Lucy Really Meant It When She Said She’s Lucky To Play With Her For Both Club And Country Bc 😮‍💨😮‍💨

obsessed 😍👀

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 2: You meet again whilst on International Duty

Word Count: 9.6K

⚽️

The engine hums beneath your seat. Your bag is stuffed into the overhead rack. Your boots still stink faintly of grass and adrenaline. Everyone around you is quiet — headphones in, eyes closed, half-asleep grief stitched across their post-match faces.

You’re sat by the window, forehead leaned lightly against the cool glass, her shirt folded in your lap. You’ve run your fingers along the seam a dozen times already. Number 11. You haven’t looked at your phone since you sat down.

Until it buzzes.

Ellie 🧤: What have you done to Alexia?

You blink. Frown. Sit up a little straighter.

You: What? Why? What have I done?

A typing bubble flashes. Then disappears. Comes back again.

Ellie 🧤: Irene told me. Apparently Alexia NEVER asks to swap shirts. Like, ever. And even when she ends up with one, she usually hands it off to staff. But yours she folded and packed straight into her own bag. Shrugged off one of the trainers when they reached for it. Just… packed it like it was gold.

You stare at the screen.

Still holding her shirt in your lap.

Your stomach does that thing — the shift. Like the drop before a fall, but slower. Deeper.

You: Stop.

Ellie 🧤: No. I think she likes you. 😏

You roll your eyes, but your heart flips anyway. You glance around the bus like someone might be watching your reaction — but no one’s paying attention. Everyone’s too tired, too sore, too wrapped in their own silence.

You look back down at the shirt in your lap. Thumb tracing her name along the back.

She packed yours.

Kept it.

Chose it.

And for some of the things she didn’t say on that pitch… maybe that said everything.

You lean your head back against the seat, letting your lips pull into a slow smile — the kind no one else on the bus gets to see.

⚽️

The familiar rhythm of international duty clicks into place the second you arrive — the crisp white kit, the echo of boots in hallways, the early morning call times, the sting of cold water recovery tubs. Different energy. Different badge over your heart. But your body knows the routine.

You’ve shaken the Champions League loss off publicly. But privately… parts of it linger. The ache in your calves. The phantom touch of her hand on your back. The shirt — hers — still tucked away, folded carefully like it’s something sacred.

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

Until now.

You’re sitting in your room, freshly showered, scrolling half-mindlessly through your feed, when you see it — a notification that pulls your breath short.

alexiaputellas11 sent you a message.

You stare at it for a beat. Then tap.

The message is short.

Alexia: So I hear we’re doing this again soon… 🇪🇸🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

Your lips twitch. That subtle stir in your chest kicks up again. You type back.

You: Afraid so. Home and away. Still time to switch sides though if you fancy it. We’ve got good biscuits in camp.

There’s a pause — a long one — like she’s reading it slowly, maybe smiling at it. You hope she is.

Alexia: Tempting. But I think I’m exactly where I need to be. Besides… I quite like chasing you around.

You inhale through your nose, deep, slow.

That’s not just banter. That’s loaded. That’s deliberate.

You: Chasing me? Bold of you to admit it. We’re 1–1, by the way. Just saying.

Alexia: I know. So let’s settle it.

Three words, and suddenly the fixture means more than points, more than friendlies, more than form.

It’s you and her again.

But this time, it’s in the sunburned air of Seville. Or the rain-soaked grass of Wembley. New battlefield. Same electricity.

And for the first time since the miss…

You’re itching for kickoff.

⚽️

The dinner hall’s a soft hum of laughter and plates, steam rising from trays, conversations criss-crossing down long tables. You’re in training kit, hair still damp from the post-session shower, hunger gnawing at your focus. You leave your phone face up on the table next to your water bottle, already halfway turned toward the food line.

Behind you, Beth Mead’s dropping into the seat next to yours, tray in hand, chatting with someone at her shoulder.

You don’t notice the buzz.

Not until you’re halfway back to the table, plate full, when you spot her eyes flick down to your phone — then up at you.

Just a flick.

Then, as you sit, she leans in slightly, lowering her voice.

“Your phone lit up,” she says softly, like she’s saying something far more dangerous than she is.

You shrug. “Ok, will look later, probably just my sister.”

Beth raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Nope. Didn’t say Poppy.”

She tilts her head, voice still low, barely above the clink of cutlery.

“Saw the name. Alexia Putellas Dm'ing you on Insta.”

Your stomach flips. Just a little.

You glance down at the screen — already faded to black again. But you know what it said. You felt it. Her name alone carries heat.

Beth’s watching you now, her grin subtle but sharp.

“Anything I should know?” she whispers, nudging your foot under the table.

You keep your voice steady, casual. “Just football talk.”

Beth gives you a look that says sure it is.

You shrug, eyes back on your plate. “She’s… friendly.”

Beth leans closer. “Friendly how?”

You smile into your fork. “The international rivalry kind of friendly.”

She smirks, shakes her head, and whispers, “You’ve got game, also a sly one, wouldn't think that of you” before returning to her food like she didn’t just poke a hole through your cool exterior.

You glance once at your phone, then again. Still dark. But it might as well be glowing. Because her name is still there. You wipe your fingers on a napkin. Eyes down. Discreet.

Beth’s still next to you, half-eating, half-smirking like she’s not paying attention. But you angle the screen away from her line of sight and unlock your phone, heart giving one subtle stutter as the screen lights up.

Alexia: Montse’s worried about you for next week.

You blink. Of all the things she could’ve said.

You stare at it, a slow smile tugging at the edge of your mouth. Beth, ever-curious, leans in slightly — not enough to be rude, just enough to let you know she’s very aware of your shift in posture.

You type back, careful and quiet.

You: Should you be telling me that? Bit of inside info, no?

A moment passes. Then the dots appear.

Alexia: It’s not a secret. She said it in a press conference this morning. Said you’re dangerous. That you know how to hurt us. She used the word clinical.

You stare at the screen for a moment, heart thudding — just a little heavier. Beth eyes you sideways.

“You okay?” she mumbles, poking a green bean with her fork.

You nod without looking up, thumb tapping the screen again.

You: Montse has good taste. I take it you didn’t correct her?

Alexia: No. I just smiled and pretended I wasn’t already picturing you breaking through our backline again giving me a headache.

Your eyes snap to the screen — heart officially off the rails. You swallow hard, and try — fail — not to smirk.

Beth whispers under her breath, “You’re so blushing.”

You shove a bite of food into your mouth just to distract yourself, eyes glued to the words glowing softly in your hand.

You: Tell her she’s right. I’m feeling a little dangerous this week.

Alexia: Good. I want your best.

And even though the dining hall is warm and full and noisy… You feel suddenly, completely alone with her again.

You’re trying to be subtle. Really.

Your phone’s tucked low in your lap, screen tilted just enough for your eyes only. You're answering slowly, carefully, but every few seconds, a ghost of a smile keeps tugging at your lips — you can feel it there, betraying you.

And of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

You hear the first one from across the table — Keira, of course.

“You’ve got that look,” she says, pointing a fork at you like it’s a truth detector. “That soft smile, eyes-down, texting someone you shouldn’t look.”

You blink up from your food. “What look?”

Keira raises her brow. “That look.”

Millie Bright leans in next. “Yeah, it’s giving ‘new crush’ energy.”

Ella adds through a mouthful of food, “I bet it’s someone in camp. That’s why she’s all hush-hush.”

You roll your eyes, trying to shrug it off. “It’s just a message.”

But the smile’s still there. And it’s not going anywhere.

You glance at Beth beside you. She hasn’t said a word. Just chewing, casually sipping from her water bottle, eyes low, completely unbothered.

Except… she knows. You can feel it in the side-eye she sends you — that quiet, satisfied smirk that says, I saw the name. I know exactly who you're smiling at.

But she doesn’t say a thing. Not to the team. Not to anyone.

Just meets your eyes for half a second, mouth twitching, and then goes back to her food like she’s never heard the name Alexia Putellas in her life.

You make a mental note: Beth Mead, queen of chaos and loyalty.

Meanwhile, Georgia’s getting louder.

“I’m starting a sweepstake,” she announces. “Whoever figures out who’s got her smiling like that first wins my snack stash.”

“Tenner says it’s the physio,” says Ella.

“It’s not the physio!” you groan, trying to hide your laugh. There was a new physio on this camp and you apparently blushed profusely when you first met her.

Across the table, Beth leans in slightly, voice low, only for you to hear.

“You’re welcome for me keeping your little secret by the way,” she mutters, a quiet grin playing on her lips.

You bump her knee under the table.

And you go back to your phone — where her name still glows.

Alexia: I'll pre-warn my keepers and defence you're feeling dangerous.

You smirk — openly this time. Yeah. Let them guess. Let them wonder.

Because this whatever it is. That’s just between you and her.

And Beth. Apparently.

⚽️

You’re the first one out.

Track jacket zipped halfway up. Head down, earbuds in, taking slow steps onto the pitch as the stadium breathes around you — quiet, clean, still holding its breath.

Except, you’re not alone out here.

Spain’s already out.

Clustered near the halfway line, talking lowly in little spin off groups. You don’t look directly at them — not right away. You keep to your side of the line, walking the perimeter like it’s habit, trying to stay in your bubble.

But you feel it. That stare. Her. You don’t need to look to know, Alexia’s watching.

You keep your head down a second longer than necessary before finally giving in — lifting your eyes just enough to glance across the pitch.

And there she is. Jacket undone, hands on her hips, speaking to no one in particular. But her eyes? Locked. On. You.

You quickly look away — too quickly. Cheeks warming, heart knocking against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape.

You take a breath. Try to shake it off. Stretch a little more, try not to smirk.

Then you hear footsteps behind you — fast ones. “Oi.” Beth.

Jogging ahead of the rest of the England girls, warmup jacket flapping behind her, face already halfway between outrage and disbelief.

She slows beside you and gives you a look. The kind of look that demands answers, no escape. “I’m sorry,” she starts, voice sharp and low, “but what the actual hell was that look she just gave you?”

You blink, innocent. Too innocent.

Beth crosses her arms. “Don’t do that. Don’t go all wide-eyed ‘who me?’ on me. That girl was burning holes through you. Like, not even subtle. I thought she was gonna sprint across the halfway line.”

You try to play it cool. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not!” she hisses. “I literally had to slow down just to watch it happen in real time. It was charged. Like, capital ‘C’ Charged.”

You laugh under your breath, brushing your hands down the sides of your thighs, trying not to let the blush hit your ears.

Beth steps in closer. “You’re not telling me something. And I’ve let you get away with it until now, but no. That look? That look was not casual. That was not football. That was something else.”

You raise a brow, amused. “Bit obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

Beth snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m obsessed with drama. And you’re clearly serving.”

She glances back across the pitch, where the Spanish team is still gathered — Alexia no longer staring, but definitely aware.

Beth leans in again, lower this time.

“Just tell me this,” she says. “Do I need to buy a hat?”

You grin. “Oh fuck off” You laugh as the other girls catch up, "You're so fucking dramatic, it was a look. It's just a respect thing, professional"

She groans. “So there was a look”

You just laugh, finally letting yourself glance across the pitch again.

Alexia’s already turned away. Talking with teammates. Calm, collected. But you know what you saw. And Beth knows it too.

⚽️

You’re in the rhythm now.

One-touch passing drills. Sprint bursts. Finishing patterns. The kind of movements your body knows by muscle memory — but today, your mind isn’t cooperating.

Even without looking, you know where she is. You know the timbre of her voice when she calls for a ball. You know the way her ponytail flicks over her shoulder when she checks a run.

Spain’s warming up on the other half of the pitch, but somehow it feels like she’s still beside you. Not talking. Just… watching.

You’re doing a terrible job of pretending you haven’t noticed. Beth, of course, has noticed.

She’s jogging beside you during a passing drill, jogging backward now just so she can stare at you while you try to stay focused. “You’re being so obvious,” she mutters between touches.

You don’t even look at her. “I’m literally doing the drill.”

Beth gives you a look. “You’re doing the drill like a lovesick teenager hoping your crush sees you execute a textbook give-and-go.”

You snort. “Don’t flatter her.”

Beth grins. “Oh, I’m not flattering her. I’m mocking you.”

A stray ball rolls across your path from Spain’s half, and you instinctively jog over to knock it back. Just as you look up to return it-

She’s there. Alexia. Jogging to meet the same ball. You reach it before she does, as your eyes lock. And suddenly the air feels thinner.

She gives you a look — unreadable, but charged. Not a smirk. Not playful. Something steadier. Like she sees everything you're trying not to say.

You pass the ball and it falls right to her feet, she looks impressed, "Gracias,” she says lifting a hand, and you swear her accent clings to the word just for you.

You jog back to where you're supposed to be, immediately regretting the flush crawling up your neck.

Beth is waiting. “Oh my God,” she groans dramatically. “The tension. You could cut it with a bib.”

“Please stop,” you mutter, trying — failing — to keep your face neutral.

“She literally just thanked you and I felt like I needed to leave the stadium.”

“I’m begging you.”

Beth jogs ahead of you now, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t worry! I’ll let Wiegman know you’re emotionally compromised!”

You glare, but it’s no use — she’s too far gone, laughing now, looping into the next drill. You catch a few of the girls asking whats going on she simply shakes her head as you glance back across the pitch one last time.

And she’s looking again.

⚽️

The tunnel in Seville is narrow, warm with tension and humming from the speakers overhead — a thudding bassline pulsing through the concrete, vibrating in your ribs. Somewhere out there, just beyond the mouth of the tunnel, the crowd is already buzzing. You can feel it. Taste it.

Kickoff is minutes away.

You’re locked in.

Hands flexing. Boots shifting weight. Eyes forward.

The lineups are tight. Players shoulder to shoulder. You’re not near her — not today. She’s toward the front of the Spanish line, talking quietly to their keeper, shifting side to side like she’s been here a thousand times. Her captain’s armband gleams even under the fluorescent tunnel lighting.

You keep your eyes down. Focused. You’ve done everything right this week — prepped, trained, run drills until your legs begged you to stop. You’re here to play. To win.

But then, you feel it. You don’t even know why you glance up. But you do. And she’s looking. Alexia’s head is turned, speaking over her shoulder in quick, quiet Spanish — something clipped and serious. Probably tactical. But her eyes don’t leave yours.

Not for a beat. Not for a breath. You don’t look away either.

Your pulse skips. The music blurs behind the moment. You feel something like static in your spine — not nerves. Not quite.

Just her. And then a hand on your back. Light. Teasing. Beth. Of course it’s Beth. She leans in from behind, voice just low enough that only you can hear. “Saw that.”

You let out the softest exhale through your nose, barely a smile, still trying to keep your head in the game.

“I’m focused,” you murmur back.

Beth grins. “Oh yeah. Tunnel vision, clearly. Just with a little… detour through the Spanish lineup.”

You elbow her lightly, eyes back ahead. You have to be locked in now. The official’s whistle sounds from just beyond the tunnel.

The players start to move. Boots echoing against concrete.

You step out into the roar of the stadium, lights burning above, thousands of eyes fixed on the field. But the only eyes you’re still thinking about are hers.

The night air is warm, thick with the buzz of thousands of voices bleeding into one. Flashbulbs blink through the stands like fireflies. The stadium is alive, pulsing. But when your boots touch the grass, everything slows.

Your place in the lineup is already marked — far side, second from the end. You walk the stretch in a line of lionesses, shoulders square, chin high. The England anthem will come second. You know the rhythm of this.

You take your place. Hands behind your back. Chest lifted. Head steady.

The Spanish anthem begins. You don’t usually watch the opposing team during this part. But tonight… you do.

Your gaze slides — carefully, subtly — until it finds her

Standing at the beginning of the Spanish line. Armband snug around her bicep. Shoulders straight. She doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t look at the flag. Her eyes are straight ahead, at nothing in particular. And you can’t stop looking.

The music plays. Unapologetically proud. Fierce. And she embodies it — calm, resolute, carved from something stiller than the storm that surrounds her.

She doesn’t move her eyes until the final notes fade. And when she does, she leans forward clapping, her eyes glance down the England line and find yours. Just for a moment. Not a glance. A connection. Then it's your turn.

“God Save the King” rises from the speakers, strong and sure. Your teammates belt it out. You sing, but quieter — not out of nerves. Not even distraction.

Just focus. Just weight. Just her, still there on the edge of your vision.

When the anthem ends, applause breaks out. Whistles. Cheers. A brief burst of fireworks somewhere in the distance.

Now comes the walk.

Your team moves — captain first, then the line trailing behind, handshakes down the rows. You start forward, your body moving through routine, but your eyes scanning ahead.

You’re doing well — composed, steady, locked in.

Until it’s her. You reach her first. Alexia.

She’s half a step in front of you now, offering her hand before you even lift yours. Her grip is firm — not aggressive, but certain. Familiar.

Her eyes hold yours just a second longer than they should, your head having to move to maintain the gaze as you move by.

You try to read them — but you don’t have time to. Your lips twitch — the faintest smile, gone before anyone else can catch it.

You move on, heart pounding in your ears like a second anthem.

Beth’s behind you. As you get past Alexia, Beth mutters, not even looking at you, “You two need to get a room.”

You elbow her gently, but don’t stop walking. Not now. Because kickoff is coming. And you’ve never felt more ready. You however caught the look on one of the Spanish players had on there face before leaning forward catching Alexia's attention.

"I'll kill you" you mutter to Beth as you headed into your half to the huddle Leah going to the coin toss.

⚽️

The whistle blows. You don’t ease in. You explode.

From the second the ball rolls, you're in motion — a flash through the midfield, one-two pass with Georgia, touch out wide, then slicing through Spain’s line before they can blink.

The crowd barely has time to register what’s happening before you’re in the box, the ball bouncing kindly, keeper surging out—

You strike it. Not perfect. But close. Too close. It brushes the outside of the post.

The net ripples just enough to make half the crowd rise in anticipation — only to fall back with collective breath held.

You exhale hard, adrenaline pounding, hands on hips for a half-second before you’re already jogging back into shape. That was twenty seconds. Twenty seconds into the game and you nearly ripped it wide open.

You hear the crowd murmuring. And then you feel her. Alexia.

You pass her around the halfway line. She's turning, resetting, face unreadable — but her eyes flick to yours and don’t leave. There's a flicker there, something caught between admiration and awareness.

You hold her gaze. Then you wink. Not cocky. Just a little too casual, it borderlines cocky. Intimate even.

Her lips twitch. The smirk blooms slowly — like she wants to hide it, but couldn't. She shakes her head slightly, just enough to say you're unbelievable and keeps jogging.

You glance over your shoulder, smirk still playing at your mouth, and mouth one word, “Dangerous.”

She catches it. The cameras catch all of it. Somewhere, a commentator clears their throat. Somewhere else, a hundred phones clip the moment in real time. You fall back into shape, heart still racing — not just from the near goal. But from her.

After that electric opening burst, the game turns.

Spain take the ball. And they don’t give it back.

One pass, two passes, five — they’re stitching threads of movement like embroidery, pulling you left, then right, then back again. It’s beautiful football. If it weren’t being used against you, you might admire it.

But right now, you’re defending like your life depends on it.

And you’re good. You show it.

You press. Track. Intercept. You drop deep and slide clean, clipping the ball off boots before they can even load a shot. You shield with your back to goal, swing possession out wide, and sprint to recover before Spain recycles their shape again.

You feel Beth behind you, shouting, organising. You feel Keira lunging, Georgia grinding. You’re all under siege — but you’re holding. Until you don’t.

The 29th minute.

You know the build-up before it’s even complete. You see the triangle form between midfield and the wing. You sprint to cover — too wide. They slip inside instead.

Ball into the box. A flick. A stumble. A shot. 1–0. Not from her. Not yet. But she played her part.

You reset. Jaw tight. Breathe loud in your ears. No panic. Just work. The pressure builds. Spain push again. Tighter now. Crisper.

And this time… you see Alexia coming. Floating at the edge of the box like she’s not even part of the play. Hands down. Face calm. You should’ve known.

You close the gap, just as the cross starts to curl in.

You’re there. You think you’re there. But she’s already moving. One touch. One turn. Left foot. Back of the net. 2–0.

The crowd erupts — red flares of noise across the stands. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t celebrate wild. Just lifts her arms, turns, and welcomes her team into her.

You’re frozen. Not in awe. Not in defeat. Just frustrated. Because you know better. Because you read the play. And she still found the space.

You shake your head, hands on your hips, and breathe deep — trying to focus, trying not to look at her as she passes you again on the jog back to her half.

But she glances. Just once. Not smug. Not showy. Just knowing.

⚽️

You step back onto the pitch after half time with your heart in your mouth and fire in your legs.

Down 2–0. But you’re in it. You feel it in your chest — that tight, magnetic pull of unfinished business.

She scored. But now it’s your turn to answer.

Spain press high again, confident, sharp — but this time, you don't just absorb it. You counter.

49th minute. You pick up the ball on the right side, deep. Alexia is drifting to cover — late, wide. You feel her shift in behind you, ready to close off the inside lane.

So you show it to her. You drop your shoulder — once, left — and she bites. You flick it right. Gone. You hear her boot slide across the turf as you vanish down the flank, leaving her weight shifting the wrong way.

The space opens. You take three touches. Look up.

One clean pass across the box. Perfect weight. And Alessia Russo buries it.

2–1. Game on.

The away end roars. You don’t celebrate hard — just turn back upfield, nodding once, jaw set.

But your eye find hers. Alexia is already repositioning, breathing hard, lips pressed tight. Before shouting orders to her team as the defence hold a mini meeting.

She meets your gaze. Just for a second. Then looks away. You grin — just barely.

56th minute. It happens again. Different side. Same instinct.

You receive the ball near midfield. She's tighter this time, right on your hip. You can feel her reading, adjusting, trying to anticipate the same movement.

So you switch it. This time, a little half-touch with the sole, then a cheeky back heel into space. Gone. She’s turning the wrong way again.

You don’t even hear the crowd anymore — just the rush in your ears, the snap of the ball, the clean crack as you find your teammate’s feet.

This one’s even sweeter. Low shot. Bottom corner.

2–2. Bedlam. Your team swarms you — but all you’re doing is scanning across the pitch. And there she is. Hands on hips. Breathing heavy. Watching you. This time, you smirk. She shakes her head.

But there’s that flicker again — behind her eyes. Admiration. Frustration. Something else. You're even now. On the scoreboard. And in the story between you.

⚽️

The scoreboard reads 88:17.

You’re soaked in sweat, shirt clinging to your back, every muscle in your legs screaming for a break you’re not going to give them.

It’s 2–2.

Spain are pressing again, but not as crisp now. Not as sure. Your team has clawed its way back into this — you have clawed it back. One pass at a time. One feint. One drive. One stolen breath.

But it’s not over. Not yet.

Alexia is moving deeper now, floating like she always does, finding spaces that barely exist. You feel her near you again — not marking, not chasing, just there. Orbiting.

You intercept a pass in midfield. Ball sticks to your boots like it knows where to go.

She steps forward. You see her coming — read the angle, the pressure, the attempt to funnel you wide.

You cut inside instead. Your shoulder brushes hers. It’s not intentional — not fully — but it’s enough.

For half a second, your eyes meet in the tangle. And she knows.

She can’t stop you this time. You surge forward. The stadium rises with you.

You drive. Cut right. Another defender dives in — too late. You glance up. One teammate is peeling wide, calling for it.

But the angle is wrong. You take it yourself. Shot. Rising. Clean.

And— The keeper stretches. Fingertips. Just enough. The ball clips the bar. Over. The crowd gasps. So do you. Not out of disappointment — out of proximity to glory.

You fall to your knees for a second, hands on your head. 90:05.

No stoppage miracle. The ref’s whistle blows. It’s over.

Draw.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

You stay on your knees for a moment, the world spinning, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break out.

Then — footsteps. Quiet, close. You lift your head, already knowing.

It’s Alexia. Not smiling. Not smug. Just… there. Hands on her hips. Hair damp and sticking to her forehead.

She looks at you like you’re both made of the same breathless moment. “That was close,” she says softly, Spanish accent curling around the words.

You rise slowly, chest still heaving. “I don't like your keeper,” you murmur back. Cata struck again.

She tilts her head, just a little. That same smirk tries to rise — but it’s tired now. Honest.

She steps in close, as you both move in sync towards the post match handshakes. Just enough for her hand to brush yours. And this time, you don’t pull away.

You don't move apart more than a few centimetres milling around making sure to connect with each player on your team and hers.

You're still catching your breath.

Hands on your hips. Boots heavy with grass. The bar's clink still ringing in your ears like a cruel echo. You barely feel the ache in your legs anymore — just the weight of what almost was.

Then, there's a tap back on your back, Alexia steps in front of you, already tugging gently at the hem of her shirt.

“Again?” you ask, voice quiet, eyes narrowing slightly.

Her brow arches, but the corner of her mouth lifts. That same look — not a smirk, not a smile, just hers. Under the stadium lights, with the noise behind her and the heat between you.

She doesn’t answer with words. She just pulls her shirt over her head in one smooth motion.

And that’s when your breath actually catches.

Not just because of who she is. But how she looks in this moment, collarbones slick with sweat, and beneath all of it, the sharp definition of abs that look like they’ve been carved with care and discipline.

She holds the shirt loosely in one hand, like it’s nothing at all — like the moment doesn’t hang heavy in the space between you.

You try to keep your face neutral, try not to let your eyes linger too long. But you know she sees it, and she says nothing. Just steps a little closer.

You pull your own shirt off in return, matching the silence, feeling the night air hit your skin as you fold it and hand it over.

She takes it gently. No words. No fuss. Her fingers brush yours, intentionally.

And for the first time all match — for the first time in weeks — she lets her gaze drop. Just for a second. Down. Over you.

Then back up. “I like collecting things,” she says, her voice quiet enough that it barely survives the wind.

“Two now,” you say, nodding toward the first shirt you know she kept.

Alexia smirks. “Just the important ones.”

And just like that, she’s turning — shirt slung over her shoulder, hair pulled free, walking away with your shirt bold across her shoulder.

And you're left there — shirtless, heartbeat thudding, her sweat still warm in your hands.

The crowd is still thick with noise — cheers, whistles, music blaring faintly over the tannoy — but for the first time since kickoff, the tension has lifted.

It’s just noise now. Not pressure. Just atmosphere.

You’ve got her shirt in your hands, soft and damp, clutched loosely as you make the slow walk toward the away end where the travelling England fans are still singing. Still clapping. Still holding up flags like they’re proud of you — because they are.

You glance at her name stitched across the back Alexia. And with a quick glance around, you slip it on.

It fits looser than yours — hangs differently. But there’s something grounding about it. Like the match isn’t really over yet. Like some part of it is still here, wrapped around you.

You’re only a few steps in when you hear the softest voice beside you.

“Another one for the collection, huh?”

Beth. Of course.

You glance sideways to find her at your shoulder, arms crossed, trying — and failing — to suppress the grin on her face. “I didn’t say a word,” she adds, lips twitching. “But this?” She gestures vaguely to the shirt now draped across your body. “This says everything.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you keep walking. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m observant,” she corrects, feigning innocence. “You’ve swapped shirts with her twice now. That’s basically flirting”

You glance over at her with mock exasperation. “Do me a favour and don’t bring this up in front of anyone.”

Beth laughs, loud and sharp. “Oh please. They've definitely clocked it.”

You’re nearly at the away end now, pulling the sleeves straight, waving up at the crowd.

Beth leans in one last time. “You can’t keep pretending these swaps are 'football friendly'”

You don’t answer her.

You’re too busy turning toward the fans, hand raised, smile soft, Alexia’s name warm against your back.

⚽️

It’s past midnight.

The room is dark except for the soft blue glow of your screen. One arm behind your head, your hair still a little damp from the shower. Your suitcase half-open across the floor. Boots drying in the corner.

You’re tired. But not enough to sleep. You’ve watched your assist three times. Rewatched her goal twice as many. The cameras caught too much — the wink, the look, the shirt swap — and your name’s already trending in two languages.

You close Instagram. You close your eyes. Your phone buzzes. You don’t move — not right away. Just let it sit there on your chest for a second, until the screen fades to black again.

Then you check.

AlexiaPutellas11 sent you a message

You swipe it open.

Alexia: Still awake?

You stare at it for a moment. Then reply.

You: Obviously. You scored on us. I’m traumatised. Can’t sleep.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

Alexia: It was a beautiful goal though. Admit it.

You: Fine. It was very annoying how beautiful it was.

You pause. Then:

You: You meant it, right? The run, the finish. You knew I’d be half a second late.

There’s a pause. Long enough for your heart to notice.

Alexia: Of course I meant it. You’re the one I timed it for.

You sit up slowly, your heart suddenly louder than the quiet around you.

You: That’s unfair. That’s like psychological warfare.

Alexia: You started it. You winked.

You grin, can’t help it. Thumb hovering over the screen.

Then she sends another.

Alexia: You looked good in my shirt, by the way. I like the way it fits you.

You exhale through a smile, cheeks warming even in the dark.

You type slowly.

You: You going to keep asking for mine after every game?

Alexia: Only if you keep giving it to me.

And then one more message follows — this one simpler, quieter.

Alexia: I liked today. Even if it wasn’t a win. I liked being across from you again.

You lie back down. Let the silence settle. You stare at her words. You don't reply right away. Because you're thinking the exact same thing.

⚽️

The bus is rolling slow through the city streets — lights flickering across windows, the low hum of Spanish voices rising in bursts of laughter. Kit bags rustle. Boots thud softly against the floor. Headphones hang loose around necks.

They won the moment — didn’t lose the match, but they saw it happen. And they’re not letting her off easy. Alexia’s sat in her usual spot, third row from the back, by the window. Hoodie up. Arms crossed. Staring out like she’s untouched by the chaos around her.

But her teammates they’ve clocked everything. “Did anyone else see that wink?” Irene says, loud enough for the whole bus. “I nearly asked the ref if it counted as a foul as that was bold.”

The girls burst into laughter. Patri nearly chokes on her water. Alexia doesn’t move. She’s still gazing out the window.

Cata Coll leans over from the seat across the aisle, grinning like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment. “She’s not denying it.”

Alexia finally sighs, turns just enough to glance at her.

“I’m ignoring it.”

“Are you ignoring this too?” Cata says, holding up Alexia’s phone, where she’s clearly got your message open. “Just casually got her DMs open. Apparently your girl’s teammate can see it all too.”

Alexia arches an eyebrow. “What?”

Cata grins wider. “Beth Mead. Said it right there in the lineup — told her she needed to ‘get a room.’ You were staring too hard, apparently.”

The bus howls. Alexia lets her head fall back against the seat with a groan, covering her face for a second with her hand. “I was not staring.”

“Yes you were,” Salma sings from a few seats up.

“You stared,” Mariona confirms, practically bouncing in her seat.

“You telepathically confessed your feelings,” Irene adds. “And then swapped shirts. Again.”

Alexia’s face is pink now. Not quite blushing — but for her, it’s obvious. She lowers her hand slowly. Looks at Cata.

Cata shrugs. “You’re trending.”

Alexia shakes her head. But she’s smiling now — quietly, under it all. Because even with the teasing… Even with the firestorm they’re stirring up…She’s thinking about you. In her shirt. Wearing her name on your back. Smiling at your phone the same way she just did. And somewhere, in that space between the window and the chaos… Alexia wonders if you're thinking about her too

⚽️

You’re out early.

Wembley feels massive beneath your shoes — open and echoing in the way only the biggest stadiums can be. The arch curves high above, slicing the sky. The lights are already warming up. Cameras tracking movement. The first fans are filtering into their seats, waving flags, holding signs.

You’re in your jacket, headphones slung around your neck, doing your usual slow pitch walk — clearing your head, steadying your breath.

Trying not to think about her. But then you feel it. Before you even see her. That shift in the air. You glance up. And there she is. Alexia. Walking casually across the halfway line, her warmup top zipped halfway, sleeves pushed up. She moves like she’s done it a thousand times — comfortable, quiet, composed. But she’s coming straight to you.

You stop walking. Pull your headphones off, let them hang loose around your collar. She reaches you with no preamble. “Big stadium,” she says softly, glancing around, eyes sweeping over the empty seats.

You nod. “Feels like it stretches forever when you’re chasing the ball.”

Alexia smiles faintly, but doesn’t look at you right away. Just takes in the expanse — the history hanging in the air, the roar that’s not there yet, but soon will be.

“I’ve not played here for years,” she says. “Feels different.”

“It is,” you reply. “It swallows you up a little. In a good way.”

Finally, she looks at you. “You love it here?”

You don’t have to think. “I do.”

She nods once, like she already knew that. Her gaze lingers on the pitch. “I watched film from your last game here,” she says. “You played higher. More aggressive. You broke the press with one run.”

You glance at her, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Studying me?”

Alexia shrugs. “Preparing.”

You walk a few steps together in silence, shoes crunching against the turf. She breaks it again, voice softer now.

“I like how you move. You see things before they happen. Wembley suits that.”

You glance sideways. “That a compliment?”

She meets your eyes. “It’s the truth.”

There’s a pause — a long one. Then she adds, “Not going to make it easy for us today are you?.”

You grin, looking down at your boots. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Alexia smirks. “Good. Montse’s already nervous.”

You laugh lightly, the tension in your shoulders easing — just slightly. She doesn’t say anything else. Just gives you a small nod, then turns back toward her half of the pitch.

And as she walks away — sleeves pushed up, hair pulled tight, name already echoing in the stadium speakers — you watch her for a second longer than you should.

Wembley is big. But somehow, with her in it… It feels smaller.

⚽️

The tunnel is loud in that weird, hollow way — boots echoing against concrete, staff voices layered under stadium music thudding from above. The lineups are forming, captains already briefing with officials. The buzz is rising like a wave about to crest.

You’re not in line. You’re a sub tonight. Track jacket zipped, shin pads tucked in place, heart beating somewhere between frustration and focus.

You keep your head down as you walk the length of the tunnel, weaving between your teammates. Focused. Calm. Trying to look like this was always the plan. Then you feel a hand.

Fingers on your arm. Light. Just enough to make you stop. You look back, it’s Alexia.

She's already in position with her team, but she’s turned to face you, brow furrowed just slightly, eyes searching your face.

“You’re not starting?” she asks, voice low, confusion laced into the syllables of her accent.

You blink. You weren’t expecting her to notice. Weren’t expecting her to care. “Not this time,” you say quietly, shrugging.

She nods — slowly, eyes flicking down your body, like she’s double-checking, like maybe she’s trying to figure out why. There’s a pause, something uncertain in the way she presses her lips together.

Behind you, Beth slides in close and nudges your back gently. “Keep walking,” she mutters under her breath with a smirk, you roll your eyes and keep walking, pulse pounding harder now for entirely different reasons. Before following Beth turned to Alexia and adding sweetly, “Don’t miss her too much.”

Alexia’s lips twitch. Just slightly. Behind you, the confusion spreads. Leah turns her head just enough to whisper sideways to Mary Earps and Millie Bright. “What am I missing?”

Millie shrugs. “Dunno.”

Mary just raises her brows, clearly intrigued but out of the loop. They all look after you like you’re a puzzle piece they haven’t been handed yet. Meanwhile, up ahead, you glance back once — quick, quiet — and find her eyes still on you. She doesn’t look away. Not until you move out of sight.

⚽️

You’re sat on the bench, jacket zipped to your chin, legs bouncing lightly as you try — and fail — to still the restlessness coiling inside you. You’ve always hated watching. Always. Especially games like this. Big. Tight. Pulsing with energy. And she’s out there.

Already dictating tempo, pointing, shifting the lines with her fingertips, her voice cutting through the noise. She moves like the match belongs to her — like she’s not playing in it, but shaping it. Every touch is smooth, precise. She’s not flashy — she never is — but she’s everywhere.

You can’t stop watching her.

Your eyes track her automatically. Like gravity. Like instinct. The way she turns with the ball. The way her brow creases when she spots a space no one else has seen yet. The way she lifts her head just after every pass to check if you’re watching.

You think she’s doing it more than usual. And she knows exactly where you’re sitting.

Beth is on the bench next to you, pulling her water bottle from under her seat, catching your line of sight without even trying.

“She’s playing well,” she says casually, voice low.

You don’t reply.

“You’re watching her like she does you.”

You sigh.

Beth grins. “It appears mutual whatever this is, at this point.”

Back on the pitch, Alexia receives the ball near the touchline and twists — sudden and sharp — sending your teammate the wrong way before slotting a pass through two defenders. A near assist. Nearly cruel.

The crowd gasps. She jogs back into shape, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, breathing steady, unfazed.

You swear she glances at the bench again.

You shift forward slightly, elbows on your knees now, jacket suddenly too warm, boots tapping at the grass. You want in. Not because you need to stop her. Not even to score.

But to meet her in the middle of it. To play the game you’ve been playing since that first glance. That first tackle. That first encounter.

Not from the sideline. With her.

Sarina's voice barks your name down the bench. You look up. And everything in you stands. "Y/N, Beth! Go warm up, you're coming on after half time!"

⚽️

You’re along the sideline now, jacket peeled off, as you jog small circles up and down the touchline with Beth.

The crowd’s roaring behind you — full-throated, relentless — but it’s all white noise compared to the pressure unfolding on the pitch.

Because Spain is pressing. And Alexia is at the center of it all. You watch her glide through midfield like she belongs to the turf — weightless, elegant, always in space. Her passes are scalpel-precise. Her vision is five seconds ahead of everyone else.

She gets the ball, checks her shoulder once, twice, and releases it like it’s nothing. Like the shape of the game bends around her.

“Jesus,” Beth mutters beside you, breathing hard. “She’s everywhere.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching her again — how she receives under pressure and turns, drawing two midfielders like it’s a game of tag she’s already won. She barely even looks your way, but somehow that makes it worse. Because you want to be in there. You want to feel her steps against yours again.

“You okay?” Beth asks suddenly, flicking her eyes sideways toward you.

You nod, jaw tight. “Just want to be out there.”

She hums. “Yeah, well. You’re not the only one thinking you should be.”

You glance over, confused. Beth jerks her chin subtly toward the pitch. And sure enough — in one of those rare lulls between plays, when Alexia turns to scan her positioning… Her eyes flick toward the sideline. Toward you. Just for a second. No expression. No smile. No nod. But it’s intentional. You feel it like a wire snapping beneath your ribs. She turns away again before anyone else can see.

Beth grins. “She’s watching you.”

You exhale hard. “Yeah. Probably just wants a reaction, and to be fair she’s got the upper hand right now.”

Beth stretches her quads dramatically. “Not for long.”

And as you roll your neck and shift your weight forward, listening to Sarina barking from the sideline and glancing toward the fourth official... You get the sense that your time’s coming. And when it does? You’re not just stepping into the game. You’re stepping into the fire.

⚽️

You’ve been flying.

Your touch is sharp. Your legs are light. You’re playing like you belong here — not just in this game, but in this moment.

Beth finds you with a threaded pass just as you ghost between two midfielders, the space opening up in front of you. One touch, two. You see the top corner. You see it—

Then it happens. You don’t see her coming.

You’re focused — ball under your feet, cutting in toward the box, one touch ahead of the defender, eyes on the corner of the goal.

Then everything stops.

Olga Carmona slides in hard. Full weight. Too late. Too low. The contact is sharp. Blunt. Wrong.

Your knee twists under you, a white-hot shock up your leg, and you drop before the ball’s even gone. A cry tears from your throat before you can stop it — not frustration.

Pain. Real pain.

You clutch your knee instantly, curling inward, breath punching out of your chest in ragged, panicked gasps.

The whistle blows. Everything stops. Wembley falls silent.

It’s eerie. Like someone hit mute on 90,000 people at once.

The ref’s arm goes up. Spanish players freeze. Your teammates rush toward you — some shouting, others pale. You can hear Beth’s voice, strained and close. “Stay down. Don’t move. Medic! Now!”

You’re trying not to cry. The physios are sprinting on. You’re gripping your knee like if you don’t, it’ll fall apart in your hands. Pain pulses through you in waves. Blinding. Crippling.

A shadow falls across you, You don’t need to look. Alexia. She’s standing a few feet away, arms stiff at her sides, face tight with something that isn’t confusion or shock — it’s fear.

Not for the game. For you.

She takes a step forward, but a physio blocks her path, kneeling by your side.

“Just let us look,” the medic says, gently pulling your hands away.

You can barely focus, barely breathe, but out of the corner of your eye, you see her still standing there — not moving. Watching. Beth kneels at your side now, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead.

“You’re okay,” she says, voice low. “Just let them check. It’s okay.”

You nod — barely. Alexia hasn’t moved. Not until the ref walks over and gestures her back toward her half. She hesitates. Then finally, reluctantly, she turns. But not before her eyes catch yours.

You sit up slowly, hands still gripping tufts of grass, breath shallow, knee throbbing. But it’s holding. And more than anything — it’s not broken.

The physio looks you in the eye. “You want to come off?”

You shake your head instantly. “No. I’m fine.”

“Are you—”

“I’m taking the free kick.”

Beth is already helping you to your feet, her arm steady around your back. The crowd is rising with you — slowly, all at once, voices lifting, 90,000 people on their feet because they saw the pain and now they see the refusal.

You limp a step. Then another. Then jog back toward the ball.

The referee checks on you once more — you wave her off. Your focus is already zeroed in. The ball is placed. The wall is set. Cata’s lining up, barking instructions.

You stand over it. Maybe 23 yards out. A few steps left of centre. A little too far to shoot, a little too close to ignore.

The angle's awkward. Unless you're you. They’ve called you the female Beckham since your spectacular viral free kick in the Euros in 2022.

But this is your moment. Another Wembley moment.

You take four steps back. One to the left. Plant your right foot. Deep breath. Wembley holds it with you.

Then you strike. It bends. Wide. Too wide. For a second it looks gone. Then it curls. Back. Arcing around the wall. Gliding over two defenders’ heads. Swinging like it’s got a magnet in the top corner.

Cata dives. Too late. The net ripples.

GOAL.

1–0.

Wembley erupts.

You stand frozen for half a second, eyes wide, chest heaving, and then your teammates swarm you — Beth first, grabbing you from behind, lifting you off the ground even as you stumble with the landing.

The bench clears. Coaches shouting. Crowd losing it.

From the penalty spot, Alexia stands still. Watching. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Just breathes.

Her eyes never leave you. As the crowd chants your name, as your teammates pull you toward the sideline, as England finally leads… You meet her gaze. And her smile is small. But it’s real. She’s not surprised.

She knew.

The pace slows. Just for a breath.

The ball’s been cleared long, chased into a corner, Spain momentarily regrouping, England pulling shape. Everyone’s catching their breath — you included.

You’re jogging back into position, legs heavy, the sting in your knee still alive but manageable. You bend slightly, tug your sock back into place over your shin pad, heart still pounding, your breath fogging in the chill air.

She appears beside you. Close. Quiet. You don’t look at her. But you hear it. “You good?” she mumbles — just loud enough for your ears only.

Not dramatic. Not showy. Not even particularly soft. Just real. You nod. “Yeah,” you say, breathlessly. “I’m alright.”

She doesn’t say anything else. Just walks beside you for a few strides, both of you tracking the play, scanning the field like nothing passed between you. And then her hand brushes lightly against your back. A single pat. Firm. Reassuring. Acknowledging. Accepting your answer.

Then she keeps moving. No glance. No smile. Just a touch. But it lingers.

Like her hand is still there long after it's gone. And for all the intensity, for all the weight of the game, for the score, the pressure, the world watching. It’s that moment you’ll remember the most.

⚽️

The whistle blows.

The noise is instant — a wave crashing over the pitch as Wembley erupts behind you. 1–0. You held it. That free kick wrote the script, and you saw it through to the final line.

Teammates close in from all sides, arms around shoulders, heads bumping yours, laughter, relief, euphoria. The roar from the crowd is still going — high, rising, full of pride.

But your eyes are already on the other half of the pitch. Spain regrouping. Hands on hips. Heads bowed. Respectful. Composed.

You peel away from your huddle, weaving through the blur of bodies. You tap shoulders. Shake hands. Pat backs. Every “good game” automatic but genuine.

And then you see Alexia.

She’s moving toward you too, head held high, still all grace even in defeat. Her shirt clings to her back, sweat-dampened and brilliant under the lights. Her expression unreadable — until she locks eyes with you.

You smirk before she can say anything. “You’re not having my shirt again.”

Her brow arches — the smallest flicker of amusement in her eyes — but she says nothing. Just reaches her hand out. You clasp it. Firm. Familiar. Yours.

Your fingers wrap around hers — and they don’t let go right away. Neither of you rush it. The moment hangs. Not long enough to be obvious. Just long enough for her to know you let it.

Your thumb brushes against her knuckles. She smiles. Only just.

Then she releases. Keeps moving. So do you. You pat her back. Once. Firm. As you both pass each other like you didn’t just speak a language no one else in the stadium understands.

No shirts traded. No words left hanging. Just the echo of her skin on yours.

⚽️

Your room is dark except for the soft glow of your phone screen. You’re lying flat on the bed, one arm behind your head, the other scrolling through post-match clips and photos — and trying not to watch that free kick for the seventh time.

Your body aches. A good kind of ache. But your mind it’s still with her.

The pat on your back. The lingering handclasp. That barely-there smile. You’re about to close your phone when it buzzes. AlexiaPutellas11 has sent you a message

Alexia: You’re probably still replaying that free kick.

You smirk.

You: What, jealous?

Alexia: A little. But mostly just annoyed I couldn’t stop it.

You: You weren’t even in the wall. Weak defending, honestly.

A pause. Then another message comes through — slower, different. Weighted.

Alexia: That’s it for us, for a while. No more me v you. Not until the Euros this summer.

You stare at the screen. There’s no emoji. No flirtation. Just truth. She’s not just talking about fixtures.

You: Feels weird. Like we just found a rhythm.

Alexia: We did.

Another pause.

Alexia: And now we wait.

You lie there, letting those words settle into your chest. She’s not pushing. Not asking for more. Just naming it. The gap. The pause between this and whatever comes next.

You: Guess you’ll just have to miss me.

You’re halfway through typing something back — probably a joke, something to lighten the tension — when another message pops through.

Alexia: I don’t have to miss you. I could come see you. In Germany. If you want.

You freeze. Staring at the screen. At those words. Not flirtation. Not suggestion. A gesture. An offer.

Germany — where you play your club football. Your other life. The one she’s never been a part of. Not until now.

You read it again. She wants to come to you. And suddenly, your room feels warmer. You sit up, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with match fitness.

You type slowly, thumb hovering just a second too long.

You: You serious?

Alexia: You think I’d joke about flying to a different country just to see you?

Then — another one.

Alexia: I’d like to. If you’d have me.

That last sentence lands deep. Not just in your chest — lower. Quieter. Truer. You let yourself smile as you bit your lip. Then answer. One you wouldn't normally be so brave to send

You: I’d have you.

Capi Mami - Alexia Putellas x barcelona femini

Summary: Alexia swears she’s not the team mom… and yet she’s the one confiscating phones, doling out granola bars, and keeping this locker room from imploding.

Word count: 1.5k

This is part of my 1k commemoration blurb! <3

a/n: a single mama who works two jobs

Masterlist

..

The locker room was a mess. Water bottles were scattered across the floor, shoes were everywhere, and a few jerseys had been tossed carelessly on the benches.

The younger girls were in full gossip mode, laughing and talking over each other, completely oblivious to the chaos they had created.

Vicky was sitting on one of the benches, animatedly chatting about some TikTok challenge, while Salma and Jana were having a loud conversation about the training session they had just finished.

Pina’s laughter echoed through the room as Esmee said something dry and hilarious.

Y/n and Sydney were livestreaming on Instagram–very much against team rules–talking about their training routine and casually throwing shade at the referee from their last match.

Marta walked in first. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the scene. She shook her head with a sigh and muttered, “What is this, girls?”

She took one step and nearly tripped over a bag lying in the middle of the floor.

“Okay,” Marta said angrily, lifting the bag into the air. “Whose bag is this—and why do I have a bunch of stickers glued on my locker?”

“Do you like it?” Vicky asked brightly, the only one acknowledging Marta’s presence.

“I hate it,” Marta replied flatly. “Take it off.”

Vicky rolled her eyes and continued chatting. The others kept pretending Marta didn’t exist.

“You might want to clean this up before Alexia gets here,” Marta warned, but the girls barely looked up.

Marta rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath before walking out.

She walked down the hall to find Alexia stretching on a bench, prepping for another round of training. Marta couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Tus nenas están causando problemas,” [Your girls are causing problems], she said with a teasing smile.

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Qué?” [what?]

"They’re making a mess in the locker room again. And I’m pretty sure I saw Y/n going live on Instagram ranting about the ref being bought."

Alexia sighed, her expression shifting from confused to fondly exasperated. "You know what they’re like," she muttered, standing up. "I’ll handle them, and then I’m confiscating Y/n’s phone."

The moment Alexia stepped into the locker room, her gaze swept across the chaos. Water bottles, jerseys, shin guards, and random clothes covered the floor. Not a single head turned.

Alexia didn’t speak at first. 

She simply stood there in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. After a long pause, her voice finally cut through the room.

"Nenas, qué es esto?" [Girls, what is this?]

Y/n jumped to her feet, face paling at the tone. The room fell silent in an instant.

Vicky, Salma, and Pina all sat up straighter. Y/n very discreetly hid her phone behind her back while nudging Sydney to sit properly and kick a rogue boot under the bench.

“Hi, Ale!” Vicky greeted sweetly, putting on her most innocent baby voice.

“Mi reina!” Pina chimed in, springing up and reaching for a hug.

Alexia sidestepped her without missing a beat. “What is all of this?” she asked, gesturing at the chaos with one unimpressed sweep of her hand.

“Nothing! We were just… talking,” Jana said quickly, voice shrinking. “It, uh… got a little out of hand?”

Alexia’s eyes scanned the room like a laser. Her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

“Is this how we treat a shared space?” she asked. Her voice didn’t rise, but the warning in it was sharp.

“No,” they chorused, voices barely above a whisper.

“Is the locker room where we throw our stuff around like toddlers?”

“No.”

“Should I start labelling your bottles and jerseys like you’re in daycare? Or can we act like professionals?”

“We can act like professionals,” they muttered in unison, chastened.

Alexia took one slow step forward. The shift in the room was immediate–every breath held, every eye on her.

“I don’t like doing this,” she said quietly, the calm in her voice somehow worse than yelling. “But this? This is not okay. I expect better from all of you.”

Y/n shifted awkwardly, guilt written all over her face. “Are you mad at us?”

“I’m not mad,” Alexia said, her pause deliberate. “I’m disappointed.”

The words hit harder than anything else could have. The silence that followed was thick.

“We’re sorry, Capi,” Y/n said, her head ducked. “We didn’t mean to mess up. We just got carried away.”

Alexia’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “You should’ve known better. I trust you girls. Don’t make me regret that.”

“We’re really sorry, Alexia,” Salma added quickly, voice sincere.

“Sorry isn’t enough,” Alexia replied, crossing her arms. “I better not hear another complaint. Understood?”

“Yes,” they all said, truly meaning it this time.

“Clean it up,” Alexia ordered, turning to walk out. “And next time? Think before you act.”

As soon as the door shut behind Alexia, Sydney let out a dramatic exhale. “I really thought she was gonna make us run laps again.”

“My feet still hurt from last time,” Y/n groaned, flopping back onto the bench.

“Obviously,” Pina snorted. “It was yesterday, genius.”

“We are never doing this again,” Vicky said, voice solemn like she was making a blood pact.

“Nope,” Jana chimed in, hand raised like she was swearing an oath. “From now on, we will clean up before she walks in.”

“We should actually stop throwing stuff the second we get here,” Salma added thoughtfully.

Y/n suddenly sat up, panic dawning on her face. “Wait. Do you think she saw me go live?”

“Yes,” everyone said in eerie unison.

Y/n groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I’m so screwed.”

“You two are a disaster,” Jana muttered, nudging Sydney.

“We are not,” Sydney defended. “The world just needed to know how rigged that ref was.”

“You need to stop,” Esmee said, already starting to clean up the bottles.

Sydney shot her a look. “You’re just mad you didn’t join the live.”

“No,” Esmee said dryly. “I just don’t enjoy being yelled at. Call me crazy.”

Their chatter continued as they cleaned, a little more subdued now. Just outside, Alexia leaned against the wall, listening. 

A soft smile tugged at her lips.

Y/n leaned back on the bench, phone in hand, muttering just loud enough for the others to hear, “One day, I swear, I’m gonna figure out how to get away with this. Maybe I’ll just block the older girls on Instagram and on Twitter–problem solved.”

A few of the girls snorted in laughter.

But then…

A voice, calm and deadly precise, cut through the moment.

“You think I’m gonna let that happen?”

Silence.

Alexia had stepped into the room like a shadow. Everyone froze. Y/n especially.

"Phone. Now."  Her palm was out, her stance unyielding.

Y/n clutched her phone like a lifeline. “Ale… come on. Please.”

Alexia didn’t budge. “Now. You’ll get it back after training–if you survive it.”

A dramatic sigh escaped Y/n, but she reluctantly handed it over, placing it in Alexia’s open palm like a guilty child surrendering contraband.

Alexia smirked, tucking it safely into her jacket pocket. “You really think I don’t hear everything? I’m always watching.”

As she turned and walked off, Vicky whispered, “She’s got ears like a hawk.”

“No,” Jana said with a grin, “she’s got mom-radar.”

From across the room, Alexia called out, “I heard that, too.”

As soon as she left, Vicky whispered, "Okay… maybe we should behave."

"Maybe," Jana said. "But I doubt it’ll last."

After cleaning everything, the door opened again. Alexia stepped back in and surveyed the room.

"Well done," she said. "Now get ready. Training’s going to be tough."

As they moved, Alexia pulled a small bag from her backpack and began tossing sandwiches and granola bars at them.

“Eat,” she ordered, hands on her hips. “No one’s stepping onto that pitch with an empty stomach.”

“But we already had lunch,” Y/n mumbled, catching hers mid-air.

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“You’re serious?” Vicky asked, halfway through peeling the wrapper.

“Sí,” Alexia replied, voice firm but laced with affection. “You need it. You’ve all been dragging your feet since drills this morning.”

Y/n took a bite and sighed. “Okay, you’re right. I was kind of sluggish.”

“You always try to avoid eating before training,” Jana chimed in, smirking. “No more excuses.”

“I’m eating, aren’t I?” Y/n grumbled around a mouthful.

Alexia gave her a knowing smile. “Good. You need the energy to keep up with the rest of them.”

“Okay, mamí,” Y/n teased, raising an eyebrow.

Alexia paused mid-step. “What did you just say?”

“Mamí,” Y/n repeated, grinning now. “You act like a mom. You scold us, you take our phones, you pack our snacks. You’re literally parenting us.”

“I am not,” Alexia scoffed.

“You are,” Vicky said through a mouthful of granola. “This is full-on mom behaviour.”

“Keep calling me that and I’ll ground you,” Alexia warned, but her lips twitched, threatening a smile.

“See?!” Y/n pointed dramatically. “Mom threat.”

Alexia rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, she watched them finish the bars and sandwiches, making sure every last bite was gone.

Once the wrappers were tossed and silence settled back in, she straightened, captain mode back on.

“Alright. Let’s go. Hydrate, boots on, and meet me in five. We’ve got work to do.”

She turned, but not before one last glance over her shoulder at the girls–her girls. 

Their chaos, their charm, their energy. They might not be hers, not really, but her love for them was unmistakable.

Strict? Always.

Soft? Only when they weren’t looking.

..

a/n: Just really wanted to write something platonic haha

my roman empire

celebrations pt.3

this was written thanks to chappel roan, the power of lesbianism, and the one and the only @vixwritesagain because without her this fic would not exist!! this is my contribution to pride month (even though it’s over now) happy post-pride month to everyone here 🫶 hope everyone enjoys and pls lmk your thoughts!

warnings: smut minors dni 18+

“You’ll see, once we get upstairs.”

You clung to Alexia the whole walk up into the hotel. Your legs could hardly work, so she gave you the grace of turning off the vibrator in favor of being able to transfer you from the bus and into the lobby elevator. 

As soon as the doors shut her lips were plastered against your own, like much of how you’d been treated, it was rough and controlled completely by Alexia. Her teeth gripped and nipped at your bottom lip, the slight pinch making you whine, you wanted more. Alexia did the same thing she’d been doing all night, she left you desperate for more. Just as quickly as her lips were moving against yours were they gone. 

You whined from the back of your throat, but cut yourself off at the glare that Alexia sent your way, she didn’t need to say a single word, her facial expressions said it all, you had no say in what was about to happen. 

And you were slightly embarrassed to admit that, but in your hazy state of mind the embarrassment passed fairly quickly. 

When the elevator doors opened she was right back at your side again, the constant push and pull of the contact and then no contact was making your skin prickly and your throat scratchy, like needles were pushing against your insides. 

The hallway was empty, thankfully, Alexia wasted no time in dragging you behind her, your body a puppet for her to control however she intended. 

It wasn’t a long walk, your jelly legs only just managed to make it to the door of Alexia’s room. 

She scanned her keycard with a flash of her hand, and was shoving you inside of the room even quicker than that. 

You were still hazy, still pretty drunk on the feeling of submission, so it was a lot harder than usual for you to take in your surroundings. 

People, there were lots of people. 

Not so many that you felt overwhelmed, but enough that it was hard to actually focus on what the people were doing, your eyes darting back and forth between all of them. 

None of their eyes were on you, but for whatever reason, it felt that way, but there is a tension that you can feel. 

None of them are really doing, much. 

It feels like the atmosphere of the room is so stuffed full, but yet not that much is happening, it only makes your already busy headspace more confused. 

Alexia’s grab on your wrist tightens once again, and leads you directly toward a armchair, originally, you think she’s going to sit you down in it, make you wait there, make you watch whatever is clearly about to go down, but she stops you in front of the seat, slides herself in front of you and sits down. 

When she points to the ground, you don’t really hesitate. 

You drop to your knees in a unfraceful plonk, one that you know you’ll pay for tomorrow when your knees are sore and bruised from the wood floors of the hotel room. 

Alexia’s eyes are anywhere but you, it’s the same with her attention. 

You can’t see anything that’s going on around you, but it’s clear that the tension had came from everyone waiting for Alexia, waiting for some realy directions. 

You stayed kneeled in front of her, waiting patiently for whatever command she’s going to give you. 

The command never comes, instead, your emt with a brief reprieve from the constant lack of touch that your craving, when Alexia reaches down, her eyes still not meeting yours, shoving her hand back into your panties and turning the vibe back on. 

The bullet whirs to life, and the torture of it all starts once again. 

Alexia’s barking orders everywhere, ordering everyone around however she pleases. 

You still can’t even begin to comprehend the amount of silent power she holds, she could walk into any room, and all attention falls to her, everyone focuses on her. 

Especially in the team, everyone respects Alexia, it’s almost unheard of to disobey or go against Alexia, only the most confident and daring do it, and they reap the consequences of it. 

It’s always the same people, the more dominant of the group who try to compete with Alexia, and always fail, Alexia is unmatchable, she’s la reina, she is like no one else and she knows it.

She bleeds confidence, there is an aura about her that is simply undeniable. 

Up until today, you’d fawned, you’d obeyed, you’d done everything and anything to earn her praise because it felt so good. 

Having Alexia praise you, or even just look at you in a certain way was something unexplainable, it was one of the best feelings you’d ever encountered, and having Alexia want to give you pleasure, that was something completely out of your universe. It was unwordly, it was pure perfection, it was the best endorphin ever, it was as addictive as any drug. 

Yet today, you weren’t craving it, or the craving wasn’t big enough to combat the contrasting feeling you had to disobey, to fight. 

You felt more out of control than you ever had, like you were spinning out, and you needed Alexia to recenter you, but not with pleasure, with something else. 

The vibrations were hell, but Alexia’s hand on your cheek was good, her fingers in your mouth were even better. 

You weren’t even sure how they got there, it was just like, one second they were on our cheek and the next, they were forcing themselves into your mouth, not that you minded, you were very happy to sit still and suck on Alexia’s fingers. 

It was a form of validation, one that was making you weak at the knees, even though you were already on them for her. 

“Ale, por favor, dánosla y la castigaremos, la usaremos como quieras.”

Whilst you were practically deaf in your headspace, Jenni’s voice up close managed to draw your attention. 

You tried to turn your head to look at her, but Alexia’s hand in your mouth stopped you. 

“No, she’s mine, and until she accepts that she’s deserving of a reward then it’ll stay that way, comprendes?”

Jenni whines, something that most people wouldn’t have the nerve to do, but she’s one of the only people who can get away with messing with Alexia. Alexia gives everyone a inch, Jenni tries to go the mile, and often Alexia finds it more amusing then bratty. 

“But Ale, you promised rewards.”

If you whined at Alexia like that, you have no doubt she’d spank you until your ass was red and there were tears rolling down your face, with Jenni however, all she gets is a icy look and a warning. 

“Mm, rewards for goal involvements, not for you. It’s not my fault that princesa is choosing to behave poorly, we’ll just have to see if watching some other people receive their rewards managed to tip her over.” 

Your thighs clamp, in an attempt to close them at the insinuation Alexia is leaving, but her foot pushes them back apart and for the first time she glances at you. 

“Comportarse.”

Her eyes are slanted, it’s the same face that she makes when a defender lays a bad tackle against one of your teammates, the similarity is uncanny, it’s a look of discontentment and disbelief, like Alexia is offended by your action. 

“Aitana, come here.”

Alexia’s foot on your thigh pushes you slightly to the side, your head is still restrcited with the grip Alexia has on your mouth, but you’re on a angle now, and if you look in the furthest point of your peripheral you can catch some movement. 

“Look at her, puta.”

You look upwards, at Alexia and then at Aitana, who is now hovering to the side of her. 

She’s completely naked, a sight that your eyes immediately cling to. The swell of her breasts and the sight of the abs nicely tucked underneath. Your eyes raked up and down her abdomen, up to her neck, where there were a litter of darkened marks already developed. 

“Aitana is about to receive her reward, because she was a good girl, and she knows it. But you say you haven’t been a good girl, so clearly you musn’t want a reward like her, hmm? Aitana, what do you want for your reward?”

Aitana is clearly finding it hard to look at you, and you share her aversion. There’s an awkward energy filling up between the two of you, you’re in disdain and Aitana is about to get whatever she pleases. You focus on the different lines across her body, the different ways her muscles cave in and out across her body. It’s a pleasant enough distraction for the time being. 

“I-I don’t know.”

Alexia pouts at Aitana, and then smiles, for the first time since the bus you see her eyes light up with something other then annoyance directed at you. 

“Hmm, anything you want, you were such a good girl, I’m sure anybody would be happy to oblige your wishes, you just have to tell me.”

Aitana fidgets with her hands before looking up at Alexia and mumbling something that sounds like a completely alternate language. 

“Aitana, speak up, or else I might assume you want something that you haven’t asked for.”

It’s like Alexia is daring her to say it, trying to push her to edge out the words, and you know that it’ll work, Alexia always gets her way, she always has a endgame. 

Aitana mumbles again and the little smirkish smile on Alexia’s face fades. 

“Aitana, don’t make me ask you again, or else I might begin to think that you want to be treated similarly to y/n.”

Aitana stumcles over a few words before muttering out something that is comprehensible. 

“Frido and Ingrid.”

It isn’t shocking at all, Aitana tends to gravitate towards her Scandi friends, and you can’t blame her. 

“Mm, why am I not surprised? You don’t want to change it up? Want to stick to what you know best, hm?”

Aitana nods sheepishly and Alexia breaks out in another smile. 

“It’s your reward though, so if that’s what you want, then you can have it. What do you want Ingrid and Frido to do?”

Aitana stutters over her words again, but with a sharp glare from Alexia she manages to compose herself a little bit. 

“F-fuck me in both holes.”

You focus on the feeling of Alexia’s fingers in your mouth, it’s good, it’s grounding, it helps to drown out the immense pressure building up inside of you from the fucking vibrator tha was pressed directly against your clit. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that. Do you want your throat stuffed with fingers like y/n, or do you want your cunt and ass stuffed full?”

Aitana looks down at the floor, her lip between her teeth, it’s so abundantly clear that she’s struggling to vocalise what she’s wanting. 

A part of you wants her to tumble over her words again, to see what Alexia will do, and you’re slightly annoyed when she manages to compose herself. 

“M-M-My ass and pussy.”

Alexia’s lips tilt up perfectly, like she’s so proud of Aitana, but more so proud of herself. 

“Well, I suppose. You’ll have to ask both Ingrid and Frido very nicely though, although I’m sure they’ll have no issues with obliging your request.” Aitana nods, a big smile breaking out across her face, and for a second, you get a feeling in your gut, pure envy for what she’s receiving. 

But then that feeling passes and you’re left with whatever feelings you have. 

You don’t know how to define it, you’ll save that for later whne you’re spent and reflecting on this whole night, maybe tomorrow morning on the plane. 

Aitana thanks Alexia meekly, like she’s waiting for approval to leave. 

“Puta, look at Aitana, look at how easy it is to behave and be a good girl, hmm? She asked me for something and I gave it to her, because she deserves it, and she knows it. A few words and you could have whatever you want. I could turn the vibrator off, you could go play with Lucia, or Jenni, or Keira, or Mapi or me. It’s so easy, bebita.”

She draws the final sentence out, like she’s dangling the idea of release directly in front of you, and technically, she is. 

You shake your head though, holding out on the strong and defiant front that you’re using to shield yourself from the desire inside of you that is fighting to be released. 

It’s in your defiance that you realise in the time you’d been watching Aitana, Alexia has managed to undress herself down to a red lacy thong that makes your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. Aitana’s abs are something, but Alexia’s almost make your drool, and her breasts are something else. 

Alexia caresses the underside of your chin with her thumb, pulling your attention from her body. She’s trying to push the two fingers in your mouth as deep as she can, when you gag, she only pushes further. 

“Such a shame, you’re really only depriving yourself here. I was going to have so much fun with you, Lucia was going to have so much fun with you. I suppose she’ll only be able to have fun with Ona now, considering Keira’s preoccupied.”

The sound of a strangled moan, Jenni’s if your ears are right, make the torture of this whole scenario ten times worse. 

The mention of Ona makes your blood boil. Normally, this whole situation is a complete role reversal for you and Ona. Normally, Ona’s the defiant one, the masochist, the brat, the pushy one. Ona enjoys getting on peoples nerves, she enjoys to tick people off, she gets off on it. 

You can’t say you feel the same, Ona craves the rush of endorphins from being reprimanded and punished. You enjoy it as well, but you don’t crave it how she does. You don’t brat for fun, like she does, it doesn’t come naturally to you like it does for her. 

Alexia knows it, she knows that the only reason you’re being a brat is because you’re trying to punish yourself and that’s why she refuses to actually punish you. When Ona brats, she’s searching for attention, it’s her way of admitting she wants something because it’s too hard for her to say it. For you, with a little bit of push and shove you’ll normally ask for whatever it is you need, you don’t feel the need to act out. 

So Alexia decides she’s prepared to play this game with you, she’s not punishing you in her eyes, she’s just pushing you. She’s just as desperate as you are to shower you with the attention you deserve, but not until you know that you deserve it, and she’s determined to make sure that you know exactly how much you do deserve it. 

“Puta, strip, I want you naked as you watched the show.”

Alexia pulls her fingers out of your mouth, stopping halfway to pop the inside of your cheek, breaking you out of the trance you’re in. 

You whine at the loss of the silent comfort you’d had. Alexia’s fingers had been a silent reminder of the whole situation you were in. It had calmed you down, made it all a little bit easier, and now they were gone. 

“Now, up.”

You stood up under her orders, ignoring the soreness throughout your legs and knees. 

You slipped of your sweatpants first, folding them up nicely and placing them down on the coffee table next to Alexia’s armchair. 

Your kept eye contact with her the whole time, too scared that if you looked anywhere else you’d be in more trouble. 

You followed with your hoodie, then your shirt, then your socks, then your bra and finally your panties. 

Alexia grabbed the bullet before it was able to fall anywhere, turning it off before placing it down on the table next to your neat pile of clothes. 

You sighed at the feeling of inally not being directly on the edge for the first time in what felt like forever. You were still aroused, but nowhere near as despairingly so. 

“Don’t feel so relieved, if you thought that was hard, you have no idea what’s coming.”

Alexia looked you up and down before pointing back down at the ground, a silent order. You appeased her demand, sinking back down onto your knees just how you had before, this time a little bit more gracefully in an attempt to try and preserve your knees. 

“You’re going to create a puddle on the floor with all that arousal, and to think, I could have had somebody clean it you up if you were behaving.”

You nearly moaned at the idea, god you were embarrassingly desperate. 

“Turn around for me, and watch Ona.”

You did as Alexia asked, turning around, and shivering when her arms caught your shoulder, tugging your head back, until your neck was flat against the front of the seat, and your head was resting on the inside of her thigh. 

She reached her feet over your shoulders, tugging your legs back open, as far open as they could go. 

All whilst you watched on, your eyes nearly bulgin out of your head at all of the new visual intake. 

You were in a more stable headspace to handle it all now, but it didn’t make it any easier to figure out. 

You went through it all slowly, starting with the first people who caught your eyes. 

Jenni and Mapi. 

Jenni and Mapi, fuck. 

Alexia hadn’t been lying when she said you were in for so much worse than just the vibrator. 

Mapi and Jenni were together, on a couch to the side of the room, not unlike the armchair Alexia was sitting on, just a lot longer and bigger, like it was made to be more of a sofa bed then a couch. 

Mapi was on her back lying on the couch. If it wasn’t for the little bleach blonde ends peaking out against the cushions then you wouldn’t even know it was her because Jenni was covering pretty much her whole body. 

Jenni was couch over the top of her, sitting on top of Mapi’s face, her own face hovering over Mapi’s pussy. 

It was a beautiful sight, all encapsulated by the wink and massive grin that Jenni sent you when she caught your eyes from across the room. 

It wasn’t the best part though, by far the best part was Keira sitting at the top of the couch in front of Jenni, perched on the arm of the couch, her hand stuffed down the front of her shorts. 

Keira was anything but quiet, keeping eye contact with Jenni as she touched herself. 

“Alexia, let her have a turn.”

Jenni looked at you, like she was trying to reinforce the fact that you were missing out big time. 

Alexia’s hot breath in your ear stole your attention. 

“Don’t you want that?”

You shook your head. 

Alexia’s hand snaked down the front of your chest, taking hold of your right nipple and making a sharp tug, one that had you keening with the unexpected pain.

“I think you’re lying.”

You shook your head again, Alexia’s words wwere getting to your head, the feeling of her on you but not really on you was messing with your head, making all of the different chemicals mix together. 

“Didn’t anybody ever teach you that lying’s bad? It’s okay to admit you want something, I’m not giving it to you until you admit what I need you to.”

You bit down on your lip at the third tug, Alexia’s fingertips ghosting over your now hard nipple, before deserting it completely. 

She snaked her hand back up your chest, her index finger tracing the hollow of your collarbone, before gravitating up to your chin and tilting it away from Mapi and Jenni, onto one of the queen mattresses in the room. 

Lucy and Ona. 

Fucking smug, bitchy Ona. 

She was on her knees up the front of the bed, her head and naked chest pushed straight into the white sheets of the hotel bed.

Even with Lucy pounding into her from behind, naked from the waist down and only wearing her sports bra, she still managed to muster up the strength to send a condescending wink your way. 

It was undeniable the way that Ona’s presence affected you, it felt like it was just you and her in the room, as you shared eye contact that held so much power. 

“Do you want to be where Oni is? Bent over and in absolutely no control?”

You shake your head, it’s a honest answer, because in this moment you don’t. Whilst what Ona is experiencing looks incredible, it’s not what you’re yearning for, and watching her makes you certain of that. You don’t know what it is you do want, but it isn’t that. 

“Mm, okay, if not that, how about Aitana?”

She turns your chin the rest of the way, to the other queen bed in the room. 

Aitana is a whole other sight, your eyes fall to the same muscles that you’d been previously appreciating, and then to everything around her. 

You know why she picked Ingrid and Frido, because just the sight of the two of them is so erotic that the shivers that it sends down your spine. 

There’s no doubt in your mind that you’re going to leave a puddle behind whenever Alexia lets you up. 

Watching Aitana laid directly on top of Ingrid, Ingrid pumping her hips up and down, in and out of Aitana’s pussy. Frido is hovering from above, her hands palming Aitana’s ass as she thrusts in and out of Aitana’s ass, at a more regular pace. There is sunshine and midnight coloured hair shadowing it all, Ingrid and Frido are all over her, their hands, their bodies, their hair, just them. Aitana is caged in by them, and she looks glorious whilst doing it. 

“Is that what you want? To be used by two other people until you don’t remember what day it is. You can have it, if you want it, anyone here would give it to you.”

You shake your head once again, Alexia’s hand moves it’s way down from your chin, snaking down to your neck, and squeezing it for just long enough that you begin to feel the pressure. 

“You don’t want that, you don’t want what Ona has, you don’t want what Jenni has?”

You shake your head, Alexia’s hand possessive along your throat. 

She uses it to maneuver you back to facing her, her hand drawing your head up until you meet her eyes. 

“You don’t want what they have, you don’t want to admit that you deserve to have that, you don’t even want to admit you had a good game.”

You look at Alexia, indifferent. 

“You might as well go back to your room for the night if you don’t want anything from me.”

Alexia’s teasing you, baiting you, and you know it, but her tricks work on you all the same. 

It must be the way your eyebrow crinkles, or your lips quiver, or your throat bobs underneath her hand. Either way, you know she picks up on whatever tell it is that you let off. 

“So you do want something from me?”

Alexia’s hand secures itself to the middle of your neck, her hand’s large enough that it stretches from the base of your throat to the top, her fingers are close to being able to wrap fully around it. When she flexes them, the veins pop against your skin, and you swear that you almost see stars. 

When she tightens it, you almost moan on default. 

“So tell me then, what do you want?”

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don't hate me for leaving it on a cliff hanger... trust me... the delayed gratification will be worth it! for now I'm just happy I managed to write something and post it for you guys. anyways I'm going to retreat into my cave now! PLEASE let me know your thoughts and PLEASE leave whatever reblogs, likes and comments you can, love y'all and hoped you enjoyed !!

🫶🫶🫶🫶

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines.

What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

You walked into the locker room for a home game, you eyed Maya and Liv in the corner giggling away as you walked through the locker room to your spec. They were scrolling through Twitter reading comments, laughing at posts, and occasionally shoving their phones in your face.

“Oh, this one’s gold,” Liv snickered. “‘Alexia Putellas watching from the gym window like a Disney princess longing for her forbidden love.’”

Maya nearly choked on her drink. “They did not say that.” Liv turned the screen so she could see. “Oh, they definitely did.”

You shook your head, suppressing a smirk. “You two have way too much free time.”

“And you have way too much restraint,” Liv shot back. “I mean, come on, you could really mess with her right now.”

Maya nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! She’s already halfway to losing her mind over you, might as well push her the rest of the way.”

You leaned back, sipping your drink. Liv nodding “Oh, 100%. You should’ve taken your shirt off sooner.”

You smirked. “I like to keep things interesting.”

Maya and Liv exchanged a mischievous look before both leaning in closer, eager to fuel the playful tension between you and Alexia. “Alright, alright,” Maya grinned. “But you have to admit, you’re making her suffer a little. Just imagine, if you gave her just a little more…” she trailed off, letting her words hang in the air like an open invitation.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your cool. “I’m not here to make anyone suffer.”

Liv gave a playful snort. “Sure, sure. Just don’t pretend you don’t enjoy the game. I mean, she’s practically dying to get you alone.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe, but she’s gotta work for it.”

Maya leaned back, eyeing you with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. “You know, you’re playing this way too well. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or worried for her.”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s all about balance. Can’t let her think she has it all figured out.”

Liv raised her eyebrows, leaning back on her chair. “Well, if she’s watching through the gym window like some Disney princess, you might want to start acting like Prince Charming soon.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Maybe I’ll just let her keep guessing.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the teasing atmosphere fading as you settled back into your spot. But as you glanced across the locker room, your gaze lingered for just a moment longer than usual, wondering if this game was really just a game at all.

This wasn’t basketball. This was a warzone disguised as a game.  

Madrid came to hurt you tonight. Not just with the score but with every shove, every elbow, every late hit the refs somehow missed. And if you hadn’t already known how dirty they played, you would’ve thought they had a personal vendetta against you.  

The first quarter set the tone.  

A hard screen blindsided you, knocking you off balance before you even had a chance to see who hit you. The impact rattled your chest, but you bit down on the sting and kept moving, refusing to give them the reaction they wanted.  

Then came the second quarter, and it only got worse.  

You went up for a rebound, body fully extended, only to get yanked backward mid-air. Your feet never landed properly, someone made damn sure of that. Your back hit the court with a thud, a sharp pain shooting up your spine. The whistle blew, but the damage was done.

By the third quarter, you were seething.  

Another drive, another cheap shot, this time, an elbow straight to the ribs just before you went up for a layup. The contact knocked the wind out of you, the sharp ache in your side lingering as you lined up for the free throws. You exhaled slowly, ignoring the burn in your lungs.  

Madrid played dirty.  

You played harder.  

By the fourth quarter, your body was screaming at you to stop, but there was no chance in hell you were letting them win. You pushed through, ignoring the bruises, the sore ribs, the stiffness in your back. You were tired. You were pissed off. But you weren’t done.  

And when the final buzzer rang, the only thing louder than the cheers from the crowd was the sound of your own heartbeat, still hammering in your chest.  

Your team had won. Just.

But you’d paid for it.  

You stormed off the court, ignoring the lingering stares from reporters, the murmurs from the coaching staff. You didn’t even wait for the post-game team talk. Right now, you didn’t care about anything except getting the hell out of there.  

You were beaten up, bruised, and exhausted.  

But more than anything, 

You were angry.

The locker room was dead silent.  

Your teammates had come and gone, the post-game celebrations cut short by the bruises littering your body and the tension still sitting heavy in your chest. The only sound was the distant echo of the arena outside, fans still lingering, reporters still chasing interviews.  

You sat on the bench, head resting against the cool metal of your locker, trying to breathe through the dull, aching pain radiating from your ribs. Madrid had done a number on you tonight. Every muscle in your body felt tight, sore, overworked.  

You needed ice. You needed a shower. You needed—  

A knock on the door.  

You didn’t move.  

Another knock, firmer this time. Then—  

"Are you decent?"  

You recognised the voice instantly.  

Your jaw tensed as you straightened up, wincing slightly at the sharp pull in your ribs. "Come in."  

The door pushed open, and there she was.  

Alexia.  

In casual clothes, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her sharp eyes scanning the room before locking onto you. For a second, she just stood there, her expression unreadable.  

“You alright?”

You let out a slow exhale, wiping a hand over your face before tilting your head at her. "Why do you care?" She didn't deserve your attitude but she seemed to take it in her stride.

Alexia scoffed, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing shut behind her. "Because I saw what they did to you out there. Looked like they were trying to take you out."  

You smirked, though it lacked your usual confidence. "Yeah? Well, they failed."  

Alexia didn’t look amused. She took another step closer, eyes flickering down to where you were still absentmindedly pressing a hand to your ribs. "That bad?"  

You rolled your eyes. "I’ve had worse."  

She didn’t seem convinced, crossing her arms as she studied you. "You sure? Because you don’t look too good."  

"Wow, thanks," you deadpanned, shifting slightly but instantly regretting it when a sharp pain shot through your side. You gritted your teeth, and Alexia noticed. Of course she did.  

"Let me see," she said, already moving forward.  

"I’m fine."  

"You’re stubborn," she shot back, unfazed.  

You leaned back slightly as she crouched in front of you, closer now, her presence filling the space between you. Her gaze flickered up to meet yours, something unreadable in her expression. "Just lift your damn shirt."  

Your breath hitched.  

Not because of the request because of the way she said it. Low. Firm. With that no-nonsense authority she carried so naturally.  

You hesitated. Then, with a quiet sigh, you relented, slowly lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the bruising already forming across your ribs.  

Alexia’s jaw tightened.  

She didn’t say anything at first, but her expression darkened, her fingers twitching at her sides like she wanted to do something but wasn’t sure what. "They really went after you."  

You simply hummed in response.

Alexia shook her head, muttering something under her breath in Spanish before exhaling sharply. "And your staff just let you sit here like this? No medics?"  

"I told them I’d deal with it."  

"Right. Because that’s smart," she shot back, sarcasm dripping from her voice.  

You smirked despite yourself. "You’re really this concerned?"  

Alexia met your gaze, unflinching. "Yes."  

The air between you shifted.  For the first time all night, you weren’t thinking about the game, the bruises, or the way your body ached. All you could think about was her. The way she was looking at you. The way she had showed up for you.  

Your voice came quieter this time. "Why?"  

She didn’t answer immediately.  

Instead, her gaze softened—just slightly, just enough for something unspoken to pass between you. "Because I don’t like seeing you like this."  

You swallowed, your heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the game.  

Alexia stood up slowly, taking a step back like she needed to put distance between you. "Go home, get some rest. And don’t be stupid about your recovery."  

You watched her, searching her expression for something—anything—that would tell you what this really was.  

But before you could say anything, she was already turning toward the door.  

"Alexia."  

She paused, glancing back at you over her shoulder.  

You held her gaze. "Thanks."  

She nodded once. "See you around."  

And then she was gone, leaving you alone in the locker room and with a whole new problem.  

Because now, you weren’t just pissed off about the game. Now, you were thinking about Alexia.

The locker room felt colder after Alexia left. You weren’t sure if it was because the adrenaline from the game was finally wearing off or if it was something else entirely—something to do with the way she had looked at you, the way she had shown up after a brutal game like this.  

You let out a slow breath, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees, staring at the floor as you tried to process it all.  

Alexia cared.  

She shouldn’t, not like that, not enough to show up in your locker room unannounced, demanding to see your injuries. But she did. And now, she had left just as quickly, leaving behind an unmistakable tension that wouldn’t leave your chest.  

With a shake of your head, you finally forced yourself up, wincing at the stiffness in your ribs. You needed ice. A long bath. Sleep.  

You also needed to get your mind off Alexia.  

Easier said than done.

You woke up sore.  Your ribs ached, your back was stiff, and every bruise Madrid had gifted you last night throbbed as you sat up in bed. You groaned, running a hand over your face before reaching for your phone on the nightstand.  

Notifications flooded your screen—texts from teammates, messages from your coaching staff checking in, and, of course, social media blowing up with reactions to last night’s game.  

One unread text from Alexia.  

You stared at it for a second before swiping it open.  

Alexia: You alive?

A smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned back against the pillows, thumbs hovering over the screen before you typed a reply.  

You: Barely. You gonna keep checking on me like this?

The message was delivered, and almost instantly, those three little dots appeared.  

Alexia: If you keep playing like you don’t care about your body, sí.  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the amused grin that formed.  

You: I do care. I just have a high pain tolerance.

Alexia: Or you’re stubborn.

You: You sound like my coach.

Alexia: Maybe your coach is right.

Your smirk grew.  

You: Didn’t know you cared this much, Capitana.  

This time, there was a longer pause. You could practically see her debating how to respond, which only made you more entertained.  

Finally, the dots reappeared.  

Alexia: Don’t get used to it.

You chuckled to yourself, locking your phone and tossing it onto the bed beside you. She could say that all she wanted.  

But after last night, you weren’t sure you believed her.

The bruises from the Madrid game were still fresh, but they didn’t stop you from hitting the gym first thing in the morning. If anything, they only fuelled you more. Pushing past the ache in your ribs, you increased the speed on the treadmill, jaw tight as you focused on each stride. The game still replayed in your head, every hard foul, every shove that went uncalled. It pissed you off all over again.  

Your phone vibrated on the bench next to you, but you ignored it.  

Another buzz.  

And another.  

With a frustrated sigh, you finally hit the stop button on the treadmill and grabbed your phone. Three notifications.  

Two from your teammates.  

One from Alexia.  

You swiped them open, starting with the first one from Maya.  

Maya: You cleared for the training session later?  

The second was similar.  

Claudia: You good after last night?  

Then, Alexia’s message.  

Alexia: Did you actually rest, or are you already being stupid? 

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head.  

You: Define stupid. 

Her response was instant.  

Alexia: If you have to ask, you already know.  

You bit back a smirk.  

You: You’re really keeping tabs on me now?

The dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Alexia: Someone has to.  

That one made you pause. The air between you both was changing, and neither of you had acknowledged it directly. It had been playful before, just online flirting and teasing. But now she was showing up at your games. Calling you out. Checking in.  

And you liked it. Maybe too much.  

Shaking your head, you typed back.  

You: Good to know I have Barcelona’s finest watching my every move. 

Her reply was just as quick.  

Alexia: Don’t flatter yourself.  

You chuckled, tossing your phone back onto the bench before grabbing a towel and slinging it around your neck.  

She could deny it all she wanted.  

You weren’t fooled. You weren’t the only one who noticed the shift. The fans had picked up on the lull in online interactions, but now that Alexia had subtly made her presence known again, you figured it was time to really give them something to talk about.  

After finishing your gym session, you took a mirror selfie drenched in sweat, muscles tense from the workout, towel draped around your neck. Muscles black blue and prominent on your torso and arms. You stared at the picture for a moment, debating, before typing out the caption:  

“Apparently, I need supervision. Any volunteers?” 

You hit post and locked your phone, moving on with your day, but it didn’t take long for the internet to explode.  

Thousands of comments flooded in within minutes, fans tagging Alexia, demanding a response. It took her a while, but when she finally caved, her reply was short.  

Alexiaputellas: Your decision-making is questionable. Supervision is necessary. 

That was all it took. The fans lost it, and your notifications became a never-ending stream of chaos.  

You smirked, leaning back in your chair as you typed back.  

Yourusername: Didn’t realise Barcelona offered those kinds of services.  

Her reply was instant.  

Alexiaputellas: We don’t. You’re a special case.  

That made you laugh.  

The comments kept rolling in—your teammates jumping in, her teammates fueling the fire.  

vickyylopezz._: Alexia, just admit you’re obsessed. 

MayaSmith: At this point, either date or shut up!

Random Fan: JUST DATE ALREADY! 

The engagement skyrocketed. Articles started circulating again. Even the club's official page liked the interaction, which you were excited to point out the to the PR director when you next saw him.

And you just sat back and enjoyed the show. Alexia wanted to play this game. You were more than ready to match her move for move.

Later that evening, you posted another photo—this time, a clip from your latest training session. Mid-shot, arms tense, expression sharp. The kind of picture that made it clear you weren’t just messing around.  

The caption  

“Still waiting on that supervision. Thought Barcelona was reliable.”  

You barely had time to blink before Alexia responded.  

Alexiaputellas: Some of us have actual jobs.

Your smirk grew as you fired back.  

Yourusername: Right, right. Must be tough sitting in the gym watching me train.

It was a bold move—one that let her know you saw her earlier in the day. That you knew she had been watching, even if she thought she was being subtle. And judging by the pause before her next response, you had definitely caught her off guard. She tried to hide at the back but by wearing a cap and sunglasses she stuck out like a saw thumb.  

When she finally replied, it was much simpler than you expected.  

 Alexiaputellas: Watch yourself.

It wasn’t her usual witty comeback. It was more like a warning. Which only made you push further.  

Yourusername: Or what? You’ll come supervise me yourself?

Again, the pause. The fans were losing their minds in the comments, but all you cared about was whether or not Alexia was going to take the bait.   

Alexiaputellas: Try me.  

Your breath caught for a second, but you covered it with a smirk.  

She was getting bolder. You were definitely not backing down now.

Alexia’s last message sat on your screen, daring you to make the next move.  

Try me.  

It was bold, even for her. You weren’t sure if she meant it as a challenge, a warning, or something else entirely. But one thing was clear—this game you had been playing wasn’t just harmless flirting anymore.  

You were both toeing the line. So, naturally, you decided to see just how close you could get.  

You typed back.  

Yourusername: Careful, Alexia. People might start thinking you actually want to supervise me.

The fans were already running wild with speculation, so you figured you might as well fuel the fire.  

For a while, there was nothing. No reply.  

Then, a notification popped up.  

Not a text.  

Not a comment.  

A like.  

Alexia had liked your message but said nothing.  

Which only made it worse. The internet exploded again, theories running rampant in your mentions. Was she ignoring you? Was she flustered? Was she plotting her next move? Had you taken it offline like the fans already speculated you had with the interactions fewer and further between.

Then, finally, a response. Privately

Alexia: Some things don’t need to be said.  

Your stomach did something it definitely shouldn’t have, but you ignored it. You refused to be the one caught off guard.  

You: So you’re admitting it?

Alexia: Admitting what?

You huffed a laugh. She was good.  

You: That you want to supervise me. Personally.

The three little dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again.  

Then, finally—  

Alexia: You talk too much. 

That one hit differently. Maybe because you could almost hear her saying it, almost see the way she’d look at you if this conversation was happening in person. Maybe because, for the first time, it wasn’t just playful. There was something else underneath it now.  

And for the first time, you weren’t sure who was actually winning this game. You had her cornered.  Or at least, that’s what you thought.  

Alexia’s last message sat on your screen, just taunting you.  

You talk too much. 

It wasn’t playful like before. It was something else. Something heavier.  You weren’t sure why it made your skin feel warm or why your mind kept replaying it as if it meant more than just shutting you down. You could answer right away. Keep the back and forth going, keep the fans screaming, keep playing this game where neither of you admitted anything but made sure everyone knew something was happening.  

But instead, you waited. For the first time since this whole thing started, you made Alexia wonder what you were thinking.  

An hour passed.  

Then two.  

The internet had already dissected every interaction from earlier, debating what it all meant. But you said nothing.  

Then, late that night, a message appeared.  

Alexia: Cat got your tongue?  

A slow smirk tugged at your lips. She had cracked first. Now you had the upper hand.  

You: Just making you wonder. Seems like it worked.

The typing bubbles appeared immediately. Stopped.  

Started again.  

Alexia: Dangerous game you’re playing. 

Oh, this was fun.  

You: Good thing I like danger. 

This time, she didn’t reply right away. You imagined her staring at the message, deciding whether she wanted to take this further or let it settle.  

But Alexia had never been one to back down from a challenge.  

Minutes later, a new notification popped up. Not a text. A picture.  

You clicked on it, and—

It was a picture of her.  

A post-training one, similar to yours from before. Alexia was in a sports bra, abs tight, sweat glistening along her skin.  

No caption.  

No words.  

Just that.

Just to you.  

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.  

You had started this game, but now she was playing by her own rules.  

And for once…  

You had no idea what to say.

this is the fluff i need i’m my life

Sleep? Never.

It’s so peaceful here. The sun is warm, wrapping around you like a blanket. The waves roll lazily in the distance, their rhythmic crashing blending with the occasional seagull call. You’re stretched out on your stomach, the sand soft beneath you, eyes closed, completely weightless.

Next to you, Alexia flips through a book, one hand resting on your lower back, tracing lazy circles. The food was incredible, the drinks even better. You could stay here forever, basking in the sun, in the quiet, in—

A cry.

A sharp, piercing cry slices through the tranquility. It sounds robotic, unnatural.

Maybe it’s not real.

Maybe the beach isn’t real.

The cries grow louder, like a personal concert—one you’d never pay to attend. Something tugs at your arm.

"Baby."

Is this real?

"Baby, wake up."

No, no, no, no, no.

"I don’t want to."

"She’s hungry."

"So go feed her."

"I physically can’t."

You groan, rubbing your eyes, and glance at the baby monitor. Alice’s face, red with frustration, fills the screen.

"Alexia, I’m so tired it’s not even funny."

"I know, baby," she sighs, already swinging her legs off the bed. "I’ll go get her."

You wave a lazy hand. "It’s the least you can do."

Alexia doesn’t dignify that with a response—smart move. She disappears down the hall, and a few moments later, returns with a very angry, very hungry Alice.

You blink, groggy. "Didn’t I just feed her?"

"It’s been four hours."

You’re already adjusting your pajama blouse, making room for the tiny milk addict currently squirming in Alexia’s arms.

Alice immediately wiggles toward you, desperate, latching on with the urgency of someone who has been completely neglected for decades. Her tiny fingers clutch at your shirt like she’s afraid you might disappear.

"I wonder where she gets it from," you murmur, narrowing your eyes at Alice’s sheer determination.

Alexia raises an eyebrow. "Gets what from?"

You gesture vaguely at the baby. "The dramatics. The belief that the world revolves around her."

Alexia scoffs, leaning against the headboard. "Wow. No idea where she could’ve picked that up, remember when you cried because someone at the store got the last bag you wanted?"

Your jaw drops. "That was a devastating loss, Alexia. That bag and I had a connection."

Alexia crosses her arms. "You never even touched it."

You throw your head back against the pillow. "Because I was savoring the moment! And then—boom—stolen from me."

Alexia rolls her eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. "Right. Just like how the universe ‘betrayed’ you when your favorite pen ran out of ink."

You scoff. "That pen and I had history."

Alexia shakes her head, but she’s smiling, fingers grazing over Alice’s back. "She’s cute when she’s not screaming."

You smirk. "So, like, ten percent of the time?"

Alexia huffs, nudging you with her knee. "Don’t be mean."

"I’m not! I love her. Even when she’s screaming in my face."

Alice sighs against you, her little body going limp, milk-drunk and utterly satisfied. Her tiny eyelashes flutter as sleep creeps in.

Alexia watches her, softer now. "She’s getting so big."

You hum, stroking Alice’s back. "She drooled in my mouth today."

Alexia snorts. "That’s disgusting."

"It was. I think I saw my soul leave my body."

Before Alexia can respond, Alice suddenly unlatches with a loud, unapologetic burp—straight onto your pajama top.

You freeze. Alexia claps a hand over her mouth, her whole body shaking with barely contained laughter.

You slowly look down at the damage. Then back up at Alexia. "Oh. My. God."

Alexia loses it.

She wheezes, wiping fake tears from her eyes. "I love her so much."

"You’re supposed to be on my side."

Alexia grins, already grabbing a clean pajama top for you. "I am. I just really enjoy watching you suffer."

She helps you change, pressing a kiss to your cheek as Alice gives a sleepy little sigh against your chest.

Once Alice is full, her tiny fingers unclench, her whole body relaxing. Alexia laughs under her breath before carefully lifting her from your arms. "I’ll put her back in her crib."

You nod, already sinking into the pillows, exhaustion pulling at you again. Alexia cradles Alice to her chest, murmuring something too soft to hear as she disappears down the hall.

But then—

Minutes pass.

And Alexia doesn’t come back.

You groggily peek at the baby monitor on the nightstand.

She’s still in there.

You watch as Alexia stands beside the crib, swaying slightly, her fingers brushing over Alice’s tiny back. Even after Alice has fully drifted off, she doesn’t put her down right away. She just stays, watching her with a quiet smile.

Through the baby monitor, you see her finally tuck Alice in. But instead of leaving, she lingers, adjusting the blanket, smoothing a hand over Alice’s hair.

You should sleep. You should take the chance while you can. But you can’t, because the bed feels too empty.

You roll over, rubbing your face, and press a button on the monitor.

"Babe."

A second later, the monitor crackles.

"What?"

"Come back to bed."

"She’s just settling, give me a second."

"She’s asleep. You’re just staring at her."

A guilty pause. Then, "Maybe."

You groan, rolling onto your back. "Alexia, I can’t sleep without you."

The monitor crackles again. "You are so dramatic."

"Says the person who’s been watching a sleeping baby for twenty minutes."

Silence. Then, "Okay, fair."

A minute later, the bed dips, and Alexia slides under the covers, immediately curling into your side.

"You’re obsessed with her," you mumble, half-asleep.

"She’s my child," Alexia deadpans.

You peek one eye open. "I was starting to think you were gonna move in there."

Alexia sighs, pressing her face against your shoulder. "And leave you alone in this state? You’d probably stage a protest."

You smirk, nuzzling into her. "I was already drafting a strongly worded letter."

Alexia chuckles, her arms tightening around you. "I don’t doubt it."

Your breathing slows, warmth settling over you.

And just like that, with Alexia beside you, sleep finally comes.

dumb and dumber: babysitting | blue stars

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: against her better judgement, olga leaves you and azulita to babysit valerie

notes: in estrella’s pov this time!!

“Okay, now remember that Val needs to be in bed by 7:00. 7:30 at the latest. Sometimes, just sometimes we go on to 8:00, but only if she’s had a nap, and you have to make sure she’s had the nap first, don’t just assume. And no, rubbing her eyes isn’t enough, she has to actually close them, because she fake-naps sometimes. She’s sneaky like that.”

You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, Valerie tucked between your knees and currently trying to fit her entire fist into her mouth. Across from you, Azulita’s letting the baby stack squishy blocks on her head. Neither of you are listening. Not even a little bit.

Olga’s pacing back and forth behind you with the binder. The sacred, terrifying, overly annotated Baby Binder of Doom. Color-coded tabs. Page protectors. Laminated bedtime routine chart. You swear it has footnotes.

“She gets her bottle at 6:30, but not too hot! Shake it and test it first, on your wrist, not your tongue, because that’s not sanitary. Bath starts at 6:45, but only if she didn’t eat too slow. If she eats too slow, you can adjust the bath to 6:50, but no later than 7:05 or the whole schedule gets thrown off. I swear to God, if you throw off the schedule—”

Valerie lets out a shriek of joy as Azulita sticks out her tongue and pretends to sneeze. You grin and toss a stuffed giraffe at Azulita’s face. It bounces off and hits Val in the arm. She’s delighted. She kicks your thigh and drools in victory.

“She needs the bunny,” Olga continues, flipping a page like she’s briefing you for combat. “The bunny, not the bear, not the raccoon, not that weird dog Estrella got her from that random shop in Portugal. She needs the bunny or she won’t sleep. If the bunny is missing, I swear—”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, offering Valerie a crinkly octopus. She throws it at Azulita’s head.

“Storytime must be one book. No more. She will manipulate you. Don’t fall for the pouty face. That’s how we ended up reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear six times in a row last week. We all suffered.”

“Totally,” Azulita says, balancing a plush cow on her forehead. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Olga doesn’t even pause. “No TV before bed. She only has 30 minutes left of screen time anyway. No fruit after six. And don’t let her near the remote. She knows how to change the channel now and she keeps turning on Spanish soap operas and mimicking the crying.”

You clap once. “Iconic.”

Then comes The Silence. You glance up. Olga is no longer talking. She is staring.

You and Azulita both look up slowly, like maybe if you don’t move too fast she won’t attack. She’s standing there, binder to her chest, face pure exasperation. She looks like a woman who is desperately trying not to scream.

That’s when Alexia walks down the stairs. She looks stunning, hair done, blazer over a fitted shirt, matching slacks. If Olga looks like she’s on the verge of a breakdown, Alexia looks like she wants the breakdown to happen so she can laugh at it.

“Everything alright?” Alexia asks, sauntering up behind the couch.

Olga doesn’t answer. She just continues to glare at the two of you. You start sweating. Azulita stops breathing. Valerie throws a block and says, “Taaa!”

Alexia leans forward, taps the back of both your heads like she’s knocking on a door. “Hey. Idiots. Pay attention.”

“Hey,” you say with offense. “I am a professional athlete.”

“You drooled on her sock ten minutes ago.”

You scowl.

Olga takes a deep breath. She sets the binder down with a finality that shakes you to your core. Then, she steps around the couch, stands over you, and says in a tone you’ve never heard before:

“Listen to me very closely. I am ten months postpartum. I have not left my baby alone for more than two hours since she was born. And tonight— tonight I am trusting you two, Dumb and freaking Dumber, to take care of the child I carried for nine months and pushed out of my vagina.”

You flinch. Azulita flinches. Valerie freezes mid-foot chew.

“You are all I have,” Olga says. “And if anything, and I mean anything, happens to my child, you will not be able to hide. I will find you. I will ruin you. You will wish for death. And then, after you wish for death, I will hit you with the binder.”

You nod. Azulita nods. You nod again. You can feel sweat sliding down your back. Your mouth is dry. Val blinks up at Olga and goes, “Ma?”

Then Olga brightens like none of that just happened. “Okay!” she chirps. “Love you girls.”

She kisses you on the forehead. Azulita too. Then Val.

Alexia’s dying. You can see it. She’s holding in laughter with her whole body. She kisses each of you like it’s a funeral, whispering “Good luck,” in your ear like you’re about to go to war. Then the door closes behind them.

You and Azulita just sit there in complete silence.

“…Did she say vagina?” Azulita whispers.

“Yup,” you reply, staring into the void. “She did.”

Valerie, unfazed, claps her hands and lets out a fart noise with her mouth.

You sigh. “Alright. Let’s not die tonight.”

Azulita picks up the bunny and nods solemnly. “For Val.”

You’re lying on the carpet, half-propped up by a pillow you stole from the couch, scrolling through the comments of the live chat with one hand while trying to pick a decent filter with the other. Azulita’s sitting cross-legged beside you, hair in a messy bun, hoodie halfway on, vibing hard as Lil Baby blasts in the background. You can’t lie, Valerie has taste. Kid’s been bouncing in her little baby bouncer for a solid ten minutes like she’s at a festival.

“She’s got rhythm,” Azulita notes, nodding with pride as Val bounces up and down on beat, plastic keys in one fist, sock in the other.

“She got it from me,” you say without missing a beat.

“She got it from her mother’s.”

“Semantics.”

The comments are coming in fast:

"Why are y'all babysitting?? Where is Olga??"

"Alexia left two teenagers with a baby I'm scared."

"IS THAT LIL BABY IN THE BACKGROUND."

"Please show Valerie dancing again I'm begging."

You ignore the comment asking to show Valerie, but take a peek at her, bouncing away like she’s been possessed by the spirit of the beat, drool flying, hair in her eyes, sock now hanging from her mouth like a cigar.

“She’s busy,” you narrate. “She’s got moves. Don’t worry about her.”

And then, mid-bounce, mid-glory, tragedy strikes. Her toy falls. There’s a two-second pause. You make the fatal mistake of thinking she’ll let it go. And then, WAILING.

“OH MY GOD,” you flinch so hard your phone nearly flies out of your hand. The chat immediately blows up.

“LMAOOOOO”

“HELP HER????”

“THE SCREAM??????”

Azulita launches up like she’s on a mission in a spy movie. “I GOT HER,” she shouts, diving for the bouncer.

You remain frozen on live like a deer in headlights, Val screaming bloody murder off camera while Azulita picks her up and starts doing the panicked baby rock. “Shhhh shhhh shhhh,” Azulita mutters. “We got the toy. It’s okay. Life is pain. Let it out.”

“Chat SOS,” you beg into the phone. “How do we get a baby to stop crying?”

"Did y'all feed her????"

"She hungry girl what time is it??"

"Why is Lil Baby still playing turn that OFF and give her a bottle."

"Y’all are literally the worst babysitters l've ever seen and I love it."

You glance at the clock. Your heart drops. “…It’s 6:30.”

Azulita gasps behind you. “FEED THE BABY.”

You end the live so fast. Phone down. Panic mode engaged. “Why didn’t you check the time?!” you shout, sprinting for the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you check the time?!” Azulita shouts back, still holding Valerie who is now actively trying to scream her way out of Azulita’s arms.

“I thought you were on top of it!”

“I’m on top of her! That’s enough!”

You yank the bottle out of the sterilizer and start pouring boiling water into it like your life depends on it. Which it might.

“Do you even know how to mix formula right?” Azulita accuses, hovering near your elbow like the world’s most chaotic nanny.

“Do you?” you shoot back. “I watched Olga do it once. That makes me basically qualified.”

“She was measuring things!”

“I measure with vibes.”

“That’s why I don’t trust you!”

You shake the bottle aggressively, cap it, and turn around to give it to Valerie, but Azulita steps back like you’re holding a weapon.

“Did you check the temperature?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

You glare. “She’s screaming!”

“She’ll scream harder if you give her lava.”

With the most dramatic eye roll in history, you tip the bottle and splash a few drops on your wrist. It’s fire. You scream like you’ve been shot in the arm.

Valerie goes completely silent. And then bursts into laughter. Like real, belly-deep baby giggles.

You stare at her in disbelief. “You enjoyed that?!”

“Iconic,” Azulita grins, rocking her gently. “She laughed at your pain. She’s one of us.”

You mumble something under your breath and start all over again, this time making sure the water is cooled, the formula is right, and no one ends up with second-degree burns. Finally, finally, you hand the bottle to Azulita and she slides it into Val’s tiny hands.

She drinks like she’s been stranded in a desert for days. Ten minutes later, she’s full, burped, and looking at you with those big, innocent eyes like she didn’t just try to rupture both your eardrums.

You and Azulita are collapsed on the couch in exhausted silence.

“…So, bath time?” you say weakly.

Azulita groans. “Binder says yes.”

You scoop up Val, who immediately tries to headbutt your chin, and take her to the bathroom. Setting her on the bath mat, you begin the struggle of undressing a baby who thinks everything is a game and nothing is real.

By the time she’s in the tub, the floor is a crime scene— clothes, toys, a lone sock, a giraffe for some reason.

Valerie, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She slaps the water like it insulted her. You are soaked within seconds. Azulita is trying to save her jeans. You’re trying to figure out how a rubber duck made its way into your hoodie.

“Why is she stronger in water?” you demand.

“She’s evolving,” Azulita whispers.

There are bubbles. There is chaos. You are playing with the little stacking cups and suddenly realize Valerie has abandoned her toys to splash the two of you mercilessly.

“She’s targeting us on purpose,” you say, blinking through water.

“She’s smart,” Azulita agrees, shielding her face with a frog toy.

Valerie grins. You’re both doomed. Soaked, exhausted, and humbled, you glance at the clock. It’s only 7:05.

You look at Azulita. “We follow the binder now.”

“Binder is law.”

Val slaps the water in approval. You salute and let the night continue.

Bedtime. It should be easy. That’s what you told yourself. You survived feeding. You survived bath time. You survived the Binder (capital B). Surely putting Valerie to bed is the victory lap. Spoiler: it’s not.

You’re standing in front of the dresser, holding a plain white onesie like it’s a gift from hell itself. “This is boring,” you declare. “She’s not a tax accountant. She’s a baby.”

“It’s soft,” Azulita argues, holding it up to your face. “Feel it. It’s got little clouds.”

“She deserves better.”

“She’s literally going to sleep.”

“She deserves better while she sleeps.”

And that’s how the two of you spend 12 full minutes rifling through her baby clothes like you’re styling her for New York Fashion Week. At one point Azulita tries to convince you to let her wear just a diaper and a cape “so she dreams she’s a superhero.” You tell her to shut up.

Eventually, you both gasp at the same time when you pull out a fuzzy cat onesie in Barcelona colors— dark blue and garnet, complete with little ears on the hood and a tail.

“Look at this masterpiece,” you whisper.

“She’s going to look like a tiny feline queen.” You high-five.

Valerie, for her part, squeals when you show her the onesie and kicks her feet. She knows style. You wrestle her into it with the grace of two people who clearly don’t know how baby limbs bend, and then immediately start a full-blown photo shoot like she’s Baby Beyoncé.

“You’re serving,” you tell her, snapping a photo.

“She is giving feline fashion excellence,” Azulita agrees, angling the light just right.

You post nothing because Olga would actually murder you if her baby ended up on your story without approval, but still, those pics are going in the archives. You send one to the youngsters group chat and Pina sends back seventeen heart emojis while Patri send an odd voice note of her making a cat sound.

Once the fashion show is over, you carry Val to her crib, carefully swaddled, looking like a sleepy little purring Culer. You sit down beside her and look at Azulita.

“Want to tell her a story?” you ask.

Azulita raises an eyebrow. “We don’t know any stories.”

“We make one up.”

“What kind?”

You think for a second. “The Three Little Pigs. But it’s us.”

She grins. “And the big bad wolf is Alexia.”

“Obviously.”

You lean over the crib dramatically, dropping your voice into a narrator tone. “Once upon a time, there were three little pigs. One was Estrella Pig— gorgeous, talented, the favorite.”

“Excuse me?” Azulita interrupts.

“Second was Azulita Pig—cranky, loud, and wore too much attitude.”

“You’re gonna catch hands.”

“And the third was Patri Pig, who was probably just chilling somewhere eating fruit.”

“Valid.”

“And then came the big bad wolf,” you growl, voice low. “ALEEEXIAAAA.”

Valerie is staring up at you both with eyes the size of dinner plates.

“She huffed!” Azulita says, getting into it. “And she puffed! And she told them to get up and go to training!”

“And the little pigs said NOOOO,” you wail dramatically.

Valerie blinks. You blink back. She blinks. Then she claps her hands.

You and Azulita beam. “She loved it!” you whisper.

“Maybe we should just read the Binder to her. It’s got chapters.”

You start flipping through the pages, trying to find the section on babies not sleeping, and find a line that says: If baby is struggling to fall asleep, try singing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ softly.

You and Azulita exchange a look. You try it.

“Rock-a-bye baaabyyy…”

“On the treeee tooooppp…”

Valerie screams like you just stepped on her dreams.

“ABORT,” Azulita yells, rocking the crib back and forth.

You panic and lift her out of the crib. “Okay okay okay! You hate lullabies! Noted!”

The three of you migrate to the couch like refugees of bedtime failure. You’re bouncing her gently. Azulita’s rubbing her back. Valerie is still sniffly and grumbling. You’re losing hope.

“Fuck it,” you mutter. “Alexa, play something.”

“Now playing: Not Like Us by Kendrick Lamar,” the Echo says.

You and Azulita freeze. But then… Valerie quiets. Like, completely. She blinks. Looks around and listens. Very intently.

You and Azulita exchange another look.

“Is this her song?” Azulita whispers.

“She’s unbothered. She’s vibing.”

By the second verse, her eyelids are drooping. Her grip on your hoodie loosens. By the third verse, she’s snuggled into your chest, breathing soft and even. You don’t dare move.

“Don’t move,” you whisper.

“I know,” Azulita says. “I think she booby trapped me with her foot.”

Eventually, you feel your eyes getting heavy too. The couch is warm. Valerie’s head is heavy on your shoulder. Azulita’s arm is pressed against yours. Kendrick is still going. You drift off.

When Alexia and Olga come home, it’s quiet. Too quiet for two teens and a baby in the house.

Alexia steps into the living room first, heels clicking softly. Her hand goes to her mouth when she sees the sight:

You, Azulita, and Valerie all passed out on the couch. The baby is still in her cat onesie, curled on your chest. Kendrick Lamar is playing Not Like Us on repeat.

Alexia is so amused. Olga comes in next, expecting disaster. When she sees you all asleep, her mouth opens.

“I don’t want to know,” she mutters.

Alexia shrugs. “They kept her alive. That’s all I asked for.”

Olga sighs, takes the fuzzy blanket off the back of the couch, and carefully drapes it over all three of you. She kisses Valerie’s forehead, then Azulita’s, then yours. Alexia does the same, grinning the whole time.

“Idiots,” Olga whispers fondly.

The lights are dimmed. The door to the hallway closes quietly.

And in the background, Kendrick keeps rapping softly into the night.

rearrange my world | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: your whole world changes with one tiny person

notes: the one yall have been waiting for. also subtle name reveal for estrella 🙏🏾🙏🏾

The whistle blew and the stadium erupted. The final score flashed across the screen 6-0. Barça. Your name was still echoing around the stands from that absolute screamer you’d buried top corner in the 89th minute. Your teammates had tackled you to the ground in celebration, Jana had kissed your forehead, and Lucy had deadlifted you like a sack of potatoes.

After the chaos settled, you started doing your usual post-game rounds— signing shirts, posing for photos, throwing your sweat-drenched jersey into a sea of eager hands. You even took a baby for a selfie. Not with a baby. For a baby. The parents said she was a big fan. You didn’t ask questions.

Eventually, you made your way toward the stands where you knew they’d be, your people. Soleil was perched on the edge of her seat like she always was, practically vibrating with excitement. Olga was standing next to her, a hand on her baby bump and an oversized Barça hoodie draped over her shoulders. But there was already someone there, Alexia. Of course. She always managed to beat you when it came to Olga radar.

You jogged over, climbing the little divider with unnecessary flair, nearly tripping over your own feet. “Hey, move! It’s my moment!” you shouted as you flopped dramatically next to them.

Alexia rolled her eyes but smiled. “You scored one goal. Relax.”

“It was a screamer!” you huffed, looking to Soleil for backup.

“She screamed,” Soleil nodded solemnly. “But I think it was more about the knee slide into the cameraman.”

“Semantics,” you muttered, before turning to Olga. “Did you see it?”

Olga was mid-nod when she suddenly froze and hissed. Her hands flew to her stomach. You, Soleil, and Alexia all stopped speaking.

Olga’s face twisted. “Ah—wait—ah—ow—that’s not normal.”

You and Alexia instantly panicked in the most coordinated, unhelpful way possible.

“She’s going into labor!” you shrieked.

“She’s going into labor,” Alexia repeated, eyes wide.

“Call someone!” you both shouted at the same time, looking at each other like idiots.

“I’m someone!” Soleil said, already on her feet, completely calm. She helped Olga sit down on the nearest bench and pulled out her phone. “I’m calling the hospital.”

You were pacing in a circle, muttering things like “the baby is coming,” “I’m not ready to be a sister,” and “I don’t even have snacks packed.”

Alexia was frantically googling “What to do if your girlfriend gives birth in Camp Nou,” while also holding Olga’s hand and whispering “Breathe. Just breathe. Do people still breathe during this? Is that outdated?”

Meanwhile, Soleil had already flagged down security, arranged for the car to be brought around, and was now gently guiding Olga to the exit while both you and Alexia followed like panicked ducklings.

“I’M DRIVING,” you declared, keys in hand.

“You are absolutely not,” Soleil said, snatching them. “You don’t even know where the hospital is.”

“I know the vibe,” you argued.

“You once ended up in Andorra because you followed ‘the vibe,’” Alexia added.

The ride to the hospital was chaos. Olga was groaning dramatically, but still very much coherent.

“If either of you say push one more time, I will push you out of the car,” she warned.

You and Alexia sat in the back, both holding her hands, trying to out-comfort each other.

“Your breathing is perfect, amor,” Alexia whispered.

“Your aura is glowing, Mami,” you added, slightly louder.

Soleil drove like a saint, nodding along to Olga’s directions and occasionally muttering “we are literally the worst emergency support system in history.”

When you finally got to the hospital, the nurses rushed to take Olga in while you dramatically told the front desk that “a miracle is happening and it’s in that belly!”

Alexia followed closely, still googling things out loud. “It says here labor can last forty hours. Do you have snacks? Should I Uber snacks? Should we boil water? That’s a thing, right?”

Soleil rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might stick. “She’s not even in active labor. You two are embarrassing.”

After some monitoring and very unimpressed nurses, a doctor finally came out and said, “It’s just Braxton Hicks. False labor. You can take her home.”

There was a long pause.

You and Alexia blinked. “Braxton who?”

“Braxton Hicks,” the doctor repeated.

“That sounds like a Chelsea midfielder,” you whispered.

“It sounds made up,” Alexia said, crossing her arms.

But there was Olga, sitting on the hospital bed with a blanket wrapped around her and the most exhausted smile. “I’m fine. It was a false alarm.”

Soleil turned to you both. “Would you like to apologize now or in the car?”

You and Alexia looked at each other and said in perfect unison, “We panicked.”

Olga just shook her head, chuckling softly. “You two are lucky you’re cute.” Then she grabbed Soleil’s hand. “She’s the only one who didn’t add to my contractions.”

As you all left the hospital, Alexia put an arm around your shoulders. “We should probably take a birth class.”

“Can I bring snacks?” you asked.

“No,” Soleil muttered.

“Braxton Hicks,” you repeated quietly to yourself, like you still didn’t believe it.

“Sounds fake,” Alexia mumbled.

Olga just groaned. “You two are so not being in the delivery room.”

It started at breakfast, Olga winced slightly as she shifted in her seat, one hand settling on her belly.

You froze, mid-bite of your toast. “Mami…?”

Alexia, pouring tea, turned around instantly. “Are you okay?”

Olga let out a soft laugh. “Relax, it’s just Braxton Hicks again. False alarm.”

You and Alexia looked at each other like the world was ending. Alexia put down the kettle with a clatter. “That’s what you said last time and then you couldn’t stand for ten minutes.”

You stood up, already reaching for your phone. “Should we go to the hospital?”

“No!” Olga reached for your hand to keep you from spiraling. “It’s fine. I’ve got this.”

At the grocery store, it happened again.

You were helping her pick out snacks when she leaned forward against the cart and winced.

You gasped so loud the man in the next aisle turned his head. “Oh my god, is it time?”

Alexia, holding a bag of rice, dropped it. “Wait, did your water break? Should I call the doctor?!”

Olga rolled her eyes. “No! Just another one.”

You started Googling. “But what if it’s like… one of those stealth births?! Where the baby just like, pfft, slips out?!”

Alexia looked visibly pale. Olga just waddled away slowly, mumbling something about letting her finish her damn shopping.

After a routine appointment, you were all sitting in the car when she grabbed the side of her seat.

You screamed. “She’s in labor!”

Alexia dropped her keys. “I’ll drive! I’ll— Wait. Should I call Alba? Do we need reinforcements?!”

Olga groaned. “Stop yelling!”

You climbed halfway into the front seat. “Is she crowning?! I can’t see!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD, ESTRELLA.”

At bedtime, she was brushing her teeth when she hunched forward again.

You tripped over the laundry basket rushing to her. Alexia dropped her phone and fell off the bed in a panic.

Olga sighed, her face still calm. “It’s. Just. Braxton. Hicks.”

You and Alexia were shaking like leaves the rest of the night.

Finally, finally, it was a quiet afternoon. You, Soleil, and Olga were piled together on the living room couch, half-buried under blankets, watching the kind of cheesy, over-the-top romantic comedy you always pretended to hate but secretly loved. Soleil’s head was on your shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly tracing slow shapes on the back of your hand. Olga was curled against a cushion with one arm draped across her belly, her swollen stomach rising and falling as she chuckled at something on screen.

Everything was soft. Safe. Still.

“I’m getting more popcorn,” Olga said suddenly, shifting upright with a grunt.

You immediately sat up too. “No, no, I’ll get it for you!”

She shook her head with that little smile that always meant no use arguing. “I need to move, mami. You and Alexia have me bubble-wrapped. Sound familiar?”

You pouted dramatically. “You’re so stubborn.”

“Hmm.” She smirked as she waddled off toward the kitchen. “Wonder where I got that one from.”

You watched her go, then turned to Soleil with a playful nudge. “She’s gonna regret saying that when she realizes she can’t even reach the top shelf.”

But just a couple minutes later, a sharp gasp echoed from the kitchen. Then came Olga’s voice. Breathless. “Uhm… my water just broke.”

You froze. Soleil stood up slowly, calm already settling over her like a blanket. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. Estrella—grab the bag and start the car.”

You were already gone. Vaulted over the coffee table. Nearly ripped the front door off its hinges. You yanked the hospital bag from where it had been waiting by the entrance for weeks and sprinted outside.

Then you stopped dead. “THE KEYS!” you screamed into the void, whirling around like they’d magically appear in the driveway.

You thundered back inside, socked feet skidding across the tile. “WHERE ARE THE KEYS?”

“Estrella!” Olga groaned, half-laughing, half-dying. “Just get me to the car!”

Between frantic scrambling and Soleil keeping her steady, you finally got her down the steps and into the backseat. Soleil climbed in beside her, already dialing Alexia while murmuring soft instructions, “Keep breathing, that’s it, lean back, I’ve got you.”

You drove like an absolute menace. Ran a red light. Cut across a roundabout. Screamed at a Vespa. Soleil didn’t even flinch. She was in the back with Olga, voice gentle, fingers rubbing soothing circles on her arm while she gave Alexia a quick rundown of the situation.

By the time you screeched into the hospital’s emergency drop-off zone, Alexia was already there— hair still damp from the gym, shoes half on, worry written all over her face.

But things moved fast. Too fast. The doctors didn’t like what they were hearing from the monitors. The baby’s heartbeat was irregular. They said they had to assist with the delivery. It was go-time. You watched with bated breath as Alexia clutched Olga’s hand as she was wheeled away.

You were left behind. You and Soleil. Just sitting there in the sterile, humming quiet of the waiting room.

You couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe. You paced back and forth, chewing at your nails, bouncing your leg, running your fingers through your hair until it was sticking up in every direction. Soleil tried everything— held your hands, made you sit, tried breathing exercises, even offered to braid your hair to calm you, but nothing worked.

You were too afraid. Not just for the baby. But for Olga. Your mother. You couldn’t lose her.

Eli showed up first. She didn’t say anything. Just wrapped you in a massive, grounding hug and didn’t let go until your hands stopped shaking.

Then came Alba.

Alba, who took one look at your wrecked state, grabbed your shoulders, and pushed you down into a seat with a pointed stare.

“She’s going to be okay,” Alba said firmly. “You love her, right?” You nodded fast.

“Then trust her and the doctors. Olga is strong, you know this.”

That made something shift in you. Just a little. Just enough to take a breath. Just enough to sit still. And then, finally, Alexia came out.

“She’s okay,” she said, voice thick, tears glistening in her eyes. “The baby’s okay. Olga’s okay.” You nearly collapsed right there.

“She wants you,” Alexia added gently. “She’s asking for you.”

You ran. Through the doors, past the nurses, straight to the room. You didn’t go to the baby first. You couldn’t. You needed to see her.

You rushed to Olga’s side, cupping her face in your hands. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay,” you whispered over and over.

She nodded with tears in her eyes, her hand finding yours and squeezing tightly. “We’re okay, bebita. We’re okay.”

Only then did you turn. And there she was.

The tiniest thing you’d ever seen. Swaddled in soft pink blankets, wriggling gently in her bassinet. Her skin was flushed, her eyes blinking slow and curious. A head full of dark hair. Little fists that already looked ready to throw hands.

You stepped forward, breath caught in your throat.

“Can I—?”

Olga smiled. “Go on. Hold her.”

You picked her up like she was made of glass. And the moment she settled into your arms, your entire body broke open. Tears welled up instantly, your shoulders shaking.

“She’s so perfect,” you whispered.

Olga’s voice was soft, but sure. “Do you want to know her name?”

You looked at her, blinking through tears. Alexia smiled gently. “Valerie Celestina Putellas.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your legs gave out, and you sat in the chair next to Olga’s bed, clutching your baby sister like she was everything.

“You named her after me?” your voice cracked.

“Of course,” Olga said, her hand stroking your back. “So she always has a piece of her big sister with her. So even when you’re out in the world doing your thing, she’ll still have you close.”

You sobbed. Couldn’t stop. Could barely speak through the tears.

After everything. After the abandonments. After sleeping on couches. After courtrooms and broken promises and crying yourself to sleep wondering if anyone was ever going to want you. Now you had a family. And you had her. Valerie Celestina.

Forever.

Bebita - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Turns out the captain’s toughest rival isn’t on the pitch-it’s her own baby, who smiles for the squad but not for her.

Warning: One adorable baby, one jealous Alexia, and two exhausted parents who are definitely too tired for anything even remotely sexy.

Word count: 2.7

a/n: This is a scheduled post, I'm sleeping.

MASTERLIST

..

The VIP area sat a few rows up–quiet except for the distant thump of the ball and the soft murmur of the crowd. Y/n settled into the seat, baby Clara balanced on her lap. 

Clara’s tiny brunette pigtails bobbed as she wriggled against Y/n’s chest, her hazel eyes fixed on the green pitch below. She was always like that, always trying to move away from Y/n and Alexia, even though she had barely learned how to stand on her own.

Out on the field, Alexia knelt on one knee, cycling through her familiar pre‑match stretch, every motion precise and powerful. 

Clara watched, leaning forward as though she understood that the woman in the Barça kit was her other mama.

“Look, mi amor,” Y/n whispered, angling Clara so she could see. “Do you see Mami?”

Clara squealed happily, reaching out to point. In her other hand, she clutched the battered cat‑culer teddy Vicky had given her.

It had been a gift for Clara’s first birthday, which had happened just weeks ago. How did a one-year-old manage to take off the cat's tails, bite down its ear and unsew its eyes? Y/n wasn’t sure, but she was sure that Clara loved the thing dearly.

Y/n brushed a strand of hair from Clara’s forehead. “She’s getting ready to play for you today.”

Clara shifted, trying to stand. Her little legs wobbled, and she toppled onto Y/n’s thigh with a surprised giggle.

“You’re going to fall,” Y/n laughed, scooping her daughter, sitting her on her lap. “You just learned how to do that–be patient.”

Clara patted Y/n’s cheek, then lifted Cat, pressing it against her cheek as if comforting herself–and everyone else too.

Through the railing, Y/n watched Alexia rise and take a final glance toward the stands, her eyes briefly meeting Y/n’s. 

Alexia gave a single nod, smiling shyly.

Y/n smiled and took Clara’s small hand and waved at Alexia. “Say hi to mami, Bebita.”

Clara babbled excitedly, watching her mom.

Y/n pressed her lips to Clara’s pigtail. “Ready to see Mama in action? The game’s starting.”

Clara kicked her legs and clutched Cat tighter.

Y/n put earmuffs on Clara, and they both waited for Alexia’s first touch of the ball.

..

Y/n stepped down onto the pitch, Clara cradled in her arms, the roar of the crowd fading into a soft hum now that the final whistle had blown. 

Alexia jogged over from midfield, still in her game‑worn kit, sweat-slick hair plastered to her forehead, a smile on her face, both from seeing her little family and from winning the game as well.

Clara’s hazel eyes gleamed–not at Alexia, but at the Cat teddy Y/n held. 

Y/n had just pried it away to stop Clara from yanking out its last button eye, but the little one was too quick; she snatched it back, buried her face in its floppy ear, and squeezed it as if it were the only thing in the world.

“Hey, mi amor–where’s my big winner's smile?” Alexia called softly, holding out her arms for Clara.

Clara peeked over the teddy. 

Y/n wasn’t sure, but somehow Clara has mastered the deadpan face at only one year and two weeks.

Alexia’s brow furrowed. 

Alexia’s brow creased in confusion. “Why so serious, bebita?” she asked, reaching to lift Clara into her arms—but each time she tried, Clara twisted away.

“She didn’t even give me a single grin,” Alexia said, casting a pleading glance at Y/n. “Do you think… is she mad at me?”

Y/n chuckled, rocking Clara gently against her. “She’s not mad, amor. I think she’s just tired.”

“Tired?” Alexia scoffed. “I saw her napping from the pitch.”

“Sleeping surrounded by thousands of people isn’t the same as snoozing at home,” Y/n replied, stepping closer. “But now, can the captain give me some attention?”

Alexia grinned, leaning in for a quick kiss, only to feel something wet against her cheek. Clara was pushing her face away,

“Okay, wow,” Alexia said, feigning offence. “What’s put you in such a mood, huh? Did Mama not breastfeed you today?”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “Of course I did.”

Before Y/n could even get a word out, Vicky and Jana appeared at the edge of the pitch, grinning like they’d just won the lottery.

“Bebita!” they called in perfect unison, spotting Clara from a distance.

Clara’s deadpan expression shattered instantly into a bright, gummy grin–her two little teeth front and centre like she was showing them off. 

As the two girls jogged over, she actually started to wiggle in Y/n’s arms, arms flailing in excitement.

Vicky scooped her up with practised ease, plopping Clara into her lap like they were old besties. 

Jana was already fussing with her pigtails, smoothing them down and cooing sweet nothings that had Clara giggling, soft and high-pitched, the kind of sound that made everyone around them melt.

Y/n and Alexia shared a long, stunned glance.

Alexia crossed her arms, deeply offended. “Wow. Amazing. My own filla [daughter] ignores me but loses her mind for these two.”

Y/n patted her shoulder with exaggerated sympathy. “Don’t pout, campeona. She does love you–just maybe not right now.”

Alexia sighed deeply, leaning over to tousle Clara’s hair in an attempt to salvage her dignity. 

But Clara, nestled happily in Vicky’s arms, gave her a very unimpressed wave–one lazy, pudgy little hand–and turned right back around to cuddle her beloved teddy and friend.

Y/n could swear she saw her daughter frown at Alexia. A warning frown. 

Alexia looked wounded. “Did… did she just glare at me?”

Y/n bit back a laugh. “Maybe. A little. You might have messed with her giggling privileges.”

“I hope she doesn’t expect me to pick her up from parties when she’s older,” Alexia muttered, arms wrapped lazily around Y/n from behind.

Y/n snorted. “Oh? So you’re already planning to let her go to parties now? Because last I heard, you said she wouldn’t be out of our sight until she turned 23 and a half.”

“Shut up,” Alexia grumbled, chin on Y/n’s shoulder, eyes narrowed as more players started to swarm their tiny queen. “She’s supposed to be obsessed with us, not… them.”

Clara, meanwhile, was thriving. Surrounded by teammates, she sat like a baby monarch on Vicky’s lap, accepting all compliments and forehead kisses.

Alexia checked her Samsung watch. Fifteen minutes.

“That’s ridiculous,” she huffed. “I carried her for nine months!”

Y/n said grumpily. “No, you didn’t. I did.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. “Fine. But I’m the one who wakes up every night to change her diaper.”

Y/n gave an exaggerated shrug. “Yeah… that’s fair.”

Alexia had already had enough. She pulled away and marched toward the huddle of players, determined to reassert her maternal dominance.

By then, Clara had migrated from Vicky to Patri, who had Pina crouched in front of them playing peek-a-boo with the intensity of a professional entertainer. 

Every “boo!” sent Clara into high-pitched giggles, her tiny arms flailing like she was trying to fly.

Off to the side, Salma had somehow gotten hold of the Cat Culer plush and was cradling it like a kitten, complete with exaggerated ‘mrow-mrow’ sounds and purring noises. 

Clara was enchanted. She squealed and reached both hands toward Salma.

She swivelled from Patri to Salma, a wide smile spreading across her face. It was a deadly combo: Patri’s over-the-top silly faces and Salma’s soft, ridiculous lullaby cat impressions.

Alexia barely made it back to the group before Clara let out a delighted squeal.

Too much. That was too much joy for one player circle.

Without warning, Alexia swooped in and plucked Clara right out of Patri’s arms.

“Come on, Clara,” she muttered, hoisting Clara onto her hip like a protective mama bear. “You’re ours.”

“Noo!” Patri gasped, hands dramatically outstretched. “Our amiga!”

“She was smiling!” Jana chimed in from seemingly nowhere.

Alexia blinked. “Where did you even come from?”

Jana just pouted and pointed. “She likes me more than you.”

Alexia raised her brows. “She drooled on your shoulder last week.”

Alexia ignored them all, bouncing Clara gently on her hip and muttering like a dramatic villain, “Your amiga needs to sleep in one hour, chicas. Back off.”

And that’s what did it.

Clara’s big eyes blinked once… twice… and then her lip wobbled.

The betrayal hit her in full force.

She let out a wail so dramatic, so raw and heartbroken. How did a baby have so many emotions? Who knows?

Alexia’s face fell in real time. 

“Oh, come on, bebita…” she cooed, trying to adjust her hold, bouncing Clara with expert panic. “Don’t cry. Mama’s sorry–”

“Give her back,” Vicky said, deadpan. 

“No!” Alexia turned, spinning away like she was protecting Clara, “She’s mine. I made her.”

“You did not!” Y/n called after her.  “I made her, remember? Forty-three weeks?”

Alexia didn’t turn around. “Fine, but I clipped her nails yesterday. Let me have this!”

Y/n stepped forward without a word and plucked Clara from Alexia’s arms.

“Shh, what’s going on with you today, huh?” she asked, settling Clara against her chest. Instantly, Clara melted into her, the cries slowing as she rooted for the breast like nothing had happened.

Alexia folded her arms and watched the scene unfold, tapping her foot. “She hates me today.”

Y/n leaned in and kissed her cheek, still swaying with Clara. “She doesn’t hate you. She just wants to party with the girls.”

Alexia’s pout softened. “Next time, she should save a giggle or two for me.”

Clara was nearly asleep by the time Alexia guided them toward the locker room, collecting her things so they could finally go home.

The walk to the car was slow, careful not to wake the tiny diva—but Clara, ever the drama queen, cracked her big hazel eyes open as Y/n buckled her into the car seat.

“Hi, Neneta,” Y/n cooed in a baby voice. “I bet you're gonna stay up the whole drive and absolutely not fall asleep at bedtime, huh? Yeah, of course you will.”

Clara giggled, like she was absolutely planning to sabotage their night.

Y/n frowned, struggling with the seatbelt–it wasn’t going over the right way, and it looked like it was pressing into Clara’s belly.

“Ale, I need help,” she called, glancing over her shoulder.

Alexia appeared behind her, now in a soft, oversized shirt, hair down and still damp from her shower. “What, amor?”

She leaned in to take a look–and that’s when it happened.

Clara smiled. Not just any smile. A big, two-toothed, gummy grin, arms shooting up toward Alexia.

Alexia gasped. Literal tears sprang to her eyes. 

“Oh, el meu tresor, has tornat a estimar la mameta, eh?” [Oh my treasure, have you come back to loving mommy, huh?]

She scooped Clara out of the car seat with no hesitation, kissing her all over while Clara giggled and wrapped a chubby hand in Alexia’s hair.

“Alexia, put her back!” Y/n scolded. “It’s cold! She’s gonna catch a cold!”

“My bebita,” Alexia crooned, ignoring her. “Mine.”

Y/n squinted. Something wasn’t adding up. Then her eyes narrowed in on the baby's fist, twisted lovingly in Alexia’s damp hair.

“Alexia,” she said slowly.

“What?” Alexia asked, still too busy baby-cuddling to notice the growing danger.

Without another word, Y/n stepped forward, gently took a handful of Alexia’s hair, and lifted it up into a mock ponytail.

Instantly–cry. A full-body, soul-deep shriek from Clara that echoed off the parking garage walls.

“What the-?”

Before Alexia could finish, Y/n let her hair fall back down. Clara stopped crying on a dime. She blinked twice, then went back to calmly playing with Alexia’s nose.

“She doesn’t like your hair up,” Y/n deadpanned. “She’s been mad at you all day because you put it in a ponytail. Diva behaviour.”

Alexia stared at her daughter in disbelief. “Is that true, bebita? I’m gonna have to figure out how to play football with my hair down, huh?”

Clara gave her a sleepy little grunt and patted her cheek, as if to say, finally, someone’s catching on.

The car ride home was full of Clara's babble–her favourite form of post-bedtime rebellion.

“She’s giving a full concert back there,” Alexia mumbled, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Y/n’s thigh.

“She’s practising for her world tour,” Alexia said with a small yawn.

From the backseat came a joyful “DA! and “MA!” followed by a long, dramatic sigh…Clara’s version of a mic drop.

Y/n twisted in her seat to look at her. “Clara, it’s sleepy time.”

Clara kicked her feet.

Alexia glanced at her in the mirror. “Bebita, no kicking mami.”

“Maybe she just needs to wind down,” Alexia offered. “You know, like a little story, some quiet time…”

“She just yelled at her own toes,” Y/n said hopelessly. “We’re not sleeping today.”

By the time they pulled into the garage, Clara was still going strong, waving her arms as if she was saying hi to a crowd, but Alexia didn’t care because she was giving her a gummy grin every time she looked back. 

Y/n unbuckled her with a sigh.

“We have ten minutes before she realises she’s a baby and not a woman in her twenties at a club,” she muttered.

Inside, Alexia took Clara while Y/n dealt with the diaper bag and Alexia’s game bag. 

Clara was clinging to her again, arms tight around Alexia’s neck, one hand firmly rooted in her hair like she was personally in charge of keeping it down.

“She’s obsessed with your hair,” Y/n said as she walked into the nursery.

“She has taste,” Alexia replied, swaying slowly with Clara in her arms.

“She has control issues.”

“She gets that from you.”

Y/n shot her a glare, but was too tired to keep it up. Instead, she leaned against the doorway, watching the two of them. 

Clara was slowing down now, her lids heavy as Alexia quietly hummed a lullaby in Catalan, her hand rubbing soft circles on Clara’s back.

It was quiet for a moment, just the gentle and occasional creak of the floorboards under their feet. 

Y/n felt something melt in her chest.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmured.

Alexia glanced over at her, surprised. “At what?”

“Being her mom.”

Alexia’s mouth tugged into the smallest, most fragile smile. “Only when my hair’s down, apparently.”

“She just missed you,” Y/n said, crossing the room to stand beside her. “You’re her favourite, you know.”

Alexia looked down at Clara, whose tiny hand was still tangled in her hair, her face finally tucked into her mom’s neck. “She’s my favourite, too–well, you and her.”

Y/n leaned her head on Alexia’s shoulder, both of them swaying now in the half-lit nursery. Clara let out a soft sigh–peaceful this time–and went limp in Alexia’s arms, fully asleep.

“Victory,” Y/n whispered.

“Don’t jinx it,” Alexia whispered back.

They waited another few minutes, just to be sure, then moved into the quiet routine that every young parent had. 

Alexia laid Clara in the crib. Y/n pulled the blanket up. Neither of them breathed until they were sure she was down for real.

Back in the hallway, Y/n pulled Alexia into a long, slow hug, burying her face in the damp hair. “I vote you never wear a ponytail again.”

Alexia chuckled, kissing her temple. “Deal.”

They padded off to their bedroom, tired and tangled in each other, both grateful that Clara had finally called it a night.

Y/n flopped face-first onto the bed with a groan. “Okay, but we both agree we’re too tired for sex, right?”

There was no answer.

Y/n turned her head slightly. Alexia was already on her side, eyes shut, breathing deeply, completely out cold.

She snorted. “Okay. Guess that’s a yes.”

She reached out blindly, grabbed the blanket, and yanked it over both of them, grumbling softly as she burrowed in beside Alexia. 

“You better be dreaming about me,” she mumbled into the pillow.

..

Hope you guys enjoyed it!

Okay so I was thinking of a blurb with Mapi and Ingrid where reader takes a nap everyday after training or a game but she’s forced to go to team bonding at Alexias place by Mapi and Ingrid and is grumpy since she can’t take her nap and everyone is like what’s up with her when they see the grumpy look on her face and Mapi’s just like ‘oh she didn’t take her nap’ so the whole time reader is falling asleep on the couch either on someone’s shoulder or lap but she can’t because of the noise and when everyone’s finally gone and it’s just them and Alexia she finally falls asleep on Ingrid’s lap

as someone who absolutely thrives off naps, this was felt team bonding II m.león & i.engen

you could have said it was partially your fault, and maybe you would have had the situation been any different. however today you were much less willing to accept any sort of blame, rather pointing the finger at anyone and everyone else.

it had started as you'd all come back into the change rooms after a particularly brutal training session, the sun glaring down on you the entire time had meant your normally tanned and sun kissed skin was mildly burnt and coated with a thin sheen of sweat.

the first session of the day hitting the gym wasn't as bad, the team partially sheltered from the sweltering heat of the barcelona sun. thursdays were always a double session given it was the middle of the week and friday was a rest day, so the second session was of course out on the pitch and it would have been understated to say you struggled.

you'd lived in spain now for nearly three years however born and raised in dreary drizzly england had meant it had been nothing short of a huge adjustment to get used to the change in lifestyle, weather and climate.

especially when it came to running around, training and playing matches on days that sometimes peaked well above thirty degrees, you were often grateful for the drop in temperature when blessed with late afternoon and early evening games.

growing up you'd never been someone who could sit still, always itching to be running around, keeping your hands busy or kicking some sort of sports ball. you'd played almost every sport you could growing up, both of your siblings the same.

you'd felt sorry for your mother, a single mum trying to wrangle three incredibly active kids and dash them from school to practice and home with three different schedules. you would always be grateful to her, and to your grandparents who basically drove you every afternoon to some sort of extra curricular.

football had been what had stuck through the ages, your sister sticking with tennis and your brother abandoning everything to pursue law, though he played a friendly five a side with his colleagues of a monday night.

however despite your insanely high energy levels, work ethic and stamina, all of that exerted force had meant you'd crashed hard and very rarely had a healthy or consistent sleep schedule throughout your youth.

this had meant some days the best rest you got was naps. wether it be a quick twenty minute power nap on the way from school to football or a three hour doze on the sofa of a sunday afternoon after you'd played, you became incredibly dependent on the brief moments of rest and bliss that came with them.

so skipping ahead to present days, that hadn't changed. despite your professional career meaning you should have a consistent, healthy and reliable sleeping pattern, the majority of your rest and recharge came from your naps.

despite consistent scalding from the training staff about the importance of a solid eight hour minimum rest, most nights you were lucky if you slept five to six hours, which of course everyone reminded was due to the frequent naps you took throughout the day.

however old habits die hard and it wasn't anything that you felt affected your playing ability, so who was it really harming? or at least that was the case, most days.

today was no exception, if anything after such a tiresome day of running about in the heat you were extra exhausted and looked forward to nothing more than returning home. the safe little haven you'd created with your girlfriends would greet you with its sun soaked little loveseat you'd often curl up in to get a quick thirty minute power nap in.

or the end of your ever so cozy L shaped couch where you'd stretch out for a longer doze, often with your head in ingrids lap as she read a book and mapi would play video games beside you, headphones on as to not disturb you, both your girlfriends well equipped to your routine.

early on in the relationship they'd of course tried their hand to coax you into a much more stable sleeping routine. but rapidly learning all it would lead to was a night of you tossing and turning and fidgeting in between them, the constant movement and small huffs of frustration in turn keeping them awake as well, they quickly gave up on that battle.

but back to the locker room you'd busied yourself quickly showering and changing, too busied with your head in the clouds to overhear the team making plans for a bonding night at alexia's house. tomorrow being a rest day meant it was perfect to do something tonight, and had you tuned in and overheard you might have had some more time to plan.

however buried deep in your own thoughts and quickly sinking further and further into your bodies screaming demands for a nap you'd zoned out entirely. you'd snapped back to it at a jingle of keys by your ear, glancing up to find mapi staring down at you with an amused smile.

you were quick to your feet, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder, waving your goodbyes as the three of you headed out of the building down to the carpark.

again you zoned out, head a fuzzy mess and skin still crawling from the thick humidity which plagued the air around you. had you been paying attention you might have overheard ingrid and frido or patri and pina behind you, all discussing who was needing to take what to alexia's.

mapi sliding into the drivers seat you kissed ingrids cheek in appreciation as she offered you the front, dumping your bags in the boot and settling into the warm leather you grimaced slightly but sighed, glad to at least finally be off your feet.

you smiled for a few photos as fans hung by the front gate, all keening to get pictures with their favourite players, though all three of you exhausted from the heat you kept it brief. finally on the road and heading home you joined into the initial conversation, though quickly found your eyes growing heavy.

"hey bebita no, we're almost home." mapi chuckled, hand moving to gently squeeze your thigh to stop you dozing off. both her and ingrid were more than capable of carrying your sleeping form inside as had been done plenty of times before, though exhausted from training if it was something that could be avoided then they would do their best to do so.

you busied yourself discussing training with the two of them, as well as the upcoming game against athletico on the weekend. your mother was coming to visit for a few days and you spent time going over what she wanted to do and see while she was here, the three of you grabbing your bags finally home.

in the elevator up to your shared apartment your struggle increased, eyes heavy once again as your head fell to mapi's shoulder, leaning a little more into her body making her smile and kiss the side of your head affectionately.

you heard her ask you something in spanish but half asleep you only hummed, agreeing to whatever she'd said as the doors opened on your floor. ingrid unlocking your front door you stumbled inside, scowling at the blonde haired spaniard beside you who'd stuck her foot out to trip you.

ingrid scolding her in norweigein you threw your bag at her and she chuckled, moving to put them away. you squatted down to fondly rub bagheera's head, picking him up and making a beeline for the sofa, your usual spot calling your name as you sighed grateful for the air con blasting around the apartment.

"siesta time handsome." you mumbled, collapsing tiredly onto the sofa and moving a cushion behind your head, bagheera curling up on your stomach. you sighed contendly, one hand stroking his warm fur as your eyes slammed shut and you started to drift off.

though your brief slumber was halted by something poking at your cheek. "go away!" you huffed, cracking one eye open to see mapi stretched out on the other end of the sofa, poking you with her toe as you shoved her legs away.

"what are you doing elskling?" once again you began to drift until a new voice spoke up, now opening both eyes you looked up to see a pair of green orbs looking down at you curiously.

"what does it look like i'm doing?" you mumbled back tiredly, flinching as the older girl pinched your leg for the comment. "takin a nap." you sighed, eyes closing again as you felt bagheera's weight move off of you, jumping to instead settle in between mapi's tattooed legs which still stretched along the sofa.

"why? we need to get ready to go to alexia's." at that your eyes shot wide open and a frown knitted deep into your eyebrows, pushing yourself up to rest on your elbows.

"why are we going to ale's?" you questioned, confused at the odd break in your usual post training routine. "see amor i told you she was not listening." mapi tutted, shaking her head at you as you shot her a tired glare.

"did you not hear anything we spoke about after training? or in the car? or in the elevator?" ingrid questioned, an annoyed frown settling into her features as she folded her arms and stared pointedly down at you. "no i did not. i'm tired and i need a nap." you grumbled, annoyance growing the longer you were forced to stay awake.

with that you rolled over onto your side, back showing to the tall norweigein who scoffed. "hey! wakey wakey." mapi's feet dug into your back as she cooed at you, shaking your body as you inhaled deeply.

a string of spanish curses dropping from your lips you turned and smacked her legs, a little harder than intended before getting to your feet, thumping off to the bedroom ignoring their calls after you.

"nope!" you groaned loudly as arms wrapped around your torso before you could throw back the covers and slip into bed. "i'm tired." you whined, head leaning back onto mapi's shoulder, pouting up at your girlfriend who smiled in amusement.

"too bad, we have team bonding cariño and we promised we'd go, all of us." mapi tilted your head back a little further, hand gently gripping your chin as she placed a somewhat apologetic kiss to your lips, thumb running over your bottom lip as she pulled away.

"i'm not going. suddenly im sick!" you fake coughed pushing away from her, feeling another pair of eyes burn into you as you flopped backwards onto the bed, covering your face with your hands.

"you are going. get up and changed!" you peeked through your fingers to see ingrid staring firmly down at you, mapi whisting knowingly and ducking out of the room not wanting to get involved.

"no." you replied just as firmly, face still buried in your hands. "you are twenty four stop acting like a child. get up, now." her tone shifted into one you knew all too well, and looking up the fire which simmered just behind her eyes you knew you had about two minutes to do as she asked or you'd pay for it later.

"can i nap for a half hour baby, please?" you switched approach, hands moving to fall at your sides as you looked up pleadingly, her features softening a little but her arms remained crossed.

"no kjære , we need to be there in an hour and it's a twenty minute drive."

at her words you groaned even louder than before, hauling your body up and storming off to the bathroom, making a point to slam the door after you. "pain in the ass every day." ingrid mumbled under her breath with a roll of her eyes.

"no amor you asked for that, you know how she gets when she's tired." mapi held her hands up in defense at the withering look shot at her, backing out of the room again mumbling under her breath in spanish, all too used to mediating between the two of you knowing just how stubborn you could both be when in disagreement over something.

"come on niña bonita, smile. stop being grumpy!" you shifted at mapi's words, the slightly taller girl hugging you from behind and kissing your cheek a few times.

"we'll stay for a few hours and then you can go home and sleep, okay?" ingrid spoke softly, running a hand through your hair as you sighed tiredly but nodded none the less as mapi pressed the buzzer. within seconds the door was opening and you winced at the sudden change of volume, most of the girls seemingly already having arrived.

"ay chica why do you look so down hm?" alexia smiled, bringing you into a hug as she closed the door, the older girl like a sister to you as you sighed and grumbled about being tired.

"you sleep more than a newborn amiga, how are you always so tired?" her body vibrated with laughed as she kissed your cheek teasingly and let you go. "she does not sleep, like a vampire!" patri teased pulling a face at you as pina joined in and you rolled your eyes pushing past them, ignoring their offended calls after you that you'd blanked their hug.

you made a beeline to collapse next to lucy, head immediately falling to your national teammates shoulder. "oh did the little baby not get its nap?" she cooed harshly pinching your cheeks, having known you for years she immediately recognized the signs of exhaustion present in your features.

"no!" you huffed, pushing her hands off as she grinned. "tough luck kid, hard life being an adult." she sighed, patting your cheek and moving so her arm stretched over the back of you and you could settle a little more into her side as mapi took the vacant seat next to you.

normally if you were curled into anyone elses sides both her and ingrid would be green with envy, but lucy having had a heavy hand in the three of you even getting together in the first place they knew she was just as fiercely protective of you as they were.

you felt your girlfriends tattooed hand rest on your leg, fingers tracing shapes absentmindedly on your thigh as she engaged in conversation with the team.

you remained quiet as an hour dragged by and alexia tried her best to organise a food delivery, struggling heavily to decipher orders as no one seemed to be able to answer her without speaking over the top of someone else.

you jolted up awake as alexia snapped, captain mode slipping in effortlessly as she shouted a loud and stern string of catalan, everyone pausing before quietly relaying their preferences one by one.

food ordered everyones focus switched to games, an assortment of different board and card games from all different nations littering the floor. you opted out of playing, shooting poor esmee a murderous look as she attempted to drag you to your feet to be her partner.

"england why are you so moody today?" you looked up to meet oshoala's amused grin as mapi stood from beside her to help alexia get the food delivery from downstairs, the warmth of her hand on your leg instantly missed.

"baby didn't get its nap!" you grunted as two bodies landed on top of you, patri wrangling you into a headlock as claudia sat on your chest, both girls poking and jabbing at you.

something not uncommon for the three of you, known to rough house around quite often given your close ages but today you were not in the mood. you swore and cursed at them in spanish, a few of the older girls in the room shooting you disapproving looks for your language as the games continued.

"i would leave her be unless you want to lose a finger patri, she is a biter." mapi warned with a suggestive grin, returning as most of the girls hurried to their feet at the promise of food. claudia gagged at the insinuation and punched you halfheartedly in the stomach, scurrying away as patri was quick to follow before you could retaliate.

"i want to go home." you huffed, sitting up and running a hand through your tousled hair, fixing your clothes with a glare over the spaniards shoulder at the culprits who were too busy stuffing their faces to care.

"well we aren't." mapi chuckled, hands on your knees as she leant down and moved in closer. "if you're a good girl bebita i promise to reward you when we do get home, in any way you want." the older girl murmured in your ear, teeth gently tugging on your earlobe leaving your cheeks flushed red.

"any way?" you clarified as the defender nodded with a smile. "but only if you behave and lighten up a little, we are here to bond with the team." your girlfriend warned as you nodded.

"otherwise i will just let ingrid have her way with you for the snappy comments earlier, and we both know she does not forget hermosa." mapi smiled knowingly as you sighed, your girlfriend leaning in and pecking your lips a few times until they curled into a smile.

speaking of, ingrid took lucys seat beside you, placing a plate of food in your lap as mapi disappeared to get her own, the rest of the girls settling themselves around the living room as chatter and laughter filled the air.

the taller girl smiled in surprise as you thanked her in norweigen, leaning up to kiss her softly before starting to eat. "don't need to be hand fed do we grumpy?" keira teased, gesturing for your girlfriend to feed you as you flipped her off, ingrid knocking your hand down as your english team mate grinned and took a seat on the floor beside aitana.

mapi settling in on your other side with her own food you tried to make more of an effort, not contributing much to conversation but actively listening. you grinned as you stole some of your girlfriends food, mapi flicking your ear affectionately before kissing your cheek, happy to see you were a little more engaged.

food finished and games back in commencement you found yourself still wedged between your girlfriends, your legs draped over mapi's lap as ingrid held you from behind, chin resting atop your head.

slowly as the night grew later the girls began to drop off, and as the chatter and laughter died down your exhaustion was quick to resurface, blinking drowsily as you tried to stay awake.

but eventually you could fight no more and sleep won, your body suddenly becoming a lot more heavy which didn't go unnoticed by your girlfriends. the last of your team mates leaving alexia returned to the living room to see ingrid hoist your dead asleep form into her lap properly, scoffing with an amused shake of her head.

alexia's girlfriend olga due home from work soon and you seemingly passed out cold your girlfriends agreed to stay and watch a movie, grateful both for your lack of complaining and that you were finally getting some much needed rest.

"you know we are going to get home and she will be wide awake again now, yes?" mapi sighed with a smile, moving your hair out of your face and leaning down to press a tender kiss to your forehead. "i'm counting on that." ingrid smiled though a little less sweetly as mapi caught on, knowing smirk curling into her lips as alexia shot to her feet hearing a knock at the door.

"well, i did promise her a reward." "you're too soft with her." "i am not, you are just too bossy." "neither of you seem to mind that." "you do not give us a choice amor." "is that so? well maybe i need to remind both of you-"

"too loud." you mumbled up tiredly, hands coming to rest over their mouths still half asleep, mapi pressing a kiss to your palm before they dropped limply back to your sides.

"well eskling, guess we'll see who is right when we get home then."

I- I.. can’t 💔💔

🏀 Based after Eleven 🏀

Chapter 10

It started as playful online chemistry with someone unexpected-Alexia Putellas. Flirty banter turned into late-night texts before a heated moment on a club balcony shifted everything.

Now it was post game meet-ups, no-strings friends-with-benefits arrangement. They shared passion, comfort, and the grind of pro sports. But as the season went on, lines blurred.

It was supported to stay simple. These things never do however. Not in professional sports. The option to stay isn't always yours.

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, heart hammering like you were about to walk into a final except this time, there were no sneakers, no warm-up playlist, no team huddle. Just the quiet echo of your breath and the weight of a decision that felt bigger than a game.

This was it.

Your final contract meeting with Barcelona.

The gold medal from Paris still hung by the doorway where you’d left it, like a ghost of everything you’d just accomplished four trophies in one season. An unprecedented legacy. You’d done your part.

Now it was their turn.

You tried to steady your hands as you twisted your hair up, pulled on your jacket, smoothed down the front of your shirt. It wasn’t that you weren’t prepared, you were. You’d rehearsed what you’d say, you knew the numbers. Your agent had laid out every offer on the table, both from Barcelona and the ones calling from across the Atlantic.

The WNBA teams weren’t just interested.

They were ready.

Big contracts. Full campaigns. Franchise-level investments.

But that wasn’t the part tying your stomach in knots.

It was the what ifs that buzzed under your skin.

What if they didn’t value you enough? What if this was goodbye? What if walking away also meant walking away from... her?

You hadn’t talked to Alexia about it. Not really. That night in Paris had said everything and nothing all at once. The way she held you like you might disappear. The way you kissed her like you already had.

You’d made love like people who were too proud to admit they were scared of letting go.

Now, here you were zipping up your coat, smoothing trembling hands down your thighs, staring at yourself in the mirror and trying to believe that walking in there was just business.

But your heart didn’t understand contracts.

It only knew the city. The crest. The people. Her.

Your phone buzzed.

A message from Liv: “Whatever happens, you already won. Go get what you deserve.”

You took one last breath. Then picked up your keys. It was time to find out if Barcelona was willing to fight for you the way you’d fought for them.

You opened your apartment door to head to the contract meeting and almost walked right into her.

Alexia.

Still in her post-training hoodie, hair damp from a shower, flushed cheeks from training that had only ended an hour ago.

Your mouth opened. But she spoke, “I didn’t want to text it.”

You swallowed hard. “Text what?”

She reached up, gently brushing her fingers against your arm, then trailed them down until her hand found yours. “I don’t want you to go,” she said softly.

You stared at her, searching her face for any hint of hesitation. There wasn’t any.

“I know the last few weeks have been.. weird. Between us…I don’t know when it stopped being casual,” she added. “I just know that it did.” You let out a shaky breath. “But i’m in love with you. I love you Y/N please don’t go. Stay.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stood there in the soft hallway light, hand in hand, two athletes dressed in your respective team gear, looking at each other like the whole world had quieted just for this moment.

Alexia gave your hand a small squeeze. “Say something,” she said gently. 

“I can’t do this,” you said, “Alexia. I have a meeting,” stepping back, letting go of her hand like it burned.

Her brows knit. “A meeting?” Her voice sharpened. “That’s what you have to say? You’re just walking away?”

You rubbed your temples, already feeling the weight of everything pressing in, your future, your choice, her. “I’m not walking away. I’m going to get what I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about us?” she snapped. “You’re really going to pretend none of this means anything? That I don’t mean anything?”

You sighed. “Alexia, please. Don’t do this now.”

Her eyes glassed over, jaw tightening. “I didn’t plan to fall for you,” she said, voice low, shaky. “But I did. I love you. And I’m standing here, asking you to stay and you won’t even look at me.”

You turned your face away, your throat tightening. “You’re asking me to throw away something I’ve been fighting for since I was a kid.”

“I’m not asking you to throw it away!” she said, raising her voice. “I’m asking you to see me. To be honest about what this is what we are. You’re just running from it because it’s easier to focus on basketball than deal with your feelings.”

You flinched, then shook your head. “I don’t have the head space for this, Alexia. I don’t. You can’t drop all of this on me right before the biggest meeting of my career.”

“I had to,” she whispered. “Because if I didn’t, you’d leave and I’d never say it and forever wonder.”

Silence fell. The hallway buzzed with tension. Her words lingered in the air like smoke.

You stared at her, heart pounding, lips partedmbut nothing came out. Then you turned, grabbed your bag, and walked out your door.

Alexia didn’t follow. She just stood there in your apartment, alone, eyes locked on the space where you’d been.

—

You barely remember the drive to Alexia’s place just that your hands were clenched on the wheel the whole time and your chest hadn’t stopped burning since you left that boardroom. You weren’t calm. You weren’t even sure what you were going to say. All you knew was you had to say something.  

You pounded on her door like your heart was about to break through your ribs.

When it opened, you were met not just with Alexia but her whole world behind her. Her mother, seated on the couch. Her sister hovering near the kitchen. And a few of her teammates still in Barça tracksuits, frozen mid-conversation, eyes wide the second they saw you.

The room was thick with tension. They knew. They all knew what you’d done.  

Alexia stepped forward, face unreadable. She opened her mouth to speak. You didn’t let her. “No, don’t,” you snapped, voice cracking. “Don’t say anything right now. You don’t get to drop that on me and then just stand there like nothing happened.”

She blinked, taken aback, but you were already going, fuelled by adrenaline and emotion.

“You don’t get to tell me you love me as I’m walking out the door for the biggest meeting of my career,” you said, voice rising. “That wasn’t fair, Alexia. That was so unfair.”

You could feel every pair of eyes on you, but you didn’t care.

“You know what that moment meant to me. You know, I’ve been fighting for that chance my whole life, and you waited until right then to tell me how you feel?”

Alexia’s lips parted again, but you didn’t stop.

“You think I don’t feel things too? You think this is easy for me? You think walking away from you didn’t rip something out of me?” Your breath hitched. “But I would never ask you to pick me over your career. Never.” You took a step closer, your voice low and rough now. “So what would you do, huh? If it were the other way around? If I begged you to come with me, to give it all up? Would you?”

She tried to answer—but again, you shook your head, cutting her off.

“No. Don’t. Because that’s not the point. The point is you didn’t give me space to even think. You threw your heart at me like a grenade and expected me to catch it.”

Your hands were shaking now. Anger. Hurt. Love. Everything tangled in your throat.

“And I wasn’t ready for that,” your voice had yet to lower. “I still don’t know if I am.”

Silence fell, heavy and raw. You looked around the room at the faces pretending not to stare. Her mother, her sister, her teammates none of them said a word. But their expressions said everything. And finally, you looked at Alexia. Her eyes shimmered, jaw tight, but she still hadn’t said a word.

You swallowed hard. “It’s too much Alexia, I can’t handle this right now I have people constantly wanting a piece of me, wanting commitment, a signature on a contract, a comment, a fucking selfie, I don’t need you doing the same, you have no idea how much pressure I’m under to constantly make the right choice, I don’t need you asking me to make a choice to”

Then you turned and walked out, heart pounding in your ears, not sure where you were going just knowing you couldn’t stay.

—

You didn’t know how long you drove. Past streets that blurred together, red lights you barely registered, the same message from your agent popping up on your phone over and over “We need to know. Clock’s ticking.”

You ignored it.

Your chest felt like it had split open the second you walked out of that apartment.

Your voice still echoed in your own head. Alexia’s silence too.

You hadn’t even meant to say half of it, but it came out like a flood. Like it had been sitting there under your ribs, waiting.

You were terrified.

Terrified of choosing wrong. Of walking away from something real. Of staying and sacrificing what you’d worked for. Of leaving and never knowing could have been.

By the time you finally parked, the sun had sunk low enough to turn everything gold and soft. You didn’t even know where you were just that it was quiet. Just that you could breathe again.

You leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes. You didn’t text. Didn’t call. Didn’t answer when she did.

And you were tired. So instead of going back to Alexia, you went with Liv and Maya who had already booked a post-season escape to Greece, and insisted, loudly and dramatically, that you needed it more than anyone.

“Blue water. White buildings. No exes,” Maya had said, grinning as she shoved the ticket confirmation under your nose.

And you’d nodded, packed a bag, and gotten on the flight. Now you were on a boat.

Literally. Out in the Aegean Sea. The sun warm against your shoulders, the breeze tangling through your hair, your legs dangling over the edge of the deck. Maya was already mid-dive, cannonballing off the side with a scream, while Liv lounged in the sun with a drink in hand, sunglasses halfway down her nose as she watched you carefully.

“You haven’t checked your phone in two days,” she said.

You shrugged. “I didn't unpack it.”

She smiled faintly. “Proud of you.”

You looked out over the horizon, clear and endless and yours for once. No decisions. No pressure. No pretending that whatever was between you and Alexia didn’t always circle back to pain.

Just freedom.

“I didn’t want a goodbye,” you said suddenly, surprising even yourself. Liv didn’t press. You stared at the sea. “I just… didn’t want to sit in that silence again, knowing one of us was waiting for the other to say something they didn’t mean.”

Maya surfaced with a laugh, splashing water everywhere. “You two gonna cry or jump in already?”

You stood slowly, stretched, and smiled. “Jump.” And you did.

You dove in clean and headfirst, the water cold and bright and new. It wrapped around you like clarity, like release. Like something finally, finally just for you.

Alexia was somewhere far away, in another country, maybe still waiting. But right now you weren’t.

But back in Barcelona.

The warmth of summer had rolled in gently over the city, but for Alexia, it felt cold. The air in her apartment was still, heavy. The kind of quiet that doesn't come from peace but absence.

She sat curled in the corner of the sofa, knees tucked to her chest, wrapped in one of your hoodies one she had no right to still wear, but couldn't bring herself to fold away. Her phone buzzed on the table for the tenth time that hour. She didn’t look.

She already knew what it was. More news. More speculation. More you.

Every local sports channel had the same thing on repeat: updates about your contract, the mounting pressure on Barcelona to offer more, the leaked offers from WNBA teams huge numbers, huge interest, and the biggest story of all…

Your silence. No statement. No goodbye. No post-game recap. Just... gone.

And today they had photos. You, in Greece. Tanned. Laughing. On a boat. Your smile shining in the sun like the whole city hadn’t been holding its breath waiting for your next move.

Alexia couldn’t take it anymore. She shut off the TV and pressed her palms to her eyes. She tried not to cry. She really, really did.

But her mami had already sat down next to her, one look at her daughter’s face enough to see the heartbreak she was trying to hide “Mi niña,” her mother said gently, wrapping an arm around her. “What happened?”

Alexia shook her head, a tear sliding down her cheek. “I really thought she’d stay.” Her voice cracked so softly it broke her mother’s heart. “I really thought… even after everything… even after how messy we were, I thought she’d fight to stay.”

“She still might,” her mother offered.

Alexia shook her head. “She’s gone. She didn’t even tell me. Didn’t say goodbye. She just left.”

Her mother rubbed small circles on her back. “Maybe she couldn’t say it. Maybe she didn't say goodbye because she couldn't, not to you. Maybe it was too painful"

Alexia stared at her lap, blinking through tears. Paris had felt like a turning point. That kiss beneath the Eiffel Tower, the way you had smiled at her like it meant something again. The way you'd touched her face like you didn’t want to forget it.

And then that night, in the hotel. It hadn’t been sex. It hadn't been a hook up, it meant something. Something neither of you had dared speak aloud.

Alexia wiped at her face with the sleeve of your hoodie, breathing in the fading scent of you. “I think I let her go,” she whispered.

Her mother kissed the side of her head. “Or maybe you were just never sure if you were allowed to ask her to stay and when you did, it was too late.”

And that broke her all over again.

--

The sea stretched wide and endless around you, nothing but deep blue and gold sun. The yacht bobbed gently on the Aegean, anchored just off the coast of a quiet cove, the perfect post-season escape. Salt clung to your skin, your hair still damp from the ocean. Everything smelled like sunscreen, grilled food, and freedom.

You were lying on a cushioned lounger at the back of the boat, a pair of sunglasses shielding your eyes as you listened to the hum of Maya and Liv chatting somewhere behind you soft, lazy voices full of peace.

No pressure. No crowds. No one expecting you to be anything more than tired and sun-kissed. It had been a few days now. Since Paris. Since the final. Since her. And no one had brought it up. Not Alexia. Not the kiss. Not that night in her hotel room where everything between you slowed down for the first time.

Where it hadn’t just been sex. Where it felt like goodbye, even though neither of you said the words.

You’d touched her like you were memorising her. She’d held you like she didn’t want to let go. But morning came, and you both let it speak the things you couldn’t.

The ache from that night still sat quietly in your chest familiar, patient. Waiting. But now, the two people who knew you best were giving you the most obvious kind of grace.

They weren’t asking. Not about the contract. Not about Barcelona. Not about whether you were staying… or going.

You sat up slowly, pulling your sunglasses to rest on your head.

Maya was stretched out under the shade with a book on her stomach, eyes closed. Liv was dangling her feet off the side of the yacht, sipping from a cold drink, gaze somewhere far off on the horizon.

“Neither of you are gonna ask me?” you said softly.

They both looked up, brows raised, like you’d just interrupted a very chill dream. “Ask you what?” Maya replied, already knowing.

Liv shrugged, lips pulling into a gentle smile. “When you’re ready to talk about it… you’ll talk.”

Your throat tightened just slightly at the calm in their voices, the way they didn’t push. You nodded, quietly grateful. “Thanks.”

Maya lifted her glass toward you. “Whether it’s Barcelona or not, you’ll land where you’re meant to.”

Liv grinned. “And we’ll still make fun of your shitty decision making either way.”

You laughed, the knot in your chest loosening for the first time in days.

The future was still uncertain. But your people they weren’t going anywhere. And for now, under the sun, on the sea, with everything suspended in this warm, golden pause, that was enough.

-

The sun was melting into the Aegean Sea, painting the sky in soft strokes of orange and lavender as the yacht gently rocked beneath you. The air was warm with salt and quiet, the kind of peace that only came once the noise of winning had settled and the champagne had finally run dry.

You sat with Maya and Liv around a small table on the deck, barefoot, drinks in hand, a soft breeze tugging at the hem of your linen shirt. Laughter had faded into comfortable silence, a half-finished dinner of grilled seafood and pasta still on your plates. Someone had queued a mellow playlist. You’d almost forgotten the world existed beyond this floating slice of stillness.

Until Liv ever the instigator patience wearing thin-set her glass down and asked softly, “So. Are you going?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked out at the endless blue horizon, the world you'd just conquered behind you… and the one waiting ahead still uncertain. “I don’t know,” you said finally. “I thought I would. I mean, I still might.”

Maya leaned forward, chin on her fist. “But?”

You sighed, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “Alexia.” The name came out before you could soften it.

Liv gave you a look. Not smug. Not surprised. Just knowing.

You continued. “She’s probably, I don’t know… thirty percent of what’s making me hesitate.”

Maya raised her brows. “That’s not a small percentage.”

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “It’s not just her. I love the team. The club. The city. The fans. And… I’m not that far from home here. From my family. I get to see them. They’ve been part of this whole journey. I feel rooted in Barcelona.”

Liv’s voice was quiet. “But?”

You let out a slow breath. “But the WNBA… on paper, it’s perfect. The dream, right? The best league in the world. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I’ve trained for.”

“But it’s far,” Maya added gently. “Really far.”

You nodded. “Eight hours, sometimes more depending which team I pick. But it's not just distance. It's a different kind of pressure. A different kind of spotlight. I know I’d grow there. I know it’d challenge me. And I know I'd do well and thrive and my game would translate. But I don’t know if I’d be happy.” You looked up at both of them, eyes raw, vulnerable. “And I don’t know if that’s selfish or smart.”

Liv smiled softly. “It’s human.”

You stared back out at the water, heart heavy in the kind of way that had nothing to do with doubt, and everything to do with choice. “You know what’s funny?” you said after a moment, voice barely above the waves. “Winning everything this year… it didn’t make the decision easier. It made it harder.”

Because now you had everything. And you had to decide if you were ready to walk away from it. From the dream. Or from the life you never expected to build but had come to love.

And somewhere in between it all, was her, the goodbye you still hadn’t said.

“So,” Maya said, swirling her wine before leveling her eyes at you. “When do you have to make a decision?”

You pushed your fork through the last piece of feta, exhaling slowly before answering. “Three weeks.”

Liv glanced up, her expression sobering. “That’s it?”

You nodded, setting your fork down. “The club’s given me their final offer. No more meetings. No more back and forth. Just ‘Here’s what we’re offering. Take it or leave it.’”

Maya leaned back in her seat, eyebrows raised. “Damn. That’s… kinda cold.”

You shrugged. “They said they need to start planning for what the team looks like post-me. If I go.”

There was a brief silence. Not heavy just thoughtful.

Liv set her glass down. “And what does it look like for you if you stay?”

That was the question.

You leaned back, stretching your legs out, gaze flicking toward the water where the last light of the day danced across the surface. “Comfort. Familiarity. A team I helped build. A city I know.”

“And Alexia,” Maya added quietly.

You didn’t look at her. “Yeah.”

“But?” Liv asked, gently.

You glanced between them, then spoke honestly. “But… I’d be choosing less. Because no matter how much I love playing there, it’s not the best offer on the table, not even close.”

Maya nodded slowly. “So you’d be staying for the badge.”

You met her eyes. “I’d be staying for the people.”

That was the truth. But there was something else beneath it. That night in Paris with Alexia the kiss, the way she looked at you, the way she held you later in that quiet hotel room, like it was something more than just touch, like she knew what you both weren’t saying…

It had felt like goodbye. Neither of you had said it. But you both felt it.

Maybe that was why you hadn’t made your decision yet. Because staying meant more uncertainty. But leaving meant finally letting her go.

Liv reached out and squeezed your hand across the table. “Whatever you choose,” she said softly, “just don’t choose out of guilt. Or fear. Choose what gives you peace.”

"I would hate for you to stay for Alexia and you end up resenting her, because thats so much worse"

And under the Greek stars, with the water lapping gently against the hull, you finally admitted. You weren’t sure peace existed on either side. You knew it was time. “I have to tell you both something.”

Liv immediately looked over. Maya popped another grape in her mouth, then paused. “This sounds ominous,” Maya said slowly.

You nodded once, the heat suddenly sticking to your skin differently. “It is.”

They both waited, the air shifting, the sea breeze no longer enough to cool the tension rising in your chest. “It was before my last meeting with Barcelona,” you started, voice even but heavy. “Alexia turned up at my place just as I was leaving. We hadn’t really spoken after Paris… not properly.”

Maya straightened. Liv’s brows drew together.

You looked out over the water, then back at them. “She told me she was in love with me.” Silence. Neither of them moved. You let the words settle, your throat tightening as you finished, “And I walked out.”

Liv blinked, stunned. “You what?”

“I couldn't deal with it,” you said quickly. “She said it completely serious and I just… couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process. Not with everything else. So I left.”

Maya let out a slow breath. “Did you talk to her after?”

You shook your head, jaw tight. “Yeah. I went to her place her mum sister and some friends were there and just went crazy on her basically said she was unfair for telling me she loved me and walked away. I haven’t seen her since. Haven’t called. She hasn’t, either.”

Liv sat up now too, arms resting on her knees. “So she said she loved you. And you ghosted her?”

You winced. “I know how that sounds.”

“It sounds like you’re both idiots,” Maya said, though her voice was more gentle than annoyed.

“She asked me to stay to,” you added quietly. “To stay in Barcelona. With her. And I was hours from making the decision and it just… it overwhelmed me. It felt like pressure. Like she waited too long, and then expected me to just drop everything because she finally figured it out.”

Liv was quiet for a long beat. Then she said softly, “And now?”

You looked down at your hands, then up at them again. “I don’t know.”

You thought about her every single day. The last kiss. The way her voice broke when she said it. The feeling in your chest that morning, like something beautiful was being left behind... intentionally.

“She meant it,” you whispered. “I know she did. But I didn’t know if it was love or just fear of losing me.”

Maya nodded slowly, the sun dancing in her curls. “And now you might lose her anyway.”

“Yeah,” you exhaled. “I think I already did. I could see how broken she was when I left.”

And this time, neither of them said anything, because some heartbreaks didn’t need commentary. Just space. And silence.

--

The lights in the Palau Blaugrana blazed brighter than ever gold and purple flooding every seat, the court transformed into a stage, the banners of all four trophies draped across the rafters like proof of a dream most teams wouldn’t even dare to speak aloud.

You’d won everything. League. Cup. SuperCup. Continental Final.

The crowd was standing. Cheering. Chanting your name over and over, echoing around the arena where it all began. Where you’d bled, rehabbed, led, and lifted more than just trophies you’d carried a team into history.

And yet…

You were crying. Not small tears. Not discreet.

You were standing centre court, your medals around your neck, your hair still damp from champagne, and your shoulders were shaking. Your eyes were already rimmed red, your cheeks streaked with tears as the club played a montage of the season above the court. Every big shot. Every buzzer beater. Every celebration. Every injury. Every comeback. You. Always you.

You tried to smile through it, tried to wave to the crowd like everything was fine but your bottom lip was trembling and your hands weren’t steady.

Maya had an arm wrapped around your waist, her forehead pressed briefly to your shoulder. Liv wiped her own eyes beside you, sniffling with zero shame.

And the rest of your teammates were struggling. Because seeing you like this, the heartbeat of the team, the one who always held it together was breaking them.

Your coach saw it too.

She crossed the court calmly but with urgency, gently pulling you into a hug right there in front of everyone. One arm wrapped firm around your shoulders, the other cupping the back of your neck as you sank into her.

She whispered something only you could hear. “Whatever happens next, this will always be yours. You gave this city this.”

You nodded into her shoulder, the tears not stopping but becoming quieter. It wasn’t just the emotion of winning. It was the ache of knowing this was probably the end. Your last time in this arena as one of them.

And no matter how many cheers came, how many lights flashed, how many people screamed your name…

It wouldn’t change the fact that the goodbye you hadn’t said yet was already being felt.

The arena was still roaring when someone handed you the mic.

You hesitated. Your hand curled around the black metal, fingers trembling. You stared at it like it might burn you, because speaking meant naming something you’d spent months trying not to.

You looked out at the crowd, at the faces you’d come to know and love. Fans wearing your jersey. Staff who’d treated your ankle like sacred ground. Your teammates still clutching each other on the sidelines.

And then you looked up.

The banners. All four. Hanging there like crown jewels.

You cleared your throat and brought the mic to your lips. Your voice cracked before you even started.

“I’m not great at this,” you began, your laugh watery, brushing at your cheek with the back of your hand. “Talking. Especially when it matters. Especially when it’s this close to… everything.”

The crowd quieted, sensing what you were about to say, but no one moved. No one even breathed.

“This season… I don’t even know how to describe it. We made history. Not just as a team, but as people. We fought through injuries, setbacks, pressure, expectations so heavy they could’ve crushed us. But we didn’t break. We rose.”

You paused, exhaling slowly. You looked at Maya. At Liv. Your coach. Each of them anchoring you in their own way.

“There’s no version of this story without all of you. No version of this success without every single person who showed up every day, even when it was hard. Who stayed when things were uncertain. Who played through pain. Who showed up for each other when we didn’t know how to ask.”

The crowd started clapping again soft at first, then swelling.

You swallowed. Your voice gentled. “And this is the end for me here… this is the last time I wear this jersey, then I just want to say. Gracias!”

Your eyes were glassy again, but your voice didn’t falter now.

“For believing in me when I didn’t even believe in myself. For letting me lead you. For letting me grow here. For letting me leave this court not just as a player, but as a part of this club’s history.”

You looked down for a moment, overwhelmed by the roar rising again. Then back up, straight into the heart of the crowd.

“No matter where I go next, this” you turned, gesturing to the court, the lights, your teammates, "this will always be home. You made me feel like I belonged.”

A pause. A breath.

“And that’s something I’ll carry with me, always. I wish there was a different ending to this story but it's the one I have to accept. Te amo con todo mi corazón, adiós.”

You lowered the mic slowly, letting the words settle, letting the emotion swell.

The arena exploded. Standing ovation. Chants. Cheers. Tears.

And in the chaos, as your teammates pulled you into a hug, the staff and coaches surrounded you like a living, breathing embrace.

The press release went out just after sunrise.

Short. Gracious. Carefully worded by your agent, signed off by both parties, and accompanied by one photo your last walk through the tunnel, back turned, trainers slung over your shoulder.

You didn’t read the headlines. You didn’t need to. You already knew what they’d say.

“Barcelona’s Star Departs.” “Historic Season Ends in Goodbye.” “WNBA Wins the Battle.”

None of them would write about what it really meant. Not the missed calls. Not the silence after the fight. Not the ache in your chest when you handed back your training gear and walked past the football facility door without popping your head in.

You thought you might cry when the flight lifted off. But you didn’t. You stared out the window, the city shrinking beneath you, the crest pressed into your hoodie like it still belonged to you. Willing the plane to England for the post season break to hurry up and land you just wanted a hug from your mum.

You didn’t cry then. Not when you went to yours parents as you thought.

It was when you sat on the floor in your bedroom, and pulled out your phone.

A single message.

From her.

Just a photo.

Of your hoodie.

And underneath, just one line:

“You forgot your jacket.” How it all started.

You didn’t respond. Not because you didn’t want to. But because the words wouldn’t come. You pressed the phone to your chest and sat there in the quiet of your cries for a long time, letting the silence say what neither of you could.

And somewhere, across an ocean, maybe she was doing the same. Because love doesn’t always end with fireworks. Sometimes it ends with a story that doesn't get the happy ending. And a photo you’ll never delete.