky seemed to notice too. She released you quickly.
“Training,” she said.
“Right.”
You stood, but your hand felt strangely warm for the next ten minutes. Language lessons quickly became another excuse to spend time together. Vicky sent voice notes in Spanish, and you became convinced she deliberately spoke faster in each one. The first arrived while you were cooking dinner. You played it once, then again, then a third time and understood maybe sixty percent. You typed back.
You: Were you being chased while recording that?
“No hablo rápido. Tú escuchas lento.”
You: I do not listen slowly.
Another voice note came through, this one even faster. You understood absolutely nothing.
You: Fuck you.
This time, Vicky answered in English.
Vicky: Very good Spanish.
You sent her a middle-finger emoji. She sent back a heart. A simple red heart. Nothing unusual. Friends sent hearts. Teammates sent hearts. You had received thousands of them in your life, which meant there was absolutely no reason to stare at Vicky’s for ten full seconds before locking your phone. There was definitely no reason your stomach did that strange little flip either. The touching started just as naturally. That was what made it dangerous. Neither of you decided to become physically affectionate. It simply happened. Vicky started sitting beside you during meetings, and sometimes your knees touched beneath the table. Neither of you moved. During film sessions, when the room was dark and everyone had been sitting still for too long, she occasionally leaned into your shoulder.
The first time it happened, you froze completely. Vicky didn’t seem to notice. She remained focused on the screen, arms folded loosely while her shoulder rested against yours. You stared straight ahead and understood absolutely nothing the analyst said for the next five minutes. When the meeting ended, Vicky stood like nothing had happened.
“You coming?”
You blinked. “Yeah.”
She frowned slightly. “You okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Okay…”
You followed her out.
The next time she leaned against you, you didn’t freeze. The time after that, you leaned back. Then came all the smaller things. You fixing the collar of her training jacket without thinking. Vicky grabbing your wrist when she wanted to pull you toward something. Her stealing your phone and you taking hers in retaliation. Your hands brushing when you both reached for the same bottle. Vicky resting her chin on your shoulder while reading something on your screen.None of it meant anything. Until suddenly it did. Mapi was the first person to make you realize there might actually be something worth noticing. Naturally. You were standing in front of your locker before training when Vicky appeared beside you and stared at the back of your head.
“Your hair.”
You frowned. “What about it?”
She gestured vaguely. “It’s…”
“What?”
“Bad.”
Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
Vicky laughed. “Not bad. Wait.”
She stepped behind you. Through the mirror, you watched as she reached up and fixed a section you had apparently missed while tying your hair back. Her fingers brushed lightly against the back of your neck. You stopped breathing.
“There.”
Vicky’s eyes met yours in the mirror. Neither of you moved.
“Better,” she said softly.
“Thanks.”
She smiled. Then someone cleared their throat loudly. Both of you turned. Mapi stood a few feet away with her arms folded and an expression you immediately disliked.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The face.”
Vicky looked between the two of you. “What is happening?”
Mapi smiled. “Nothing.”
Then she walked away.
You stared after her. “I don’t trust her.”
Vicky laughed. “Nobody does.”
When you looked back, she was still standing close. Too close, suddenly. You stepped away.
“I need to get changed.”
Vicky’s smile faltered just slightly. “Okay.”
You didn’t understand why that made you feel guilty. The same strange awareness followed you to lunch. Vicky sat beside you like always, and halfway through the meal she reached over and stole something from your plate.
You slapped her hand away. “Get your own.”
“I don’t want mine.”
“You ordered the same thing.”
“Yours tastes better.”
“It is literally the same.”
She reached over again. You caught her wrist. “No.”
Vicky smiled. “Give it.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“Vicky.”
She reached with her other hand. You caught that one too. For a moment, the two of you were laughing like idiots. Then you realized you were holding both her wrists between you. Vicky realized it too. The laughter faded. Her eyes met yours. Something shifted. You released her immediately. Vicky sat back. Across the table, Mapi was staring.
You groaned. “What?”
Mapi slowly looked from you to Vicky. “So…”
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to.”
She smiled. “So, you and Vicky?”
You nearly dropped your fork. “What about us?”
“Nothing.”
You stared at each other while Patri suddenly became fascinated by her food and Vicky went suspiciously quiet beside you.
“There is nothing happening with me and Vicky.”
Mapi raised both hands. “I didn’t say there was.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Mapi smiled. You hated her. “I’m leaving.”
“You haven’t finished eating.”
“Lost my appetite.”
You stood and picked up your tray.
Vicky looked up at you. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere Mapi isn’t.”
“That limits your options around here,” Patri said.
You pointed at her. “Not helping.”
You walked away. You expected Vicky to stay. Instead, less than twenty seconds later, she appeared beside you carrying her tray.
“You didn’t have to leave.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
She shrugged. “I was finished.”
You looked down at her plate. It was still half full. “Liar.”
Vicky smiled. “Maybe.”
That night, you couldn’t stop thinking about what Mapi had said, which was ridiculous because technically Mapi hadn’t actually said anything. You and Vicky? Three words. That was it. You lay in bed staring at the ceiling and tried to reason with yourself. There was no you and Vicky. Vicky was your friend. Probably your closest friend in Barcelona already, but still your friend. That was all. She had made moving easier. She translated for you. She took you for coffee. She helped with your Spanish. She sent stupid voice notes at midnight. She sat beside you during meetings, touched you without thinking, leaned into you when she was tired, smiled at you in that way that… You stopped. No. Absolutely not. You rolled onto your side just as your phone buzzed. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. You looked anyway.
Vicky: Are you awake?
Your heart beat faster. That was new. Or maybe it wasn’t new at all. Maybe you had simply started noticing. You typed back.
You: Yeah.
Vicky: Mapi is annoying.
Vicky: Don’t listen to her.
You: I don’t.
Vicky: Good.
You waited. Nothing else came. You should have put your phone down. Instead, you typed one more message.
You: Coffee tomorrow?
Her answer was instant.
Vicky: Always.
Your chest tightened. You placed the phone facedown beside you and stared at the ceiling again. There was no reason that one word should make you feel anything. But it did. And suddenly, you found yourself replaying the last two weeks differently. Vicky’s hand around yours. Her head resting against your shoulder. Her fingers brushing the back of your neck while she fixed your hair. The way she always saved you a seat. The way you looked for her without realizing you were doing it. The way Barcelona felt less overwhelming whenever she was nearby.
“Oh, fuck.”
You covered your face with both hands. Mapi hadn’t put some new idea into your head. That would have been easier. She had simply pointed toward something that had already been growing there. You liked Vicky. Not because she made moving to Barcelona easier. Not because she spoke Spanish fluently or knew where everything was. Not because you needed someone familiar in a place that still felt foreign.
You liked her.
And tomorrow morning, you were going to have to walk into training and somehow pretend that realization hadn’t changed absolutely everything.
-
Realizing you liked Vicky was surprisingly easy. Knowing what to do about it was considerably harder. By the time you walked into training the next morning, you had convinced yourself that nothing actually needed to change. So you liked her. Fine. People liked people all the time. It didn’t mean you had to do anything about it, and it certainly didn’t mean you suddenly had to start acting differently around her. You could still sit beside her at lunch. You could still get coffee after training. You could still let her lean against you during meetings without becoming hyperaware of every point where her body touched yours. You could be normal. You were an adult. A professional footballer. You had moved countries by yourself. Surely you could handle one stupid crush. Then you walked into the changing room and saw Vicky sitting beside your locker with two takeaway cups in her hands. Your carefully constructed plan lasted approximately four seconds.
“Morning,” she said.
You looked at the coffees, then at her. “Oh.”
Vicky frowned. “Oh?”
“No. Sorry. I mean, thanks.”
You took the cup she offered you. Your fingers brushed. Your stomach flipped. You immediately pulled your hand away. Vicky noticed. Of course she did. Her smile faltered slightly. Fuck. You turned toward your locker and opened it with much more concentration than the task required. “Why are you here so early?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I wanted to get some treatment before training.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just a little tight.”
“Where?”
You nearly dropped your coffee. “What?”
Vicky’s brow furrowed. “Where are you tight?”
“My...” You cleared your throat. “Hamstring.”
“Okay.”
She stared at you. You stared into your locker. What the fuck was wrong with you? Two days ago, that question would have meant absolutely nothing. Now your brain had apparently decided every sentence out of Vicky’s mouth was something worth panicking over. She took a sip from her own cup.
“You’re weird today.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Not like this.”
You finally forced yourself to look at her. Vicky was watching you carefully now, the easy smile she normally wore around you replaced by something more uncertain. “I’m fine.”
She didn’t look convinced. “Okay.”
You hated how quietly she said it. You had been at training for less than five minutes and had already managed to make things strange. Excellent. Training only made it worse.
During warmups, Vicky jogged toward you and you instinctively drifted toward someone else. During a passing drill, she made a joke you normally would have answered immediately. You laughed, but instead of staying beside her, you moved to the other side of the group. None of it was dramatic enough to draw attention. At least, not from everyone. But Vicky noticed.
At lunch, you arrived before her and sat at the opposite end of the table without even thinking about what you were doing. It wasn’t until Vicky walked into the dining room and automatically glanced toward the empty space that normally belonged beside you that you realized what you had done. The seat was already occupied. Her eyes moved to yours. You looked away. Coward. Absolute coward. You could feel Mapi staring from two seats down. You ignored her for as long as possible. Eventually, you made the mistake of looking up. She was still watching. You mouthed, What? Mapi raised one eyebrow. You shook your head. Her gaze shifted toward Vicky and then back to you. You glared. Usually, Mapi would have smiled or made some obnoxious gesture. This time, she didn’t. Her expression softened slightly instead. Concern. That was somehow worse.
After lunch, you disappeared before Vicky could ask whether you wanted coffee. You told yourself it was temporary. One day. That was all. One day to get your head straight. Then you would stop being ridiculous, stop overthinking every touch and smile, and everything could go back to normal. Except you already knew there was no normal anymore. You had ruined that for yourself the second you admitted that Vicky’s hand brushing yours meant something. One day became three. You weren’t intentionally avoiding her. At least, that was what you kept telling yourself. You were simply busy.
There were meetings. Training. Recovery. Spanish lessons you had suddenly decided should probably involve an actual teacher rather than a girl who made your heart race whenever she leaned over your shoulder to correct something. When Vicky texted asking about coffee, you had something else to do. When she asked if you wanted dinner, you told her you were tired. When she sent voice notes, you still answered. Just not immediately. The difference was subtle. You weren’t cruel. You didn’t ignore her. You simply created space. Enough, you hoped, for whatever you were feeling to fade. It didn’t. Instead, you missed her. Constantly.
You missed leaving training and already knowing you would spend another hour together. You missed sitting in her car talking until one of you finally noticed how late it had gotten. You missed her stupid voice notes. You missed her stealing your food and then insisting yours tasted better despite ordering the exact same thing.
Worst of all, Vicky stopped touching you. You had wanted distance. Apparently, she had understood.
During film sessions, she sat beside you but no longer leaned into your shoulder. At lunch, she stopped stealing from your plate. When you walked together, her hand no longer automatically caught your wrist when she wanted your attention. You noticed every absence. And somehow, they hurt more than the touches had confused you.
By Friday, Vicky barely spoke to you unless you spoke first. You hated it. You hated yourself more. Training had finished almost an hour ago by the time you finally left the gym that afternoon. You had deliberately taken longer than usual with recovery, telling yourself that another twenty minutes alone might clear your head. It hadn’t. You were halfway toward the changing room when you turned a corner and stopped. Vicky was sitting alone on a bench in the hallway. Still in her training clothes. Her bag sat beside her on the floor.
You frowned. “Vicky?”
She looked up. Something in her expression told you immediately that she hadn’t simply been sitting there by coincidence. “Hey.”
“What are you still doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
Your stomach dropped. “Oh.”
There was that word again. Vicky stood and adjusted the sleeves of her training top, suddenly looking far less confident than she ever did with a ball at her feet. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. Then she asked quietly, “Did I do something?”
Your heart broke. Immediately. “What?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“You can tell me.”
“Vicky”
“Because I keep thinking about it and I don’t know.” She gave a small laugh, but there was no humor behind it. “You were fine. We were fine.”
“We are fine.”
“No, we’re not.” You went quiet.
Vicky looked down at the floor. “You don’t sit with me anymore.”
Your chest tightened. “Vicky…”
“You don’t want to get coffee. You barely answer me. Every time I come near you, you suddenly have somewhere else to be.” Each sentence made you feel worse. “I thought maybe I was annoying you.”
“You could never annoy me.” Her eyebrows rose. You sighed. “Okay, you annoy me constantly.”
That earned the smallest smile. “But not like that.”
“Then what happened?” You looked away.
How were you supposed to answer that? Nothing happened. I just realized I have a massive crush on you and apparently responded by emotionally reverting to fifteen years old. You rubbed the back of your neck. “I’ve just had a lot going on.”
Vicky stared at you. “You’re lying.”
You looked back at her. “What?”
“You do that thing.”
“What thing?”
“When you don’t know what to say, you touch your neck.”
Your hand immediately dropped. Vicky’s expression softened.
“I notice things about you too.” Those words nearly destroyed whatever composure you had left.
“Vicky…”
She stepped closer. “Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll make things weird.”
“They’re already weird.”
Fair. You let out a breath. “I don’t want to ruin this.”
“Ruin what?”
“This.” You gestured helplessly between the two of you. “Us.”
Vicky stared at you for a moment. “You’ve been here three weeks.”
“I know.”
“And you’re already this dramatic?”
You laughed despite yourself. “Apparently Barcelona is changing me.”
Her smile disappeared almost immediately. “Y/N.” You looked at her.
“I miss you.” Three words. Simple. Quiet. They landed harder than you expected.
“I’m standing right here.”
“You know what I mean.”
You did. Of course you did.
“I miss coffee,” she continued. “I miss you sitting beside me. I miss you asking me to translate things you definitely understand just because you want me to say them again.”
Your eyes widened. “I do not do that.”
“You do.”
“I genuinely don’t understand half of what you all say.”
“You understood Alexia yesterday.”
“What?”
“When she asked what time training started.”
You stared at her. Vicky’s mouth twitched.
“You answered her before asking me what she said.”
Shit. “How do you even remember that?”
“Because I notice.” There was that word again. Notice. You realized suddenly that maybe you hadn’t been the only one paying too much attention.
Vicky stepped closer. “So if I did something, just tell me.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then why?”
Your heart started pounding. There was nowhere left to hide. You had created this entire mess because you were afraid admitting the truth would ruin the friendship. Instead, your silence was ruining it for you.
“I realized something.”
Vicky waited. “What?”
You looked down at the floor. “I realized…” You laughed nervously. “This is stupid.”
“Tell me.”
You forced yourself to meet her eyes. “I like you.”
Vicky blinked. Silence. Your stomach dropped immediately. “Okay. Great. Fantastic conversation.” You turned. Vicky grabbed your wrist.
“Wait.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“You just told me you like me.”
“Yes, and judging by your response, I think running away is actually a very appropriate next step.”
“I didn’t respond!”
“Exactly.”
“Because you surprised me!”
You stopped. Vicky’s hand was still wrapped around your wrist. You looked down at it and then back at her. “Surprised you?”
“Yes.”
Vicky released your wrist.
For the first time since you had known her, she suddenly looked nervous too. She glanced down, then back up. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me?”
You nodded.
Her mouth fell open. “You’re an idiot.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“You are.”
“I just confessed my feelings for you.”
“And then you decided I rejected you before I had time to say anything.”
“You were silent!”
“For three seconds!”
“It felt longer.”
Vicky stared at you. Then she started laughing. You folded your arms. “Glad this is funny.”
“No.” She tried to cover her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re terrible at apologies.”
“I know.”
You shook your head. “This was a mistake.”
You turned again. This time, Vicky caught your hand. Not your wrist. Your hand. Her fingers slid between yours. You froze.
“I wasn’t laughing because you like me.”
Your eyes dropped toward your intertwined fingers. “Then why?”
“Because you spent three days avoiding me over something you could have just told me.”
You looked up. Vicky was smiling softly now.
“And?”
“And what?”
“You’re missing a fairly important part of this conversation.”
Her smile grew.
“Which part?”
“Vicky.”
She squeezed your hand. “What if I want you to like me?”
Everything stopped. You stared at her. “What?”
She stepped closer. “What if I don’t want you to stop sitting beside me?” Your heart slammed against your ribs. “What if I want coffee tomorrow?” Closer. “What if I liked when you held my hands at lunch?”
You swallowed. “Vicky…”
“What if I send you voice notes at night because I want an excuse to talk to you?” Oh. There it was. The oh that changed everything. Vicky smiled. “You understand now?”
“I’m getting there.”
“Should I speak slower?”
You laughed. “Fuck you.”
“In Spanish?”
“Don’t ruin this.”
Her smile widened. Neither of you moved away. Suddenly, you were aware of every inch between you. Your joined hands. Her thumb brushing across the back of yours. The way her eyes kept drifting down toward your mouth before returning to yours. You had imagined kissing Vicky more times in the last three days than you cared to admit. Now that the opportunity was actually standing in front of you, you had absolutely no idea what to do. Apparently, Vicky did. She leaned forward. Then stopped. So close your noses almost touched.
“Can I?”
Something in your chest melted. “Yeah.”
Vicky kissed you. Or tried to. Your noses collided first. “Ow.”
She pulled away immediately. Your eyes widened. For half a second, the two of you simply stared at each other. Then you both burst into laughter.
“Oh my God,” Vicky whispered, covering her face.
You were laughing too hard to answer properly. “That was terrible.”
“I know!”
“You’ve ruined my first kiss in Barcelona.”
“Your fault.”
You caught her wrists and gently pulled her hands away from her face. Vicky was still laughing. “So much for romantic.”
“Shut up.”
“Want to try again?”
The laughter slowly disappeared from her expression. “Yeah.”
This time, neither of you rushed. You moved toward each other carefully, your hand lifting to her cheek as Vicky’s settled at your waist. Then your lips met. Properly. Soft. Warm. Careful. There were no fireworks exploding over Barcelona. No dramatic music. Nothing cinematic about it. Just Vicky. And somehow, that was better. She smiled against your mouth. You pulled back slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“So are you.”
You hadn’t realized you were. You kissed her again. This one lasted longer. Vicky stepped closer, her fingers curling gently into the side of your shirt while your thumb brushed against her cheek. When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Her forehead rested against yours. You laughed softly.
“What?” she asked.
“I spent three days avoiding you because I was scared this would make things weird.”
Vicky looked at you. “And?”
You smiled. “It’s definitely weird.”
She shoved your shoulder lightly. You laughed and caught her hand again before she could pull away. “But good weird.”
“Better.”
“Much.”
Vicky looked down at your joined hands. “So.”
“So?”
“Coffee tomorrow?”
You stared at her. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“You just kissed me and you’re asking about coffee?”
“Always.” Vicky smiled. The same word she had sent you only a few nights earlier. Except now it felt completely different. You thought the hardest part was over. You had admitted you liked Vicky. She liked you. You had kissed, badly the first time and significantly better the second. Everything should have become easier. Then you walked into training the next morning and immediately discovered a new problem. Neither of you had any idea how to act normally around someone you had kissed.
“Morning.” You looked up from tying your boots. Vicky stood beside you.
“Morning.”
Silence. She smiled. You smiled. Neither of you moved. From across the changing room, Mapi groaned.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Both of you turned. “What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“There is very clearly something.”
Mapi shook her head. “No. Please. Continue whatever deeply normal thing this is.”
Vicky’s cheeks turned pink. You glared at Mapi. “Go away.”
“I was here first.”
“Then look somewhere else.”
Mapi smiled slowly. “I knew it.”
Your stomach dropped. “Knew what?”
“Nothing.”
She started walking away. You stared after her. Vicky leaned closer. “She knows.”
Vicky glanced toward Mapi. Mapi looked back. Then made an exaggerated kissing face. Vicky immediately covered her face. You groaned. “Okay. She knows.”
From across the room, Mapi yelled, “I HEARD THAT.” You threw a sock at her.
Coffee that afternoon was different too. Same café. Same table. Same drinks. But now Vicky’s knee rested against yours beneath the table. Neither of you moved it. You had promised to practice Spanish, although the lesson lasted approximately five minutes before Vicky caught you staring at her instead of listening.
“You’re distracted.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Translate what I just said.”
You stared at her. “I…”
Vicky smiled. “Exactly.”
“You’re sitting too close.”
Her eyebrows rose. “We’re across from each other.”
“Your leg.” She glanced beneath the table. Then back at you. “Move yours.”
“No.”
“Then stop complaining.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Terrible teacher.”
“You like me.”
“Unfortunately.”
She smiled. “Say it in Spanish.”
“You know I know how to say that.”
“I want to hear it.”
Something about her expression softened. For a second, she looked shy again. The same Vicky who had smiled at you from across the changing room on your first morning. You leaned a little closer. “Me gustas.”
Her smile grew. “Again.”
“You’re abusing your position as my teacher.”
“Again.”
You rolled your eyes. “Me gustas.”
Vicky leaned across the table and kissed you. Quick. Barely a second. Then she sat back. You stared at her. “What was that?”
“Positive reinforcement.”
You laughed. “Oh, so that’s how lessons work now?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Very effective.”
You leaned forward. “Me gustas.” Another kiss. You smiled. “I think my Spanish is about to improve dramatically.” Vicky laughed.
And as you sat there, you realized you hadn’t thought about England once that day. You hadn’t thought about how different Barcelona felt. You hadn’t worried about your Spanish. You hadn’t wondered whether you had made the right decision moving here. Instead, you were sitting in a café you had now visited enough times that the person behind the counter already knew your order, across from a girl who had somehow become the best part of your new life.
Three weeks. That was all it had taken. Three weeks for Barcelona to stop feeling quite so unfamiliar. You looked at Vicky. She caught you staring. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me.”
You smiled. “Maybe I like looking at you.”
Vicky’s cheeks turned pink. You laughed. “Oh, now who’s shy?”
“Shut up.”
You reached across the table. Your fingers found hers. Vicky looked down before intertwining them with yours. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just her hand in yours. You squeezed gently. Tomorrow, Mapi would probably make your life unbearable. Eventually, the rest of the team would figure out what was happening. There would be conversations about whether this was dating, what exactly the two of you were doing, and how long you intended to pretend it was a secret. But not tonight.
Tonight, you didn’t need to figure out anything beyond this. Coffee. Vicky. Her hand in yours. And the strange realization that sometimes starting over didn’t mean becoming someone entirely new. Sometimes, it simply meant finding someone who made the unfamiliar feel a little more like home.
-
Dating Vicky, you discovered very quickly, was not all that different from being friends with Vicky. She still stole your food. She still sent you voice notes at ridiculous hours. She still corrected your Spanish with the kind of satisfaction that made you want to throw something at her. The main difference was that now, when she annoyed you badly enough, you could kiss her until she forgot what she had been saying. You considered that a significant improvement.
The two of you never had some dramatic conversation where you officially decided what you were. There was no carefully planned date, no nervous question, no moment where one of you asked the other to be her girlfriend. It simply happened.
Coffee remained coffee, only now Vicky sometimes sat beside you instead of across from you so her knee could press against yours beneath the table. Movie nights started ending with her asleep against your chest. The goodbye outside your apartment that used to be an awkward hug became a kiss that somehow always turned into another, and then another, until one of you remembered you had training the next morning.
Somewhere along the way, Vicky started leaving things at your apartment too. A hoodie came first. Then a pair of trainers. A phone charger. One of her favorite mugs somehow appeared in your kitchen despite you being almost certain she had never brought it over. You discovered it one morning while making coffee and stared at it for several seconds before turning toward the kitchen counter, where Vicky was sitting and scrolling through her phone like she had done nothing wrong.
“Vicky.”
She looked up. “What?”
You held the mug in the air. “This is yours.”
She glanced at it. “Yes.”
“How did it get here?”
“I brought it.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
You stared at her. “You’re moving into my apartment one object at a time.”
Vicky looked thoughtful. “That’s actually a good idea.”
You stared at her. She smiled. Then, without saying anything, she opened her arms. You tried to remain annoyed. You lasted maybe two seconds before walking between her knees. Her arms immediately wrapped around your waist. “You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t even apologize.”
“For what?”
“The mug.”
“I like the mug.”
Vicky leaned forward and kissed you. You sighed against her mouth. Cheater. You looked at her.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She kissed you again. You forgot about the mug. The problem was that you and Vicky somehow believed you were being subtle. You were not. Not even remotely. In your defense, you didn’t kiss at training. You didn’t hold hands walking into the facility. You hadn’t announced anything to the team, and neither of you used words like girlfriend around anyone else. In your minds, this meant you were hiding the relationship beautifully. Reality disagreed.
The first incident happened during film review. You and Vicky were sitting beside each other like usual, shoulders touching lightly while the analyst went over clips from the previous match. The room was dark, everyone was tired, and about halfway through the meeting Vicky slowly leaned into you. That wasn’t unusual anymore. What was unusual was the way your hand automatically dropped between the seats and found hers. You didn’t even think about it. Your fingers intertwined. Vicky squeezed gently. You smiled toward the screen. Then someone behind you made a quiet gagging noise. Your eyes closed. Mapi. Obviously. You ignored her. Another gag followed. Vicky’s shoulders started shaking against yours.
You leaned slightly closer to her. “Don’t laugh.”
“I can’t help it.”
Mapi whispered loudly from behind you, “Some of us are trying to watch football.”
You turned your head. She was grinning. “Then watch.”
“I am.”
Her eyes dropped pointedly toward your joined hands. You immediately let go. Vicky covered her mouth to hide her smile. Mapi looked delighted. “Interesting.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You never have to.”
The analyst paused the video and looked toward the back of the room. “Is there something happening back there?”
“No,” you answered immediately.
Mapi said, “Not anymore.”
Half the room laughed. You sank lower in your seat. Vicky was bright red beside you. You leaned toward her and whispered, “I hate her.”
“She loves this.”
“I know.”
Mapi whispered from behind you, “I can hear you.”
You turned. “Good.”
The second incident was worse. Much worse. It happened at lunch. You were sitting across from Vicky when she took a bite of something with far too much sauce, and a little ended up near the corner of her mouth. You noticed immediately. Without thinking, you reached across the table and wiped it away with your thumb. Vicky froze. So did you. The entire table went quiet.
“What?”
Mapi leaned back in her chair. “No. Please.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
“Continue.”
“Continue what?”
“Whatever incredibly heterosexual thing that was.”
Vicky nearly spit out her drink. Your mouth fell open. “Mapi!”
“What?”
Patri put her face in her hands. Alexia sighed. Jana was openly laughing. You looked at Vicky. She looked at you. There was absolutely no recovering from this. Mapi pointed between you. “How long?”
You folded your arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Vicky’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t?”
You turned toward her. “Not helping.”
Mapi slapped the table. “Oh my God, she admits it!”
“I did not!”
“You just told Vicky not to expose you!”
“That is not what happened.”
Mapi looked toward Alexia. “Did you hear it?”
Alexia calmly took another bite of her food. “I heard everything.”
Traitor. You looked around the table, then finally sighed. “Fine.” Everyone went quiet. You glanced at Vicky. She was smiling. Far too much. “We’re seeing each other.”
Mapi immediately leaned toward Patri. “Pay up.”
Your mouth fell open. “No.”
Patri groaned and reached for her phone. “Seriously?”
“There was a bet?”
Jana lifted her hand. “Several.”
Vicky looked delighted. “When did it start?”
“Your first week,” Mapi answered.
You stared at her. “My first week?”
“You two were obvious.”
“We weren’t even together!”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
Mapi shrugged. “Chemistry.”
You looked toward Vicky. She smiled sweetly. You pointed at her. “Don’t look so pleased.”
“Why?”
“They bet on us.”
“And they were right.”
“You’re supposed to be offended with me.”
“I won a girlfriend.”
You froze. Vicky froze. The table went quiet again. This silence felt different. Your expression softened. “Girlfriend?”
Her cheeks immediately turned pink. Mapi made a noise. You whipped around. “If you ruin this, I swear to God.”
She zipped her lips dramatically. You looked back at Vicky. “Girlfriend?”
She smiled nervously. “If you want.”
Your chest warmed. You reached beneath the table and found her hand. “Yeah.” Her smile widened. “I want.”
Mapi lasted approximately four seconds. “Aww.” You threw your napkin at her.
Being discovered changed surprisingly little. Mostly, it meant the team became significantly more annoying. Mapi no longer bothered pretending not to notice when you and Vicky left training together. Jana started referring to your coffee runs as dates even when neither of you did. Patri threatened to start charging Vicky every time she abandoned lunch early because you had texted her. Alexia mostly watched everything with a quiet smile from a distance, which was somehow more embarrassing than all the teasing combined. But there was something freeing about it too. You stopped thinking before sitting beside Vicky. Stopped pulling your hand away if hers found yours beneath a table. Stopped checking who was nearby before touching the small of her back while moving through a doorway. You still kept most of what existed between you private. Some things belonged only to the two of you. But you weren’t hiding anymore. And Vicky seemed happier that way.
You hadn’t realized how much she had been holding back until one afternoon when you left training together and she reached for your hand before you had even made it into the car park. You looked down at your intertwined fingers. Then around you. There were people nearby. Staff. A few teammates.
Vicky noticed your hesitation. “What?”
“Someone could see.”
She shrugged. “Let them.”
Your heart did that stupid thing again. It had been weeks. Apparently, you still weren’t used to it. You squeezed her hand. “Bold.”
“You like it.”
“Maybe.”
“Liar.”
You smiled. “Definitely.”
Barcelona changed slowly. So slowly that you barely noticed it happening. One evening, you and Vicky were walking through the city after coffee. The sun had mostly disappeared, leaving the streets washed in the warm orange glow of lamps and shop windows. You had been talking about absolutely nothing for the last twenty minutes, Vicky telling some story that had started with training and somehow turned into an argument about whether you had pronounced a Spanish word correctly.
“I said it correctly.”
“You didn’t.”
“You understood me.”
“That doesn’t mean you said it correctly.”
“You’re being picky.”
“I’m teaching you.”
“You’re bullying me.”
“Same thing.” You laughed.
Vicky smiled up at you. Then her hand brushed yours. Once. Twice. The third time, she simply took it. You looked down. No hesitation anymore. Her fingers fit easily between yours. The two of you kept walking.
A few months earlier, you wouldn’t have known where you were. Now you recognized the street. You knew there was a bakery around the corner that Vicky loved. You knew which Metro entrance you would pass in another block. You knew exactly how long it would take to walk from here back to your apartment. Your apartment. Not the temporary place you had first arrived in surrounded by unopened boxes. Home. You glanced at Vicky. She caught you. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You keep saying that.”
“Maybe I like looking at you.”
A smile pulled at her mouth. “You’ve used that one before.”
“Still true.”
She leaned closer as you walked until your shoulders bumped. You remembered your first week. Standing in the changing room and desperately trying to follow conversations moving faster than your Spanish could handle. Getting lost in hallways. Calling home every night because England suddenly felt impossibly far away. Vicky translating Mapi’s stupid joke. Vicky saving you a seat. Vicky standing beside you after training and nervously asking whether you wanted coffee. You hadn’t known then how important that question would become. You squeezed her hand.
Vicky looked over. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
You laughed. “Rude.”
“What about?”
You considered telling her. Instead, you stopped walking. Vicky took another step before your joined hands gently pulled her back. She turned. “What?”
You leaned down and kissed her. She made a small surprised sound before smiling into it. When you pulled away, she looked confused. “What was that for?”
You shrugged. “Do I need a reason?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Vicky stared at you for a second. Then she smiled. “You’re strange.”
“You like me.”
“I do.”
She said it so easily. No teasing. No embarrassment. Just truth. Your chest tightened.
“I like you too.”
“I know.”
You stared at her. “Ruined it.”
Vicky laughed and tugged you forward again. You continued walking with her hand wrapped securely around yours.
Barcelona hadn’t become home because you had finally memorized the hallways at the training ground. It hadn’t become home because your Spanish was better now or because you knew exactly which café made your coffee the way you liked it. It had happened somewhere between shared drinks after training, badly translated jokes, stolen bites of food, late-night voice notes and a girl who had made room for you before you even realized how badly you needed it. Somewhere along the way, Vicky López had stopped being the person who made Barcelona feel less lonely.
Dating your sisters ex…oh hell no. Cant wait for the next chapter
We shall see how it plays out! Next chapter will be around Tuesday after I get my one shots out. I have 4 that will all come out by my time Sunday night, 11pm CST
hey i sent an idea for off limits earlier. I forgot to say sorry if i overstepped cause you did not ask for it. Hope you are not angry hiiihihi😁😁😁
I didn’t even see your last ask until just now! I’ve been in a meeting since 3. Next chapter is pretty much already written. The angst will come back next chapter. I do like your idea though! I’ll see what I can incorporate into chapter 5 or 6! Off Limits will end with chapter 6
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The words left your mouth before you could stop them. Ingrid’s expression didn’t change. That was what unsettled you most. No smile. No sarcastic comment. No amused little look over your shoulder at the state of your hotel room. She just stood there in the hallway, arms folded, watching you like she was deciding how much patience she had left. Your relief disappeared almost immediately. You stepped back from the doorway.
“Ingrid?”
She glanced once down the corridor, then back at you. “Can I come in?”
Your stomach tightened. “Yeah.”
You moved aside. She stepped into the room without another word. The door clicked shut behind her. You stared at it for half a second too long. Then at Ingrid.
“Is Alexia okay?”
“Yes.”
The answer came quickly. Too quickly. You folded your arms, suddenly aware that you were still standing barefoot in an oversized T-shirt with your hair twisted into whatever shape sleep had decided for it.
“Okay.”
Ingrid said nothing. You waited. She didn’t sit. Didn’t move toward the window. Didn’t even glance around the room. She just stood near the door, looking at you. Your nerves started crawling up your spine.
“You’re starting to freak me out.” Still nothing. “Ingrid.”
She finally spoke. “What did you do last night?”
Your stomach dropped so hard it almost hurt. You stared at her. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I went for a walk.”
Ingrid’s jaw tightened slightly. You saw it. Small. Controlled. That made it worse. You forced out a laugh that sounded wrong even to you.
“Why are you asking?”
“Don’t.”
The single word cut clean through the room. Your pulse quickened.
“Don’t what?”
“Lie to me too.”
Everything inside you went still. For one horrible second, you couldn’t breathe. You looked at her face. Really looked. There was no confusion there. No suspicion. She knew. You swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ingrid let out a quiet breath through her nose. Then she said it. “I saw you.”
You felt the blood drain from your face. “Ingrid”
“I saw you kissing Jenni.” Silence. Complete. Deafening. Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. Ingrid’s eyes stayed on yours. “Twice.”
Your stomach twisted. Of course twice. Of course she had somehow managed to witness enough that there was no room to explain it away. You took one step backward. The edge of the bed hit behind your knees. You sat down without meaning to. “Does Alexia know?”
The question came out immediately. Instinctively. Ingrid’s expression changed. Not much. But enough. You saw disappointment settle into it.
“No.”
The breath left your lungs. Your shoulders dropped. Relief flooded through you so fast it made you dizzy. Ingrid stared.
“You look relieved.”
You looked up. “Of course I’m relieved.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
You looked away. The shame arrived instantly. Hot and uncomfortable. You hated it. You hated that Ingrid was right. You hated more that there was no way to argue without sounding worse. You crossed the room toward the window and pulled the curtains open. Morning sunlight rushed inside. Too bright. Too normal. You folded your arms over your chest. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Ingrid didn’t respond. You turned.
“We ran into each other.”
“At the bar?”
You nodded. “By accident.”
“And yesterday?”
Your jaw tightened. “What about yesterday?”
“You were together again.”
You stared at her. “How much did you see?”
“Enough.”
“That’s vague.”
“So was telling Alexia you were alone.”
Your stomach dropped. You looked at her sharply. Ingrid’s face softened for the first time. Only slightly. Your voice cracked sharper than you intended. Silence followed. You took a breath. Then another. “I know.” This time quieter. You lowered your hands. “I know what I did.”
Ingrid finally moved. She crossed toward the small chair beside the window and sat down. You remained standing. “I’m not here to attack you.”
“It feels a little like you’re here to attack me.”
“I came here before I spoke to anyone else.”
That stopped you. You looked at her. “Anyone?”
“Mapi doesn’t even know. I haven’t told anyone.”
You sat on the edge of the bed again. “Why?”
Ingrid looked genuinely surprised. “Why what?”
“Why didn’t you just tell Alexia?”
The question came out smaller than you meant it to. Because really... That was what you expected. Ingrid was her friend. One of the closest. Someone Alexia trusted completely. You had spent the entire minute since seeing her in the doorway mentally preparing for the fact that the secret was already gone. Ingrid leaned back.
“Because you’re her sister.”
You frowned. “What does that have to do with it?”
“A lot.”
She paused. “I’m loyal to Alexia.”
“I know.”
“If she is going to hear this, it should come from you.”
You looked down at your hands. “And if I don’t tell her?”
Ingrid was quiet for a moment. “Is this just something that happened because you’re both here?”
Your chest tightened. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not convincing.”
“I said I don’t know.”
“You kissed her.”
“Yes.”
“You went out with her the next day. You didn't just see her for a coffee. You spent an entire day together.”
“I’m aware.”
“Do you like her?”
Your answer came too quickly. “Yes.”
You immediately looked away. Ingrid went still. The silence stretched. You laughed once, humorless. “Well, there. Mystery solved.”
“How long?”
You froze. Your fingers stopped moving. “Ingrid.”
“How long have you liked her?”
You looked toward the window. The ocean was visible between buildings in the distance. Bright. Beautiful. Completely indifferent to the fact that your life had apparently decided to unravel before breakfast. “It’s complicated.”
“That usually means a long time.”
You closed your eyes. “Years.”
Ingrid said nothing. You forced yourself to look at her. Her expression had changed completely now. Shock. Actual shock.
“Years?” You nodded once.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“That sounds like you know.”
You groaned quietly. “Since before they broke up.”
Ingrid’s eyes widened. You rushed to speak before she could. “Nothing happened.”
“I never said anything to Jenni. She didn’t know. I never flirted with her. I never crossed any line while they were together.”
Ingrid watched you carefully. You kept going. “I knew it was wrong.”
“That you liked her?”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t really something you control.”
“I know that now.” You laughed bitterly. “I didn’t then.” You looked down. “I hated myself for it.”
Ingrid’s face softened. “When did it start?”
“I don’t know exactly.” You rubbed your palms against your thighs. “She was around all the time.”
“Because of Alexia.”
You nodded. “She was funny. She remembered things about me. She treated me like I mattered even when everyone else was asking about Ale.” Your throat tightened. “And then one day I realized I was looking at her differently.”
Ingrid didn’t interrupt.
“I buried it.” You swallowed. “I had to.”
“Did Alexia ever know?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
“No.”
“Alba?” You shook your head. “No one.”
Ingrid leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “And Jenni only found out now?”
“Last night.”
Ingrid stared. You realized how insane it sounded when said aloud.
“This was not planned.”
“I believe you.”
The words surprised you. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if you’d been planning to secretly hook up with Jenni Hermoso, I’d like to think you would’ve chosen somewhere less public than a beach.”
You stared at her. Then despite everything, a laugh escaped you. Ingrid’s mouth twitched. “Also, you look terrified.”
“I am terrified.”
“I know.”
You pulled your knees up slightly and wrapped your arms around them. For the first time since she arrived, the room didn’t feel like an interrogation. That somehow made everything worse. You looked at Ingrid. “What do I do?”
“You tell Alexia.”
Your stomach tightened. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“Because you know it’s the right answer.”
“I don’t even know what this is yet.”
“Then figure that out first.”
You frowned. Ingrid continued. “You’re asking Alexia to deal with something big.”
“I’m not asking her to deal with anything.”
“You will be.”
You looked away. “She deserves to know what she’s being asked to accept.”
“I’m not asking permission.”
“I didn’t say permission.”
The distinction settled between you. Ingrid’s voice softened. “But there’s a difference between saying, ‘I kissed your ex twice and I don’t know why,’ and saying, ‘I care about her and I want to see where this goes.’”
Your throat tightened. Because that was the question. The one you had avoided since Jenni kissed you. The one that mattered far more than Alexia’s reaction. “What if Jenni doesn’t want that?”
Ingrid studied you. There it was. The real fear. Not getting caught. Not Alexia yelling. Not family drama. Jenni. You looked down. “I don’t know what she wants.”
“Have you asked?”
“No.”
“Then maybe start there.”
You let out a slow breath.
“I feel like I’m risking everything before I even know if there’s something to risk it for.”
Ingrid nodded. “That makes sense.”
Your eyes burned slightly. You blinked hard. “I don’t want to hurt Alexia.”
“I know.”
“She’s going to think I betrayed her.”
Ingrid didn’t answer. That silence told you enough. You looked at her.
“You think I did.”
“I think you lied to her.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.” She sighed. “I don’t know.”
You frowned. “I don’t think kissing Jenni automatically means you betrayed Alexia.” You waited. “But I think hiding it will feel like betrayal to her.” That hurt because it was true. You rubbed at your eyes before anything could escape. Ingrid looked away, giving you the dignity of pretending not to notice. After a moment, she stood. “I should go.”
You nodded. She crossed toward the door. You followed. Her hand closed around the handle.
“Ingrid?”
She turned. “Thank you.”
Her expression softened. “For what?”
“For coming here first.” She nodded once.
“I meant what I said.”
“I know.”
“I’m not telling her.”
Relief loosened something inside you again.
“But I’m not lying if she asks me.”
“I know.”
“Or if Mapi asks me directly.”
You gave her an exhausted look. This time she actually smiled. Barely. Then it disappeared.
“Figure out what this is.”
You nodded.
“And soon.”
“I will.”
Ingrid opened the door. She stepped into the hallway before pausing. Then looked back at you. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“If you’re trying to keep a secret from one of the most recognizable footballers in the world…” You waited. “…maybe don’t make out with her ex in public.”
You closed your eyes. “Thank you, Ingrid.”
“You’re welcome.”
The door shut behind her. You stood there for several seconds. Silence. Then you locked the door. Turned around. And leaned back against it. Your heart was pounding. You had known this could happen. Of course you had. Brazil wasn’t some magical place where consequences stopped existing just because the ocean was beautiful and Jenni looked at you like you were suddenly someone worth noticing. Someone knew. Someone outside the two of you. The secret had officially become real. You crossed the room and grabbed your phone from the bed. Jenni’s conversation was still open. Her last message sat there innocently.
Good.
You stared at it. Then typed.
We have a problem.
The response came less than a minute later.
What happened?
You swallowed.
Ingrid saw us.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then finally:
Fuck.
--
Jenni called you thirty seconds after sending the message. You stared at her name flashing across the screen. For some reason, answering felt harder than texting. Maybe because text gave you room to hide. A phone call did not. You accepted it.
“Hi.”
“What exactly did she see?”
No greeting. Straight to the point. You closed your eyes.
"She saw everything Jenni. The beach. The kisses. Both of them."
"Okay. She just made this very unexpected"
You fell backward onto the mattress. The ceiling looked exactly as unhelpful as it had that morning.
“She asked me what this is.”
Jenni didn’t respond. Your stomach tightened. You sat up again.
“Jenni?”
“I’m here.”
“She asked if this was just Brazil.” Silence. You hated it immediately. “Say something.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That is apparently everyone’s favorite phrase today.” Jenni laughed softly. It didn’t make you feel better. You looked down at your bare feet. “I didn’t know what to tell her.”
“Okay.”
“Because I don’t know.”
Another pause. You swallowed. “Do you?”
Jenni exhaled slowly. “Can I come over?”
Your heart jumped. “Now?”
“Yes.” You glanced toward the clock. It wasn’t even ten.
“You have things to do.”
“I can move them.”
“Jenni.”
“I’m coming over.”
You sighed. “That wasn’t really a question, was it?”
“No.”
Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth lifted. “Fine.”
“I’ll text when I’m downstairs.”
The call ended. You stared at the screen for a moment. Then dropped the phone onto the bed. This was going well. Really well. Less than twenty-four hours after kissing Jenni for the first time, you had already been confronted by one of Alexia’s closest friends and were now preparing to have a relationship-defining conversation before breakfast had fully settled. Excellent. You stood. Then immediately looked around the room. It was ridiculous, but you started cleaning. You folded the blanket. Moved a glass from the bedside table. Picked up the T-shirt you had thrown over a chair the night before. Then stopped. Why were you cleaning? Jenni arrived twenty minutes later. You opened the door before she could knock. She stood in the hallway wearing sunglasses and a cap pulled low over her face. You stared at her. You closed the door. For a second, neither of you moved. The last time you had been this close to her, her mouth had been against yours. Your eyes betrayed you and dropped to her lips. Jenni noticed. Of course she did. Her expression softened. Then she stepped forward. You put one hand against her chest.
“No.” She stopped.
“No?”
“We need to talk.”
Jenni looked down at your hand. Then back at you. “That serious?”
“Yes.”
You slowly lowered it. She nodded. “Okay.”
You moved toward the small sofa near the window and sat. Jenni took the chair opposite. The distance felt strangely formal. You hated it. Maybe you needed it. For a moment, you stared at each other. Then Jenni spoke.
“I should have thought about people seeing us.”
“So should I.”
“I’m used to being recognized.”
“Jenni.” She stopped. “This isn’t about Ingrid.” Her expression changed. You rubbed your palms together. “She asked me what this is.”
“I know.”
“And I couldn’t answer.” Jenni nodded. You waited. She didn’t say anything. Your nerves tightened. “Do you know how terrifying that silence is?”
“I’m trying not to say the wrong thing.”
“Maybe say the true thing.”
Jenni leaned forward, forearms against her knees. “I don’t know what you want me to call it.”
“I didn’t ask for a label.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
She looked at you. The question hung between you. Finally, Jenni said: “Hurting you.”
Your expression softened despite yourself. “You think not answering is better?”
“This is already going to hurt Alexia.”
The words made Jenni’s jaw tighten. You kept going. “Maybe Ingrid is right. Maybe Alexia sees this as a betrayal. Maybe she stops speaking to me for a while.” Jenni’s eyes stayed on you. “Maybe everything becomes a complete disaster.” You looked back at her. “I need to know I’m not doing all of that for someone who thinks this is fun because we’re in Brazil.”
Jenni’s face changed immediately. “You think that?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“You think I’m using you?”
“I’m saying I don’t know what this means to you.”
Jenni went quiet. You felt tears threaten unexpectedly. You hated that. You blinked them away. “I’ve wanted you for years.” The confession felt different this time. More dangerous. “I spent years telling myself it didn’t matter because you were with Alexia. Then you weren’t with her, but you were gone, so I told myself it still didn’t matter.” Jenni’s expression softened. “And then you show up in a bar and look at me like..”
You stopped. “Like what?”
You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“If this was just about kissing you, I would’ve walked away after the beach.” Your chest tightened. “If it was just attraction, I wouldn’t have asked you for coffee.” You watched her. “If it was nostalgia, I would’ve realized halfway through lunch that we had nothing to talk about and left.” A faint smile touched your lips.
“We talked for three hours.”
“Exactly.”
She turned toward you. “I didn’t want the day to end.” Your throat tightened. Jenni continued. “I liked sitting across from you. I liked hearing about your job. I liked learning what your life looks like when Alexia isn’t standing beside you. And yesterday, when you told me you’d liked me for years… I went back to my hotel and thought about every version of you I remember.”
You looked down. “Please don’t tell me you remembered the sketchbook.”
“I remembered the sketchbook.” You groaned.
Jenni smiled. “But I also realized something.”
“What?”
“I don’t want that version of you.” Your eyes lifted. She held your gaze. “I want this one.” The room seemed to go very still. Jenni’s voice softened. “I want to know you now.” Not Alexia’s little sister. Not the girl who sat quietly at the edge of team dinners. Not someone attached to a memory of her old relationship. You. Your eyes burned. You looked away quickly. Jenni noticed.
“Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I am absolutely not.”
A tear escaped anyway. “Terrible timing.”
Jenni smiled softly. She reached up and brushed it away with her thumb. The tenderness nearly made another one fall. You laughed under your breath.
“This is embarrassing.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep being embarrassed about things that aren’t embarrassing.”
You looked at her. “So what happens now?”
Jenni lowered her hand. “I don’t know. But I know I don’t want to stop.”
That was enough. At least for now. You nodded. “I don’t either.”
Jenni’s eyes dropped to your mouth. This time, you didn’t stop her when she leaned closer. The kiss was brief. Soft. Nothing like the urgency of the beach. It felt less like crossing a line and more like acknowledging one you had already crossed. When she pulled away, your forehead rested against hers.
“You realize we’re fucked,” you whispered.
“Completely.”
You laughed. Jenni kissed the corner of your mouth. “Worth it?”
You pretended to consider. “Ask me after Alexia finds out.”
Her smile disappeared slightly. There it was. The thing neither of you could avoid. You sat back. “I have to tell her.”
Jenni nodded. “I know.”
“What if she hates me?”
“She won’t.”
“You sound very confident for someone who used to date her.”
“That’s exactly why I’m confident.”
You looked at her. “Alexia can be angry.” Jenni paused. “She can be hurt.” Another pause. “But she loves you more than she loves being angry.”
You looked down. “I hope you’re right.”
“I am.”
You weren’t sure whether she actually believed that or simply needed you to. Either way, you appreciated it. Jenni reached for your hand. Your fingers intertwined. The gesture felt almost absurdly normal. You stared at your joined hands.
“I need to call Alba.”
Jenni’s head snapped toward you. “Why?”
You almost laughed at the alarm in her voice. “Because I need advice.”
“From Alba?”
“She’s my sister.”
“She’s going to tell Alexia.”
“No, she won’t.” Jenni looked skeptical. You smiled faintly. “Alba has been keeping our family’s secrets since she was old enough to speak.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It should be.” Jenni sighed. You squeezed her hand.
“I need someone who understands Alexia better than I do right now.”
“I thought you understood her better than anyone.”
“So did I.”
That sentence hurt more than you expected. Jenni’s thumb brushed across your knuckles.
“You want me to stay?”
You thought about it. Then shook your head. “No.” She nodded. No offense. No argument. “I think I need to do this alone.”
“Okay.”
Jenni stood. You walked her to the door. Before leaving, she looked back at you. “Call me after.”
“I will.”
Jenni leaned down and kissed you once more. Quick. Gentle. Then she was gone. You closed the door behind her and stared at it. For the first time since Ingrid arrived, you felt slightly calmer. Jenni wanted this. Maybe she didn’t know exactly what this was yet. Neither did you. But she wanted to find out. That mattered. Now you only had one more problem. Your family. You unlocked your phone. Alba’s name sat halfway down your recent calls. Your thumb hovered. You almost backed out. Then pressed it. She answered after four rings.
“Hello?”
You suddenly forgot every sentence you had rehearsed.
“Hi.”
A pause. “Why do you sound guilty?” You closed your eyes. Of course.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Hypothetically."
Alba sighed. “What did you do?”
You started pacing. “I didn’t do anything.”
“That answer immediately tells me you did something.”
“I need you to promise not to freak out.”
“I’m not promising something before I know what it is.”
You stopped walking. The room suddenly felt too quiet. You lowered your voice. “I kissed someone.”
There was a pause. Then Alba laughed. “That’s it?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You called sounding like you’d committed tax fraud because you kissed someone?”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic?”
“Okay, fine.”
You resumed pacing. “It’s about who.”
Alba went quiet. You could almost hear her thinking. “Are they married?”
“No!”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Do I know them?”
Your silence answered. “Oh God.”
“Alba.”
“Is it one of Alexia’s teammates?”
“No.”
“Former teammates?” You closed your eyes. She stopped. There was a long pause. Too long. Then Alba said very slowly: “No.” You said nothing.
“No.”
“Alba”
“You didn’t.”
You swallowed. “I might have.”
“You kissed Jenni?”
You pulled the phone away from your ear at the volume. “Jesus Christ.”
“You kissed JENNI?”
“Yes!”
“Jenni Jenni?”
You stared at the wall. “How many Jennis do you think are relevant to this conversation?”
“I was hoping there was another one!”
Despite everything, you started laughing. Alba did not. “When?”
“Last night.”
“Does Ale know?”
Your stomach twisted. “No.”
“Oh, you’re fucked.”
“Thank you.”
“You wanted advice.”
“I wanted helpful advice.”
“That was helpful. It accurately described your situation.”
You rubbed your forehead. “Alba.”
Her tone softened immediately. “Okay.”
You waited. “What happened?”
So you told her. The bar. Jenni recognizing you. The coffee. Lunch. Walking around the city. The beach. The kiss. You skipped a few details. Alba interrupted anyway.
“Wait. You went on an entire date with her?”
"Technically, yes."
“And you like her.”
It wasn’t really a question. You looked down. “Yeah. I’ve liked her for years.”
The silence on the other end was different this time. Heavy.
“Years?”
You swallowed.
“Since before they broke up.”
“Oh.”
Your chest tightened.
“Nothing happened.”
“You don’t have to defend yourself to me.”
Your throat tightened.
“I feel like I do.”
“You don’t.”
You sat there quietly.
Then Alba asked: “Does Jenni know?”
“Yes.”
“Does she feel the same?”
You thought about the conversation twenty minutes earlier. “She wants to see where it goes.”
Alba sighed. “That makes this harder.”
“Why?”
“Because if it were one stupid kiss, I could tell you to go home and pretend Brazil never happened.”
You frowned. “Helpful.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“But if this is something…” She paused. “Then you have to tell Ale.”
Your stomach dropped even though you expected it. “You sound exactly like Ingrid.”
“Ingrid?”
You winced.
“Right.”
“What does Ingrid have to do with this?”
“She saw us. At the beach. She came to my hotel and confronted me about it”
“WHAT?! What did she say?”
“That she wouldn’t tell Alexia.”
Alba released a breath.
“But she won’t lie for me.”
“Good.”
“Everyone is very supportive today.”
“I’m not going to tell her to lie to Alexia.”
“I know.”
You stared down at your hands. There was a pause. Then you said: “I don’t understand why this has to be such a big deal.”
Alba didn’t answer immediately.
“They’ve been broken up for years.”
“I know.”
“They’ve both moved on.”
“I know.”
“Alexia doesn’t own her.”
“No one said she does.”
“Then why does everyone keep acting like I’ve done something horrible?”
Alba went quiet. When she spoke again, the humor had vanished completely. “Because you’re thinking about Jenni as Alexia’s ex.”
You frowned. "She was more than that. She was part of our family. Christmases. Birthdays. Sunday lunches. You remember.”
Of course you remembered. You wished suddenly that you didn’t. Alba’s voice softened. “When they broke up, Alexia didn’t just lose a girlfriend.”
You stared at the floor. “She had to learn how to have our family without Jenni in it.” Something uncomfortable settled in your chest. “And now…” Alba hesitated. “You might be asking her to let Jenni back into the family in a completely different way.” You swallowed. You hadn’t thought about it like that. Not once. You had been so focused on the obvious argument. They aren’t together. It’s been years. We’re adults. All true. None of them changed the history.
“Do you think she’s going to hate me?” Your voice came out small. Alba answered immediately “No.” You closed your eyes. “But she’s going to be hurt.”
You nodded even though she couldn’t see. “I know.”
“And you need to let her be hurt.”
That caught you. “What does that mean?”
“It means don’t walk into the conversation expecting her to immediately tell you it’s fine because technically you haven’t done anything wrong.”
You frowned.
“So you think I did something wrong.”
“I think you lied to her.”
Your stomach twisted. “I know.”
“And I think you knew there was a reason you were hiding it.” You said nothing. “But…” Alba continued. “That doesn’t mean you have to stop seeing Jenni.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Tell Alexia the truth.”
You groaned. “That’s everybody’s answer.”
“Maybe because everybody is right.”
“Annoying.”
“I’m the middle sister. Being right while everyone else is dramatic is literally my job.”
You laughed despite yourself. “There she is.”
Alba laughed too. Then her voice softened again. “Tell her yourself. You can’t control how she reacts.” Your chest tightened. “But you can control whether she hears it from her sister or from someone else.”
That settled it. You already knew what you had to do. You had probably known since the moment you lied on the beach. “I’ll tell her tonight.”
Alba was quiet. “You sure?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
You laughed weakly. “What if it goes badly?”
“It probably will.”
“Alba.”
“What? You want me to lie?”
“No.”
“She’s Alexia. She has emotions twice as intensely as normal human beings.”
“That is true.”
“But she loves you.” Your eyes burned again. “And when she’s done being angry, she’ll still love you.”
You swallowed. “You promise?”
Alba hesitated. Then: “Yes.”
You hoped she was right. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
You smiled faintly before hanging up. For several seconds, you sat there staring out toward the morning light. Then you picked the phone back up. Opened Alexia’s messages. Your fingers hovered. Finally:
Dinner tonight? Just us.
The typing bubble appeared.
Of course.
Then:
Everything okay?
Your stomach twisted. You typed:
Yeah.
You stared at the word. Then deleted it. This time, you refused to lie.
There’s something I need to talk to you about.
The typing bubble disappeared. A few seconds passed. Then:
Okay.
Nothing else. No question. No teasing. Just okay. You stared at the screen. You had wanted the secret to stop feeling heavy. Instead, knowing you were finally going to tell Alexia somehow made it heavier. Because by tonight, there would be nowhere left to hide.
-
You nearly cancelled dinner three times. The first time was while standing in front of the mirror, staring at yourself like your reflection might somehow tell you what to say. The second was in the elevator. The third was when you reached the restaurant and saw Alexia already sitting inside. For a moment, you just stood on the pavement. She hadn’t seen you yet. Her attention was on the glass of water in front of her, fingers slowly tracing the condensation along the side. She looked normal. That almost made it worse. You knew this version of Alexia. The quiet one. The one who saved you a seat at family dinners. The one who bought your favorite snacks without asking. The one who sent you photos of things that reminded her of you and pretended there was no sentimental reason behind it. You loved her. You had always loved her. And you were about to tell her something you already knew would hurt. Your phone buzzed in your hand. A message from Alba.
Breathe.
You stared at it. Then another arrived.
And don't start with “don't be mad.” That's basically asking her to be mad.
You locked your phone. Then forced yourself inside. Alexia looked up when you approached. Her expression softened immediately.
“There you are.”
Your chest tightened. “Hi.”
She stood. You hesitated for half a second before hugging her. Alexia noticed. Of course she did. Her arms tightened around you briefly before she pulled away.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie almost came automatically. You stopped it. You shook your head. “Not really.”
Alexia frowned. She gestured toward the chair opposite. “Sit.”
You did. There were already two waters on the table. She had ordered yours. Again. That small detail nearly broke you before the conversation had even started. Alexia watched you silently. You picked up the menu. Immediately realized you couldn’t read a single word. Put it back down.
“You’re scaring me.”
Your eyes lifted.
Alexia leaned forward slightly. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
She stared. You winced.
“That sounded bad.”
“Very.”
You rubbed your palms together beneath the table. “I need to tell you something.”
Alexia’s expression shifted. Concern first. Then calculation. You could practically see her going through possibilities. Work. Family. Someone being sick. You hated that what you were about to say was probably nowhere on her list.
“Okay,” she said slowly.
You opened your mouth. Nothing. Alexia waited. You looked down at your hands. “I ran into Jenni.” Silence. Not dramatic. Not yet. You forced yourself to look up. Alexia’s face had gone completely still.
“When?”
“The other night.”
“At the bar?”
You frowned. “How did you”
“Patri mentioned she was there.”
“Oh.”
Alexia leaned back. Her expression remained unreadable. “And?”
You swallowed. “We talked.”
“Okay.”
“We had drinks.”
Alexia nodded once. You felt your heartbeat pounding against your ribs. “And then yesterday…” You stopped. Alexia’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“What happened yesterday?”
“We met again.”
Silence. “For coffee.”
Alexia stared at you. You kept going. “It turned into lunch.” Still nothing. “And we walked around.”
Her jaw tightened. You noticed. Then: “Why are you telling me this like you’re confessing something?”
Your mouth went dry. Because you were. You looked down. Alexia understood before you said it. You saw the exact second it happened. Her face changed. The concern disappeared. Something colder replaced it. “No.”
Your stomach dropped. “Ale”
“No.” She leaned back farther. “You’re not telling me what I think you’re telling me.”
You couldn’t answer. That was answer enough. Alexia looked away. Her tongue pressed briefly against the inside of her cheek. You had seen that expression before. Usually after a bad call from a referee. Usually when she was trying very hard not to react immediately. You hated being on the receiving end of it.
“Ale.”
“Did you kiss her?” The question was quiet. You swallowed. “Yes.”
Alexia closed her eyes. You felt sick. “When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Once?” You hesitated. Her eyes opened.
“That hesitation was stupid.” You looked down. “No.” A laugh escaped her. Not amused.
“Of course.” You flinched. Alexia looked toward the window. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. The restaurant continued around you. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed at a nearby table. A server passed carrying plates. The normality of it all felt cruel. Finally, Alexia looked back. “You lied to me.”
You knew that was coming. It still hurt. “I know.”
“I asked you where you were.”
“I know.”
“I asked if you were alone.”
Your throat tightened. “I know.”
“And you said yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Alexia shook her head. “No.”
You frowned. “What?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say sorry like that fixes the part where you looked me in the face and lied.”
“I don’t think it fixes anything.”
“Then stop saying it like it does.” Your eyes burned. You blinked quickly. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying you know.” Alexia’s voice rose slightly. Not enough to draw attention. Enough to make your chest tighten. “If you knew, why did you do it?”
You stared at her. “I don’t know.”
“That’s bullshit.”
You flinched. Alexia leaned forward. “You knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That she was off limits.”
There it was. The words landed harder than you expected. You stared at her. Alexia’s eyes were glossy now. Not tears. Not yet. Just hurt she was trying to hold behind anger. You swallowed.
“You’re not together anymore.”
“That shouldn't matter"
“Then why is she still off limits?”
Alexia looked at you like you had slapped her. The silence stretched. You immediately regretted the question. Not because you didn’t believe it. Because you could see exactly how much it hurt. “She was my girlfriend.”
“I know.”
“For years.”
“I know.”
“You knew what she meant to me.”
“Yes.”
“And that wasn’t enough?”
Your throat tightened. “That isn’t fair.”
Alexia laughed bitterly. “Fair?”
“Yes.”
“You’re talking to me about fair?”
“You don’t own her.” Alexia went completely still. The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back. Not because they weren’t true. Because of the way her face fell.
“I never said I owned her.”
“I know.”
“Then why would you even say that?”
“Because you’re acting like I took something from you.”
Her eyes flashed. “You think this is about ownership?”
“I don’t know what this is about!”
The words came out louder than you intended. Several people nearby glanced over. You lowered your voice immediately. “I’m trying to understand.”
Alexia stared at you. Then shook her head slowly. “No.” Your chest tightened.
“You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like this is confusing.”
“It is confusing.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my sister.”
Your throat tightened. Alexia’s voice cracked slightly. “It should have been enough that she was my ex.” You stared at her. She looked away. That hurt more than if she had yelled.
You whispered: “I didn’t choose to have feelings for her.”
Alexia’s eyes snapped back. “Feelings?”
You froze. Too late. Alexia stared at you. “This isn’t just some kiss?” She leaned back again. “Oh my God.”
“Ale”
“How long?”
Your heartbeat spiked. You looked down. “How long what?”
“How long have you had feelings for her?”
You wished suddenly that you had listened to Alba. Don't lead with it. Too late now. You rubbed at your palms. “A while.”
Alexia’s face changed. “How long?”
You couldn’t answer. She knew. You saw it. Her eyes widened slightly. “No.”
Your chest tightened. “Ale…”
“While we were together?” You closed your eyes. The silence told her everything. When you opened them again, she looked devastated. Not angry. Devastated.
“That’s not what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“Nothing happened.”
“I didn’t ask if something happened.”
“I never told her.”
Alexia laughed once. “You keep answering questions I’m not asking.”
“Because I need you to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That I would never have done this then.”
“But you wanted to.”
You froze. There was no safe answer. Alexia looked away. You felt tears finally spill down your cheeks.
“I hated myself for it.”
“Why?”
“Because she was yours.”
Alexia flinched. You shook your head quickly. “Not yours like that. I mean”
“I know what you meant.”
You wiped at your face. “I never said anything. Not to Alba. Not to anyone. Jenni didn’t know until yesterday.”
Alexia looked at you. “You carried this for years?”
You nodded. She laughed quietly, almost to herself. “God.”
Your stomach twisted. “All those dinners.” You stared. “All those Sundays.”
“Ale.”
“Birthdays.”
“Please.”
“You sat there with us.” Nothing you could say would make this better. You knew that now. Alexia pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “You were looking at her like that while we were together?”
“No.” She looked up. You corrected yourself. “I mean… sometimes. Probably. But I never…” Your voice broke. “I never wanted to hurt you.” Alexia stared at you for a long moment. “But you did.”
The words were quiet. You looked down. “I know.” Another silence.
“I’m disappointed in you.”
You stopped breathing. It was worse than anger. Infinitely worse. Alexia had been angry with you before. When you stayed out too late. When you lied to your parents. When you made reckless decisions and expected her to help clean them up. But disappointed? Rarely. Maybe never. You looked at her. She was crying now. Not openly. One tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away quickly. “I can deal with being angry.” Her voice trembled. “I can deal with being uncomfortable.” You couldn’t move. “But this?” She shook her head. “You could have chosen anyone.” Your chest tightened. “Anyone.”
“I didn’t choose this.”
“Yes, you did.”
The words cut. “No, I didn’t.”
“You did.” Alexia leaned forward again. “You chose coffee.” You stared at her. “You chose lunch.” Your throat tightened. “You chose to spend the day with her.”
“Ale”
“You chose the beach.” Her voice cracked. “You chose to kiss her.” Tears blurred your vision. “And then when I called you, you chose to lie.” You looked down. “You chose her every time you had the chance to stop.” The sentence hit harder than anything else she had said. Because she was right. Maybe you hadn’t chosen the feelings. But everything after? You had.
You wiped at your face. “I’m sorry.”
Alexia laughed bitterly. “There it is again.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice rose. “I don’t know what I want from you right now.”
You sat back. For several seconds, you both just breathed. Then something inside you shifted. Not anger exactly. Exhaustion. You had apologized. You had admitted you were wrong to lie. You understood why she was hurt. But you were hurting too. “I’m sorry I lied to you.” Alexia looked up. “I’m sorry I hid it.” You swallowed. “And I’m sorry you found out that I had feelings for her back then.”
Alexia’s expression hardened. “But?”
You nodded faintly. “But I’m not sorry for liking her now.” Silence. “I can’t be.” Alexia stared at you. “I’m not asking you to celebrate it.” You wiped at your cheeks. “I’m not asking you to be okay tonight. But I’m not going to sit here and pretend what I feel for her is something disgusting.”
“I never called it disgusting.”
“You’re acting like it is.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is telling me I should have stopped myself because she used to love you.”
Alexia flinched. You hated that you had said it. But you kept going. “You’re allowed to be hurt.” Your voice shook. “You’re allowed to be angry that I lied.” “You’re allowed to need time.” Alexia said nothing. “But you don’t get to make me feel ashamed for falling for someone you’re no longer with.”
She stared at you. “You’re falling for her?”
“I don’t know.”
Alexia laughed quietly. “Of course you don’t.”
The bitterness returned. You looked back. “I’m trying to figure it out.”
“And I’m supposed to what? Watch?”
“No.”
“Have her at Christmas again?”
Your stomach tightened. There it was. Something different. Alexia looked down at the table. You waited. Her fingers tightened around the napkin beside her plate.
“You keep saying we’ve been broken up for years like that erases everything.”
“I know it doesn’t.”
“Do you?” Her eyes lifted. “Do you know how long it took me to stop expecting her to walk through Mami’s door?” You went still. Alexia continued. “How long it took to stop thinking she would be at Sunday lunch?” Your throat tightened. “How long I kept seeing things and reaching for my phone because she was the person I would have told?” You didn’t speak. Alexia’s voice grew quieter. “I had to learn how to have a life where Jenni wasn’t part of my family anymore.” Tears burned again. “And now…” She looked away. “You’re asking me to make her family again.” That broke something inside you. You had never thought about it like that. Not once. You had thought about jealousy. History. Boundaries. You had told yourself Alexia had moved on. All true. None of it changed what she had just said.
You whispered: “I’m not asking you to do anything right now.”
“But if this becomes something, you will be.”
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
Alexia laughed weakly. “Neither do I.”
A server approached. Both of you went silent. He looked between you, clearly realizing he had arrived at the worst possible moment.
“Would you like to order?”
Alexia looked at the untouched menus. “No.”
You looked up. She stood. Your stomach dropped. “Ale.”
“I can’t do this.”
“Please.”
She reached for her bag. You stood too. “Can we just finish talking?”
“I’m done talking.”
“I’m not.”
Alexia looked at you. For one second, you saw it. The conflict. You were crying. Normally, that would have been enough. Normally Alexia would have crossed the distance without thinking. Pulled you into her arms. Wiped your face. Told you everything would be okay even when she had no idea if it would. This time, she stayed where she was. That hurt more than anything.
“Ale.” Your voice broke. “Please don’t leave like this.”
Her face crumpled slightly. She looked away. “I love you.” You stopped. She swallowed. “You’re my sister.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Of course I love you.” You were crying openly now. “But right now…” She shook her head. “I don’t like what you’ve done.” You stared at her. “I don’t like that you lied to me. I don’t like that everyone apparently knew something was wrong except me.”
“Ingrid didn’t tell anyone.”
“That’s not the point.”
You went quiet. Alexia reached for her jacket. “And right now, I don’t know how to look at you without thinking about every time you could have told me and didn’t.”
Your throat closed.
“I was going to tell you tonight.”
“I know.”
You blinked. “What?”
She looked at your message on the table between you.
There’s something I need to talk to you about.
“I know.” That somehow made it worse.
“Ale…”
“I need time.”
You shook your head. “Please.”
“I need time.” She said it more firmly.
You stopped. There was nothing else you could do. Alexia stared at you for one final second. Then turned. You watched her walk away. Past the tables. Past the host stand. Through the restaurant doors. She never looked back. You remained standing beside the table. The empty chair across from you blurred through your tears. For the first time in your entire life, Alexia had walked away from you. And you had no idea if she was coming back.
-
You stayed at the table long after Alexia left. Long enough that the server came back twice, long enough that the ice in your water melted completely, long enough that the empty chair across from you stopped looking like a chair and started feeling like proof. Proof that Alexia had actually walked away. Proof that you had hurt her badly enough that, for once, love had not been enough to make her stay.
You stared down at the table, your hands shaking as you tried to breathe through the pressure sitting heavily against your chest. It didn't help. The restaurant around you had returned to normal almost immediately. People ate. People laughed. Someone near the bar clinked glasses with a friend. A couple at the table beside you argued quietly over dessert. The world kept moving, and somehow that felt offensive.
You wiped at your face again, but more tears replaced the ones you cleared away. You had known Alexia would be hurt. Everyone had warned you. Ingrid. Alba. Even Jenni, in her own way. You had prepared yourself for anger, for shouting, for accusations. You thought you were ready for all of it. You hadn't prepared for disappointment. You hadn't prepared for Alexia looking at you like she no longer knew who you were, and you definitely hadn't prepared for her leaving.
You picked up your phone, your fingers hovering over Alexia's name. You wanted to call her. Every instinct told you to. You wanted to explain better, apologize better, find some magical combination of words that would undo the last hour and bring your sister back through the restaurant doors. Your thumb hovered over her contact before her final words echoed through your head.
I need time.
You lowered the phone. Calling her would be for you, not for her. You hated that realization. Instead, you opened your messages. Jenni's name sat near the top with two unread messages waiting for you.
How are you feeling?
It had been sent almost an hour ago. The second had come a little later.
You don't have to answer. Just wanted you to know I'm thinking about you.
Your throat tightened again. You locked the phone without responding. Not because you didn't want Jenni. That was part of the problem. You wanted her too much. Right now, hearing her voice would make everything blur together—Alexia, Jenni, guilt, want. You needed someone who belonged to neither side. Someone who would understand what losing Alexia, even temporarily, felt like.
Your thumb found Alba's name. She answered on the second ring.
"Well?"
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Alba went quiet. "Hey." Your throat closed.
"Hey," she repeated, softer this time.
You tried to speak. A broken sound escaped instead, and the concern in Alba's voice sharpened immediately.
"Oh, no. Where are you?"
You covered your mouth with one hand, swallowing hard. "The restaurant."
"Is Alexia still there?"
You closed your eyes. "No."
Silence. Then, "Oh, cariño."
That did it. You bent forward, pressing your free hand against your forehead as the tears came harder. "I messed everything up."
"No."
"Yes." Your voice broke. "I did."
Alba didn't argue, and somehow that almost hurt more. "I told her."
"I know."
"She left."
The last word barely came out. Alba exhaled slowly. "She left the restaurant?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"Okay?" You laughed weakly through the tears. "How is that okay?"
"It isn't. I'm trying to understand what happened."
You wiped at your face. "She said she was disappointed in me."
Alba went silent. You stared at the table. "She said I knew Jenni was off limits. She said it should've been enough that Jenni was her ex." Your voice cracked again. "And then I told her."
"Told her what?"
You hesitated. "That I liked Jenni before they broke up."
Alba inhaled sharply. You squeezed your eyes shut. "I know."
"I didn't say anything."
"But you made the noise."
"That wasn't judgment."
"It sounded like judgment."
"It was surprise."
"You already knew."
"Knowing it over the phone and knowing you said it directly to Alexia are two very different things."
You rubbed at your temple. "She looked at me like I betrayed her." Your voice dropped. "Maybe I did."
"You lied to her."
"I know."
"And you should own that."
"I do."
"But liking Jenni?" Alba paused. "You didn't choose that."
"That's what I told her."
"And?"
"She said I chose everything after." Your chest tightened as Alexia's words came rushing back. "Coffee. Lunch. The beach. The kiss."
Alba sighed softly. "She's not completely wrong."
You stared at the table. "Whose side are you on?"
"Neither."
"That's convenient."
"It's accurate."
You wiped your face again. "I don't need you to tell me she's right."
"I'm not. I'm saying she's hurt, and hurt people usually grab onto the parts of an argument they can control." You went quiet as Alba continued. "She can't control that you had feelings for Jenni. She can't control that Jenni likes you now. But she can point at the decisions you made and say, 'You could've stopped here.'"
You stared down at your hands. "That doesn't mean she gets to decide who you date," Alba added.
"I know."
"It also doesn't mean she has to be okay with it immediately."
"I know."
Alba sighed. "You keep saying that."
"Apparently it runs in the family."
That earned the faintest laugh from her, and you smiled despite yourself. It vanished quickly. "She wouldn't hug me." Alba went silent again. You looked toward the restaurant doors. "I was crying." Your voice became small. "She saw me crying and she just…stayed there." Alba didn't say anything for several seconds. When she finally did, her voice was quieter. "That means she's really hurt."
You nodded even though she couldn't see you. "I know."
"But it doesn't mean she stopped loving you."
"It felt like it."
"I know."
You closed your eyes. "She said she loves me."
"There you go."
"And then said she doesn't like what I've done."
Alba exhaled. "That sounds like Ale."
You almost laughed. "Great."
"I mean it."
"How does that help?"
"Because she separated you from the decision."
You frowned. "What?"
"She didn't say she doesn't like you. She said she doesn't like what you did."
"That feels like a technicality."
"It isn't." Alba paused. "When Alexia is done with someone, she doesn't explain herself."
Your chest tightened.
"She explained because she still cares whether you understand."
You looked down. It didn't make the pain disappear, but it softened something. Just a little."What am I supposed to do now?"
"Go back to your hotel."
"And?"
"Cry."
You laughed weakly. "Fantastic advice."
"I'm serious."
"That's depressing."
"Eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care."
"Bossy."
"Family trait."
You smiled faintly. "And then what?"
"Nothing."
You frowned. "Nothing?"
"Tonight? Nothing."
"But"
"She asked for time."
You closed your eyes. "I hate that."
"I know."
"What if she doesn't call?"
"She will."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do."
"You're very confident."
"I've known her my entire life."
"So have I."
"I had a head start."
You rolled your eyes. "Middle sister superiority complex."
"It's earned."
You shook your head, and silence settled between you. You could hear Alba moving around wherever she was, a cupboard opening, a glass being placed down. Normal sounds. Comforting sounds. You suddenly wished she was there. "I wish you were here."
The words came out before you could stop them. Alba's voice softened. "Me too."
That nearly made you cry again. "I hate being in the middle."
You frowned. "You're not in the middle."
"I'm literally the middle sister."
A laugh escaped you. "Idiot."
"There she is."
You shook your head, but Alba became serious again. "Listen to me."
"Okay."
"You did something that hurt Alexia."
You swallowed. "Yes."
"That doesn't mean you ruined the family."
You stared down. "You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
"Because families survive worse than uncomfortable ex-girlfriend situations."
You groaned. "Please never describe it like that again."
"I'll workshop it."
Despite everything, you smiled.
"You and Ale have spent your entire lives loving each other," Alba continued, and your throat tightened. "One terrible dinner doesn't erase that."
You said nothing.
"But you have to stop trying to solve it tonight."
"I'm not good at that."
"I know."
"I want to fix it."
"I know."
"I want to call her."
"Don't."
You sighed. "Everyone keeps telling me things I don't want to hear."
"That's because you called the sensible sister."
"No one has ever called you that."
"I call myself that."
"Exactly."
You leaned back in your chair. There was one question that had been sitting in the back of your mind since Alexia walked away, one you weren't sure you actually wanted Alba to answer.
"Do you think I should stop seeing Jenni?"
Alba was quiet for longer than you expected. You held your breath. Finally, she said, "No."
Your eyes closed as relief came immediately, followed almost as quickly by guilt for feeling relieved. "You really don't?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because then you'll resent Alexia." You frowned.
"And eventually you'll resent yourself." Alba paused. "Also, if Jenni makes you happy, I don't think you should throw that away just because it makes things uncomfortable."
Your throat tightened. "But?"
"But you need to understand that choosing Jenni doesn't happen in a vacuum." You nodded slowly.
"You don't get the romance without the consequences."
"That sounds unfair."
"It probably is."
You laughed softly. "Very inspiring."
"I'm not trying to inspire you."
"Clearly."
She sighed. "You need to give Alexia time to decide what her relationship with all of this looks like."
"All of this?"
"You. Jenni. Her history. Our family."
You swallowed.
"And you need to let her arrive at that without pushing her."
You looked down. "What if where she arrives is that she can't accept it?"
Alba hesitated before answering. "Then we deal with that if it happens."
"We?"
"Yes, we."
Your eyes burned. "You're not getting rid of either of us that easily."
You smiled through fresh tears. "Thank you."
"Stop crying."
"You just made me cry."
"Then cry quieter. I'm trying to sound wise."
You laughed, and this time it felt real. Small, but real. A server approached the table again, and you covered the phone briefly. "I'm leaving," you told him. He nodded politely.
You gathered your bag. "Alba?"
"Still here."
"Can you stay on the phone?"
"Yeah."
You stood. "You don't have anything to do?"
"Nothing more important."
You pressed your lips together. "Okay."
You walked out of the restaurant with Alba still talking in your ear. She filled the silence, telling you about something ridiculous your mother had done earlier, complaining about a neighbor, asking whether you still had the ceramic bird. You laughed when she demanded photographic proof. By the time you reached your hotel, your breathing had settled. The ache remained. It probably would for a while. But you no longer felt like you were drowning in it.
"I think you should come home" Alba asked.
"Really."
"Yes. It'll give Alexia her space while she focuses on her national team and you time to breathe"
"I'll book a flight in the morning."
You sat on the edge of the bed. There was a pause.
"Alba?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
Her voice softened. "I love you too."
You swallowed.
"And she loves you."
Your eyes closed.
"I know."
"Remember that part."
"I'll try."
"Goodnight."
"Night."
The call ended, and the room became quiet again.
You stared at the phone in your hand. There were more messages now. Your mother had sent a photo. Patri had asked whether you wanted to join everyone later. And Jenni had texted again.
I'm here if you need me.
You read it once. Then twice. Your chest tightened. You wanted to call her. You wanted her arms around you. You wanted to hear her tell you Alexia would come around. But that felt wrong somehow. Not because Jenni had done anything wrong, but because Alexia's pain deserved to exist without you immediately covering it with Jenni's comfort. So you sat there alone. You changed into pajamas, washed your face, and stood under the shower longer than necessary. When you finally climbed into bed, the room was dark except for the glow from your phone.
You opened Alexia's messages. Nothing. You stared at the last exchange.
There's something I need to talk to you about.
Okay.
It felt like it belonged to a different lifetime. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
I'm sorry.
You deleted it.
I love you.
You deleted that too.
You knew she knew. You knew she needed space. For once, you respected it. You backed out of the conversation and opened Jenni's instead.
I'm here if you need me.
You stared at the message for a long time before you started typing.
It went badly.
You paused. Deleted it. Tried again.
She knows.
You deleted that too. None of it felt right. Finally, you typed the only sentence that did.
I think I broke my sister's heart.
Your finger hovered over send. For one second, you considered deleting that too. Instead, you sent it. The message delivered. You placed the phone face down beside you.
Outside, Brazil continued glowing beyond the curtains. Music drifted faintly from somewhere along the street. Cars moved below. The world kept going. You curled onto your side and pulled the blanket closer. For years, Jenni Hermoso had been off limits because that was the rule. Because some lines were never supposed to be crossed. You had crossed it anyway. And now, for the first time, you understood that crossing a line didn't mean it disappeared behind you. Sometimes it followed you. Sometimes it split the people you loved onto opposite sides. And sometimes, no matter how badly you wanted to fix it, all you could do was wait and hope someone eventually found their way back across.
Your first morning at London City Lionesses was supposed to feel like a clean slate. That was the whole point.
A new badge. A new training ground. A new changing room full of people who didn’t know every mistake you had ever made in an Arsenal shirt or every argument you had ever gotten into during training. You had spent weeks telling yourself that the move was exactly what you needed, that leaving North London wasn’t running away from anything but moving toward something better. More minutes. A different challenge. A chance to stop feeling like you were waiting around for your career to begin. You believed all of that right up until the second you walked into the changing room and heard a voice you knew far too well.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
You stopped dead. No. Absolutely not. There was no way. Slowly, you turned toward the sound. Freya Godfrey was standing two rows of lockers away with one hand resting on the open door of hers, staring at you like you had personally broken into the building just to ruin her morning. For several seconds, neither of you said anything. Then you exhaled.
“Oh, fuck off.”
Freya’s eyebrows shot up.
“You’re the one who’s just walked into my changing room.”
“Your changing room?”
“Yes.”
“You own it now?”
“More than you do. You’ve been here about thirty seconds.”
You dropped your bag onto the bench beside the locker with your name already printed above it and turned fully toward her.
“I didn’t even know you were here.”
Freya looked offended.
“That’s embarrassing for me, considering the club announced it.”
“Sorry I don’t follow your career, Godfrey.”
Her mouth twitched.
“You follow me on Instagram.”
“I follow everyone.”
“You liked my post last week.”
You froze for half a second. Freya noticed immediately. Of course she did.
“That was an accident.”
“At two in the morning?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you know what time I liked it?”
Now it was Freya’s turn to hesitate. You smiled slowly. “Interesting.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
A laugh came from somewhere behind you. You glanced over and found one of your new teammates standing near the doorway, looking between you and Freya with the kind of expression usually reserved for watching two strangers argue in public.
“Do you two know each other?”
“No,” you and Freya answered at exactly the same time.
The teammate blinked. You pointed at Freya. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Freya nodded toward you. “She used to annoy me at Arsenal.”
“You started half of it.”
“You nutmegged me once and talked about it for three months.”
“Because it was funny.”
“It was training.”
“That somehow made it funnier.”
The teammate looked between you again. “Right.” She turned and walked away. Freya watched her go before looking back at you.
“You’re going to scare everyone off on your first day.”
“You literally greeted me by swearing.”
“Because you’re here.”
“Nice to see you too.”
Freya rolled her eyes, but there was something different about it this time. Something almost familiar. Comfortable. You ignored that. You had plenty of other things to worry about. You and Freya had never gotten along at Arsenal. There wasn’t some dramatic origin story behind it. No betrayal. No horrible argument. No moment where one of you had decided the other was suddenly the enemy. You had simply met and immediately irritated each other. Freya thought you were arrogant. You thought Freya had an opinion about absolutely everything. She thought you celebrated too much when you won training games. You thought she became unbearably smug whenever she scored. If you were placed on opposite teams, every challenge became slightly harder than it needed to be. If you were on the same team, you somehow spent more time arguing about positioning than actually playing. Everyone knew. Katie had once seen the two of you walking toward the same drill and muttered, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” before anything had even happened. Beth stopped putting you beside each other at team dinners because apparently watching two grown women argue over whether pineapple belonged on pizza had been “exhausting.” Leah had tried exactly once to mediate one of your training-ground arguments. She never tried again. And yet, when you left Arsenal, something had felt strange. Quiet. You had told yourself it was just the normal adjustment of leaving a club you had known for years. You absolutely had not thought about the fact that there was suddenly nobody waiting by your locker to complain about your music. You had not noticed that nobody texted you after matches specifically to say your first touch had been terrible, even when it hadn't. You definitely had not found yourself scrolling past Freya’s name more than once and wondering whether sending her something would be weird. And if you happened to still follow her Instagram closely enough to like something at two in the morning, that was nobody’s business. Especially not hers.
Your first London City training session started with introductions, a short meeting and a tour you only half needed because you were still trying to process the fact that somehow, against all odds, you had once again ended up sharing a dressing room with Freya Godfrey. You should have found it irritating. You did find it irritating. Mostly. But when you walked out onto the pitch and realized you had no idea where the GPS vests were kept, Freya appeared beside you without a word and pointed toward a container near the bench. You glanced at her.
“I knew that.”
“Clearly.”
“Was just testing you.”
“Obviously.” She walked away.
Five minutes later, you couldn't find where you'd left your water bottle. Freya kicked one toward you. You trapped it beneath your boot.
“That’s not mine.”
“I know.”
You looked at her. She shrugged.
“Use it.”
You stared for a second longer before picking it up. “Thanks.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
You almost smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Training itself was easier than you expected. New systems always took time, but football was football, and the nerves that had been sitting in your stomach since breakfast disappeared the second the ball started moving. You were sharp. Aggressive. Confident. You wanted the coaches to see immediately why the club had brought you in. Apparently, so did Freya. Because halfway through a possession drill, you realized she kept finding you. Not intentionally. At least, you didn’t think so. But every time you moved into space, the ball seemed to arrive at your feet. You returned the favor without thinking. One touch. Two. Back to her. She turned. Found you again. It was irritating how natural it felt. You had spent years arguing about each other’s football at Arsenal, yet somehow you'd always known exactly where the other would be.
“Again!” one of the coaches called.
The drill restarted. Freya received the ball under pressure and slipped it inside to you. You took one touch and played it back around the defender. Freya broke into space.
“Go!”
She pushed forward. You followed. Seconds later, she cut the ball across the area. You finished first time. Goal. You turned automatically. Freya was already looking at you. For one second, neither of you said anything. Then she smirked.
“Lucky.” You laughed.
“Assist was average.”
“There she is.”
“You missed me.”
Her expression changed for the smallest moment. Barely anything. Then she rolled her eyes. “Keep dreaming.” The drill restarted before you could answer. But you spent the next several minutes thinking about that hesitation.
By lunchtime, you had learned three things. The food was better than you expected. Your new teammates were easy enough to get along with. And somehow, despite having an entire dining room available, the only empty chair was beside Freya. You stood there with your tray. She looked up.
“No.”
You frowned. “What?”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Standing there like you’re deciding whether sitting beside me will kill you.”
“I was actually considering eating outside.”
“It’s raining.”
You glanced toward the windows. Of course it was. Freya nudged the empty chair out with her foot. “Sit down.” You hesitated just long enough to annoy her. “Oh my God, just sit.” You did.
“Bossy.”
“You’ve known that for years.”
That was true. Conversation around the table moved easily. Training. Upcoming fixtures. Restaurants nearby. Which player had already lost something important in the new building. You mostly listened. Then someone asked how you were finding London City so far.
“Good,” you said. “Different.”
Freya looked at you. “Better?”
You knew exactly what she was asking. Better than Arsenal? You shrugged. “Ask me in a month.”
Someone across the table looked between you.“You two really played together before?” Freya snorted. “Unfortunately.” You nudged her shin with your foot beneath the table. She kicked you back. Harder. You glared. She smiled sweetly. The teammate laughed.
“I can tell you missed each other.”
You nearly choked on your drink. Freya immediately said, “No.” You answered at the same time. “Absolutely not.”
There was a pause. Then the entire table started laughing. You looked at Freya. She looked at you.
“This is your fault,” you muttered.
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Good argument.”
“Shut up.” Her smile widened.
And the annoying thing was that you were smiling too. The rest of the day passed quickly. Media. Recovery. Another short meeting. By the time you returned to the changing room, most of the team had already left. Your body ached in the satisfying way it always did after a good first session, and for the first time all day, you finally let yourself breathe. You sat on the bench and began unlacing your boots. This had been the right decision. You could feel that already. The club felt good. The football felt good. Even the changing room felt easier than you had expected. A shadow passed in front of you. You looked up. Freya had her bag over one shoulder. She stopped.
“You played well today.”
You stared at her. Freya frowned. “What?”
“Are you ill?”
“Never mind.”
“No, wait.” She turned away. You grinned.
“Say it again.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I want to record it.” Freya continued toward the door.
“Freya.” She held up one hand without turning around.
“Goodbye.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“Fuck off.” You laughed.
Freya reached the doorway. Then she stopped. For a second, she looked back. The teasing expression had faded.
“Seriously,” she said. “You looked good out there.”
Something in your chest shifted. Small. Unexpected. You looked down at the boot in your hands. “Thanks.” Freya nodded. Then she left. You sat there alone for another moment. The changing room was quiet. Your new shirt hung inside the locker in front of you. Blue. Different. Everything was supposed to be different now. New club. New teammates. New start. And yet somehow, the person who had spent years driving you completely insane had followed you straight into it.
You should have been annoyed. Instead, you found yourself staring at the doorway Freya had disappeared through with a smile you couldn't quite explain. Maybe starting over didn't have to mean leaving everything familiar behind.
-
By the end of your first week at London City, you had discovered something deeply inconvenient. Freya Godfrey was making everything easier. You hated that. Not enough to want her to stop, apparently, but enough that you refused to acknowledge it out loud.
The first few days at a new club were always strange. You knew how to play football. You knew how to train. You knew how to walk into a changing room and introduce yourself to people you had played against countless times but never actually spoken to for longer than ninety minutes. It was everything around football that took time. Where everyone sat at breakfast. Which door led to the treatment room instead of the analysts' office. Which member of staff would happily make you another coffee and which would give you a lecture about hydration first. Which teammates wanted silence before training and which seemed physically incapable of experiencing it. Those were the things nobody put in a welcome pack. And somehow, Freya kept being there for all of them. She never made a big deal out of helping you. That would've been easier.
Instead, she'd simply catch you looking confused and tilt her head toward whichever corridor you were supposed to take. She'd save you a seat during meetings without acknowledging she'd done it. When everyone started leaving for lunch and you didn't know whether you were supposed to follow, Freya would appear beside you and mutter, “Come on, idiot,” before walking away like it was completely normal. It wasn't. Nothing about this version of you and Freya felt normal.
At Arsenal, you'd gone out of your way to irritate each other.
At London City, you were still irritating each other.
Except now Freya was also the first person you looked for when you entered a room. You weren't sure when that started. You weren't particularly interested in finding out.
“Why are you staring at me?” You blinked. Freya was sitting across from you at breakfast.
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
“I was looking behind you.” She glanced over her shoulder. There was a wall. Freya turned back slowly. “Fascinating wall?”
“Very.”
“Anything interesting happen?”
“Paint dried.”
She stared at you. You took another bite of toast. Freya shook her head.
“You're weird.”
“And yet you sat with me.”
“You sat with me.”
“You were already here.”
“And you chose this table.”
You stopped chewing. Freya smiled. “Interesting.”
“Don't.”
“Didn't say anything.”
“You didn't have to.”
Her smile widened. You looked down at your breakfast before she could see yours. That was another problem. You were smiling around Freya far too much lately. The real trouble started on Tuesday. Your car wouldn't start. You discovered this at seven fifteen in the morning, standing outside your temporary apartment with your training bag over one shoulder and your keys in your hand while your engine made a noise that sounded expensive. You tried again. Nothing.
“Brilliant.” You rested your forehead against the steering wheel.
Your apartment was still temporary because the place you'd actually rented wouldn't be available for another two weeks. Half your belongings were in boxes. You hadn't figured out which supermarket you liked yet. Your Wi-Fi worked whenever it felt like it. And now your car was dead. Perfect. You pulled out your phone. There were plenty of people you could call. Club staff. One of your new teammates. A taxi. Instead, your thumb hovered over one name. You stared at it. Absolutely not. You scrolled away. Then back. No. You opened a taxi app. Twenty-eight minutes. Training started in forty-five.
“Fuck.”
You went back to your contacts.
Freya Godfrey
You pressed call before you could talk yourself out of it. She answered on the fourth ring.
“If this is about the Instagram like again, I've already accepted your apology.”
You closed your eyes. “Good morning to you too.”
“Why are you calling me at seven seventeen in the morning?”
“My car won't start.”
Silence. “And?”
Your mouth fell open.
“You're such an arsehole.”
Freya laughed.
“Where are you?”
You gave her the address.
“I'll be there in ten.”
The line went dead. You stared at your phone. No complaining. No dramatic sigh. She hadn't even made you ask. Exactly eleven minutes later, Freya's car pulled up. You climbed into the passenger seat.
“Eleven minutes.”
She looked at you. “What?”
“You said ten.”
“Get out.” You laughed and shut the door.
“Thank you.”
Freya started driving. “Don't mention it.”
“I won't.”
“I mean that literally. If anyone asks, you walked.”
“Embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“Deeply.” You smiled and looked out the window.
For a few minutes, the drive was quiet. Comfortable. That was becoming increasingly common too. You'd never realized you and Freya could exist in silence without wanting to fill it with some ridiculous argument. Her music played softly through the speakers. Rain tapped against the windows. Freya drove with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. You glanced toward her. Then away.
“Stop staring at me.”
Your head snapped around. “I wasn't.”
“You really need a new lie.”
“You weren't even looking.”
“I could feel it.”
“You're insufferable.”
“Yet here you are in my car.”
“Against my will.”
“You called me.”
“Moment of weakness.”
Freya smiled. Then, quieter, she asked, “You settling in okay?”
The question surprised you. You looked at her. She kept her eyes on the road. “Yeah.”
“Actually?” You hesitated. “Mostly.”
Freya nodded like she understood what you weren't saying. “It's weird.”
“What?”
“Leaving Arsenal.”
Your chest tightened slightly. You looked out the window again. “Yeah.”
You hadn't talked much about leaving. Not with Freya. Not really with anyone. It had been your decision. You knew that. You needed more minutes and a different environment. You wanted a club where you weren't constantly wondering whether you'd be starting at the weekend. But knowing you'd made the right decision didn't mean leaving had been easy.
“It was home for a long time,” you said.
Freya's fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel. “Yeah.”
You looked at her. Something about her expression had changed. “You missed me.”
There it was. You couldn't resist. Freya immediately scoffed.
“We were having a nice moment.”
“So you admit it was nice?”
“I regret picking you up.”
“You missed me.”
“I missed having someone to beat in training.”
“That's basically a declaration of love from you.”
Freya nearly swerved. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed. “Relax.”
“Never say that again.”
“What? Love?”
“Especially not while I'm driving.”
You stared at her for a second. There was a faint pink tint spreading across her cheeks. Interesting. Very interesting. You smiled to yourself. Freya noticed. “Whatever you're thinking, stop.”
“Wasn't thinking anything.”
“Liar.”
You turned toward the window again. Maybe. Your car remained at the garage for three days.
Which meant Freya drove you to training for three days. And home. And apparently, somewhere during those journeys, the two of you developed a routine. Freya arrived at seven twenty. You came downstairs at seven twenty-five. She complained. You ignored her.
On Wednesday, she handed you a coffee as soon as you got into the car. You stared at it. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you looking at it like I've poisoned you?”
“You remembered my order.”
Freya's expression went blank. “No, I didn't.”
You looked at the cup. Exactly how you took it. “You absolutely did.”
“It's coffee.”
“With oat milk.”
“Lucky guess.”
“And two sugars.”
Freya started driving. “Coincidence.”
You smiled. “Freya.”
“What?”
“That's cute.”
She slammed on the brake at a red light slightly harder than necessary. “Take that back.”
“No.”
“I'll throw the coffee out the window.”
“You bought it for me.”
“I'm already regretting it.”
You took a sip. “Perfect too.”
“I hate you.”
You smiled into the cup. “Sure.”
On Thursday, you brought her one. Freya climbed into the car, looked at the cup you held toward her, and went quiet. “What's this?”
“Poison.”
She took it. “Finally.”
“You're welcome.”
Freya looked at the label. Her exact order. Her eyes moved back to you. “You remembered.”
You shrugged. “Lucky guess.”
She stared. You grinned. “Coincidence.”
“You're so annoying.”
But she drank it. All of it. The rest of the team noticed the change before either of you acknowledged there was one. It happened after training on Thursday. The coaches had paired you and Freya together again during a small-sided game, which had resulted in the two of you combining for three goals while simultaneously arguing for approximately the entire session.
“Make the run earlier!”
“I made the run!”
“You were late.”
“Your pass was shit.”
“My pass was perfect.”
“It was behind me!”
“You scored!”
“Because I'm talented!”
“Debatable.”
By the time the whistle blew, both of you were laughing. One of your teammates walked past and shook her head.
“You two are exhausting.”
Freya frowned. “What did we do?”
“Do you actually like each other?”
“No,” you answered.
“Yes,” Freya said at the same time.
You turned toward her. She froze. There was a beat of silence. Then Freya recovered. “As teammates.”
You stared at her. “Right.”
“Obviously.”
“Of course.”
Your teammate looked between you. “Sure.”
She walked away. You turned back to Freya. “You like me?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“You said it.”
“As a teammate.”
“Still counts.”
“No, it doesn't.”
“You've never said that before.”
Freya started walking toward the changing room. You followed. “Should I mark the date?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Maybe get it tattooed.”
“Y/N.”
“Freya likes me.”
She spun around. You nearly walked into her. For a moment, the two of you were much closer than you'd intended. The joke disappeared. Freya's eyes dropped toward your mouth. Just for a second. Your stomach flipped. Then she stepped back. “Barely.” She walked away. You didn't follow immediately. Because suddenly the joke didn't feel quite as funny.
Friday brought a different problem. Her name was Lauren. You had met her during your first week, but you hadn't spent much time together until the coaches paired you during gym work. Lauren was easy to talk to. Funny. Confident. And apparently interested in you. You didn't realize that last part until she was standing beside you after training, leaning against the counter while you filled your water bottle.
“So,” she said.
You looked over. “So?”
“Are you doing anything tomorrow?”
“Sleeping.”
She laughed. “After sleeping.”
“Probably more sleeping.”
“Exciting life.”
“I'm an athlete.”
“So am I.”
“Then you should understand.”
Lauren smiled. “I was going to ask if you wanted to get a drink.”
You paused. “Oh.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That's usually not a promising response.”
“No, sorry. I just wasn't expecting it.”
“Is that a no?”
You considered it. Lauren was attractive. You liked talking to her. There was absolutely no reason you shouldn't go. “No,” you said. “It's not a no.”
Her smile returned. “Good.”
“Maybe one drink.”
“I'll take it.”
“Saturday?”
“Saturday.”
“Done.”
“Perfect.”
You smiled. Then noticed someone standing in the doorway. Freya. Her expression was completely neutral. Too neutral.
“How long have you been standing there?” you asked.
“Long enough.”
Lauren glanced between you. “I'll text you the place.”
“Sounds good.”
She walked past Freya. Freya moved aside without saying anything. You screwed the lid onto your bottle.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That face isn't nothing.”
“What face?”
“The one you're making.”
Freya walked toward her locker. “I'm not making a face.”
You followed. “You're definitely making a face.”
“Congratulations on your date.”
The way she said date made you stop. “It's a drink.”
“Same thing.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don't.”
You stared at her back. Freya shoved something into her bag with slightly more force than necessary.
You smiled slowly. “Are you jealous?”
Freya turned around so quickly you nearly laughed. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I absolutely am not.”
“You look jealous.”
“What does jealous look like?”
“You, apparently.”
Freya stared at you. Then laughed, but there was nothing particularly convincing about it. “Don't flatter yourself.”
“That's your favorite line when you're lying.”
“I'm not lying.”
“Okay.”
You held up your hands. “Whatever you say.”
Freya zipped her bag. Hard. “She's annoying.”
You blinked. “Lauren?”
“Yes.”
“You've known her longer than I have.”
“Exactly.”
“And?”
“And she's annoying.”
“Why?”
Freya opened her mouth. Nothing came out. You waited. “Well?”
“She just is.”
You laughed. “Fantastic argument.”
“I don't need an argument.”
“You spoke to her for thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds too long.”
Your smile disappeared. There was something beneath Freya's irritation now. Something you couldn't quite place. “Freya.”
“What?”
“Seriously. What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
She lifted her bag onto her shoulder. “I said nothing.” Then she walked toward the door. You watched her go.
“Are you still driving me home?”
Freya stopped. For one horrible second, you wondered whether she'd say no. Instead, she sighed. “Yes.”
You smiled. “Thought you hated me.”
She looked over her shoulder. “I do.”
There was no bite behind it. Not anymore. You followed her outside. The drive home was quieter than usual. Freya kept both hands on the wheel. You watched the city pass outside. Neither of you mentioned Lauren. Neither of you mentioned the way Freya had reacted. But the question had already lodged itself inside your head. Because Freya could call Lauren annoying as many times as she wanted. She could insist she didn't care. She could keep saying she hated you until both of you were old and grey. It wouldn't change what you'd seen. And it definitely wouldn't explain why, when Freya pulled up outside your apartment and you reached for the door, she suddenly said your name.
“Y/N.”
You turned. Freya looked like she wanted to say something. For once, you didn't tease her. “What?”
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Then she shook her head.
“Nothing.”
You waited. She didn't continue. “Okay.”
You opened the door. “See you Monday.”
“Yeah.” You stepped out. Before closing it, you leaned down. “And Freya?”
She looked at you. “You're terrible at being jealous.”
Her mouth fell open. You slammed the door before she could respond. Freya immediately lowered the window. “Fuck off!”
You laughed as you walked toward your building. “Have a good weekend!”
“I hope your date is shit!”
You stopped. Slowly, you turned around. Freya froze behind the wheel. You grinned. She realized what she'd just said. “Not jealous, though?”
“Shut up!”
You laughed all the way to the entrance. But when you got inside and the door closed behind you, your smile slowly faded. Because something had changed. You could feel it. Whatever existed between you and Freya wasn't the same thing you'd had at Arsenal anymore. Maybe it never had been. And for the first time, you found yourself wondering whether all those years of arguing had been hiding something neither of you had been brave enough to name.
-
Your date with Lauren was fine. That was the problem. There was nothing objectively wrong with it. The bar she'd picked was nice, the drinks were good, and Lauren was exactly as easy to talk to outside of training as she'd been inside it. She made you laugh. She asked questions. She didn't spend the entire evening talking about football, which was always a bonus when your entire life already revolved around it. You should have been having a good time. Technically, you were. Except every few minutes, your phone lit up on the table beside you, and every single time it did, some stupid part of you hoped it was Freya. It never was.
By the time Lauren went to the bar for another round, you had checked your phone enough times to annoy yourself. Nothing. No message. No stupid Instagram reel. No sarcastic comment about your date. Nothing from Freya at all. You unlocked your phone anyway. Her name was embarrassingly high in your recent messages. You opened the conversation. The last thing she'd sent was from Thursday.
Freya: 7:20 tomorrow. If you're late I'm leaving without you.
You: You say that every morning.
Freya: One day I'll mean it.
You: No you won't x
She hadn't responded to that. You remembered staring at the little Read beneath it and wondering whether adding the x had been too much. Now you wondered why you cared.
“You look disappointed.” Your head snapped up.
Lauren was standing beside the table with two drinks. “What?”
She placed yours in front of you. “Whoever you're waiting to hear from.”
Your stomach dropped. “I'm not waiting to hear from anyone.”
Lauren sat down. “Sure.”
You flipped your phone facedown. “Sorry.”
“Don't apologize.” She smiled, but there was something knowing about it.
You took a drink. Lauren watched you for a moment. Then she asked, “Is it Freya?”
You nearly inhaled your drink. “What?”
She laughed. “That answers that.”
“There is nothing happening with Freya.”
“I didn't say there was.”
“You implied it.”
“I asked a question.”
“Same thing.”
Lauren leaned back in her chair. “You know, everyone thought you two hated each other.”
“We do.”
“Right.”
“We've always been like this.”
“Like what?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Lauren smiled. “Exactly.”
You looked down at your drink. “We played together at Arsenal.”
“I know.”
“We never got along.”
“So I've heard.”
“She drives me insane.”
Lauren nodded solemnly. “Sounds terrible.”
“She is.”
“And you've checked your phone approximately fifteen times since we got here.”
Your eyes widened. “I have not.”
“You absolutely have.” You sighed.
Lauren laughed. “Relax. I'm not offended.”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“Because you're on a date with someone who's apparently incapable of putting her phone down.”
Lauren shrugged. “I asked you for a drink. You agreed. We're having a drink.”
She paused. “And now I'm realizing I may have accidentally walked into whatever the hell is happening between you and Godfrey.”
“There is nothing happening.” Lauren stared at you. You stared back. Then you sighed. “Okay, I don't know what's happening.”
“Better.”
You rolled your eyes. She lifted her glass. “To complicated teammates.”
You reluctantly clinked yours against it. “She's not complicated.”
Lauren laughed. “Sure.”
You didn't kiss Lauren. You could have. At the end of the night, when the two of you stood outside waiting for separate cars, there was a moment where you knew she would've let you. Maybe under different circumstances, you would've wanted to. Instead, you hugged her. Lauren pulled back smiling.
“See you Monday?”
“See you Monday.”
“And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“Talk to Freya.”
You groaned. “You're as bad as everyone else.”
“I've known you a week.”
“Exactly.”
“And it took me about two days to figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
Lauren opened her car door. “You'll get there.”
Then she climbed inside and left you standing on the pavement wondering why everyone apparently understood your life better than you did. Your own car arrived a few minutes later. You got in. And before you'd even pulled away from the curb, you opened your phone. Still nothing. You stared at Freya's name. Then typed.
You: Date wasn't shit btw.
You watched the message deliver. Nothing. A minute passed. Then two. You were about to lock your phone when the typing bubble appeared.
Freya: Didn't ask.
You smiled immediately. Ridiculous.
You: You literally said you hoped it was shit.
Freya: And was it?
You hesitated.
You: No.
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Freya: Good.
You frowned. That wasn't the answer you expected.
Freya: Go to bed.
You: Jealous.
Freya: Goodnight Y/N.
You smiled.
You: Night Freya x
This time, you added the x intentionally. Freya read it. No response. But you went to sleep smiling anyway.
Monday morning should have been normal. It wasn't. Your car was fixed, which meant Freya no longer needed to pick you up. You told yourself that was a good thing. Then you arrived at training and immediately hated it. No coffee waiting in the cup holder. No argument about your lateness. No Freya complaining about your music despite being the one controlling the playlist. You walked into the changing room. Freya was already there. She looked up. You smiled.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
That was it. You stopped. Freya went back to tying her boots. You frowned. No insult. No sarcastic comment. Nothing. You walked toward your locker.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“You don't sound fine.”
“I said I'm fine.”
You stared at her. She didn't look up. Something was definitely wrong. You decided not to push. That lasted until training. Freya barely spoke to you. When the coaches put you on the same side during possession drills, she passed to you when she needed to, but that was it. No comments. No teasing. No unnecessary shoulder barges when you walked past each other. You hated it. Which was ridiculous. You had spent years wishing Freya would leave you alone. Now she finally was. And apparently that was worse.
After training, you found her by the equipment shed. “Did I do something?”
Freya looked up. “What?”
“You've been weird all day.”
“I'm always weird according to you.”
“Not like this.”
She grabbed a bag of footballs. “I'm tired.”
“Bullshit.” Freya's jaw tightened. “Can you not?”
“Can I not what?”
“Do this.”
“I'm trying to figure out why you're pissed at me.”
“I'm not pissed at you.”
“Then look at me.”
She did. Immediately. And there it was. Something raw enough that your irritation disappeared. “Freya.”
“What?”
“Is this about Saturday?”
Her expression closed again. “No.”
“Because if it is..”
“It isn't.”
“The date wasn't”
“I don't care about your fucking date.”
You went quiet. Freya seemed to realize how loudly she'd said it. She looked away.
“Right.” You folded your arms. “You don't care.”
“No.”
“That's why you spent Friday telling me Lauren was annoying.”
“She is.”
“And then told me you hoped the date was shit.”
“I was joking.”
“And now you've ignored me all day.”
“I haven't ignored you.”
“You barely looked at me.”
“Maybe I didn't want to.”
That one hurt more than it should have. You stepped back. “Fine.”
Freya looked at you. “Y/N”
“No. It's fine.”
You turned. Her hand closed around your wrist. You stopped. Neither of you moved. Freya's grip loosened immediately. But she didn't let go. “Don't.”
You looked down at her hand. “Don't what?”
“Walk away.”
You turned back. “Then talk to me.”
Freya released you. For a second, you thought she might. Instead, she shook her head. “I can't.”
You laughed bitterly. “Of course.” You walked away before she could stop you again. Things got worse from there.
By Wednesday, everyone had noticed. You and Freya weren't arguing. Apparently, that was more concerning than when you were. At lunch, one of your teammates finally looked between you.
“Did someone die?”
You frowned. “What?”
“You two haven't insulted each other once today.” Freya continued eating.
You shrugged. “Maybe we've matured.”
The entire table laughed. You glared. “Fuck all of you.”
“There's Y/N.”
Normally, Freya would've added something. She didn't. You looked toward her. She kept her eyes on her plate. You were done. Completely done. If Freya wanted to be angry, fine. But you weren't going to spend another week guessing why. You waited until training finished. Freya disappeared toward the changing room. You followed.
“Freya.” She kept walking. “Freya.” Nothing. “For fuck's sake, Godfrey.”
She stopped. Turned. “What?”
“Outside.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I have recovery.”
“So do I. Five minutes.”
You walked toward the side exit without waiting to see if she'd follow. She did. Of course she did. The second the door closed behind you, Freya folded her arms. “What?”
You stared at her. “Enough.”
“Enough what?”
“This.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you don't know.”
Freya laughed once. “You're the one who dragged me outside.”
“Because you've been acting like I committed some horrible crime since Saturday.”
“I haven't.”
“You have.”
“I don't care that you went out with Lauren.”
“Then why are you angry?”
“I'm not angry.”
“You're fucking impossible.”
“Then leave me alone.”
“No.”
Freya blinked. You stepped closer. “No. I'm not leaving you alone. Because apparently when I do that, you get even more miserable.”
“Fuck you.”
“There she is.”
“Don't.”
“At least you're finally talking to me.”
“You want me to talk?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” Freya dropped her arms. “You want to know why I've been weird?”
“Yes.”
“Because you came here.”
You stared at her. “What?”
“You came here.”
“To London City?”
“Yes.”
“I don't understand.”
Freya laughed, but there was something unsteady about it. “Of course you don't.”
“Then explain it.”
“You left Arsenal.” Your frustration faltered. Freya looked away. “You left, and I thought that was it.”
“What was it?”
“You.” You went still. Freya rubbed both hands over her face. “God, this is fucking embarrassing.”
“Freya.”
“You left and everything got…” She stopped.
“What?”
“Quiet.”
Your chest tightened. That was the exact word you'd used in your own head. Quiet. Freya laughed softly, but she didn't look amused.
“I kept thinking I'd enjoy it.”
“Enjoy what?”
“Not having you there.”
You said nothing.
“No one stealing my things. No one winding me up before training. No one arguing with me about absolutely fucking everything.”
She finally looked at you.
“And I hated it.”
Your heart started beating faster.
“Freya…”
“I'd walk into training and expect you to say something stupid. I'd have a good session and think about what sarcastic shit you'd come up with afterward. Sometimes I'd see something and go to text you before remembering we weren't…”
She trailed off.
“Weren't what?”
Freya stared at you. “I don't know.”
That answer hurt in an entirely different way. Because you didn't know either. Friends? Enemies? Something between? Something neither of you had ever bothered to understand because fighting was easier?
“You could've texted me,” you said quietly.
“So could you.”
“I nearly did.”
Freya's expression shifted. “When?”
“A lot.”
“Why didn't you?”
You shrugged. “Didn't think you'd want me to.”
Freya looked almost offended. “I would've.”
“You spent years telling me you couldn't stand me.”
“So did you.”
“Yeah.”
Silence. Neither of you seemed to know what to do with that. Then you remembered Saturday. “Is that why you cared about Lauren?” Freya immediately looked away. You stepped closer. “Freya.”
“Don't.”
“You were jealous.”
“I said don't.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't want to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This!” Her voice cracked. You froze. Freya stared at you, breathing hard. “Whatever this is. Whatever the fuck we've been doing for years.”
You couldn't speak. She continued before you could. “You drove me insane at Arsenal. Then you left and I missed you. Then you turn up here, and suddenly you're everywhere again, and it's worse because now we're not just fighting all the time.”
Her eyes were shining. “You're in my car every morning. You know my coffee order. You sit next to me at lunch. You smile at me like”
She stopped.
“Like what?”
Freya shook her head. “Forget it.”
“No.”
You moved closer. She stepped back. You followed. “Like what?”
“Y/N.”
“Tell me.”
“Like you like me.” Your breath caught. You stared at her. Freya laughed bitterly. “And then you go out with Lauren.”
“Nothing happened with Lauren.”
“I don't care.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Why?”
“Because you obviously fucking care.”
Freya's jaw clenched. You stepped closer again. “Did you miss me?”
She stared at you. “Don't.”
“Did you?”
“Y/N.”
“Just answer me.”
“You know I did.”
“No.”
Your voice softened. “I want you to say it.” Something changed in her expression. Fear, maybe. Or surrender. You didn't know.
“Freya.”
Her eyes met yours. “Did you miss me?”
She snapped. “Of course I fucking missed you!”
Silence. You stopped breathing. Freya seemed to realize what she'd admitted at exactly the same time you did. She stepped back. You caught her hand. “Wait.”
“No.”
“Freya.”
“This was a mistake.”
“What was?”
“Everything I just said.”
She tried to pull away. You didn't let her. “Look at me.”
“No.”
“Freya.”
She finally did. And suddenly you understood. Not everything. Maybe not even half of it. But enough. All those years at Arsenal. The arguments that lasted longer than they needed to. The way Freya always seemed to find you in a crowded room just so she could complain about something. The messages after matches. The night outs where you'd somehow ended up beside each other despite insisting you didn't want to be. That one night when you'd both been drunk and standing far too close outside a club before Katie appeared and interrupted whatever almost happened. You had spent years calling it hatred because that was easier. Safer. Maybe Freya had too. You stepped closer. She didn't move.
“Did you hate me?” Her eyes searched yours.
“At Arsenal.”
Freya swallowed. “I thought I did.”
“And now?”
She looked down at your joined hands. “I don't know.”
You smiled faintly. “Liar.”
Her eyes snapped up. “Fuck you.”
“There she is.” Freya almost smiled. Almost. You were standing too close now. Neither of you acknowledged it. Her eyes dropped toward your mouth. Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Freya.”
“What?”
“I didn't kiss Lauren.”
She looked back at you. “I didn't ask.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Because I think you wanted to know.” Freya's expression softened. You took the final step. Her breath caught.
“You're so fucking annoying,” she whispered.
“You've mentioned.”
“I mean it.”
“Sure.”
“I hate you.”
You smiled. “No, you don't.”
Freya stared at you. Then, so quietly you almost didn't hear her: “No.” Your smile disappeared. “I don't.”
That was all it took. You kissed her. For half a second, Freya froze. Then her hands grabbed the front of your training top and she kissed you back so hard you stumbled. Years. Years of arguments and insults and pretending suddenly crashed into one moment. You laughed against her mouth when your back hit the wall. Freya pulled away. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're laughing at me?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I'm just thinking about how fucking stupid we are.” Freya stared at you. Then she laughed too. “Very.”
You pulled her back in. The second kiss was slower. Not because either of you wanted it less. Because now you knew it was real. Freya's hands loosened against your shirt. Yours settled at her waist. She leaned into you, and something about the softness of it made your chest ache more than the first kiss had. When you finally separated, neither of you moved far. Freya rested her forehead against yours. “So.”
“So.”
“You kissed me.”
“You kissed back.”
“Didn't say I didn't.”
You smiled. “We are really bad at hating each other.”
Freya's mouth twitched. “Speak for yourself.”
“Oh?”
“I still find you incredibly irritating.”
You kissed her again. Freya smiled against your lips. When you pulled away, you raised an eyebrow. “Still?”
“Deeply.” Another kiss.
“Still?”
“Getting worse.”
You laughed. Freya looked at you for a moment. Then her expression softened. “I really did miss you.” Your chest tightened. You reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “I missed you too.”
“You could've texted.”
“So could you.”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Enjoying the peace.”
You laughed. “Liar.”
“Maybe.”
Footsteps sounded somewhere inside the building. Both of you froze. Freya stepped away so quickly you nearly laughed again. The door opened. One of your teammates poked her head outside. “There you two are.”
You immediately looked anywhere except at Freya. “Yeah.”
She frowned. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Freya answered.
“Perfect,” you said simultaneously.
The teammate looked between you. Your hair was probably a mess. Freya's cheeks were bright red. You were both breathing slightly too hard. Her eyes narrowed. “Right.”
“We were talking,” you added.
“Didn't ask.”
She disappeared back inside. The door shut. You and Freya stared at each other. Then you both started laughing.
“We're fucked,” Freya whispered.
“Probably.”
“What do we do now?”
You looked at her. For once, you didn't have a sarcastic answer. “I don't know.”
Freya nodded. “Okay.”
“But…”
“What?”
You stepped closer again. Her eyes immediately dropped toward your mouth. You smiled.
“I wouldn't mind figuring it out.”
Freya looked at you for a long moment. Then she reached for your hand. Her fingers threaded through yours.
“Yeah.” She squeezed. “Me neither.” You looked down at your joined hands. Something about it felt stranger than kissing her had. More intimate. More real. Freya apparently felt it too because she suddenly released you.
“Okay. We need to go inside.”
You laughed. “Scared?”
“Of you? Never.”
“You're blushing.”
“Fuck off.”
“There she is.”
Freya opened the door. You followed her inside. She made it three steps before stopping. You nearly walked into her.
“What?” Freya turned around. “One thing.”
“What?”
“If you tell anyone I got jealous over Lauren, I'll deny everything.”
You grinned. “Everything?”
“Yes.”
“Even the kissing?”
Her face went red again. “Especially that.”
“Interesting.”
“Y/N.”
“Fine.” You held up your hands. “Your secret is safe.”
Freya narrowed her eyes. “I don't trust you.”
“You probably shouldn't.”
She shook her head and started walking again.You followed. A few feet separated you this time. Enough that nobody looking would immediately know anything had changed. But everything had.You could feel it in the way Freya glanced back at you before entering the changing room. In the smile she tried to hide when your eyes met. In the fact that for the first time since you'd known her, neither of you needed an argument as an excuse to keep looking at the other. Maybe you had never hated Freya Godfrey. Maybe she'd never hated you either. Maybe you'd both just been incredibly bad at recognizing what wanting someone looked like when it arrived disguised as irritation. Whatever it was, one thing was suddenly very clear.
You had known Clara long enough to remember when she still looked slightly overwhelmed every time she stepped into a room full of first-team players.
That version of her had been easy to understand. She had been younger, quieter, still carrying that unmistakable academy-player nervousness whenever she was called up to train with the senior squad. She listened more than she spoke, watched everything, and seemed almost startled whenever one of the older players went out of their way to include her in a conversation. You had always been kind to her. That was all. At least, that was what you told yourself now. Because somewhere between those early training sessions and the woman currently standing across from you with one eyebrow raised, waiting for you to admit you had been staring, something had changed. Clara had changed. And apparently, so had you.
“Are you going to say something?” she asked.
You blinked. “About what?”
“The fact that you’ve been looking at me for the last thirty seconds.”
“I haven’t.” Clara smiled.
That irritating little smile she had started using more often lately. Confident. Knowing. Nothing like the shy teenager you remembered from a few years earlier.
“You have.”
“I was thinking.”
“About me?”
“Unfortunately.” Her smile widened. You immediately regretted answering. The two of you were standing near the edge of the training pitch waiting for the next drill to begin. Around you, the rest of the team was slowly regrouping after a water break, but Clara seemed entirely uninterested in anything happening outside the small space between you. That had become a problem. Clara was becoming a problem.
“You used to be nicer to me,” she said.
“You used to annoy me less.”
“I barely spoke to you.”
“Exactly.”
Clara laughed, bumping her shoulder against yours as she passed. Your eyes followed her automatically. Then you stopped yourself. No. Absolutely not. You looked down at the grass instead. Twenty-seven. You were twenty-seven. Clara was nineteen. That fact had become something of a mantra over the last few weeks. Every time she made you laugh. Twenty-seven and nineteen. Every time she sat too close during lunch. Twenty-seven and nineteen. Every time her hand landed casually on your arm while she spoke and remained there half a second longer than necessary. Twenty-seven. Nineteen. Eight years. It shouldn't have bothered you as much as it did. You had teammates with larger age gaps between them and their partners. Nobody at the club would exactly gasp in horror if you and Clara went for dinner. But nineteen and twenty-seven felt different. It wasn't just the number. You had already lived through the beginning of your senior career. You had made mistakes, changed clubs, lived alone, figured out who you were outside football, dated people seriously enough to understand what you did and didn't want. Clara was only just beginning that part of her life. And you refused to become the older teammate who blurred the line simply because she liked the way Clara looked at her. Even if Clara made avoiding that line increasingly difficult.
“Y/N.” You looked up. Alexia was staring at you from several meters away. “Are you joining us?”
You glanced around. Everyone had already moved into position. Clara stood nearby trying very hard not to laugh. You pointed at her. “Your fault.”
“I didn't do anything.”
“You exist.”
“That sounds difficult for you.”
“You have no idea.”
Her expression flickered. Just briefly. But you saw it. And judging from the tiny smile that appeared afterward, Clara knew you had seen it too. You walked away before you could make things worse. Training had become dangerous lately. Not because Clara was reckless. If anything, she had become one of the more intelligent young players around the first team. Her decision-making had improved, she carried herself differently, and the nerves that once followed her everywhere had mostly disappeared. The dangerous part was that the coaches kept pairing you together. They liked the way you combined. You didn't. That was a lie. You liked it far too much. Clara seemed to know exactly where you wanted the ball before you asked for it. She learned your movements quickly, understood when you wanted her to come short and when you wanted her running beyond you, and had developed an annoying habit of grinning every time the two of you connected particularly well. Halfway through a passing drill, she slipped a ball between two defenders and directly into your path. You took one touch and finished.
“Again!” the coach shouted.
As you jogged back, Clara was waiting. “Good ball,” you admitted. Her eyebrows rose. “Was that a compliment?”
“Don't get used to it.”
“I think I'll write it down.”
“You're becoming unbearable.”
“Becoming?”
You laughed despite yourself. Clara smiled at the sound. And there it was again. That look. You had spent enough time around women to know when someone was flirting with you. Clara wasn't particularly subtle. The problem was that you had been just as bad until three weeks ago. Before you'd properly thought about her age. Before one conversation in the changing room had reminded you exactly how young she was. Clara had been complaining about something Mapi had said when she casually mentioned her upcoming birthday.
“I'll finally be twenty.” You had looked up.
“Oh is that so”
Clara frowned. “Yes”
Your stomach had dropped. You knew how old she was. But hearing her say it out loud is something different. You had been flirting with a nineteen-year-old. Nothing inappropriate had happened. A few jokes. Lingering looks. Coffee together after training twice. But the realization had been enough. You pulled back almost immediately.
Clara noticed within forty-eight hours. Of course she did. “You're avoiding me.” You nearly walked straight into her. Clara was waiting outside the dining room after training, arms folded across her chest.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I've seen you every day.”
“At training.”
“That is generally where teammates see each other.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean.”
You did. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “I've been busy.”
“You stopped getting coffee with me.”
“Maybe I'm cutting back.”
“You had three coffees yesterday.”
You stared at her. “How do you know that?”
“I have eyes.”
You sighed. “Clara.”
Your mouth opened.
She beat you to it. “I'm nineteen, by the way.”
“I know.”
“I'll be twenty soon.”
“Congratulations.”
Her eyes narrowed further. “So you'll like me next month?”
You almost choked. “I, what?”
Clara smiled sweetly. “You heard me.”
“I like you now.”
“As a teammate.”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
You stared at her. She stared right back. There was no nervousness in her expression. No uncertainty. Just Clara. Confident enough to call you on every excuse you made.
You lowered your voice. “You're nineteen.”
“I know how old I am.”
“And I'm twenty-seven.”
“I'm also aware of that.”
“Clara.”
“There you go again.”
“Again what?”
“Acting like eight years is a contagious disease.”
You closed your eyes briefly. “This isn't funny.”
“I don't think it is.” That made you open them. Her teasing expression had disappeared.
“I think you liked me,” she said quietly. “And then you found out exactly how old I was, and now you've decided I'm some kid you need to stay away from.”
Your chest tightened. “You are not a kid.”
“Then stop treating me like one.”
“It isn't that simple.”
“Why?”
Because you wanted her. That was the simplest and most complicated answer you could give. Because if you didn't, none of this would matter. You could laugh off her flirting. Ignore the looks. Keep everything firmly where it belonged. Instead, you had spent three weeks actively avoiding being alone with her because you didn't trust yourself not to fall straight back into whatever had been growing between you before.
“You're at a different point in your life,” you finally said.
Clara tilted her head. “And you've decided that for me?”
“No.”
“It sounds like it.”
“I'm trying to be careful.”
“With what?”
You hesitated. Her. You. Both of you. Before you could answer, voices approached from the dining room. Mapi appeared first, followed by Patri. Mapi looked between the two of you.
“Oh.”
You immediately stepped farther away from Clara. Mapi's eyebrows rose. “Were we interrupting something?”
“No,” you said.
“Yes,” Clara answered at the same time.
You turned toward her. She smiled. Mapi looked delighted. “Interesting.”
“Don't,” you warned.
“I haven't said anything.”
“Your face has.”
Patri laughed and nudged Mapi toward the hallway. “Leave them alone.”
Mapi allowed herself to be dragged away, although she looked back twice. You sighed. Clara was still watching you. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That never means nothing.”
Her smile returned. Then she stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Enough that you noticed. “My birthday dinner is Friday.”
“I know.”
“You're coming.”
It wasn't a question. “The whole team is coming.”
“That's also not what I asked.”
You stared at her. Clara held your gaze. “You're coming?” You should have said no. You should have invented plans. You should have done whatever was necessary to put some distance between yourself and the woman currently looking at you like she already knew exactly what your answer would be.
Instead, you sighed. “Yes.”
Clara smiled. “Good.”
She walked away before you could change your mind. You watched her disappear down the corridor, already regretting your decision. Friday. Clara's twentieth birthday. One dinner. An entire team around you. There was absolutely no reason that should be a problem. None at all. So why did you already have the feeling it was going to be one?
-
By Friday evening, you had managed to convince yourself that Clara’s birthday dinner was not going to be a problem. You were an adult. She was an adult. You were teammates. Friends, even, although the definition of that word had become increasingly questionable over the last few months. There would be an entire table full of Barcelona players around you, which meant there was absolutely no reason for anything remotely inappropriate to happen. You had repeated some variation of that argument while getting dressed. Then again in the car. Once more while walking toward the restaurant. It worked beautifully. Right up until you saw Clara.
“Fuck.”
The word escaped beneath your breath before you could stop it. Clara stood near the entrance to the restaurant with Jana and Patri, laughing at something one of them had said. She had traded her usual training clothes for a fitted black dress that stopped above her knees, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders instead of pulled back the way you were used to seeing it.
For several seconds, you simply stood there. Twenty. She was twenty now. Somehow that wasn't helping nearly as much as Clara seemed to think it should. Mapi appeared beside you. You hadn't even heard her approach.
“This is going to be fun.”
You tore your eyes away from Clara. “What?”
Mapi was grinning. “Nothing.”
“You're annoying.”
“I haven't done anything.”
“You're thinking something.”
“Am I not allowed?”
“Not when it involves me.”
Mapi laughed and walked toward the others before you could interrogate her further. You followed reluctantly. Clara noticed you almost immediately. Her eyes traveled over you in a way that was anything but subtle, and the smile that appeared afterward told you she wasn't particularly interested in pretending otherwise.
“Hi.”
You stopped in front of her. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.” Clara waited.
You frowned. “What?”
She raised her eyebrows. “What?”
“You look like you want to say something.”
“I already said happy birthday.”
“No.” Her smile grew. “Something else.”
You knew exactly what she wanted. Absolutely not. “You look…” Clara leaned slightly closer. “Yes?” You sighed. “Nice.” Her face fell dramatically. “Nice?”
“You look very nice.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“Twenty years on this earth and all I get is nice.”
Patri laughed beside her. You rolled your eyes. “You look beautiful. Happy?”
Clara's expression changed immediately. The teasing disappeared for just a second. “Yes.”
Your chest tightened. Before you could respond, Jana announced that everyone else was already inside. Saved. You started toward the door.
Clara caught your wrist. “Wait.”
You turned. She glanced toward the small bag in your hand. “Is that mine?”
You instinctively moved it behind your back. “No.”
“Y/N.”
“Maybe.”
Her face lit up. “You bought me something?”
“It's your birthday. That's generally how birthdays work.”
“Give it to me.”
“You can wait.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“Please?”
You stared at her. She clasped her hands dramatically beneath her chin. You lasted approximately three seconds. “Fine.”
Clara grinned as you handed over the bag. She immediately reached inside and pulled out the small wrapped box. The others had started walking into the restaurant, leaving the two of you slightly behind. You were suddenly grateful for it. Clara carefully tore away the paper. Inside was a thin silver bracelet. Nothing extravagant. You had noticed months ago that she always wore the same few pieces of jewelry. Simple things. Silver rather than gold. You had spent far longer choosing the bracelet than you were willing to admit. Clara went quiet. You shifted awkwardly.
“If you don't like it… ”
“I love it.” Her answer came immediately. She looked up.
“You remembered.”
You frowned. “Remembered what?”
“That I only wear silver.”
Your stomach sank. Of course you'd remembered. You noticed far too much about her.
“It wasn't exactly difficult.”
Clara's smile softened. “Put it on me?”
You stared at her. “Seriously?”
She held out the bracelet. “Please.”
You took it. Clara turned slightly and held out her wrist. Your fingers brushed against her skin as you fastened the clasp, and you became painfully aware of how close the two of you were standing.
“There.” Clara looked down at it. Then she wrapped both arms around you. You froze. Only for a second. Then your arms instinctively settled around her waist. “Thank you,” she murmured against your shoulder. “You're welcome.”
She didn't move. Neither did you. The hug lasted a little too long. When Clara finally pulled back, she stayed close enough that you could see the tiny smile forming on her lips. “I'm twenty now.”
You groaned. “There it is.”
“What?”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“Just making sure you noticed.”
“Clara.”
“Does this mean I'm allowed to hug you now?”
“You were allowed yesterday.”
“What about flirting?”
“No.”
“Kissing?” Your eyes widened. “Inside.”
Clara laughed. “You didn't answer.”
“I'm not going to.”
“That wasn't a no.”
You pointed toward the restaurant. “Go.”
Still laughing, Clara walked inside. You waited a few seconds before following. This was going to be a very long night. Dinner started well enough. There were enough people around the table that avoiding Clara should have been easy. Unfortunately, the universe apparently hated you. When everyone settled into their seats, you discovered that Clara was directly across from you. Mapi was beside you. Which was arguably worse. For the first hour, everything remained harmless. Food arrived. Drinks were ordered. Stories were told. Clara was repeatedly embarrassed by teammates sharing increasingly ridiculous memories of her younger academy days. You contributed exactly one.
“You used to hide behind Alexia whenever you came around the first team.”
Clara pointed at you. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I was shy.”
“You once made Alexia ask me where the water bottles were because you were too nervous to speak to me.”
The table erupted. Clara covered her face. “I was sixteen!”
You laughed. “You were terrified of me.”
“I was not terrified.”
“What were you, then?” Clara lowered her hands. Her eyes met yours across the table. “Something else.”
The laughter around you continued. Yours stopped. Clara held your gaze for another second before looking away. Mapi leaned toward you. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure.”
You reached for your drink. “Mind your business.”
“You are my business.”
“That doesn't even make sense.”
“It doesn't need to.”
Thankfully, the server appeared before Mapi could continue. She had been taking care of the table all evening. Friendly, probably somewhere around your age, and increasingly talkative every time she stopped near your side. You hadn't thought much of it. Clara apparently had.
“Another?” the server asked, pointing toward your nearly empty glass.
You smiled. “Please.”
She picked it up. “You know, I keep coming over here and somehow yours is always the first one empty.”
You laughed. “That sounds like an accusation.”
“Maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to keep checking on you.” Your eyebrows lifted slightly. Oh. There it was. You smiled politely.
Across the table, Clara stopped talking. The server returned your drink a few minutes later, placing it in front of you. “Anything else?”
“I think I'm good.”
“You sure?”
Her hand briefly touched your shoulder as she leaned around you to collect an empty plate. “Completely.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
She walked away. You reached for your glass. Mapi made a noise beside you. “Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“She's pretty.”
“Mapi.”
“What? She is.”
You shook your head. When you looked across the table again, Clara was staring down at her plate. The smile she'd been wearing for most of the evening had disappeared. You frowned. “Clara?”
She looked up. “What?”
“You okay?”
“Perfect.”
You knew immediately she wasn't. Before you could ask anything else, Jana pulled Clara into another conversation. You let it go. For now. The server came back three more times. By the third, even you had to admit the flirting was obvious. She asked what you did despite the Barcelona players surrounding you. You explained. She told you she'd never watched much football but might have to start. Mapi nearly choked on her drink. You kicked her beneath the table. The server laughed. Clara didn't. Instead, she became quieter with every visit. She stopped joining conversations unless someone spoke directly to her. She pushed the food around her plate. When you caught her looking at you, she immediately looked away. You knew what was happening. You just didn't want to admit it. Because if Clara was jealous, then the situation between you had officially become something neither of you could keep pretending was harmless. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the lights around the table suddenly dimmed before you could think about it much longer. Everyone started cheering. Clara looked up. The server approached carrying a dessert with two candles shaped like a two and a zero.
“Happy birthday!”
Clara groaned and covered her face as the entire table began singing. You joined in, laughing when she threatened Mapi halfway through the song for singing deliberately off-key. When it finished, Clara leaned forward.
“Make a wish!” Jana called. Clara closed her eyes. You watched her. Just for a second. Then she blew out the candles. Everyone cheered again. The server placed the dessert in front of her before leaning toward you.
“I'll bring some extra spoons.”
“Thanks.”
She smiled at you. Clara noticed. Of course she did. The server walked away. You leaned forward, resting your arms on the table.
“What'd you wish for?”
Clara looked at you. There was something different in her expression now. Something that made the smile disappear from your face. “You know I can't tell you.”
“Why?”
“Then it won't come true.”
You smiled faintly. “Since when are you superstitious?”
Clara glanced toward the direction the server had disappeared. Then back at you. “Apparently it doesn't matter anyway.”
Your brow furrowed. “What does that mean?” She picked up her glass. “Nothing.”
“Clara.” She took a sip. You continued watching her. Finally, she put the glass down and met your eyes.
“Apparently I wished for something I can't have.”
Your chest tightened. Before you could respond, Clara pushed her chair away from the table.
“Where are you going?” She stood. “Bathroom.”
“Clara”
Her jaw tightened.
“I'm allowed to piss without permission, aren't I?”
The table went noticeably quieter. You blinked. Clara turned and walked away. You watched her disappear around the corner. Thirty seconds. That was how long you lasted. Maybe less. You pushed your chair back. Mapi looked up at you.
“Where are you going?” You glared at her. “Don't.” Her lips twitched. “I didn't say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Maybe.”
You started away from the table. Behind you, Mapi called quietly, “Good luck.” You ignored her. The hallway toward the bathrooms was empty. You could already feel your heartbeat getting faster. This was a bad idea. Following Clara when she was angry was a bad idea. Following Clara when she was angry because another woman had been flirting with you was an even worse idea. You reached the bathroom door. For a second, you hesitated. Then you pushed it open. Clara was standing in front of the mirror, both hands braced against the counter. Her eyes lifted and met yours in the reflection.
Immediately, her expression hardened. “Go back to the table.”
You closed the door behind you. “No.”
Clara turned. “Y/N.”
“Not until you tell me what's wrong.”She laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “Nothing's wrong.”
“Bullshit.”
“Go enjoy your birthday dinner.”
“It's your birthday dinner.”
“Exactly.”
You took a step closer. “Clara.”
She looked away. “Go back to your waitress.”
You stopped. There it was. You stared at her. “Is that what this is about?”
Clara's jaw tightened. “No.”
“Clara.”
“She’s probably waiting for you.”
“She’s doing her job.”
Clara laughed bitterly. “Yeah. She seems very dedicated to your side of the table.”
You should not have found jealous Clara adorable. Absolutely not. This was serious. Unfortunately, the tiny smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you. Clara saw it.
“Don't.”
Your smile disappeared. “What?”
“Don't laugh at me.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
“I'm really not.”
Clara folded her arms across her chest. “She’s your age, right?”
The question caught you off guard. “What?”
“The waitress.”
“I have no idea how old she is.”
“Twenty-five?”
“Clara”
“Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”
Your stomach dropped. Suddenly, this wasn't funny anymore. Clara nodded slowly. “Perfect.”
You went quiet. And the hurt that had been hiding beneath her jealousy all evening finally appeared plainly across her face. “Old enough.”
You stared at her. “Clara…”
She shook her head. “No. You wanted to know what was wrong?” Her eyes met yours. “Fine.” She stepped away from the counter. “Let's talk about it.”
-
There was something about the way Clara said it that made you realize there would be no getting out of this conversation. Not that you wanted to anymore. You had spent weeks avoiding exactly this, finding excuses to leave rooms when the two of you were alone, cutting coffee dates short before they could feel too much like actual dates, pretending you didn’t notice the way Clara looked at you because acknowledging it meant acknowledging the way you looked at her too.
Now she stood a few feet away from you in the restaurant bathroom on her twentieth birthday, arms folded tightly across her chest and hurt written plainly across her face.
You sighed. “Okay.”
Clara’s eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
“Okay. Let’s talk about it.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The muffled noise of the restaurant filtered through the door behind you, distant laughter and conversation filling the silence neither of you seemed sure how to break.
Finally, Clara did. “I know how old I am.”
You closed your eyes briefly. “Clara”
“No. You said we’d talk, so let me talk.”
You nodded. She took a breath. “I know I’m twenty. And before you say it, yes, I know I was nineteen yesterday. I know you’re twenty-seven. I can count. I know eight years sounds like a lot right now.”
“It is a lot.”
“To you.”
“To me,” you agreed. “Yes.”
Clara seemed surprised that you didn’t argue further. You continued before she could. “And that doesn’t mean I think you’re a child.”
“It feels like you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why have you spent three weeks treating me like one?”
You looked away. “Exactly.”
“Clara”
“You were different before you found out.”
You couldn’t deny that. “You asked me to get coffee after training. You texted me at night. You sat beside me whenever you could. You flirted with me.”
“I know.”
Her expression faltered. Maybe she hadn’t expected you to admit it. “I did,” you said quietly. “I flirted with you.”
“Then you found out I was nineteen.”
“And I panicked.”
“Why?” You laughed softly, although nothing about this was particularly funny. “Because I thought you were older.”
“By what? Two years?”
“Twenty-one sounded different in my head.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know.” Clara stared at you.
“But it made me actually think about what I was doing,” you continued. “About where you are in your life compared to where I am.”
“I’m your teammate.”
“I know.”
“I have my own career. My own apartment. My own life.”
“I know.”
“Then stop saying it like I’ve just left school.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Her frustration was building again. You stepped closer. “I’m trying to make sure I don’t take advantage of something.”
Clara stared at you. “Something?”
“The fact that I’m older. That I’ve been around the first team longer. That I have more experience with all of this.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “I don’t want you looking back in two years and realizing I should have known better.”
“Known better than what?”
“Getting involved with you.” The hurt that flashed across her face made you immediately regret your wording.
“That's not what I meant.”
“It sounded pretty clear.”
“Clara.”
She shook her head. “No. Because you keep talking about what I might think in two years instead of asking what I think now.”
That stopped you. Clara stepped closer. “If you're worried about the age difference, then talk to me about it. If there are boundaries you need, tell me. If you want to take things slowly, fine.”
Her eyes met yours. “But you don't get to make the decision for both of us and call it protecting me.”
Silence. You stared at her. You had spent weeks telling yourself you were being responsible. Mature. Careful. But Clara was right. You hadn't asked what she wanted. You had simply decided what was best for her and disappeared behind that decision whenever things became uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry.”
Some of the anger disappeared from her face.
“I didn't mean to make you feel like your feelings didn't matter.”
“Well, you did.”
“I know.”
“And I still don't like the waitress.” You stared at her. Clara folded her arms again. “What?”
A laugh escaped you. Her mouth fell open. “Don't laugh at me!”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“You were making an excellent argument.”
“I still am.”
“And then you got jealous again.”
“She was flirting with you!”
“So?”
“So I didn't like it.” You smiled.
Clara glared. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
The words slipped out without thought. Clara went quiet. So did you. The air between you changed instantly. “No,” she whispered. “I don't.” Your smile faded. Clara was close now. Close enough that you could see the rise and fall of her chest. Close enough to smell the perfume you'd noticed the second you saw her outside the restaurant. Close enough that all those carefully constructed reasons for keeping your distance suddenly felt much harder to remember.
Her eyes dropped toward your mouth. Then returned to yours. You swallowed. “What did you wish for?”
Clara blinked. “What?”
“When you blew out the candles.”
Her expression shifted. “That’s what you're thinking about right now?”
“You said it was something you couldn't have.”
“I was angry.”
“You were jealous.”
“I was both.”
“Tell me.” Clara looked away.
“Clari.” Her eyes immediately returned to yours. You stepped closer. “What did you wish for?”
For the first time that night, Clara looked nervous. She swallowed. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, she answered. “You.”
Something inside you broke. Not in a frightening way. Not anger. Restraint. Weeks of deliberately moving away whenever Clara came too close. Weeks of deleting messages before sending them. Weeks of forcing yourself not to look too long, not to touch, not to acknowledge how badly you wanted something you'd convinced yourself you shouldn't. All of it disappeared with one word.
“Fuck it” You closed the distance before you could think better of it. Your hands found Clara's face and you kissed her. There was nothing hesitant about it. Clara made a small startled sound against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, her hands catching at your waist as you moved closer. Every emotion you'd spent weeks swallowing seemed to surface at once, the frustration, the attraction, the jealousy you'd refused to name, the fear, and the simple relief of finally stopping the endless fight against yourself. You pulled back just far enough to breathe. Clara looked as stunned as you felt. Neither of you said anything. Then she whispered, “Do that again.”
You did. This kiss was just as charged, but now Clara was ready for you. Her arms came around you, pulling you closer as your carefully maintained distance vanished completely. You had spent weeks telling yourself touching Clara would make everything complicated. You had been right. You just hadn't anticipated how difficult stopping would be. Clara pulled back slightly, breathing hard.
“Still worried about my age?”
You stared at her. “Really?”
Her mouth twitched. “Bad time?”
“Terrible.”
“Sorry.”
She didn't look remotely sorry. You shook your head, but when Clara leaned toward you again, you met her halfway. And for the next few minutes, every sensible thought you had carried into that bathroom disappeared.
You palmed her ass and Clara let out a small moan. It was like music to your ears. You tapped twice and Clara jumped up on the counter. You stood between her legs and began to attack her neck. “Don’t leave any marks. Our team is still outside.” You kiss from her neck to under her ear. Each kiss she moans. She grabs your back to pull you closer to her. You immediately understood what she was wanting. You pulled back completely and looked at her. “Are you sure?” She nodded. “It’ll be a great birthday gift.”
You pushed her dress up above her waist. Moved her thing to the side and cupped her pussy. She was worked up because she was already wet. The jolt that sent through you was insane. You immediately shove your middle and ring finger inside. The ease of it making you feel wetness hit your own core. Your thumb finds her clit while your other fingers are moving at a decent pace. Clara lets out a loud moan. You slap your hand over her mouth. “Clara you need to be quiet.” She nods and you remove your hand. She grabs your neck and kisses you. Her tongue maps the inside of your mouth. The ecstasy of what she feels is driving her to another world. Your hand on the back of her neck. Fingers shoved all the way inside of her. You are making her look at you while she’s nearing the edge. “You’re about to cum aren’t you? I can feel it coming. God you look amazing.”
Clara’s eyes start to glaze over. Her face red. Her breathing is becoming fast. Her legs locked tight around you. You pull her to the edge of the counter. Sink to your knees. Dive your face straight to her pussy. You latch onto her slit and start sucks. Her legs fly straight up. She grabs the back of your head with both hands and pull you closer to her core. “Oh fuck. Keep going. I’m cumming. I’m cumming. Fuck me. Fuck me. Oh god.”
Reality returned slowly. Not all at once. First came your breathing. Then the awareness of where you were. The locked bathroom door. The restaurant outside. Clara's birthday dinner. Your entire team sitting only a hallway away. And finally, the realization that the woman you'd spent three weeks insisting you needed to keep your distance from was still standing impossibly close to you.
“Fuck.”
Clara blinked. Then her expression fell. Your stomach immediately dropped.
“No. No, not like that.”
“That's generally not what you want someone saying afterward.”
You caught her hand before she could move away.
“Clara.” She looked at you. “I don't regret it.”
“Then why do you look like you're having an existential crisis?”
“Because I probably am.” That got the smallest smile from her. You exhaled shakily and rested your forehead against hers.
“I spent three weeks telling myself I needed to be careful.”
Clara's hands settled at your waist. “And?”
“And apparently all it takes is you saying one word for me to completely lose my fucking mind.”
Her smile grew. “Was it the birthday wish?”
You closed your eyes. “Don't.”
“Good to know.”
“Clara.”
“Sorry.”
She absolutely wasn't. You pulled back enough to look at her. “This is exactly what I was scared of.”
The smile disappeared. “Me?”
“No.” You touched her cheek. “How much I want you.” Clara went quiet. “I don't want that to make us stupid.”
“Speak for yourself.” You gave her a look. She sighed. “Fine.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“We need to actually talk about what we're doing.”
“Okay.”
“Not tonight.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Because tonight has gone so well?”
Despite yourself, you laughed. “Yes, actually.”
Clara smiled. You brushed your thumb lightly across her cheek. “And I'm not taking anything back.”
“Good.”
“But when we're not hiding in a restaurant bathroom while our entire team waits for us, we're having a proper conversation.”
Clara nodded. “Okay.”
“And we're going slowly.”
She stared at you. You stared back. Then both of you looked around the bathroom. Clara started laughing first. You followed seconds later.
“Okay,” she managed. “Maybe we should start going slowly tomorrow.”
“That would probably be best.” You kissed her once more. Different this time. Slow. Deliberate. No explosion of everything you'd been suppressing. Just Clara. When you pulled away, you smiled.
“Happy birthday, Clari.”
Her expression softened. “Best birthday ever.”
“You're ridiculous.”
“And you're twenty-seven.”
“Don't ruin it.” She laughed. Then she looked into the mirror. Her eyes widened.
“Oh, fuck.”
“What?”
She pointed toward her reflection. You looked. Then looked at yourself. Your stomach dropped.
“Mapi is going to know.”
Clara stared at you through the mirror. “She probably already knows.”
You groaned. “This is a disaster.”
Clara smiled. “I think it's going pretty well.”
-
Mapi knew. You hadn't even made it completely back to the table before you accepted that. She watched the two of you approach with narrowed eyes, her gaze bouncing between you and Clara before settling on your face. Slowly, one corner of her mouth lifted.
You pointed at her before sitting down. “Don't.”
Mapi blinked innocently. “Don't what?”
“Anything.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“Your face has.”
Across from you, Clara lowered herself into her chair and immediately reached for her water. Mapi looked at her. Then you. Then Clara again. Her smile widened. You kicked her beneath the table. “Ow!”
Alexia glanced over. “What happened?”
“Apparently Y/N has become violent.”
“You'll survive.”
Clara coughed into her hand. You looked across the table. She was trying not to laugh. Your eyes met. And suddenly you were back in that bathroom. You looked away first. Bad idea. Very bad idea. Especially because Mapi noticed that too. “Oh,” she murmured.
You turned toward her. “I'm serious.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You said oh.”
“It's a word.”
“Not when you say it like that.”
Mapi's grin became unbearable. Thankfully, the conversation around the table picked back up before she could interrogate either of you. Then the server returned. You almost laughed at the timing. Clara noticed immediately. You saw her shoulders tense slightly before she caught herself. The server began clearing plates, eventually reaching you.
“Another drink?”
You shook your head.
“No, thank you.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I'm good.” She smiled before moving away.
Across the table, Clara looked incredibly pleased. You narrowed your eyes. She lifted her eyebrows innocently.
What?
You mouthed, Stop.
Her smile grew. A few minutes later, the bill arrived. So did a folded piece of paper. You stared at it. Mapi stared at it. Clara stared at it. You opened it. A phone number. Of course. You folded it closed again. Clara lifted one eyebrow. You turned toward the server before she could walk away. “Thank you, but I'm actually seeing someone.”
Clara nearly choked on her drink. You looked at her. Her eyes were wide. Mapi's were even wider. The server smiled politely.
“Worth a try.”
“Have a good night.”
“You too.”
The second she walked away, Clara leaned toward you. “Seeing someone?”
You stared at her. “Don't.”
“Who?”
“Clara.”
“Do I know her?”
Mapi made a strangled sound beside you.
You turned toward her. “One word and I'm leaving.”
She held both hands up. Across from you, Clara was openly grinning. “Stop looking so smug.”
“It's my birthday.”
“That excuse expires at midnight.”
She checked her phone. “Then I've still got time.”
You shook your head. You were in trouble.
Two days later, Clara sat across from you in a quiet café, stirring a coffee she hadn't touched. This was different. No team. No birthday. No jealousy. No bathroom door separating you from reality. Just the conversation you'd promised.
Clara finally looked up. “You're nervous.”
“No.”
“You've moved your spoon six times.”
You immediately stopped touching it. Clara smiled. “Cute.”
“Can we be serious?”
“I am serious.”
“You just called me cute.”
“You are.”
“Clara.”
“Fine.”
She sat back. You took a breath.
“What happened Friday.. ”
“Was amazing.”
You stared at her. “Sorry.”
“You're making this incredibly difficult.”
“I know.” Her smile faded when she saw your expression. “Okay. I'm listening.”
You nodded. “I meant what I said. I don't regret anything.”
Clara relaxed slightly.
“But Friday also proved why I want to slow down.”
Her eyebrows rose. “How?”
“I lost my head.”
“I thought you did quite well.”
Your mouth fell open. Clara immediately covered her face. “Sorry.”
“Can you survive one conversation?”
“Probably.”
You stared at her until she lowered her hands. “What I'm saying is that I've spent weeks thinking about this only as something physical I needed to resist.”
Clara stayed quiet.
“And I don't want us to finally give in to that and skip everything else.”
Her expression softened. “I want to date you.” A smile slowly appeared. “Properly.”
“Okay.”
“I want to know what this is when we're not hiding somewhere kissing.”
“Also okay.”
“And I need you to tell me if the age difference ever makes something feel uneven.”
Clara nodded. “I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She reached across the table and took your hand. “And you have to promise something too.”
“What?”
“Stop deciding how I'm going to feel before I feel it.”
You smiled faintly. “Fair.”
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
You squeezed her hand. “I promise.”
Clara looked down at your joined hands. “So we're dating?”
“We're dating.”
Her smile widened. “And taking it slow?”
“Yes.”
She considered that. “Can I still kiss you?”
You laughed. “Yes, Clara.”
“Good.” She leaned across the small table and kissed you quickly. You blinked. “Here?”
“You said I could.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet.”
She sat back, looking extremely satisfied. You couldn't stop smiling.
The next few weeks were quieter than that first night. And somehow, you liked them even more. There were coffee dates after training and dinners that didn't involve jealousy-fueled bathroom confrontations. Clara came to your apartment and sprawled across your sofa while you cooked. You learned she was incapable of watching a film without talking through half of it. She learned you became unbearably grumpy when you were tired. You talked about the age gap when it mattered. You didn't when it didn't. Sometimes Clara teased you about it simply because she knew it annoyed you. Sometimes you caught yourself treating her like someone you needed to look after instead of someone you were dating, and Clara called you on it.
“You're doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The older voice.”
“I don't have an older voice.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Clara”
“That one.”
You threw a cushion at her. She laughed until she couldn't breathe. It wasn't perfect. But it was yours. And slowly, twenty and twenty-seven stopped being the first thing you thought about when Clara walked into a room. She was simply Clara. The woman who stole food from your plate. The woman who wore your bracelet nearly every day. The woman who could make you laugh even when you were determined to be annoyed with her. The woman you were falling for much faster than either of you had agreed was technically allowed. Three weeks after her birthday, you parked outside Clara's apartment after dinner. Neither of you immediately moved. That had become part of the routine too. You would drive her home, park outside, and somehow goodbye always took another twenty minutes. Clara turned toward you. “Thank you for dinner.”
“You're welcome.”
“Very sophisticated.”
You frowned. “What?”
“Nice restaurant. Wine. Cloth napkins.”
“I'm twenty-seven, not seventy.”
“Close.”
“Get out of my car.” She laughed.
You leaned across the console and kissed her. Clara softened immediately, one hand settling against your cheek. When you pulled away, she chased you for one more. You smiled against her lips.
“We're supposed to be taking it slow.”
“We are.”
“Your definition of slow concerns me.”
“You weren't complaining on my birthday.”
Your eyes widened. “Get out.”
Clara burst out laughing. “Immediately.”
“Okay, okay.” She reached for the door.
Then paused. “You know, when you're thirty, I'll be twenty-three.”
You stared at her. “Why are you like this?”
“Just making sure you're prepared.”
“For what?”
“Your inevitable decline.”
“Clara.”
“Back pain.”
“Out.”
“Early dinners.”
“Goodbye.”
“Comfortable shoes.”
You pointed toward the door. Clara laughed before leaning across the console and kissing you again. This one was softer. When she pulled away, she rested her forehead against yours.
“Goodnight, old lady.”
“I regret kissing you in that bathroom.”
“No, you don't.”
You smiled. “No. I really don't.”
Clara's expression softened. Then she climbed out. “Text me when you're inside.” She turned back toward you. “You're watching me walk ten meters.” “Humor me.”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Clara.”
She laughed and headed toward the entrance. At the door, she turned around. You waved. Clara waved back. Then, without warning, she called across the parking area. “Love you!”
Your hand froze. Clara froze. Neither of you moved. Even from inside the car, you could see her eyes widen. You stared at her. She stared back. Then her mouth formed two very obvious words. Oh, fuck. You burst out laughing. Clara immediately turned toward the door.
“No!”
You rolled down the window.
“Clara!”
She started fumbling with her keys.
“Goodnight!”
“Come back here!”
“No!”
“You cannot tell me you love me and run away!”
“Watch me!”
She finally got the door open and disappeared inside. You sat there laughing long after the door closed. Then your phone buzzed.
Clari ❤️: Pretend that didn’t happen.
You smiled.
You: Absolutely not.
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Clari ❤️: I'm never speaking to you again.
You: That's unfortunate.
Clari ❤️: Why?
You stared at the screen. Three weeks ago, you would have overthought the answer. Too soon. Too much. Too fast.You'd spent so long believing being careful meant denying yourself anything that felt too big. Now you understood something different. Taking things slowly didn't mean refusing to move forward. It meant making sure you were moving together.
You: Because I love you too.
Your phone rang almost immediately. You laughed before answering.
“Hello?”
“You're an asshole.”
“That isn't usually the response people want after saying I love you.”
“I was trying to have a dramatic exit.”
“You definitely accomplished that.”
“And then you ruined it.”
“You ran away.”
“I panicked.”
“So mature.”
“Shut up.”
You could hear her smiling. Then silence.
“Did you mean it?” Clara asked quietly.
Your smile softened.
“Yeah, Clari.”
You leaned back against the seat.
“I meant it.”
Another pause.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I'm trying to be normal about this.”
“You screamed that you loved me across a parking lot.”
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
You laughed. “Goodnight.”
“Love you.”
This time there was no panic. You smiled. “Love you too.”
When the call ended, you stayed there for another minute. Twenty and twenty-seven. Eight years. None of it had disappeared. You had simply stopped letting the numbers make every decision for you. There would be things to figure out. Conversations you hadn't had yet. Moments when one of you would need the other to slow down. But you could do that. Together. One conversation. One date. One mile at a time. And as you finally pulled away from the curb, your phone lit up one last time.
Clari ❤️: Still counting the bathroom as my best birthday present btw.
I was going to post Off Limits chapter 3 today and decided to erase half the story because I didn’t like it 😆🫣 so I’ll be dropping two one shots today instead! A Clara Serrajordi 18+ and a Freya Godfrey one. I’ll post Off Limits tomorrow!
Lindsey Horan where reader and her have been dancing around feelings (are in love with each other) for a while but refuse to admit it. The rest of the USWNT team (tired of the gay pinning) takes matters into their own hands to get the pair to finally confess.
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Would you write some Keira Walsh x Putellas reader? R being Alexias Younger sister and she also plays for an England based Club. Possibly Chelsea like Keira or Arsenal. R is hard of Hearing or deaf maybe? They used to be Close in spain cause r also Played for Barcelona. When they reunite in England old Feelings become even stronger and they move quite while also trying to be lowkey? Thx for Reading. X
Kika woke to the sound of breathing. Soft. Even. Close enough that, for one disorienting second, she thought someone was lying beside her. Her eyes opened slowly. The hotel room was still dark, curtains pulled almost completely shut except for one narrow line of morning light
slipping through the gap. Salma was asleep in the other bed. So that wasn’t it. Kika frowned slightly. Then she looked down. Her phone was still propped against the pillow beside her. The FaceTime call was still connected. And you were asleep on the screen. Kika smiled before she could stop herself. Of course. Neither of them had hung up. She vaguely remembered saying goodnight. Then another goodnight. Then telling you to sleep. Then listening to you insist that she was the one who needed sleep. After that... Nothing. Apparently, they had simply fallen asleep together from opposite sides of an ocean that hadn’t even separated them yet.
Kika shifted carefully beneath the blanket, trying not to knock her phone over. The movement caused the screen to brighten slightly. You didn’t stir. Your hair was a mess. Completely different from the carefully styled version the public usually saw. One side was flattened against the pillow while several strands fell across your forehead. The blanket had slipped halfway down your shoulder. One hand remained curled near your face. Kika watched you. Not intentionally. At least, that was what she told herself. She was only checking whether you were awake. She pinched the screen. Zoomed in. From the other bed came a sleepy voice.
“Are you zooming in on her?”
Kika nearly dropped the phone. She immediately turned toward Salma. Salma had one eye open. Barely. Still, the judgment in it was unmistakable.
“I am not.”
“You are.” Salma stared at her. Kika stared back. For several seconds, neither moved. You shifted slightly beside her but settled again almost immediately, your breathing remaining even.
Salma glanced toward you before looking back at Kika. “That was creepy.”
Kika grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it. Salma ducked, and it hit the wall behind her. Kika turned back to look at her phone. She realized today was the day. Barcelona left today. She had known that from the beginning. The entire trip had been scheduled down to the hour before they ever boarded the plane in Spain. White House tour. Training. Friendly. Recovery. Airport. Home. Washington had always been temporary. You had always been temporary. At least geographically. Kika looked back at the phone. You were still asleep. For the first time since arriving in Washington, she hated the schedule. She hated that somebody had already decided exactly how much time she was allowed to have here. How many mornings. How many conversations. How many kisses. Salma watched her for a moment before sighing.
“You still have today.”
Kika looked at her. "And i intend on making the most of those hours."
Salma reached for the pillow Kika had thrown and tossed it back. Kika caught it against her chest. Then her phone shifted. A faint sound came through the speaker. You groaned. Both Kika and Salma froze. Your eyes opened slowly. Kika immediately looked innocent. Salma covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing. You stared blankly at the screen. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. Then you squinted.
“Kika?”
Her smile returned instantly.
“Morning.”
Your expression softened.
“Morning.”
There was something different about hearing it. Not goodnight. Not see you later. Morning. You pushed yourself upright slightly. Your hair became even messier. Kika loved it. She would not be admitting that.
“What time is it?” you asked.
Kika glanced toward the clock.
“Six forty-two.”
“Why are you awake?”
“Why are you?”
A muffled laugh came from Salma’s bed. You narrowed your eyes.
“Is Salma awake?”
“No,” Kika said immediately.
“Yes,” Salma answered.
Kika closed her eyes. You laughed.
“Good morning, Salma.”
“Good morning, First Daughter.”
“Can you stop calling her that?”
“No.”
You covered your face.
“I’m never going to recover from this trip.”
“You’ve known them for two days,” Kika said.
“And they’ve bullied me for one.”
“Welcome to Barcelona.”
Salma lifted one hand from beneath her blanket.
“You’re welcome.”
Kika threw the pillow again. This time, Salma caught it. You laughed so hard the camera shook. Kika looked back toward you. And for a moment, everything felt easy again. Like Barcelona wasn’t leaving. Like the clock wasn’t moving. Like they had all the time in the world. Then your bedroom door opened. You turned immediately. Hannah appeared in the doorway holding two coffees. She stopped. Looked at you. Looked at the phone. Then slowly smiled.
“Oh.”
You pointed at her.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a face.”
“I have a face.”
“You made a specific face.”
Hannah walked farther into the room. “Is that Kika?”
“No.”
Kika leaned closer to the camera. “Hello.”
Hannah laughed. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
“Hi, Hannah!” Salma shouted from somewhere offscreen.
Hannah’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that Salma?”
“Yes,” you sighed.
“Unfortunately,” Kika added.
“Rude,” Salma called.
Hannah handed you one of the coffees. “You two stayed on the phone all night?”
“No,” you answered just as Kika said, “Yes.”
You glared at the screen while Kika smiled innocently.
Hannah’s grin widened. “That is romantically disgusting.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Even better.”
“So what time are you leaving?”
The question landed heavier than she intended. Kika looked down. You did too. Hannah immediately realized.
“Oh.”
“Two-thirty,” Kika answered.
“Bus leaves the hotel around noon.”
You looked at the clock. Six forty-four. Less than six hours. The realization hurt more now that there was a number attached to it. Kika must have seen something change in your face.
“Hey.”
“We still have time.”
You took a sip of coffee.
“What do you have this morning?”
“Recovery.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It is.”
Salma immediately appeared over Kika’s shoulder.
“Tell her.”
Kika tried to shove her away.
“Recovery is important.”
“What time?”
“Eight. Then i have packing and then the bus."
The words felt too final. You stared into your coffee. Kika watched you. She wanted to say something. Promise something. Come back soon. I’ll see you again. This isn’t over. But neither of them could promise things they didn’t control yet. So instead she said,
“What are you doing?”
You looked up.
“This morning?”
“Yes.”
You sighed.
“Breakfast with my parents. Then I’m supposed to sit in on two meetings.”
Kika frowned.
“Important meetings?”
“One about infrastructure.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“It is not.”
“One about energy policy.”
“Even better.”
You smiled.
“What about you? What all is recovery?”
“Stretching.”
“Thrilling.”
“Massage.”
“Very glamorous.”
“Protein shakes.”
“Now you’re just showing off.”
Kika laughed.
Salma groaned dramatically.
“I cannot listen to this.”
“Then leave.”
“It’s my room.”
“You have legs.”
“You are mean when you’re in love.”
Silence. Absolute. Immediate. Salma’s eyes widened. Kika froze. You stopped moving. Hannah slowly lowered her coffee. Salma blinked.
“I meant...”
Kika grabbed the pillow. Salma ran. Actually ran. She jumped from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom before Kika could throw it. The door slammed shut. Kika stared after her. Then slowly turned back toward the phone. You were biting your lip. Trying very hard not to smile.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I have a face.”
Kika groaned.
“Now you sound like Hannah.”
“Thank you,” Hannah said.
“That was not a compliment.”
You laughed. The tension broke. Mostly. Still... The word remained somewhere between them. Love. Too early. Way too early. Neither touched it. Neither needed to. Not yet.
By eight-thirty, Kika had decided recovery was designed specifically to torture her. Her legs were heavy from the match. Her body wanted sleep. Her brain wanted her phone. Unfortunately, all three belonged to Barcelona until recovery finished. She lay on a mat with one leg stretched while a member of staff worked through the tightness in her hamstring. Her phone sat three feet away. Three very long feet. It buzzed. Kika’s eyes immediately moved toward it. The physio noticed.
“No.”
“I need my phone.”
“You need your hamstrings.”
“Debatable.”
From the mat beside her, Patri laughed.
“Who is texting you?”
Kika said nothing. Patri gasped dramatically.
“Oh.”
“Stop.”
Kika’s phone buzzed again. Patri smiled.
“It is definitely her.”
Kika looked toward the ceiling. She had made a mistake. A terrible mistake. She had allowed the team to know things. Recovery finally ended twenty-seven minutes later. Kika reached her phone before the staff member had completely finished saying she could stand. Two messages.
Y/N: Infrastructure is trying to kill me.
Then, three minutes later:
Y/N: If I die in this meeting tell everyone I fought bravely.
Kika laughed.
Patri walked behind her.
“There it is.”
Kika didn’t look up.
Kika: I will tell them you died serving your country.
Your answer arrived immediately.
Y/N: Heroically?
Kika: Obviously.
Y/N: Beautifully?
Kika: Debatable.
Three dots.
Y/N: Wow.
Kika: You walked into that one.
Y/N: I take back everything nice I said about you.
Kika: No you don’t.
The typing bubble appeared. Then disappeared. Appeared again.
Y/N: No. I don’t.
Kika stopped walking. The hallway continued moving around her. Players passed. Staff carried equipment. Someone laughed nearby. But Kika only looked at those three words. No. I don’t. Her smile softened. Salma walked past. Stopped. Backed up. Then looked at the screen. Kika immediately pulled the phone against her chest.
“Privacy.”
Salma grinned.
“Love.”
Kika pointed toward her.
“I will leave you in America.”
“You need me.”
“For what?”
“Emotional support.”
“You are the emotional problem.”
Salma laughed and continued down the corridor. Kika shook her head. Her phone buzzed again.
Y/N: How long until you’re done?
Kika: Recovery is finished.
Y/N: Good.
Kika waited. The typing bubble appeared.
Y/N: I have an idea.
Kika frowned.
Kika: That sounds dangerous.
Y/N: You’ve been spending too much time with me.
Kika: Two days.
Y/N: Exactly.
Then another message.
Y/N: Don’t make plans after recovery.
Kika stared at it.
Kika: I thought I had to pack.
Y/N: You do. Pack quickly.
Kika smiled.
Kika: Why?
The response took longer this time.
Y/N: Trust me.
Kika’s stomach flipped. She looked down at the keyboard. The word maybe appeared in her mind. She could tease you. Ask if she should. Pretend she needed convincing. Instead she remembered you standing beside the Reflecting Pool.
Kika: Okay.
The infrastructure meeting lasted another forty-three minutes. You retained approximately twelve percent of it. Maybe less. You sat beside your father at the long conference table, nodding at appropriate intervals while several advisers discussed federal transportation funding. Your notebook was open. You had written exactly four useful things.
The fifth line read: 2:30.
You stared at it. Your father glanced sideways. Then down at the notebook. Then back at you. You immediately covered the page with your hand. He raised an eyebrow.
“Something you’d like to contribute?”
You looked toward the room. Every face turned toward you. Fantastic. You cleared your throat.
“I think the regional implementation timeline is probably going to be the biggest issue.”
Silence. One adviser nodded.
“That’s exactly what we were discussing.”
You smiled.
“Right.”
Your father’s mouth twitched. You looked forward again. Absolutely nailed it. Ten minutes later, the meeting ended. Everyone filed out. You began collecting your notes. Your father remained seated. You knew. You could feel it. You slowly looked toward him.
“What?”
He nodded toward the notebook.
“Two-thirty?”
You closed it.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You wrote it four times.”
You looked down. You had. Apparently twelve percent retention had been generous.
“She leaves at two-thirty,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. You leaned back in the chair.
“Yes.”
Your father watched you carefully.
“You like her.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that.”
“Because you do.”
You smiled faintly.
“Yes.”
He nodded once. No teasing this time. That made it worse.
“Are you okay?”
You considered lying. Then didn’t.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s fair.”
“It’s been two days.”
“I know.”
“This should not feel this dramatic.”
He smiled slightly.
“Feelings rarely check the calendar.”
You looked toward him.
“That was disgustingly wise.”
“I practice.”
You laughed quietly. Then your expression faded.
“She goes back to Barcelona.”
“Yes.”
“I stay here.”
“Yes.”
“And our schedules are insane.”
“Yes.”
You sighed.
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m not supposed to.”
He leaned back.
“You want me to tell you it won’t work?”
“No.”
“That distance will make it impossible?”
“No.”
“That this was only fun because it happened somewhere temporary?”
Your stomach tightened.
“No.”
“Then what do you want me to say?”
You looked down at your notebook.
2:30.
“I want someone to tell me what happens next.”
Your father’s expression softened.
“Nobody can.”
You hated that answer. Probably because it was true. He stood and buttoned his jacket.
“But you can decide what happens today.”
You looked at him. He walked toward the door. Then stopped.
“And before you ask, yes.”
You frowned.
“Yes what?”
“You can leave.”
Your eyes widened.
“Seriously?”
“You’ve checked the clock eleven times.”
“I have not.”
“Twelve.”
You stood so quickly the chair moved backward.
“Thank you.”
“You have to be back before dinner.”
“Yes.”
“Security stays with you.”
“Obviously.”
“And,”
You hugged him. He stopped talking. For half a second, his arms remained at his sides. Then he hugged you back.
“You’re twenty-five,” he muttered. “You cannot keep using this strategy.”
“It keeps working.”
“That’s the problem.”
You pulled away.
He smiled.
“Go.”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
Kika had just finished shoving the final sweatshirt into her suitcase when someone knocked on the hotel-room door. Salma looked up from her bed.
“Did you order something?”
“No.”
“Food?”
“No.”
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Secret Service?”
Kika stared at her.
“What?”
Salma shrugged.
“It seems possible now.”
Another knock. Kika walked toward the door. She opened it. And stopped. You stood on the other side. Dark jeans. White trainers. Sunglasses resting on top of your head. A small smile playing at the corner of your mouth. Behind you, two security agents waited near the elevator. Kika stared.
“You said you had meetings.”
“I escaped.”
“You escaped the White House?”
“With permission.”
“That is less exciting.”
“I can lie if you want.”
Kika smiled. Then looked at the suitcase behind her. Then at the clock. 10:47. A little over an hour until the bus. She looked back at you.
“You came.”
You tilted your head.
“I said I had an idea.”
“That was the idea?”
“No.”
Kika raised an eyebrow.
You smiled.
“This is just the beginning.”
Behind her, Salma made a noise suspiciously similar to a squeal. Kika closed her eyes. You laughed. Salma appeared beside her.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
Salma looked between you. Then at Kika. Then back to you.
“I am going downstairs.”
Kika frowned.
“Why?”
“To tell everyone she’s here.”
“Salma”
Too late. She was already running toward the elevator. Kika stared after her in horror. You watched the doors close behind Salma. Then looked at Kika.
“Should I be worried?”
“Yes.”
“How worried?”
Before Kika could answer, the elevator dinged again. The doors opened. Mapi stood inside. Patri beside her. Clàudia behind them. Alexia at the back. Salma stood in the center looking incredibly proud of herself.
“I found them.”
Kika covered her face. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Mapi stepped from the elevator. Her eyes moved over you. Then toward Kika.
“So... You’re real.”
You laughed. Kika looked toward the ceiling. She had survived ninety minutes against Washington. She had survived cameras. She had survived pointing at you in front of thousands of people. She was not going to survive this. You leaned closer. Your shoulder brushed hers.
Quietly, so only Kika could hear, you whispered:
“One more day.”
Kika turned toward you. Technically, it wasn’t even a full day. Just hours. But you were here. Standing beside her. Choosing to spend them with her. Kika smiled.
“One more day.”
--
Kika considered closing the hotel-room door. Not because she didn’t want you there. Quite the opposite. The problem was the collection of Barcelona players standing in the hallway wearing expressions that promised absolutely no mercy.
Mapi stepped forward first, looking at you, then Kika, then back at you again. “So.”
Kika groaned immediately. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to introduce myself.”
“No, you were not.”
Patri leaned around Mapi’s shoulder. “She definitely was not.”
You laughed, earning a betrayed look from Kika. “You are supposed to be on my side.”
“I’ve known you for two days.”
“That should be enough.”
Clàudia stepped from the elevator next, shaking her head. “She really has been like this since yesterday.”
“Like what?” Kika demanded.
Clàudia gestured vaguely toward her. “Whatever this is.”
You looked at Kika. Kika looked at you. Before either of you could help it, you both smiled.
Mapi immediately pointed between you. “That.”
“What?” Kika asked.
“That smile.”
Kika forced her expression blank so quickly that you laughed harder.
Alexia finally stepped from the elevator, offering you an apologetic smile. “Ignore them.”
“Thank you.”
“They will get worse.”
Your smile faltered. “Oh.”
“Much worse.”
Mapi gasped dramatically. “Captain.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
Salma leaned against the wall looking entirely too pleased with herself. “I told them she was here.”
“We know,” Kika muttered.
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t thank you.”
“You will.”
Kika turned toward you with a helpless expression. “You see what I deal with?”
You folded your arms. “I think I like them.”
Her face fell. “Already?”
Patri smiled. “She has good judgment.”
“I am surrounded by enemies.”
“Poor thing,” you murmured, stepping closer.
“You are enjoying this.”
“A little.”
Mapi finally offered her hand. “Mapi.”
You shook it. “Y/N.”
“I know.”
Kika covered her face.
“I have many questions,” Mapi continued.
“No,” Kika interrupted.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“You absolutely were.”
Patri introduced herself next, apologizing jokingly for Kika’s goal celebration. You told her you weren’t sorry about it at all, which earned another look from Kika and immediate approval from Patri. Clàudia followed, then Alexia, whose handshake was warm but brief.
“It’s nice to meet you properly,” Alexia said.
“You too.”
“She doesn’t usually get distracted this easily.”
“Alexia.”
“What?” Her captain looked perfectly innocent. “I’m your captain, not your lawyer.”
Mapi nodded solemnly. “Very important distinction.”
Kika sighed. “This was a mistake.”
“You could make them leave,” you offered.
“No, she cannot,” Mapi said.
Kika closed her eyes. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Salma replied.
Before Kika could answer, a member of staff called from farther down the hallway that the team bus would now leave at twelve-thirty instead of noon because of airport timing.
Kika’s expression changed immediately.
Half an hour.
You noticed it too. “You gained time.”
She looked at you. “Thirty minutes.”
“That’s something.”
Her smile returned. “Something.”
Patri clapped her hands. “So what are we doing?”
Kika frowned. “We?”
“Yes.”
“There is no we.”
Salma looked offended. “You came to our hotel.”
“I came to see Kika.”
The hallway went silent.
You realized what you had said a second too late. Mapi’s eyebrows shot upward. Patri covered her mouth. Salma physically turned away because she was laughing too hard.
Kika simply stared at you.
You shrugged. “Too honest?”
Her expression softened. “No.”
Mapi pointed toward Salma. “Write that down.”
Salma mimed typing into an invisible phone. “Ten fifty-one. President’s daughter admits she came specifically for Kika.”
“I can leave,” you threatened.
“No,” Kika answered immediately.
Everyone noticed.
Her face warmed. “I mean... you’re already here.”
“Smooth,” Clàudia said.
“Very,” Patri agreed.
Kika opened the hotel-room door wider. “Can everyone please go away?”
Mapi folded her arms. “No.”
Alexia finally intervened. “Come on. Let them have some time.”
For once, nobody argued. Mapi sighed dramatically, warning you that she still had questions and would eventually ask every one of them. Patri and Clàudia waved goodbye, while Alexia lingered for a moment.
She looked at Kika first, then at you. Something thoughtful passed across her face, not suspicion or warning, just quiet understanding. “Enjoy the morning.”
“We will,” Kika said.
Alexia smiled and joined the others.
Salma remained.
Kika stared at her.
Salma stared back. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Leave.”
“This is my room.”
“Go visit Mapi.”
“She’s scary.”
“You like her.”
“I do.”
“Then go.”
Salma eventually grabbed her phone, pausing beside you before whispering loudly enough for Kika to hear, “Make good choices.”
Kika threw a pillow. Salma ducked and ran. The door closed behind her, and for the first time in several minutes, the room fell silent. You and Kika looked at each other.
Then both of you started laughing.
“That was awful,” Kika said.
“I liked it.”
“You would.”
“They’re funny.”
“They’re exhausting.”
“They love you.”
The comment landed more softly than you intended. Kika glanced toward the closed door, her expression changing.
“Yes,” she said. “They’re my family here.”
You understood immediately. Not replacement family. Not something lesser. Just the people who filled the empty spaces when home was somewhere else.
“That makes sense.”
Kika glanced toward the clock.
10:55.
Time moved differently when you were watching it.
“So,” she said.
“So?”
“You said this was only the beginning.”
“I did.”
“What’s the rest?”
“You’re impatient.”
“We have ninety-five minutes.”
“You counted?”
“I’m an athlete.”
“That has absolutely nothing to do with counting.”
“It sounded convincing.”
You laughed and pulled your phone from your pocket. “I wanted to take you somewhere.”
Kika looked at the suitcase behind her. “Far?”
“No.”
“Secret?”
“Sort of.”
“Food?”
“Eventually.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re very bad at answering questions.”
“I learned from politicians.”
“Terrible people.”
“Exactly.”
You started toward the door before realizing Kika hadn’t moved.
“What?”
She looked at the clock again. “We really only have ninety-five minutes.”
The teasing left your expression. “I know.”
“I don’t want to spend half of it driving.”
“You won’t.”
“How far?”
“Ten minutes.”
Kika considered that before grabbing her cap from the desk. “Okay.”
You smiled. “No maybe?”
She looked at you.
“No maybe.”
The Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum was quieter than usual. Not empty. You had refused repeatedly to allow security to clear the building simply because you were visiting. The compromise involved early access to one of the renovated galleries and a security detail that remained close enough to intervene but far enough away to give the illusion that you and Kika were simply two normal women wandering through a museum. Kika stopped just inside the entrance and tilted her head back. Aircraft hung suspended from the ceiling above you, metal wings stretching across the massive room while engines, capsules, and pieces of aviation history filled the galleries below. You watched her rather than the displays.
“Well?”
She looked at you. “You brought me to a museum?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“No.” Her attention moved upward again. “I just didn’t expect this.”
“What did you expect?”
“Something presidential.”
You frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
Kika smiled and began walking farther inside. “You like this place?”
“A lot. My dad used to bring me here when I was little.”
“The president?”
“He wasn’t president then.”
“That is strange to imagine.”
“He existed before politics.”
“Are you sure?”
“Barely.”
Kika laughed.
You pointed toward an aircraft suspended overhead. “That one terrified me when I was six.”
“Why?”
“I thought it could fall.”
Kika looked up at the plane and deliberately stepped underneath it.
“Kika.”
“What?”
“Move.”
Her smile widened. “You’re scared.”
“I am not. It is suspended from cables.”
“Very strong cables.”
“That’s what everyone says before something falls.”
She laughed as you grabbed her sleeve and pulled her away. “You are dramatic.”
“I am cautious.”
“You grew up with Secret Service. Shouldn’t that make you fearless?”
“No. It gives you an extremely detailed understanding of everything that can go wrong.”
Kika nodded slowly. “That is actually terrifying.”
“Thank you.”
They wandered for several minutes without rushing. That was the entire point. There was no reservation waiting for them, no official tour, no photographers knowingly positioned nearby. Just exhibits and plaques and Kika stopping in front of nearly everything. She read half of the information and ignored the rest before asking you questions anyway.
“What does that do?”
“It’s a turbine.”
“I know that.”
“You clearly did not.”
“I was testing you.”
“Sure.”
She pointed toward another display. “What about that?”
You began explaining it. Kika listened for approximately thirty seconds.
“That’s incredibly boring.”
You stared at her. “You asked.”
“I regret it.”
“You are impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
A few minutes later, you reached one of the interactive flight simulators. Kika stopped walking.
“No.”
You looked at her. “No?”
She pointed. “We’re doing that.”
“I thought you said museums were boring.”
“I said your turbine explanation was boring. That is different.”
“How?”
“You were explaining it.”
You gasped, but Kika was already heading toward the simulator.
“You’re rude.”
“You like me.”
“Unfortunately.”
She turned. “Unfortunately?”
You smiled. “Very unfortunately.”
“That is better.”
The simulator allowed two people to complete a virtual flight course. Kika read the instructions exactly once before handing them back.
“I understand.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I play professional football.”
“That has nothing to do with flying.”
“Coordination.”
“Planes don’t use feet.”
“Some do.”
You blinked. “That is technically true.”
Kika smiled triumphantly. “I win.”
“We haven’t started.”
“I meant the argument.”
The simulation counted down. Three. Two. One. Kika immediately overcorrected. The virtual plane tilted sharply. Alarms began sounding.
You burst out laughing. “What are you doing?”
“Flying.”
“You’re crashing.”
“I’m adjusting.”
“You’re upside down!”
“That seems dramatic.”
“You are literally upside down!”
Kika pulled harder on the controls. The plane spiraled. The screen flashed. CRASH. You sat in silence. Kika stared at the screen.
Then she looked at you. “That was broken.”
You laughed so hard you had to lean forward. “It was not broken.”
“I was sabotaged.”
“By gravity?”
“Yes.”
“That is generally how planes work.”
Kika folded her arms. “Again.”
“You lost.”
“I need another attempt.”
“You said you understood.”
“I understand better now.”
“You crashed in eleven seconds.”
“Again.”
The second attempt lasted thirty-seven seconds. The third made it almost two minutes. By the fourth, Kika successfully completed the course.
She immediately turned toward you. “I told you.”
“It took four tries.”
“Details.”
“You crashed three planes.”
“Virtual planes.”
“Still concerning.”
Kika stood and leaned against the simulator. “I want evidence.”
“Of what?”
“That I won.”
“You were competing against yourself.”
“Still counts.”
You pulled out your phone. She grinned at the camera, pointing dramatically toward the simulator as if she had just won an international tournament instead of finally avoiding a virtual mountain. Then she stepped beside you.
“Now one together.”
You hesitated only briefly before lifting the phone. Kika moved close enough that your shoulders touched. The camera clicked. Then again. She took the phone afterward and scrolled through the pictures.
“I like that one.”
You looked. Your faces were closer than you remembered. Kika wasn’t even looking directly at the camera. Her face had turned slightly toward you. Your chest tightened.
“Yeah.”
Her eyes moved to yours. For half a second, the museum faded around you. Then something clattered farther down the gallery. The moment broke.
Kika smiled. “Keep that one.”
“I was going to.”
“Good.”
Neither of you noticed the man standing farther away lowering his phone when one of your agents looked in his direction. They eventually wandered into the space gallery, where Kika stopped in front of a moon rock and stared at it with mild disappointment.
The words left your mouth before you considered them. Both smiles disappeared. Kika had traveled thousands of miles too. And now she was leaving.
She looked back toward the display. “I wish I had more time.”
“Here?”
“With you.”
The answer came immediately.
“I know that sounds stupid,” she continued.
“It doesn’t.”
“It has been two days.”
“Almost three.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“No.”
Kika sighed. “I keep thinking I should be able to make it feel less important because it happened fast.”
“Does it work?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
She turned toward you. “So what do we do?”
You knew what you wanted to say. Stay. Miss the flight. Come back tomorrow. Choose me. But those were selfish answers. Football was Kika’s life. Barcelona was her life. You would never ask her to throw any of it aside after knowing you for less than three days.
So instead, you said, “We let it matter.”
Kika studied you. “That simple?”
“No.” You smiled faintly. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated either.”
Her mouth curved. “You said maybe.”
You groaned. “That one doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
“It was grammatical.”
“Still counts.”
“You’re impossible.”
Kika stepped closer. “You like me.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Her expression softened.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “You’re getting better at that.”
“At what?”
“Not hiding.”
Of course she remembered. You looked toward the floor. Then realized what you had done.
Kika laughed. “You did it again.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You looked back at her.
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
For a second, you thought she might kiss you. Then Kika glanced toward the security agents.
“They still aren’t going to tackle me?”
You laughed. “No.”
“Good.”
She leaned in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to your lips. When she pulled away, both of you were smiling. Then your phone vibrated. Neither of you wanted to look.
Kika did first. “What time is it?”
You checked. 11:42. Less than an hour. The answer settled heavily between you.
“We should go,” Kika said.
You hated that she was right.
“Yeah.”
Neither moved. Eventually, Kika reached down and found your hand. This time, there was no hesitation. Your fingers intertwined naturally. And the two of you walked through the museum like that; hand in hand, completely unaware of the second phone lifting from across the gallery. By the time Kika landed in Barcelona, the moment would no longer belong only to you. The ride back to the hotel was quieter. Not uncomfortable. Just heavier. Kika sat beside you in the SUV, your hands still joined between you as Washington moved beyond the tinted windows.
“I’m going to miss this city,” she said.
“You’ve been here three days.”
“I can still miss it.”
“I know.”
She looked at you. “I think mostly I will miss one person in it.”
You turned toward her. “Your favorite Secret Service agent?”
“Obviously.”
“I knew it.”
“He understands me.”
“He has spoken to you twice.”
“Deep connection.”
You laughed. Kika smiled. She had done it deliberately, dragging both of you away from the sadness for a moment. Then the hotel appeared ahead. The laughter faded. Players were already gathering near the bus. Suitcases lined the curb while staff moved between the hotel doors and the luggage compartment. The countdown was no longer theoretical. Kika’s hand tightened around yours.
“I hate this part.”
“So do I.”
She turned toward you. “Will you stay?”
“Yes.”
Kika searched your face.
“No maybe?”
You squeezed her hand.
“No maybe.”
She smiled.
Then the driver opened the door. The sounds of the waiting team rushed inside. Kika stepped out first. Then turned and offered you her hand. You took it. Together, you walked toward goodbye.
--
The bus was already running. That was the first thing you noticed. Not the players or the suitcases arranged along the curb. Not the staff moving back and forth between the hotel entrance and the luggage compartment. The engine. Low and constant. Waiting. You hated it immediately. Kika still held your hand as you approached the group, neither of you speaking because there wasn’t much left to say that hadn’t already been said sometime between the museum, the car, and the sleepless hours of the night before. Still, silence felt wrong. Too final. Salma spotted you and Kika first. For once, the teasing disappeared from her face.
“You stayed.”
“I said I would.”
Kika squeezed your hand.
Salma glanced toward the bus. “You have about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes.
You swallowed. “Good.”
Nobody believed that. Salma gave Kika a small smile and walked away, offering something rare from her, privacy.
“I think she likes you,” Kika murmured.
“I think she tolerates me.”
“That is basically love from Salma.”
You smiled. There it was. Something normal. Something safe. You wanted to remain inside that joke forever.
Instead, a member of staff called Kika’s name for a passport check.
She sighed. “I’ll be right back.”
You nodded. She didn’t move. Neither did you.
Finally, you lifted your joined hands slightly. “Kika.”
“I know.”
“You should go.”
“I know.”
Still, she stayed.
You smiled faintly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes found yours. “Promise?”
The question sounded different in the daylight. Last night it had been sleepy, almost unconscious. Now she meant it. You squeezed her hand.
“Promise.”
Only then did she let go. You missed the contact immediately. Kika walked toward the member of staff while you stayed near the curb, your security detail positioned several yards away. Hannah had offered to come. You had declined. This felt too personal for an audience. Kika handed over her passport, signed something, answered a question, then immediately looked back toward you. You lifted one hand. She smiled. The simplicity of it hurt. Someone stepped beside you. Alexia.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Her gaze moved briefly toward Kika before returning to you. “She likes you.”
You blinked. There was no teasing in Alexia’s voice. No warning. Just certainty.
“I like her too.”
“I know.”
You smiled faintly. “Is everyone on this team terrifyingly observant?”
“Yes.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Alexia laughed quietly. “Kika acts confident.”
You glanced toward her. She was laughing at something Patri had said now, looking completely at ease.
“But?”
Alexia looked at you. “She feels everything.”
Your expression softened.
“She worries more than she says.”
You remembered the SUV. Don’t disappear. People say that. Messages become less frequent.
“I know.”
Alexia nodded. “I thought you might.”
Silence settled briefly between you.
Then she said, “Take care of her.”
The words could have sounded threatening. Instead, they sounded like trust.
“I will.”
Alexia nodded once before adding, “And make her stop checking her phone during training.”
You laughed. “I don’t think I have that kind of power.”
“You definitely do.”
Kika began walking back toward you. Alexia stepped away.
“Good luck.”
“With what?”
She smiled. “Barcelona.”
Then she disappeared toward the bus.
Kika reached you moments later. “What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
“That is not true.”
“She threatened me.”
Kika’s face changed instantly. “She what?”
You burst out laughing. “I’m joking.”
“You cannot say things like that.”
“You looked terrified.”
“Alexia is scary when she wants to be.”
“She told me to stop distracting you during training.”
Kika groaned. “That sounds more believable.”
You smiled. “She also told me you feel everything.”
Kika went still.
“Of course she did.”
“She cares about you.”
“I know.”
Another luggage compartment closed with a heavy thud. Both of you heard it. Kika’s smile disappeared.
“We should probably…”
She didn’t finish. You nodded anyway.
“Yeah.”
Neither moved. Players were beginning to board now. Patri gave you a small salute from the bus steps while Mapi made an exaggerated heart with her hands. You laughed despite yourself.
Kika looked toward them. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”
“No.”
“Especially the goal celebration.”
“Definitely not.”
She looked back at you.
“Worth it.”
Your heart stumbled.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Immediate. Always immediate when it mattered. Kika stepped closer. You wanted to kiss her badly. But there were cameras gathering near the hotel entrance now. Photographers had recognized the Barcelona bus. Security shifted slightly. Kika’s eyes moved toward your mouth. Then back up. She knew.
“I hate this,” you whispered.
“Me too.”
“I don’t want the last thing we do here to be worrying about cameras.”
Kika’s expression softened. “Then don’t.”
Before you could ask what she meant, she wrapped both arms around you. You hugged her immediately. Tight. Your face disappeared against her shoulder while hers pressed near your neck. For a few seconds, the entire world narrowed to the feeling of holding her.
“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered.
Your eyes burned.
“You haven’t left yet.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t make me cry before you leave.”
She laughed softly. “Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You sound like you’re crying.”
“I’m the President’s daughter. We don’t cry.”
“That seems unhealthy.”
You laughed, although the sound came out broken. Kika pulled back only enough to look at you. Her arms remained around your waist.
“I mean it.”
“What?”
“Come visit.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
You tried to smile. “When?”
“I don’t care. Next week.”
“I have work.”
“Tomorrow.”
“You’ll barely be home.”
“Tonight.”
“You’ll still be on the plane.”
She smiled.
Then grew serious.
“Come to Barcelona.”
You looked at her. No joke. No teasing. She meant every word. For half a second, instinct told you to hide inside maybe. The schedule. Security. Work. Your father. International travel because of a woman you had known for three days. It sounded insane. Kika saw your hesitation. Her expression changed. Only slightly. Still, you hated it.
“Ask me again.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Ask me again.”
“Come visit me in Barcelona.”
You looked directly at her.
“Yes.”
Her entire face changed.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“No maybe?”
“No maybe.”
Kika laughed and pulled you into another hug.
You laughed against her shoulder. “Now I actually have to figure out how to make that happen.”
“You are the President’s daughter.”
“That makes travel harder, not easier.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You should.”
Someone called Kika’s name again.
She closed her eyes. “Two minutes.”
Almost everyone was on the bus now. Salma waited near the stairs. The moment you had spent all morning avoiding had arrived.
“I’ll call when we land,” Kika said.
“That’ll be the middle of the night here.”
“I know.”
“I might be asleep.”
“I’ll call anyway.”
You smiled. “Okay.”
“Promise?”
You laughed softly. “You really like that word.”
“Promises matter.”
Your expression softened.
“I promise.”
Kika looked at your mouth again. You wanted the same thing. One last kiss. But the sidewalk was public. Cameras were pointed in your direction. Instead, you lifted one hand to her face. Your thumb brushed gently across her cheek. Kika leaned into it. Then turned her head and kissed your palm. Your chest ached.
“That’s cheating.”
“What is?”
“You found a loophole.”
Kika smiled. “I’m good at those.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“I’ve been told.”
Her name was called again. Kika finally stepped backward. One step. Then another. Still looking at you.
“Go,” you whispered.
“I’m going.”
“You’re not.”
“I am slowly going.”
“Kika.”
She smiled, turned, and walked three steps. Then stopped. She turned back.
You laughed despite everything. “What?”
“Barcelona.”
“Yes?”
“You said yes.”
“I know.”
“I just wanted to hear it again.”
You shook your head.
“Yes, Kika.”
Her smile widened. Then she finally boarded. You stood staring at the empty doorway until Kika reappeared behind one of the tinted windows. Your phone buzzed.
Kika: You look sad.
Y/N: You look worse.Kika: Rude.
Y/N: Accurate.
Kika: I haven’t even left yet.
Y/N: Exactly.
Kika: Barcelona.Y/N: Yes.
Kika: Okay.
The bus began moving. Slowly. You raised your hand. Kika pressed hers against the glass. You kept yours lifted until the bus reached the end of the street. Turned. And disappeared. Even then, you remained where you were. One of the agents eventually approached.
“Ma’am?”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
“We’re ready whenever you are.”
You nodded without moving. You had promised yourself you wouldn’t be dramatic. It had been three days. People did not stand on sidewalks feeling as though someone had taken half the air with them after three days. Apparently, you did. Your phone buzzed.
Kika: I already miss you.
Y/N: I already miss you too.Kika: That is incredibly inconvenient.Y/N: Terrible timing.
Kika: Worst.
Y/N: Still worth it?
Kika: Ask me something difficult.
You smiled. Then finally walked toward the SUV. The airport was chaos. Kika barely noticed. Supporters waited behind barriers, phones raised high as the Barcelona players moved through the secured entrance. She stopped for photographs, signed shirts, smiled when expected. Her body was at Dulles. Her mind remained several miles behind.
Salma walked beside her. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m tired.”
“Liar.”
Kika looked over.
Salma shrugged. “You’re sad.”
“I can be both.”
“That is true.”
They moved through security. Kika checked her phone. Nothing. She knew you were probably driving. Still, she checked again thirty seconds later.
Salma noticed. “Do you want me to confiscate it?”
“No.”
“For your health.”
“My health is fine.”
Kika sighed. The moment they reached the lounge, her phone buzzed. She grabbed it.
Y/N: My father wants to know why I look “like someone cancelled Christmas.”
Kika: Tell him Barcelona kidnapped me.
Y/N: He might interpret that as an international incident.
Kika: Good. Maybe he will send you to negotiate.
Y/N: That’s actually not a terrible idea.
Kika: Barcelona.
Y/N: I said yes.
Kika: I know.
Y/N: Then stop worrying.
Kika: I am not worried.
Y/N: Liar.
Kika: Unfortunately.
Y/N: You noticed.
Y/N: Safe flight.
Y/N: Call me when you land.
Kika: Even if you are sleeping?
Y/N: Miss you more.
Kika smiled.
You returned to the White House shortly after one. Nothing had changed. That was the strangest part. Staff moved through hallways with folders. Phones rang. Visitors passed security checkpoints. Someone asked casually how the match had been. Everything continued. Normal. Except you. Your father stood near the residence hallway speaking with an aide. He looked up when you approached, dismissed the conversation, then studied your face.
“That bad?”
“What?”
“The goodbye.”
You sighed. “Is it obvious?”
“You look like someone cancelled Christmas.”
You stopped. “You cannot be serious.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I literally just told Kika you said that.”
He smiled. “Good.”
“That is unsettling.”
“How is she?”
“Probably at the airport.”
“And you?”
“Fine.”
He waited.
You sighed. “Not fine.”
“That sounds more believable.”
You leaned against the wall. “This is ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve known her for three days.”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to tell me I’m being ridiculous.”
“I don’t think you are.”
You looked at him.
“People spend years with someone and never feel much of anything,” he said. “Sometimes you meet someone and know immediately that you want more time.”
You swallowed.
“I want more time.”
“Then make more.”
You smiled faintly. “She asked me to visit Barcelona.”
His expression shifted into something far more practical.
“When?”
“She said next week. Then tomorrow. Then tonight.”
He laughed. “Very specific.”
“And I said yes.”
His eyebrows rose. “You did?”
“Yes.”
“Not maybe?”
You stared at him. “How do you know about that?”
“Your mother.”
“Of course.”
“She finds this very entertaining.”
“This family has no respect for privacy.”
“So Barcelona.”
“Barcelona.”
“You understand that involves significantly more planning than buying a plane ticket.”
“I know.”
“Security.”
“I know.”
“Schedule.”
“I know.”
“Diplomatic coordination.”
You frowned. “Do we have to call it that?”
“If the President’s daughter travels internationally with Secret Service protection, unfortunately yes.”
You sighed. “Romantic.”
“Extremely.”
“So is that a no?”
He looked at you. “I didn’t say that.”
Hope flickered immediately.
“Seriously?”
“I said it requires planning.”
You smiled.
“Planning can happen.”
“It can.”
Your father noticed the expression on your face.
“You really like her.”
“Yes.”
The answer came easier every time. Kika’s flight took off just after three. She watched Washington disappear beneath the clouds until there was nothing left to see. Then she looked at her phone. Airplane mode. No messages until Barcelona. She hated that too. Salma was already asleep beside her. Of course. Kika opened her camera roll. The museum photographs appeared first. The simulator. Her ridiculous victory pose. Then the selfie. Your shoulder pressed against hers. Your smile. Her own face turned toward you rather than the camera. Kika stared at it. Then made it her lock screen. She glanced toward Salma. Still asleep. Good. Kika locked the phone. The image appeared. You. Her. Three days. Somewhere beneath them was an ocean. Behind them, Washington. Ahead, Barcelona. For the first time, home did not feel like the only place she wanted to be. Hours later, the White House had gone quiet. You lay in bed with the television playing silently across the room and your phone beside you. You knew exactly where Kika’s flight was. Not because you had been checking repeatedly. You absolutely had. Somewhere over the Atlantic. Still hours away. You opened your messages and scrolled upward through two days of jokes, photos, and promises until you reached the beginning.
Important question.
You smiled. Then your phone vibrated. Not Kika. Hannah.
Hannah: Are you awake?
Y/N: Yes.
Hannah: Have you looked online?
Y/N: Why?
A screenshot arrived. You opened it. A sports gossip account. Thousands of likes. And the museum. You recognized the gallery immediately. Kika walking beside you. Your fingers intertwined. Neither of you looking toward the camera. Beneath it:
Barcelona star Kika Nazareth appears to have found romance during the club’s Washington trip.
Your stomach dropped. Another message.
Hannah: There are more.
You opened social media. Instant regret. The goal celebration. The suite. The hotel hug. The museum. Someone had connected everything. Comments multiplied by the second. Some supportive. Some invasive. Some already trying to identify you, as if that would take long. You closed the app. Kika was still in the air. She had no idea. For the first time since meeting her, the distance between Washington and Barcelona felt enormous. And Kika had no idea the world had found you.
The first thing you heard that morning was someone pounding on your front door.
Not knocking. Pounding. Three quick hits rattled through the apartment, followed by a brief pause before another three came with even more determination. You groaned into your pillow and pulled the duvet farther over your head, although there was absolutely no point pretending you hadn't heard it. There was exactly one person in your life who knocked like she was personally offended by the existence of doorbells.
“I know you’re awake,” Irene called from the other side.
You opened one eye and stared toward your bedroom door. Of course it was her. For half a second, you seriously considered pretending you weren't home, but Irene had apparently anticipated that particular strategy.
“I have a key.”
“That sounds like a threat,” you shouted back.
“It is.”
You groaned again before finally pushing yourself out of bed. Your hair was a mess, your oversized shirt hung crookedly from one shoulder, and you were fairly certain there were still pillow marks pressed into the side of your face when you dragged yourself across the apartment. You yanked the door open and found your older sister standing there already dressed for the day, looking far too awake for seven in the morning.
Irene's eyes immediately traveled over you. “You're not dressed.”
“It’s seven in the morning.”
“You have training.”
“At ten.”
“Yes.”
You stared at her. Irene stared straight back, completely unfazed, and you were preparing another argument when you finally noticed what she was holding. A paper bag hung from one hand while two takeaway coffee cups were balanced carefully in the other.
Your annoyance disappeared slightly. “You brought food?”
“I knew you wouldn’t eat.”
“I eat.”
Irene stepped past you without waiting for an invitation. “Coffee does not count as breakfast.”
“You sound old.”
“I am older than you.”
“Ancient.”
She ignored you, already heading toward your kitchen as though she lived there. To be fair, she practically did. Irene had a key, toiletries in your bathroom and an irritating habit of reorganizing your refrigerator whenever she decided you weren't taking proper care of yourself. You shut the door behind her and followed, watching as she set everything on the counter before pulling out one of the chairs. Then she looked at you. You knew that look.
“Don’t.”
“Sit.”
“Irene.”
“Sit and eat.”
You rolled your eyes but did as you were told, mostly because arguing before you'd had caffeine seemed unnecessarily cruel. Irene pushed one of the coffees across the counter toward you. You took a sip and immediately discovered that it was exactly how you liked it. Of course it was. Irene had been buying your coffee for so long that you were fairly certain she could recite your order more accurately than you could.
“You’re nervous,” she said.
You looked at her over the rim of the cup. “I’m not nervous.”
“You didn’t sleep.”
“How would you know?”
“You texted me at two fourteen this morning.”
You frowned. “I could’ve been awake for normal reasons.”
“You asked me whether I thought you should wear your white boots or your black boots.”
“That was important.”
“It was two in the morning.”
You took another drink of coffee rather than answering. Irene's lips twitched, and you narrowed your eyes at her immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“The proud sister thing.”
Her smile finally broke through. “I’m allowed.”
“It’s annoying.”
“You got called into first-team training.”
“I know.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Irene.”
“I am.”
You dropped your head back dramatically and stared at the ceiling. “Please stop.”
Her quiet laugh filled the kitchen, and despite yourself, you smiled too. That was the thing about Irene. To everyone else, she was composed, calm and almost impossible to rattle. She was the sort of person coaches trusted without hesitation, the sort of player younger teammates automatically listened to when she spoke. To you, she was the woman who still sent embarrassing childhood pictures into the family group chat whenever you annoyed her. She was the sister who had once driven across Barcelona close to midnight because you'd convinced yourself there was a spider in your bathroom large enough to kill you. She was the person who had spent countless evenings kicking a football around with you long after she'd finished her own training because you'd begged for just ten more minutes. At home, she was simply Irene. The training ground was different. There, she became Irene Paredes. And you became Irene Paredes' little sister. You pushed the thought away and reached into the bag for your breakfast. “I can drive myself, you know.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
Irene looked at you as though the answer should have been obvious. “Because I’m your sister.”
Something inside your chest softened immediately, and you hated how easily she could do that. You could be irritated with her for hours and then she'd say something so painfully simple that suddenly you remembered exactly why she was the first person you called whenever anything happened.
“Eat,” Irene said, nodding toward the food.
You pulled it closer. “Bossy.”
“Hungry.”
“Same thing.”
By the time you arrived at the training ground a few hours later, the nerves you had repeatedly insisted didn't exist had returned with a vengeance. You'd been here countless times before. You played for Barça B. You knew the buildings, the hallways, the staff members and even which vending machine had a habit of stealing people's money. None of it was unfamiliar, and yet walking toward the first-team facilities that morning felt completely different. Every step seemed louder. Every person you passed seemed to look at you for half a second longer than usual. You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder and kept your expression carefully neutral, determined not to give Irene the satisfaction of realizing she'd been right about you being nervous. She walked beside you but not too close, and you appreciated that more than you would ever admit. Irene knew you well enough not to hover. She didn't introduce you to people you already knew or remind you where anything was. She simply walked beside you until you entered the changing area. Unfortunately, Mapi spotted you almost immediately. Her entire face lit up.
“Oh, look who finally made it. Paredes pequeña.”
You closed your eyes briefly. “Please don’t.”
Mapi's grin only widened. “You even look annoyed like your sister.”
“I do not.”
“She does,” Irene said at exactly the same time.
You turned toward her in disbelief. “Whose side are you on?”
“Mine,” Mapi answered before Irene could, laughing as she walked away.
You dropped your bag onto an empty space on the bench, trying not to think about the nickname. Paredes pequeña. Little Paredes. You'd heard variations of it for years. Sometimes affectionately, sometimes teasingly, sometimes from commentators who couldn't seem to get through an entire Barça B match without mentioning who your sister was. You knew Mapi didn't mean anything by it. That didn't mean you had to like it.
“Good to have you.”
You looked up to find Patri smiling at you from across the room. “Thanks.”
Jana appeared next, bumping her shoulder lightly against yours. You already knew her well enough that you didn't have to worry about impressing her, which made her presence immediately comforting.
“Finally,” Jana said.
You frowned. “Finally?”
“You've been impossible about this for months.”
“I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I was patient.”
Jana stared at you for a second before bursting into laughter. “You? Patient?”
You pointed at her. “Watch it.”
A few of the players nearby smiled, and some of the tension in your shoulders disappeared. Maybe this wouldn't be so different after all. Then Alexia walked toward you. And suddenly you became extremely interested in making sure your bag was properly zipped. You had met Alexia before. Plenty of times. You weren't some twelve-year-old academy player anymore, and you certainly weren't going to stand there starstruck by someone who had known your family for years. At least that was what you told yourself until she stopped in front of you and smiled.
“Welcome.”
You straightened slightly. “Thank you.”
“You've earned it.”
Three words. That was all. But they landed somewhere deeper than you expected. You had earned it. Not Irene. Not your surname. You.
You nodded. “I’m ready.”
Alexia's smile grew slightly. “I know.”
She moved away to continue getting ready, leaving you standing there with an unexpected warmth spreading through your chest. When you finally exhaled, Mapi appeared beside you again as if she'd been waiting for the opportunity.
“Were you holding your breath?”
“No.”
“You were.”
“Go away.”
Mapi laughed and thankfully did exactly that.
When you glanced across the changing room, Irene was already looking at you. There was no teasing expression this time. No older-sister smirk. She just looked proud. You looked away before she could see how much that mattered. Football had always been the easiest part. The second training started and the ball reached your feet, everything else disappeared. The nerves faded. The comparisons went quiet. You stopped wondering who was watching or whether anyone was questioning why you were there. You simply played. Your first challenge was clean. So was your second. During a possession drill, you read the pass before it was made and stepped forward to intercept it, immediately sending the ball into space for your teammate. One of the coaches shouted his approval, but you barely acknowledged it before resetting your position. The more you played, the more comfortable you became. During a small-sided game, Ewa made a run behind you. You anticipated it, dropped early and intercepted the pass before it could reach her. You turned out of pressure and sent the ball forward before anyone had time to close you down.
“Good!” one of the coaches shouted.
A few minutes later, Alexia received the ball near the edge of the area with her back toward you. She tried to turn left, but you stayed with her. She shifted right, and you followed again. When she pushed the ball slightly too far away from herself, you stepped in and took it cleanly. For half a second, there was silence. Then Mapi's voice came from somewhere behind you.
“Oho!”
You ignored her, although the smile threatening to appear on your face made that difficult.
Alexia jogged past you on the recovery run and gave you a small nod. “Nice.”
“Thanks.”
You said it casually.
Like dispossessing Alexia Putellas during your first senior training session was something you did every Tuesday. Inside, you were trying not to explode. The session continued, and somehow you kept getting better. You blocked a shot, won another aerial challenge and played a long pass out wide that drew another approving shout from the coaching staff. Every successful moment stripped away another layer of nervousness until you almost forgot why you'd been so worried in the first place. You belonged here. Maybe not permanently yet. But you belonged.
Eventually, after making another interception, your eyes moved toward midfield without you consciously deciding to look. Toward Irene. She was already watching you. Your sister gave you the smallest nod. Nobody else would have noticed it. Nobody else would have understood it either. You did. Good. I'm proud of you. The same look she'd given you when you scored your first goal as a child. The same look she'd given you when you made Barça's academy. The same look she'd given you after your first match with Barça B.
Your chest tightened. You immediately looked away before she could see how badly you'd wanted it. The mistake came toward the end of the session. It was tiny. Almost meaningless. You stepped too high during the press, leaving space behind you. The ball went through before you could recover, allowing one of the forwards to get in behind. Nothing came from it, but the coach stopped the drill anyway.
“You’re too high there,” he explained. “Hold your line and make her come to you.”
You nodded. “I know.”
The teammate beside you gestured toward the space you'd left behind. “If you step there, I can't cover you quickly enough. Just wait another second.”
“I said I know.”
The words left your mouth sharper than you intended. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. You heard it too. The edge. You should have stopped there. You knew that. It had been one mistake after an otherwise excellent training session. Nobody was attacking you. Nobody was suggesting you didn't belong. But frustration had already begun crawling beneath your skin. One mistake.You had made one mistake, and suddenly everyone needed to explain it to you.
Then Irene spoke.
“She’s right. You were too high.”
Your entire body went rigid.
You turned toward her.
“I heard her.”
The atmosphere around you shifted almost immediately. Irene's expression changed, although barely. Anyone else probably wouldn't have noticed. You did. You had spent your entire life reading her face.
“I was just saying..”
“I said I heard her.”
This time there was no pretending you hadn't meant the tone. Irene held your gaze. You expected her to correct you. Tell you to watch your attitude. Remind you where you were.
Instead, she simply nodded once.
“Okay.”
Then she walked back into position. No argument. No lecture. Nothing. That should have made you feel better. It didn't. You turned away and waited for the drill to restart, your chest suddenly tight. You told yourself you were annoyed because you didn't need Irene correcting you in front of everyone. That was all. It had nothing to do with the way people had been comparing you to her since you were old enough to kick a ball. Nothing to do with Mapi calling you Paredes pequeña that morning. Nothing to do with the fear that every mistake you made would somehow become another reason you weren't as good as your sister. You clenched your jaw. The whistle sounded. You moved. And from across the pitch, Irene watched you jog back into position with your shoulders noticeably tighter than they had been five minutes earlier. She had dreamed about this day almost as long as you had. She had watched you chase footballs around the garden when they were nearly as big as you were, had driven you to training sessions, sat through matches in the rain and listened to you talk endlessly about the day you would finally play for Barcelona's first team. Watching you out there should have filled her with nothing but pride. Mostly, it did. But underneath it was something heavier. Something Irene had been trying not to acknowledge for months. You were talented enough to be here. Everyone knew that. Your ability had never been the question.
But as Irene watched you throw yourself harder into the next challenge, anger still sitting visibly beneath your skin, she couldn't stop herself from wondering whether the biggest thing standing between her little sister and everything she'd ever wanted wasn't Barcelona, the coaches or even the impossible comparisons that followed the Paredes name.
It was you.
-
For the next twenty minutes, you did everything you could to pretend the moment with Irene hadn't happened. One bad response. One unnecessarily sharp comment. That was it. Training had already moved on, Irene hadn't said anything else, and nobody seemed particularly interested in what had happened. You weren't going to be either. At least, that was what you told yourself.
Instead, you threw yourself into every drill with a level of intensity that probably should have been your first warning that you weren't over it at all. Every pass needed to be perfect. Every challenge needed to be won. Every sprint became a race even when nobody else knew they were competing. You weren't simply training anymore. You were proving something, although you weren't entirely sure whether you were trying to prove it to the coaches, your teammates, Irene or yourself.
When Mapi received the ball with her back toward you, you gave her barely enough time to turn before stepping around her and knocking it cleanly away. She stumbled sideways before catching herself, staring after you as you passed the ball forward.
There it was again. Pequeña. Little. You knew it was a joke. Mapi had been calling you some variation of that since you were practically a child. On any other day, you probably would have thrown something back at her and continued playing. Today, all you heard was Irene's little sister. Your jaw tightened as you jogged away without responding. A few minutes later, you and Jana collided shoulder-to-shoulder while fighting for a loose ball. Neither of you went down, although Jana stumbled a few steps before recovering. She laughed as she straightened.
“Are you trying to kill us now?”
“Maybe.”
“Good to know.”
She bumped your shoulder playfully as she passed. Normally, you would have bumped her back. Instead, you simply moved toward your position. Jana glanced after you, the smile slowly disappearing from her face. Across the pitch, Irene noticed. Of course she did. She always noticed. The session finished with another small-sided match, and because apparently the universe had decided you weren't already irritated enough, you were placed on the opposite team from Irene. Mapi looked between the two of you and immediately grinned.
“Oh, this should be good.”
Irene rolled her eyes. “Play football.”
“I am.”
“No, you're starting trouble.”
Mapi's grin widened. “Also part of football.”
You ignored them both as you moved into position.
The whistle sounded, and for the first few minutes, everything was fine. Better than fine, actually. You intercepted a pass from Patri, blocked an attempt near the edge of the area and won an aerial duel against Irene that earned a ridiculous shout from Mapi somewhere behind you. You landed, steadied yourself and turned. Irene was smiling.
“Good.”
One word. Nothing more. You didn't answer. Something about the praise irritated you now too, which made absolutely no sense. Less than an hour ago, you'd looked across the pitch specifically because you'd wanted to see whether Irene was proud of you. Now every word out of her mouth felt like an assessment. You hated that. You hated even more that some part of you knew Irene wasn't the one who had changed.
The ball went out of play before being quickly thrown back in. You forced yourself to focus, pushing everything else down and concentrating on the match. For a while, it worked. Then you received the ball near the touchline. One touch brought it under control. Another pushed it into space ahead of you. A defender closed quickly, forcing you toward the line, and you shifted your weight before cutting inside. She followed. You knocked the ball ahead, preparing to accelerate past her. Her leg came across yours. Your boot caught. Your body hit the ground hard. Your hip struck first, followed by your shoulder, and the whistle sounded almost immediately.
For half a second, you stayed there. Not because you were hurt. Because you were furious.
“Sorry.”
The apology came from somewhere above you. A hand appeared in front of your face. You stared at it. The challenge had been hard, but it hadn't been malicious. Some rational part of your brain understood that. You'd made tackles exactly like it hundreds of times. Unfortunately, the rational part of your brain wasn't currently in charge. You ignored the offered hand and pushed yourself upright.
“It's training.”
The other player frowned slightly. “I said sorry.”
“You didn't need to go through me.”
“I got the ball.”
You laughed bitterly. “Bullshit.”
Her expression changed.
“Okay.”
She turned away. That should have been the end of it. She had apologized. The referee had called the foul. Nobody was arguing. Play hadn't even restarted yet. All you needed to do was walk away.
Instead, you muttered, “Do that in a match and see what happens.”
She stopped.
Slowly, she turned back toward you. “What?”
“You heard me.”
A few of the players nearby looked over.
“What's your problem?”
“My problem is people flying into tackles during training.”
“It was a normal challenge.”
“You went through my ankle.”
“I barely touched you.”
“You want to try it again?”
“Hey.”
One voice. One word. And immediately you knew. You closed your eyes briefly.
Irene. Of course it was Irene.
“Enough,” she said as she approached.
You turned toward her. “I've got it.”
“I can see that.”
There was no sarcasm in her voice. No anger either. Somehow, her calmness irritated you more than if she'd shouted. The other player had already stepped back. The confrontation was finished. Everyone was ready to move on. Everyone except you.
Irene looked at you carefully. “Just leave it.”
You gave a humorless laugh. “I'm fine.”
“I didn't ask if you were fine.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Trying to stop you before..”
“Before what?”
Irene paused. You could feel more eyes turning toward you now. The coaches. Your teammates. Alexia. Mapi. Everyone.
Irene lowered her voice. “Walk away.”
Two words. Simple. Reasonable. Exactly what you should have done. Instead, something inside you finally snapped.
“Stop.”
Her eyebrows pulled together. “What?”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like you're in charge of me.”
Irene stared at you.
“I am trying to help.”
“I don't need your help.”
“I didn't say you did.”
“You always do this.”
A crease appeared between Irene's eyebrows. “Do what?”
“You think because you're Irene Paredes, everyone has to listen to you.”
The second her full name left your mouth, the atmosphere changed.
Mapi shifted nearby, suddenly looking far less entertained by the situation. “Maybe we should just..”
“No.”
Your eyes stayed fixed on your sister. Irene's face had gone completely still. You knew that expression. You'd seen it growing up whenever you said something you couldn't take back. She wasn't angry. You'd hurt her. Somewhere beneath all the adrenaline and embarrassment, you knew that. You kept going anyway.
“You don't get to come over here and tell me what to do every time something happens.”
“I am telling you to calm down.”
“Exactly.”
“Because you're making this worse.”
“For who?”
“For yourself.”
You scoffed. “There it is.”
Irene stared at you. “There what is?”
“The lecture.”
“This isn't a lecture.”
“It always is with you.”
Irene inhaled slowly through her nose. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “Not here.”
You looked around at everyone watching before turning back to her. Humiliation burned hotter beneath your skin.
“Why? Worried I'll embarrass you?”
Irene's expression changed immediately. It was tiny. Almost nothing. But you saw it. And you knew. You had crossed a line. You could have stopped there. You should have stopped there. But anger was easier than admitting you were embarrassed, and attacking Irene was easier than acknowledging that none of this was actually her fault.
“Stop acting like you're my captain.”
Silence settled over the pitch. Real silence this time. Irene stared at you for several long seconds, and suddenly you wished she would yell. You wished she'd get angry. Give you something to fight against. She didn't. When she finally spoke, her voice was almost painfully quiet.
“I'm not.”
You swallowed.
Irene held your gaze.
“I'm acting like your sister.”
The anger inside you faltered. Just for a second. Then you became aware of everyone around you again. Your first-team teammates. The coaches. Players you'd spent the entire morning desperately trying to impress. They'd all watched you lose control. Humiliation crashed into you.
“I don't need one right now.”
The words were out before you could stop them. Irene's face fell. Barely. Nobody else would have noticed. You did. You always did. And for the first time since the argument started, the anger disappeared completely. Before you could say anything, the coach's voice cut across the pitch.
“That's enough.”
You turned toward him. He pointed toward the training building.
“Inside.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What?”
“Your session is done.”
The words hit harder than the tackle had.
“But”
“Now.”
You stared at him, certain you had misunderstood. “I'm fine.”
“This isn't about whether you're fine.”
“I can finish.”
“You can go inside.”
Every eye on the pitch seemed to burn into you.
“Seriously?”
Your voice cracked slightly, and that only made the embarrassment worse.
“Y/N.”
You looked toward the voice. Alexia stood several meters away. There was no anger in her expression. No judgment either. Just disappointment. Or maybe you were imagining that.
“Go,” she said quietly.
You swallowed hard. There was nothing else you could do. You turned and walked off the pitch. You didn't look at Irene. You didn't look at anyone. You grabbed your water bottle from the sideline, picked up the training top you'd discarded earlier and kept walking toward the building.
Behind you, training slowly restarted. The whistle sounded. Someone called for the ball. Football continued. Without you. You slammed your locker shut so hard the sound echoed through the empty changing room.
“Fuck.”
You paced away, running both hands through your hair as adrenaline continued racing through your body. Your heart was hammering. Your face felt hot. Every time you replayed the scene in your head, you somehow managed to make yourself angrier. At the coach for sending you away. At the player for tackling you. At everyone for staring. At Alexia for telling you to go. But mostly at Irene. At least, that was what you told yourself. The changing-room door opened behind you. You didn't turn around.
“If you're here to lecture me, don't.”
There was a brief silence before Irene answered.
“I'm not.”
You laughed bitterly. “That's a first.”
“Y/N.”
“What?”
You spun around. Irene was still dressed in her training kit, hair pulled tightly away from her face. She looked exhausted despite the session not even being finished. You knew immediately she'd left training to come after you. For some reason, that only made you angrier.
“Come find me when you've calmed down,” she said.
Your mouth fell open. “Seriously?”
“I don't want to fight with you.”
“Then don't.”
“I don't.”
“Could've fooled me.”
Irene stared at you for a moment before sighing. “You need to stop treating everyone who tries to help you like they're attacking you.”
“There it is.”
“I'm serious.”
“And I'm done listening.”
You grabbed your bag from the bench and shoved your things inside without bothering to organize them.
Irene stepped forward. “Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Training isn't finished.”
You laughed. “Apparently mine is.”
“Don't do this.”
You swung the bag onto your shoulder. “Do what?”
“Run away because you're angry.”
“I'm not running away.”
“Then stay.”
The words stopped you. You looked at her. For one stupid second, everything inside you softened. You wanted to stay. You wanted to drop your bag onto the floor and let Irene hug you the way she had when you were younger and the world felt too big. You wanted her to tell you that you hadn't ruined everything. That the coaches would forget about it tomorrow. That she wasn't angry. That you were still her little sister and she still loved you even when you made it impossibly difficult.
Instead, pride won. Again. You stepped around her.
“I'll see you later.”
“Y/N.”
Your hand landed on the door.
“Come find me when you've calmed down.”
You stopped but didn't turn around. You could hear the hurt in her voice now. You hated yourself for causing it.
Still, you whispered, “Don't wait up.”
Then you walked away. The door closed behind you, leaving Irene standing alone in the changing room. For weeks, she'd worried about whether you were ready for this level. Whether the pressure would be too much. Whether you could control the temper that had already caused problems at Barça B. But standing there now, Irene wasn't thinking about Barcelona's first team. She wasn't even thinking about football. She was thinking about the little girl who used to run toward her after every bad match because her big sister's arms were the safest place in the world. And she was wondering when, exactly, you had started running away from her instead.
-
You didn’t go home. You drove there. You even made it as far as your street before continuing straight past the turn that would have taken you to your apartment. You told yourself you just needed to cool off first. That you needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t involve sitting alone with the image of Irene’s face after you told her you didn’t need a sister. In reality, you knew exactly what would happen if you went home. You would think. And thinking meant admitting that maybe you had completely fucked up.
So you kept driving.
Twenty minutes later, you pulled into the nearly empty parking lot at the Barça B training ground. You hadn’t consciously decided to go there, but your body had apparently made the choice before your brain could argue. You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat, slung it over one shoulder, and made your way inside. The place was quiet. Most of the staff had already left, and the academy players were long gone. The familiar hallways felt different without the usual noise. No music coming from the changing room. No boots scraping against the floor. No teammates arguing over who had stolen whose tape. You kept walking until you reached the pitch. The stands were empty. Training equipment had been stacked neatly along the touchline, waiting for tomorrow. The goals had been moved back. The grass looked almost too perfect without anyone running across it. You dropped your bag onto the first row and sat down.
For the first time all afternoon, there was nobody around to blame. No coach. No teammate. No Irene. Just you. You leaned forward with your elbows on your knees and stared at the pitch. Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t have to look. You already knew. You pulled it out anyway.
Irene
You stared at the screen until the call disappeared. A few seconds later, a message came through.
Irene: Please just tell me you're okay.
Your jaw tightened. You flipped the phone face down beside you. You were okay. That was the frustrating part. You weren’t hurt. You weren’t injured. Nobody had actually done anything to you. You were just angry. Embarrassed. Humiliated.
You had spent years waiting for that opportunity. Years convincing yourself that if the first team ever gave you a chance, you would prove everyone wrong. You would prove that you were more than a surname, more than Irene’s little sister, more than the hot-headed defender everyone assumed would eventually grow out of her attitude. And you hadn’t even made it through one full session. You kicked at the ground in front of you.
“Fuck.”
“That’s usually not a good sign.”
Your head snapped up. One of your Barça B coaches stood a few rows behind you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. You hadn’t heard him approach.
You groaned and looked away. “Please don’t.”
He raised an eyebrow as he came down the steps. “Don’t what?”
“Whatever speech you’re about to give me.”
“I wasn’t planning one.”
“Good.”
He sat two seats away. For a while, neither of you spoke. You hated the silence.
Eventually, he leaned back and looked toward the pitch. “Heard training went well.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Clearly.”
“I’m serious.”
You turned toward him.
He shrugged. “I heard you were excellent.”
Your expression tightened.
“Until I wasn’t.”
“Your football never stopped being excellent.”
That hurt more than you expected. Because that meant the problem hadn’t been your ability.
You looked away again. “Am I going back?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Your stomach dropped.
You turned toward him. “Am I training with them tomorrow?”
“No.”
One word. That was all it took. You stared at the empty pitch.
“Oh.”
“Y/N”
“No, it’s fine.”
“It isn’t permanent.”
“I said it’s fine.”
He looked at you for a moment. “You’re doing it again.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Doing what?”
“Getting angry because someone told you something you didn’t want to hear.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. He didn’t look smug about it. That somehow made it worse. You leaned back in your seat and folded your arms.
“Do you know why you were called up?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Irene probably”
“No.”
The answer came so quickly that you looked at him.
“No?”
“No.”
He shook his head. “Irene had nothing to do with it.”
You frowned. “But”
“We’ve been recommending you for months.”
You stared at him.
“Your performances earned that session,” he continued. “Your defending earned it. Your work here earned it. Nobody gave you anything because of your sister.”
Something tightened in your throat.
You looked back toward the pitch. “Then why does it feel like everyone only sees her?”
He was quiet for a moment before asking, “Do you think she sees herself when she looks at you?”
You swallowed. “Sometimes.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
You sighed.
“No.”
“Then stop punishing her for what everyone else says.”
Your shoulders stiffened.
“You don’t hear it.”
“I hear plenty.”
“No, you don’t. Every match. Every interview. Every time someone new comes in. Paredes’ sister. Another Paredes. Does she play like Irene? Is she as good as Irene?” Your voice rose before you could stop it. “Do you know what it’s like to feel like you’re already losing before you even touch the ball?”
“No.”
His answer stopped you.
He looked at you calmly. “I don’t.”
You stared.
“But I know your sister isn’t the person saying those things.”
You looked down at your hands.
“She doesn’t have to.”
“That’s not fair.”
You laughed bitterly. “Of course.”
“Sit with that before you get angry.”
You clenched your jaw. He leaned forward.
“You know what Irene does when she comes here?”
You frowned. “What?”
He pointed toward a section of the stands a few rows higher.
“She sits right about there.”
You followed his hand.
“And?”
“And she watches.”
You said nothing.
“She doesn’t come down to talk to us. She doesn’t ask about your minutes. She doesn’t tell us where you should play or how we should coach you. She doesn’t interfere.”
Your throat tightened.
“She just watches you.”
You stared at the seat he’d pointed to. You knew Irene came to your matches. Of course you did. She texted after nearly every one. Sometimes she waited near the tunnel. Sometimes she disappeared before you even finished speaking to your teammates because she had somewhere else to be. You had just never thought about what she did while she was there.
“She’s never asked for anything?” you asked quietly.
“Not once.”
You swallowed.
“You’re not here because of Irene,” he continued. “And you’re not losing opportunities because of Irene.”
That one landed harder. You looked down.
“You lost tomorrow because of you.”
There it was. The truth you had been avoiding since you walked off the first-team pitch. You closed your eyes.
“Your sister can’t fix that for you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You didn’t answer.
He stood.
“You’ll get another chance.”
You looked up immediately. “When?”
“When you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
He gave you a look.
You sighed.
“Right.”
He started walking away.
“Coach?”
He stopped.
You hesitated.
“Did I embarrass the club?”
He studied you for a moment.
“No.”
Relief barely had time to settle before he added, “You damn well embarrassed yourself though.”
Your face fell. He gave you a sympathetic look and continued up the steps. Somehow, that was worse. By the time you finally stood to leave, your phone had twelve notifications.
Three from Jana.
One from Mapi.
Two from your mother.
Six from Irene.
You opened Irene’s first.
Where are you?
Then:
I’m not angry.
Then:
Please answer me.
Then:
You can be angry with me. Just tell me you’re safe.
Your vision blurred. You blinked hard and scrolled. The final message had been sent ten minutes earlier.
Irene: I love you. Come home when you're ready.
You stared at it. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You typed: I’m fine.
Deleted it.
Then: Sorry.
Deleted that too.
Finally, you sent:
You: I’m safe.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Irene: Okay.
That was it. No lecture. No questions. No demand that you tell her where you were. Just okay. Somehow, that was what broke you. Your eyes filled before you could stop them. You wiped quickly at your cheeks, annoyed at yourself for crying after everything else that had happened that day. You had told Irene you didn’t need a sister.
Irene.
The person who had tied your boots when your fingers were too small to do it yourself. The person who had stood in goal for hours because seven-year-old you had decided you were going to become the best penalty taker in Spain. The person who had driven you to academy sessions, waited outside physio appointments, called after bad matches, and sent you ridiculous voice notes after good ones. The person who had never once asked a coach to give you anything. You had spent years watching Irene become everything you wanted to be. And somewhere along the way, you had started resenting her for getting there first.
It was dark by the time you finally reached Irene’s apartment. You stood outside her door for almost two minutes. Your hand lifted. Dropped. Lifted again. This was ridiculous. You had a key. You had always had a key.
Irene’s apartment had never been somewhere you needed permission to enter. You had clothes there, your favorite snacks in one of her cupboards, and a blanket on the sofa that she pretended wasn’t specifically yours even though nobody else was allowed to use it. But using the key tonight felt wrong. So you knocked. Nothing happened immediately, and your stomach twisted. You knocked again. A few seconds later, footsteps approached. The lock turned. The door opened. Irene stood there in sweatpants and an old shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes moved over you instantly. Head. Face. Arms. Legs. Checking. Making sure you weren’t hurt. Always your sister.
“Hi,” you whispered.
Irene’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Hi.”
You looked past her into the apartment.
“Can I come in?”
Something passed over her face. Pain, maybe. Because you had never asked that before. This was Irene’s home. Which had always meant it was yours too.
“Of course.”
She stepped aside. You walked in. The apartment smelled like food. Your favorite food. Of course it did. You dropped your bag beside the door and followed her into the kitchen. Two plates were waiting on the counter. You stopped.
“You made dinner?”
“Lucia made dinner. I didn’t know if you’d eaten.”
Your throat tightened.
“Irene.”
She turned. Everything you had rehearsed during the drive disappeared. You had imagined a proper apology. Something mature. Something that would prove you understood exactly where you had gone wrong. Instead, your voice cracked.
“Are you disappointed in me?”
Irene went still. You looked down.
“Because I am.”
There was a long silence. Then you heard her step closer.
“Look at me.”
You didn’t.
“Y/N.”
Slowly, you lifted your head. Irene’s expression was soft, but she didn’t lie.
“Today?” she said quietly. “Yeah.”
Your face crumpled before you could stop it. Irene immediately stepped closer.
“But not because you made a mistake.”
You swallowed. “Then why?”
“Because you were cruel.”
That hurt. Because she was right.
You nodded slowly. “I know.”
“You were angry and embarrassed, and you wanted someone else to feel what you were feeling.”
Your eyes filled again.
“And I was there,” Irene finished.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“No.” You shook your head. “Irene, I’m really sorry.”
She stayed quiet. And suddenly everything you had been holding in for months came rushing out at once.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
Irene frowned. “Do what?”
“Be your sister.”
Her expression changed.
“Everyone looks at me and sees you,” you continued, your voice shaking now. “Every coach. Every player. Every person who hears my last name. It’s always you.”
“Y/N”
“And I know that isn’t your fault.” You wiped quickly at your cheek. “I know it isn’t. But sometimes I walk onto a pitch and I feel like I’m already failing because I’m never going to be you.”
Irene stared at you.
“I don’t want you to be me.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She stepped closer.
“I don’t think you do.”
You went quiet. Irene’s eyes were glassy now too.
“I have never wanted another me.”
Your lip trembled.
“I already know how my story goes.”
She reached up and placed both hands against your face.
“I want yours.”
You closed your eyes.
“I don’t know who I am without everyone comparing us.”
“Then figure it out.”
You opened your eyes again.
Irene smiled sadly.
“And let me be there while you do.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“What if I’m not good enough?”
Irene brushed the tear away with her thumb.
“Then we’ll figure that out too.”
A wet laugh escaped you. “That’s not very motivational.”
“I’m your sister, not Alexia.”
That pulled a real laugh from you. Irene smiled. Then you whispered the thing that had been sitting like a stone in your chest all day.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“What?”
“When I said I didn’t need a sister.”
Her expression softened immediately.
“I know.”
“I do.”
“I know that too.”
You barely had time to move before Irene pulled you into her arms. You collapsed against her. No pretending. No fighting. No trying to prove you didn’t need anyone. You wrapped your arms tightly around your sister and buried your face against her shoulder. Irene held you even tighter, one hand moving slowly over your back. Just like she had when you were six. And ten. And fourteen. And every age in between.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
You stayed there for a long time. Long enough for your breathing to slow. Long enough for some of the shame sitting in your chest to loosen. Long enough to remember that before Irene was the player everyone compared you to, she had been your big sister.
Eventually, Irene kissed the side of your head.
“Food’s getting cold.”
You sniffled and pulled back. “You ruined the moment.”
“You’ve been dramatic enough for one day.”
You stared at her.
“Rude.”
“There she is.”
You rolled your eyes, but a small smile finally appeared. Irene turned toward the kitchen. Without thinking, you caught the back of her shirt between your fingers the way you used to when you were little and followed her. Tomorrow, you would have to return to Barça B. You would have to face your teammates. Your coaches. Your embarrassment. You would have to earn another chance instead of expecting one. None of that had disappeared.
But tonight, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t look at Irene and see the impossible standard you were supposed to reach. You just saw your big sister. And maybe that was where you needed to start.
-
The next three weeks passed differently. Not easier, exactly. You still got frustrated. You still snapped sometimes. You still had moments during training when a bad touch or missed assignment made irritation crawl up the back of your neck before you could stop it. But now you noticed it. That was the difference. Instead of letting the feeling carry you wherever it wanted, you started catching it before it became something bigger. Sometimes that meant taking one breath. Sometimes two. Sometimes walking away from a teammate before you said something you knew you would regret. You hated how simple everyone made it sound. Just calm down. Just walk away. As if it were easy. It wasn’t. But you were learning.
And three weeks after the disaster with the first team, Irene was sitting in the stands for your Barça B match. She had arrived early. Of course she had. You pretended not to notice. You had noticed the second you stepped onto the pitch for warmups. Your eyes went automatically toward the section where she usually sat, and there she was in the same place as always, arms folded loosely over her chest, watching the team begin to stretch. She wasn’t waving. She wasn’t trying to catch your attention. Just watching. Like your coach had told you. You looked away before she caught you staring.
Your phone had been busy that morning.
Jana had sent: Don’t get sent off.
Then Mapi, thirty seconds later:
Actually do. Makes it more entertaining.
You had rolled your eyes at both.
Irene’s message had come last.
Play your game.
Three words. You’d read them while tying your boots. Then again in the changing room. Now, as the referee called both teams into position, you repeated them once more. Play your game. Not Irene’s. Not the version everyone expected from someone with Paredes written across the back of her shirt. Yours. The whistle blew. Football took over. For the first fifteen minutes, you barely thought about anything at all. That was when you were at your best. You stepped into passing lanes before the ball arrived, tracked runs across the back line, and won your first aerial duel so cleanly that your teammate immediately pointed at you in approval. You barely acknowledged it. The ball came again. You cleared it. Reset. Moved.
At twenty minutes, you received possession near the center circle and spotted a run developing on the opposite side. Without hesitating, you sent a long diagonal pass over the midfield and into the path of your teammate. She controlled it beautifully and nearly created the opening goal. She turned and pointed at you. You grinned. For once, your first thought wasn’t whether Irene had seen it. You were simply happy.
At thirty-two minutes, the other side broke through on the counter. One attacker got behind your midfield and carried the ball toward the box. You sprinted across, waited until the last possible second, then went to ground. Ball first. Perfect. The crowd reacted around you. You pushed yourself back to your feet and sent the ball out wide. Only then did your eyes drift toward the stands. Irene was clapping. You caught her eye. She smiled. This time, you smiled back. You didn’t hide it. Then you turned and ran back into position.
The moment came late in the second half. Of course it did. Football had a terrible sense of humor. You were leading by one, and the other team had grown increasingly frustrated as the minutes disappeared. The challenges were getting heavier. The referee had already allowed a few things to go, which meant everyone had started pushing the line just a little farther. Your legs burned. Your shirt clung to your back. Your patience was thinner than it had been at the beginning of the match. Then the ball reached you near the touchline. You took one touch to settle it, another to move forward. The defender arrived late. Really late. Her boot caught your ankle as you tried to move past her. Pain shot up your leg, and you went down hard. The whistle blew immediately. For half a second, you stayed on the ground, more stunned than hurt. Then came the anger. Fast. Hot. Familiar. You pushed yourself upright. The defender was already walking away. Something inside you surged forward. Your body moved before your mind caught up. One step. Then another. One of your teammates reached for your arm.
“Leave it.”
You barely heard her. The defender glanced over her shoulder. That was enough. Your fists clenched. You took another step. And then you stopped. Your chest rose and fell quickly. Every part of you wanted to keep moving. You wanted to say something. You wanted to shove her. You wanted to make sure she knew exactly what you thought of that challenge. The anger felt the same as it always did. The difference was that now you recognized it. You looked toward the sideline. Then higher. The stands. Irene was watching. She wasn’t shaking her head. She wasn’t warning you. She wasn’t looking disappointed. She was simply watching. Waiting to see what you would do. You remembered the kitchen. Her hands against your face. I don’t want another Irene Paredes. You remembered your coach sitting beside you in the empty stands. You lost tomorrow because of you. You remembered the first-team training pitch. The changing room. The way Irene’s face had fallen when you told her you didn’t need a sister. Your jaw tightened. Then you turned around. And walked away.
Your teammate jogged beside you.
“You good?”
You nodded once.
“Yeah.”
It wasn’t entirely true. You were still furious. But anger didn’t have control of your body this time. That felt strange. Almost uncomfortable. The referee booked the defender. You adjusted your sock, tested your ankle, and walked back into position. The whistle sounded. You kept playing.
The final twenty minutes were the longest of your life. You threw yourself into every challenge, but this time there was control behind it. You communicated with the defenders around you. Held the line. Dropped when you needed to. Stepped when you were supposed to.
In stoppage time, the opposition sent one last ball into the box. You rose above everyone. Header. Clear. The referee blew the final whistle seconds later. You had won. Your teammates celebrated around you, and you hugged the player closest to you before shaking hands with the other team. Even the defender who had fouled you stopped briefly.
“Sorry about the tackle.”
You looked at her. A month ago, you might have made a comment. Today, you nodded.
“It’s alright.”
She walked away.
You stood there for a second, almost surprised at yourself. Then your coach caught you by the shoulder.
“Good match.”
“Thanks.”
He started to move past you. You turned.
“Nothing else?”
He looked back.
“What are you fishing for?”
You shrugged, trying not to smile.
“I walked away.”
His mouth twitched.
“Yes.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want, a medal?”
You stared at him. He laughed. Then his expression softened.
“I saw.”
The teasing disappeared from your face.
You nodded.
“Okay.”
That was enough. You grabbed your jacket and started toward the tunnel. Then you saw her. Irene was standing near the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. Waiting. You slowed. Her face softened when she saw you coming. She smiled. Not the polite smile she gave people after matches. Not the composed one she wore in interviews. This one belonged to you. You walked toward her.
The second you reached her, the words came out before she could say anything.
“Did you see?”
Irene laughed softly. “I saw.”
“No, did you actually see?” You were grinning now, too excited to pretend otherwise. “I walked away.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to kill her.”
“I could tell.”
“But I didn’t.”
“No.”
You waited. Irene looked at you. You stared back.
“What?”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“That’s all I get?”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
Irene laughed again.
“You played well.”
Your face fell.
“Irene.”
“Okay, okay.”
She stepped closer.
“I saw everything.”
That shut you up.
Her expression softened.
“The tackle.”
You smiled slightly.
“The diagonal pass in the first half.”
Your smile grew.
“The clearance at the end.”
“And?”
“And you walking away.”
Your chest warmed. Irene reached for you. You went into her arms without hesitation. No checking to see who might be watching. No pretending you were too old. No embarrassment. You wrapped both arms around her waist and held on. Irene hugged you tightly, one hand resting against the back of your head. For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.
Then she whispered near your ear.
“That’s my girl.”
Your eyes immediately burned. You pulled back.
“Don’t make me cry in front of everyone.”
“You’ve cried in front of me before.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“You’re legally required to keep my embarrassing moments private.”
Irene smiled.
“I don’t remember signing that.”
“You became legally bound when Mum brought me home.”
“Unfortunate.”
You shoved her shoulder lightly. She laughed. Together, you started walking toward the exit. After a few steps, you looked sideways at her.
“Do you think they’ll call me back up?”
Irene didn’t answer immediately. You noticed. The old version of you would have filled the silence for her. You would have assumed she was thinking you weren’t good enough. You might have gotten defensive before she even had the chance to answer.
This time, you waited.
Finally, Irene said, “I think if you keep playing like that, they’re going to have a hard time ignoring you.”
You nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
“And if they don’t call tomorrow?”
You shrugged.
“Then I keep going.”
Irene looked at you. Really looked at you. You frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The proud sister thing.”
Irene smiled.
“I’m allowed.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Still annoying.”
“You’ll survive.”
The call came eleven days later. You were standing in your kitchen trying to decide whether cereal counted as dinner when your phone started buzzing across the counter. You almost ignored it. Then you saw the name. First-team staff. Your entire body froze. You snatched the phone up.
“Hello?”
The conversation only lasted a few minutes. You barely remembered half of it. Monday morning. First-team training. They wanted you back. You thanked them, hung up, and remained standing in the exact same place.
For a moment, you just stared at your phone. Then the official message came through confirming everything. You read it once. Twice. Three times. Your hands started shaking.
A month ago, you might have waited before telling anyone. You would have acted like it wasn't a big deal. Pretended you weren't nervous. Maybe told Irene later when you could say it casually enough that she wouldn't realize how much it meant. Instead, you opened your contacts.
Irene was at the top. You called. She answered almost immediately.
“Everything okay?”
A laugh escaped you. That was always her first question.
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
You smiled.
“See you at training on Monday.”
Silence.
Then, “What?”
“First team. Monday.”
Another pause. You could practically hear Irene processing the words. Then she screamed. Actually screamed. You pulled the phone away from your ear.
“Oh my God.”
“I knew it!”
“Why are you yelling?”
“I’m excited!”
“You’re never this excited.”
“You got called back!”
You started laughing. Her happiness rushed through the phone so easily that suddenly the nervous knot in your stomach loosened.
“Monday?”
“Monday.”
“I’m coming over.”
“Irene.”
“I’m bringing dinner.”
“I have food.”
“You have cereal.”
You glanced guiltily at the box on the counter.
“That counts.”
“No.”
You laughed.
“Fine.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
“You live thirty minutes away.”
“I’ll be there in twenty-five.”
“Irene”
The call ended. You stared at your phone. Then started laughing again.
Monday morning felt different. The nerves were still there. You had changed your boots twice. You had spent too long staring at yourself in the mirror. You had barely slept. But when Irene knocked on your door with breakfast, you didn’t complain.
“You know I can feed myself.”
“I know.”
“And drive myself.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t need you hovering.”
“I know.”
You stared at her.
She smiled.
“Then why are you here?”
Irene held out your coffee.
“Because I’m your sister.”
The same answer as before. Only this time, it didn’t make you feel like she was standing over your shoulder. It felt like she was standing beside you. You took the coffee.
“Black boots.”
Irene frowned.
“I was going to say white.”
“You said black last time.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You’re useless.”
“Still coming with you.”
You rolled your eyes. But when you walked toward the door, you waited for her. Mapi spotted you almost immediately when you arrived. Naturally. She threw both arms into the air.
“Paredes pequeña!”
You stopped. Irene glanced at you. Waiting. You looked at Mapi. Then smiled.
“Morning.”
Mapi blinked.
“That’s it?”
“What?”
“No threat?”
“No.”
“No insult?”
“Not today.”
Mapi turned dramatically toward Irene.
“What did you do to her?”
Irene shrugged.
“Nothing.”
You walked past both of them.
“Maybe I matured.”
Mapi snorted.
“Let’s not get carried away.”
You laughed. Actually laughed. And for the first time, Paredes pequeña didn't sound like an insult. It just sounded like Mapi being annoying. Alexia greeted you when you reached the pitch.
“Welcome back.”
“Thanks.”
She studied you for a second.
“Ready?”
You looked around. At the first-team players already warming up. At the coaches arranging the equipment. At Irene across the pitch. For years, you had convinced yourself that belonging here meant becoming something you weren’t. Calmer. More polished. More controlled. More like Irene. But you finally understood something you probably should have realized years ago. They already had Irene Paredes. They didn’t need another one. You took a breath.
“I’m ready.”
Training began. You made mistakes. Of course you did. Everyone did. The first time a teammate corrected your positioning, you felt that familiar flicker beneath your skin. For half a second, you wanted to explain yourself. Defend yourself. Prove you already knew.
Instead, you nodded.
“Got it.”
Then you fixed it. A little while later, you caught Irene’s eye across the pitch. She smiled. You smiled back. Maybe people would always introduce you as Irene Paredes’ little sister. Maybe commentators would always mention her name when yours appeared on the team sheet. Maybe there would always be comparisons. But for the first time, standing beside Irene didn’t feel like being trapped in her shadow. It simply felt like having someone there.
Someone who had walked this path before you. Someone who knew exactly how difficult it could be. Someone who would turn around whenever you needed her, but would never demand that you follow every one of her footsteps. You were still Irene Paredes’ little sister. You always would be. And somewhere along the way, you had confused that with being less than her.
Now you knew better. The shadow of number four had never been something you needed to escape. Your sister had never been blocking the light. She had been standing beside you all along, showing you where to find your own.
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London had been raining when Géraldine arrived. Not the dramatic kind of rain she had expected from every film she had ever watched about England, either. There were no violent storms, no thunder rolling across the sky, no excuse to hide inside beneath a blanket and wait for it to pass. It was just… there. A miserable drizzle that seemed to float sideways and somehow found its way beneath the hood of her jacket no matter how tightly she pulled it around her face.
By the time she stepped through the doors of the training ground on her first morning as an Arsenal player, Géraldine had already decided London hated her. She was standing just inside the entrance, damp hair sticking to her cheek and one hand wrapped around the handle of a suitcase she'd been too tired to unpack properly the night before, when you first saw her. You stopped halfway down the corridor. There was something almost funny about the sight of Arsenal's newest signing staring at a sign on the wall like it had personally offended her.
"You alright?"
Géraldine turned.
Her English was good. Better than she'd let on during her first interviews, mostly because she was terrified someone would say something too quickly and she'd have to smile politely while understanding absolutely nothing.
You pointed toward the sign.
"You've been staring at that for about thirty seconds."
Her eyes flicked back to it.
"I am deciding where it says changing room."
You looked. The sign listed reception, gym, medical, dining room and several other areas. The changing room wasn't included.
"It doesn't."
Géraldine stared at you. Then the sign. Then you again.
"You are serious?"
"Completely."
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Good start."
You laughed.
"Come on. I'll show you."
That was supposed to be it. A five-minute walk through the training ground. A quick introduction. Maybe helping her work out which cupboard contained the mugs because she'd somehow ended up holding a cereal bowl while looking for coffee. Instead, by lunchtime, Géraldine knew three things about you. You took your coffee far too sweet. You complained about London's public transport almost constantly despite insisting it was "actually brilliant." And whenever Géraldine looked even slightly confused during a conversation, you instinctively slowed down without making her feel stupid. That last one mattered more than she wanted to admit.
"You're sitting with us."
You dropped into the chair opposite her in the dining room before she could choose somewhere else. Géraldine glanced toward the long table filled with Arsenal players. Katie McCabe immediately grinned.
"Oh, she's adopted you already."
"I haven't adopted anyone."
"You absolutely have," Beth said. "You did the same thing with Alessia."
Alessia looked up from her food.
"I didn't need adopting."
"You called me because you couldn't figure out your washing machine."
"Once."
"It was three times."
Géraldine laughed quietly. You pointed at her.
"Don't encourage them."
It was the first time that morning she didn't feel like the new girl.
--
The coffee started a week later. There wasn't any grand reason for it. You stopped on the way to training every morning anyway, and Géraldine had complained exactly once that the coffee at the training ground tasted like "sad water."
The next morning, there was a cup sitting beside her place in the changing room. She stared at it. Then at you.
"What is this?"
"Coffee."
"I know what coffee is."
"Wasn't sure."
She narrowed her eyes. You smiled innocently.
"Try it."
She did. And paused.
"How did you know my order?"
"You've had the same thing every day since you got here."
Géraldine looked at you for another second.
"You notice too much."
"Occupational hazard."
"What occupation?"
"Nosy teammate."
From across the room, Beth made a choking noise.
You turned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Katie leaned toward Beth.
"Give it two months."
"Six weeks."
"You're both ridiculous," Leah muttered.
Katie held out her hand.
"Ten quid."
Leah sighed and handed it over. Neither you nor Géraldine noticed.
--
London became easier in pieces. At first, Géraldine's world consisted of her apartment, the training ground and whichever supermarket was closest to her building. Then you started showing her everything else. You taught her which Tube lines were worth avoiding during rush hour, although that lesson ended with both of you accidentally getting off at the wrong station.
"This is not where we are supposed to be."
"I know."
"You said you knew London."
"I do."
Géraldine looked around at the unfamiliar street.
"You are a terrible guide."
"That's harsh."
"You have got us lost."
"Temporarily misplaced."
"Lost."
"Adventuring."
She shook her head but followed you anyway. You found a tiny secondhand bookshop hidden between two cafés. Then a market Géraldine hadn't known existed. Then a bakery where she insisted the croissants weren't real croissants but ate two anyway. By the time you finally made it home, it was dark. Géraldine stood outside her building with her hands tucked into the sleeves of your jacket. You'd given it to her three hours earlier when she'd insisted she wasn't cold.
"You can keep that tonight," you said.
She looked down at the Arsenal jacket.
"And freeze tomorrow?"
"I own more than one."
"You are very generous."
"I know."
"And humble."
"Extremely."
Géraldine smiled. It was becoming easier to make her do that. You found yourself trying more often.
--
The rest of the team noticed long before either of you did. It was difficult not to. You arrived together even though you lived twenty minutes apart. You sat beside one another during team meetings. On away trips, Géraldine automatically saved you the seat beside her. At breakfast, you passed her the strawberry jam without asking. She started stealing your hoodies. You started keeping her favorite tea at your apartment despite not drinking it yourself. And apparently none of that meant anything.
"Are you two together?"
Katie asked it one afternoon while everyone stretched after training. You nearly dropped onto your face.
"What?"
Géraldine blinked beside you. Katie repeated it slowly.
"Are. You. Two. Together?"
"No."
You answered too quickly. Géraldine answered at exactly the same time.
"No."
Katie's eyebrows rose. Beth covered her mouth. Leah stared very intently at the ceiling.
"We're friends," you added.
"Very good friends," Géraldine agreed.
"Right."
Katie nodded.
"Friends."
You frowned.
"Why are you saying it like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you don't believe us."
"I believe you."
She absolutely did not.
Ten minutes later, you were standing behind Géraldine fixing the twisted collar of her training top because she'd somehow put it on strangely. Katie looked at Beth. Beth looked at Katie. Leah sighed.
"Don't."
Katie whispered, "Friends."
--
The first time you fell asleep on Géraldine's shoulder, she stopped breathing. It was after an away match. The bus was dark. Everyone was exhausted. You'd spent the first twenty minutes telling her a story about something that had happened in training years earlier. Then your words started becoming slower. Then quieter. Then nothing. Your head dropped against her shoulder. Géraldine froze. She looked down at you. Your cheek was pressed against the sleeve of her jacket, arms folded over your chest. She should move. Probably. Instead she adjusted slightly so your neck wasn't bent at an uncomfortable angle. Across the aisle, Leah watched. Géraldine narrowed her eyes. Leah raised both hands innocently. Then took out her phone. Géraldine's phone buzzed seconds later.
Leah: cute.
Géraldine glared at her.
Géraldine: shut up.
Leah smiled. The next away trip, you fell asleep on her again. This time Géraldine didn't freeze. She simply tilted her head against yours.
--
The problem was that somewhere between coffee and accidentally becoming your permanent bus pillow, Géraldine had developed feelings. Proper ones. The kind she had tried very hard not to develop. London had been complicated enough. New country. New club. New language. New life. Falling for the teammate who had made all of it bearable seemed like a spectacularly bad idea. So Géraldine ignored it. She ignored the way her stomach fluttered when you smiled at her across the changing room. She ignored how much she liked wearing your clothes. She ignored how you were the first person she wanted to tell when something funny happened. And she especially ignored the fact that when her mother asked whether London finally felt like home, the first thing Géraldine pictured wasn't her apartment. It was you. You weren't doing much better. You had spent months telling yourself Géraldine was simply easy to be around. That was why you wanted her beside you constantly. It was perfectly normal to know exactly how she liked her coffee. Perfectly normal to leave training and immediately wonder whether she wanted dinner. Perfectly normal to have your heart nearly stop because she'd fallen asleep on your sofa wearing one of your hoodies. Friends did those things. Probably.
"You're an idiot."
You looked up from your phone. Beth was sitting opposite you in the dining room.
"Good morning to you too."
"You like her."
You nearly inhaled your drink.
"Who?"
Beth stared.
"You're going to make me say her name?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Géraldine."
Your eyes automatically darted toward the other side of the room. Géraldine was talking to Alessia. Beth followed your gaze.
"Subtle."
"Shut up."
"You like her."
"She's my friend."
"God, you're boring."
"Beth."
"Just tell her."
"No."
"Why?"
Because Géraldine had finally settled. Because she seemed happy. Because if you told her and she didn't feel the same way, you could ruin the one friendship that had become important to both of you. You shrugged. Beth's expression softened.
"You know she looks at you exactly the same way, right?"
"She doesn't."
"Alright."
"You don't know that."
"I have eyes."
You rolled yours.
Beth grinned.
"You're both hopeless."
--
It was Katie who eventually fixed it. Although Katie would later claim she had been performing "a public service." The team gathering had started innocently enough. Food at Leah's. Music. A few drinks. Someone had brought cards. Someone else had brought enough alcohol to guarantee that nothing sensible would happen after ten. You were sitting on the floor beside Géraldine, your knees touching, when Beth announced,
"Truth or dare."
Leah groaned.
"No."
"Yes."
"We're adults."
Katie leaned forward.
"Exactly. Which means we can afford better dares."
That should have been everyone's warning. Within twenty minutes, Alessia had been forced to call Ella and sing Happy Birthday despite it not being anywhere near her birthday. Leah had to wear a pair of ridiculous novelty sunglasses. Beth had confessed which teammate she'd first thought was intimidating. Katie had been dared to speak in an English accent for five full minutes and nearly caused half the room to leave. Then it was your turn. Katie looked at you. You immediately regretted every decision that had led you there.
"Truth."
"Boring."
"Still choosing truth."
Katie thought for a moment.
"Who in this room would you kiss?"
Your stomach dropped. The room erupted.
"Oh, come on!"
"Answer!"
"You chose truth!"
You could feel Géraldine beside you. You refused to look.
"Pass."
"No passing," Leah said, far too amused for someone who had protested against playing.
You glared at her.
"Traitor."
Katie leaned closer.
"Answer."
Your eyes flicked toward Géraldine despite yourself. Just for a second. Unfortunately, Katie saw. Of course she did. Her entire face lit up.
"Oh."
"No."
"Oh, this is brilliant."
"Katie.."
"Géraldine."
Géraldine nearly dropped her drink.
"What?"
"Truth or dare?"
She looked suspicious.
"Truth."
"No."
Everyone laughed.
"You cannot say no," Géraldine protested.
"I absolutely can because I've changed the rules. Dare."
Géraldine stared at you as if you might save her. You couldn't. Katie pointed toward the hallway.
"Seven minutes."
Silence. Your face burned. Beth collapsed sideways laughing.
"No."
"Yes."
"We are not doing Seven Minutes in Heaven," you said.
Katie grinned.
"You're right. You're both adults. So I'm sure you'll spend seven mature minutes discussing taxes."
"Absolutely not."
The chanting started anyway. Not everyone. Mostly Katie and Beth. Alessia joined because she had no loyalty. Even Leah was laughing. Géraldine covered her face.
"This team is horrible."
"You signed the contract."
"Nobody warned me."
You stood reluctantly.
"Come on."
Géraldine looked up.
"You are agreeing?"
"If we don't, they'll never shut up."
"True."
Katie pointed toward the spare room.
"Off you go."
You stopped beside her.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I could."
"Seven minutes!"
--
The door clicked shut behind you. Silence. You and Géraldine stared at each other. Then both started laughing.
"This is ridiculous," she said.
"Completely."
"They are children."
"Definitely."
A muffled voice came through the door.
"We can hear you!"
You shouted, "Go away, Katie!"
Géraldine pressed her hand over her mouth. Outside, someone laughed. You both sat down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, everything felt normal. Then neither of you said anything. Your knees brushed. Géraldine looked down. You suddenly became very aware that you were alone. Really alone. No teammates. No training. No excuses to avoid the thing that had been sitting between you for months. You swallowed.
"Can I ask you something?"
Géraldine glanced up.
"Yes."
Your heart hammered.
"If Katie hadn't done this…"
You paused. Géraldine waited.
"Would you ever have told me?"
Her brow furrowed.
"Told you what?"
You laughed nervously.
"Don't make me say it."
"I do not know what you mean."
"You do."
Understanding slowly crossed her face.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Oh."
You stared at your hands.
"This is horrible."
Géraldine smiled faintly.
"You started it."
"I know."
Neither spoke.
Finally, Géraldine exhaled.
"I was scared."
You looked at her.
"Of me?"
"No."
She shook her head.
"Of losing you."
That silenced you.
"When I came here, everything was new. I did not know anyone. I did not understand half the jokes. I got lost constantly."
"You still get lost constantly."
"Not helping."
"Sorry."
She smiled.
Then her expression softened.
"You made everything easier."
Your chest tightened.
"And then I realized I liked you."
You barely breathed.
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"Géraldine."
"Maybe the day we got lost."
"That was our second week."
"I know."
Your mouth fell open.
She laughed quietly.
"You?"
You looked down.
"Probably around the same time."
"Probably?"
"Fine. Maybe before."
Her eyebrows rose.
You groaned.
"Don't."
"You liked me first."
"That's what you're taking from this?"
"Yes."
You laughed. Then the laughter faded. Her hand rested between you on the mattress. You looked at it. Then at her.
"I've been trying really hard not to fall in love with you."
She smiled. You smiled back. Then she leaned closer. Not much. Just enough to ask without saying it. You met her halfway. The kiss was gentle. Almost cautious. Like neither of you quite believed it was finally happening. Then Géraldine's hand found the side of your neck, and you laughed softly against her lips.
"What?" she whispered.
"Nothing."
"You are laughing."
"Because we've been idiots."
She kissed you again.
"Yes."
Outside the room, Katie yelled,
"Two minutes!"
You pulled away.
"She's timing us?"
Géraldine dropped her forehead against your shoulder.
"I hate them."
You wrapped an arm around her.
"No, you don't."
"I could."
You laughed.
Then she lifted her head.
"So… what happens now?"
You looked at her.
"Coffee tomorrow?"
Géraldine stared.
"That is your answer?"
"Breakfast?"
She shoved your shoulder. You caught her hand.
"I'm joking."
Your fingers slipped between hers.
"What happens now is I take you on an actual date."
Her smile returned.
"Good."
"And we never tell them Katie helped."
"Absolutely."
--
When the door opened, the room went quiet. You stepped out first. Géraldine followed. Still holding your hand. Katie's mouth dropped open dramatically. Beth slapped Leah's arm.
"I told you!"
Leah reached into her pocket. Money changed hands. You stared.
"No."
Katie was grinning.
"You owe me twenty."
"I absolutely do not."
"You said Christmas."
Beth shook her head.
"I said before November."
You looked around the room.
"You were betting on us?"
"Obviously," Alessia said.
Géraldine blinked.
"Since when?"
Beth looked thoughtful.
"September?"
"August," Katie corrected.
"We met in August!"
"Exactly."
You turned toward Géraldine.
"I hate this team."
She squeezed your hand.
"No, you don't."
Katie pointed.
"Look at that! Already finishing each other's sentences."
"Shut up."
Everyone laughed. Géraldine leaned into your side. And for once, neither of you bothered denying anything.
--
The party winds down and everyone starts to leave. You look at Geraldine and offer to take her home. She agrees. On the drive she grabs your hand and interlocks your fingers. You look down at your hands.
"Do you want to come to my place?"
Geraldine says yes. The drive lasted 10 minutes. You get inside and the both of you are standing in the living room.
“So,” you murmured, fingers catching lightly on the sleeve of her jumper, “are we still pretending that kiss only happened because Katie locked us in a room?”
Géraldine's eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
“She did not lock us in.”
“Not really the important part.”
“No,” she whispered. “It isn't.”
"I have been trying really hard to behave around you"
"What do you mean?"
"You drive me crazy. Ever since we started getting close. I have wanted you"
Geraldine looks not shocked, relieved almost.
"You have me now"
You grab her hand and bring her into your room. Both of you are undressing the other. Both of you bare. You are just looking at her. She reaches out and tentatively puts her hands on your waist. You grab her face and lean in. At first, the kiss is soft. You walk Geraldine backwards until she hits the bed. She crawls backward and you follow, leaning over her. You slot one leg in between hers. She bucks her hips upward at the contact. You start moving your hips also. Putting your entire body on top of her. Geraldine wraps her arms around your back. You do the same. She moves a hand down to grab your ass. Moving your head into the crease of her neck, you start leaving kisses and bites on her neck. The feeling of you two is just what both of you had imagined.
"Oh my God Geraldine. You feel amazing"
"This is what I have been thinking of. Fuck."
The friction that is happening to both of your cores is shooting an electricity straight into the other. You start rutting at a faster pace. You Lean back, grab her thigh and bring it up to your chest. Fucking her faster again. Your pussy moving deliciously against hers. Gerladine moans your name.
"Keep saying my name. Fuck you sound amazing"
"YN please. God I'm going to cum. I'm almost there"
You are close to but you can tell she is closer. With one hand you reach down and starts flicking at her clit. This makes her legs starts to quiver. Her body starts tense up. You know she is about to cum and you want to cum right with her. Rutting even faster now you start to feel the coil erupt inside of you. After a few more thrusts your entire body releases itself. You cum with so much emotion you scream. Geraldine cums and moans just as loud. You give a few short thrusts with the aftershock of your orgasm before you let go of her thigh and plop down right next to her.
Her hand finds yours next to her and just hold it for a minute of two. You lean over onto your side to look at her. She looks right back at you. You just stare at each other for what feels like forever. She leans over and kisses you.
"What was that for?"
"I didn't think I needed a reason to kiss you"
"You don't. Not anymore"
She smiles and you put your arms around her and pull her closer to you.
--
Months later, London was still raining. Géraldine had decided that part would probably never change. She was curled into the corner of your sofa with a blanket over her legs while you lay half on top of her, complaining about the film she'd chosen.
"This is terrible."
"You said I could choose."
"I made a mistake."
"You complain about everything."
"Not everything."
"Name one thing."
You thought about it.
Then looked up at her.
"You."
Géraldine rolled her eyes.
"Terrible."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
You shifted closer. She automatically wrapped an arm around you. Her English had improved. She knew London well enough now to correct you when you tried to take the wrong Tube line. She had her favorite café. Her favorite restaurant. Her favorite place to walk after training. There were photographs on the shelves of her apartment. Shoes scattered by the door. Teammates who walked in without knocking. A life.
Earlier that week, her mother had asked her the same question she'd asked months ago.
Does London feel like home yet?
At the time, Géraldine hadn't known how to answer. Now she looked down at you. You were wearing her hoodie. One of your feet was freezing against her leg. Your coffee mug was sitting dangerously close to the edge of the table despite her asking you three times to move it. Outside, rain tapped against the windows. You tilted your head.
"What?"
Géraldine smiled.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I know."
"Why?"
She brushed a strand of hair away from your face.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
Géraldine leaned down and kissed your forehead. You immediately relaxed back against her. She looked around the apartment again. At the blanket you'd bought because you insisted hers wasn't warm enough. At the photos. At your shoes beside hers near the door. At the life that had somehow built itself around her while she'd been busy worrying she would never belong. Maybe home had never been Switzerland. Or London. Or Frankfurt. Maybe home had never been a place at all. Maybe it had always been a person. And Géraldine had found hers.
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