LE REINA THINGS 👑💙❤️

lucy really meant it when she said she’s lucky to play with her for both club and country bc 😮‍💨😮‍💨

she's not wroooong 😂 also ✨LESBIANS✨

LMAO Christen 😂

alexia said it best here in her post-match comments:

"it's difficult to make an analysis straight out of the game, but in the end we weren't accurate. even though we've won by big scores before, real madrid is a good team. we're fucked. a defeat always leaves you feeling affected, but this is part of sport, and that's why we never take victory for granted.

it was a move i was convinced wasn't offside because caro was the one who gave me the pass before i played it in. the referee said it was offside on her part, so it was impossible. that was in the 80th minute; it would have certainly been a determining factor, but there are 80 minutes before then to improve and see what we did well to enhance them and what we did poorly to correct them.

we did something wrong, and the opponent did something right. we're now 4 points ahead, but we have to get back to picking up 3 points next week."

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.

I've really enjoyed writing and sharing this, thank you for all the love on this! ❤️

Hope you enjoy the chaotic last chapter!

The next morning, sunlight filters through your blinds, casting golden stripes across rumpled sheets. Your body aches pleasantly—a physical reminder of last night that makes heat rise to your face even in solitude. You reach for your phone, half-expecting a message from her, but there's nothing.

Just hundreds of notifications from social media.

"Shit," you mutter, sitting up too quickly.

You scroll through them with mounting dread. Photos of you and Alexia at Red are everywhere—nothing explicit, thank god, but the way you're looking at each other leaves little to the imagination. One shot captures you following her back from the Private VIP balcony, her hand brushing yours, both of you wearing expressions that scream post-hookup satisfaction.

Your team group chat has exploded:

Claudia: OMG HAVE YOU SEEN THESE

Claudia: You went out with Alexia?

Maya: I KNEW IT 

Liv: Coach is gonna have an aneurysm

Marta: You better have details ready at practice or I'm throwing a ball at your face

You groan, burying your face in your pillow. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Whatever this was.

The training facility looms ahead, and you take a deep breath before pushing through the doors. You're early—deliberately so, hoping to slip into the locker room before the full squad arrives. But as you round the corner, you realize your plan has failed spectacularly.

They're all there. Every single one of your teammates, arranged in a semicircle like they've been waiting for you. Which, judging by their expressions, they absolutely have been.

"Well, well, well," Taylor drawls, leaning against her locker with exaggerated casualness. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

"I'm early," you point out, dropping your bag on the bench. "Practice doesn't start for twenty minutes."

"Oh, we're not talking about practice," Mia says, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "We're talking about your night with Barcelona's golden girl."

Heat creeps up your neck despite your best efforts to appear unfazed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

This is met with a chorus of disbelieving snorts and eye rolls.

"Save it," Jasmine says, tossing her phone your way. "You two are literally everywhere online. That club wasn't as discreet as you thought. Neither is that love bite on your neck”

You catch the phone, stomach dropping as you see the photo on screen. It's you and Alexia on the dance floor, your back pressed against her front, her lips dangerously close to your neck. The lighting is dim, but there's no mistaking either of you.

"Fuck," you mutter, handing the phone back.

The locker room erupts in laughter, a mix of cheers and mock scandalised gasps echoing off the walls. You groan, running a hand down your face. There’s no getting out of this.

"Oh, come on," Claudia says, flopping down beside you with an eager grin. "You have to give us details. Was she as intense as she is on the pitch?"

Maya leans forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "Or worse?"

You shake your head, grabbing your boots and focusing very intently on tying the laces. "You lot are unbelievable."

"Oh, we know," Marta says smugly. "But you love us. Now, tell us—who made the first move? We saw the photos of her all over you, but was that before or after you two snuck off to that private room?"

You freeze for half a second—just enough time for them to notice. The room erupts again. “YOU DID!" Liv practically yells, pointing an accusatory finger. 

Maya claps her hands together, cackling. "Oh my god, please tell me you at least checked for cameras."

"There were no cameras," you mutter, shaking your head. "Thank god."

"So you did do something up there," Marta says, triumphant.

Your silence is damning.

"You are so done for," Claudia grins, nudging your shoulder. "You have to tell us—was it just a heated make-out, or should we be buying wedding gifts already?"

You groan again, tipping your head back in exasperation. "You lot are the worst."

Liv wiggles her eyebrows. "Not an answer."

You exhale, dragging a hand through your hair. They’re relentless, and you’re never getting out of this unless you give them something. "It was… intense," you admit, voice low. "Really fucking intense."

The room falls into stunned silence for all of three seconds before they collectively lose their minds again.

"Oh shit," Maya whispers dramatically. "She got you hooked."

"That bad, huh?" Marta teases, smirking.

You roll your eyes. "Shut up."

"Absolutely not," Liv laughs. "So what now? Are you two, like, a thing? Or are you just basking in the afterglow of the best night of your life?"

Your stomach twists at the question because, honestly? You don’t know. "Don’t look at me like that," you mutter. "I haven’t figured it out yet."

That earns you a chorus of oooohs, because of course it does.

"Sounds like someone’s smitten," Claudia teases, sing-song.

"Sounds like someone’s in trouble," Maya counters. And for the first time all morning, you don’t have a snappy comeback.

The laughter dies down for barely a second before Liv narrows her eyes, a devilish smirk creeping across her face. "Hold on. Let's back up. You say it was intense—but, like, how intense are we talking?"

Marta leans forward, intrigued. "Yeah, was it just, like, the heat of the moment kind of intense? Or the holy shit, I can't breathe, what the hell are we doing kind?"

Claudia wiggles her eyebrows. "Or was it the I need five to ten business days to recover kind?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "Why are you like this?"

"Because this is the best gossip we’ve had in ages," Maya says gleefully. 

"Now spill—who started it?"

"I—" you start, but Liv cuts you off.

"Actually, dumb question. Of course it was her. No way you were bold enough to start that."

"Excuse me?" you scoff. "I can be bold."

"Uh-huh." Marta grins. "And yet, based on all the photos, she was all over you."

You try to fight the flush rising to your face, but it's useless. "It wasn’t exactly one-sided."

"Ohhhh," Claudia hums, exchanging looks with the others. "So you were all over her too?"

You run a hand over your face. "Maybe."

Liv gasps, clapping her hands. "Oh my god, you were!"

Maya fans herself dramatically. "Did you pin her against the wall? Tell me you pinned her against the wall."

"No," you say quickly, but they see right through you.

"That was too fast," Marta says smugly.

"You totally did," Claudia grins.

"Or she pinned you," Liv suggests, eyes lighting up.

You freeze again. And once again, they notice. The locker room explodes into chaos.

"NO WAY!" Maya shrieks.

"SHE PINNED YOU?" Liv nearly drops her phone.

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, hiding your face as they erupt into cheers and laughter.

"That explains why you look wrecked today," Marta smirks.

"Okay, that’s enough," you say, trying to maintain some dignity. "We’re done with this conversation."

"Oh, we are so not done," Claudia says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "We haven’t even gotten to the best part."

"And what would that be?" you ask warily.

Liv grins. "Did you stay the night?"

You hesitate.

Big mistake.

The locker room erupts all over again.

"We didn't need to go back to either of our places" you hinted that it was more than just a heated kiss and they lost it, the questioning coming at you like a machine gun now

Liv screeches, slapping Marta’s arm so hard it echoes through the locker room. "OH MY GOD!"

Claudia nearly falls off the bench. "WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. Where then? If you didn’t go back to her place or yours, where the hell did this happen?"

Maya's jaw drops, eyes going wide. "Oh my god. It was in the club, wasn’t it?”

Your silence is damning.

Marta gasps, pointing at you. "No. No way. Tell me you didn’t make out in the bathroom."

"No," you groan, rubbing your temples.

Claudia's eyes narrow as the pieces start falling into place. "Not at home, not the bathroom... but somewhere in the club…" She suddenly claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh my fucking god. The VIP balcony? Thats the door you were going through with her”

The locker room erupts.

"NO. NO WAY."

“IN VIEW?!”

"You mean to tell me," Liv pants between laughter, "you and Alexia were out there in plain sight?"

"Not plain sight—" you start, but Maya cuts you off.

"Oh my god, that’s why there are so many pictures of you two disappearing up there together!" She grabs her phone, scrolling frantically. "Everyone saw you following her. They just didn’t know what happened after."

Your face is burning. "I hate all of you." The locker room descends into absolute chaos. Marta is cackling, Maya has fully collapsed onto the bench, and Claudia is staring at you like you’ve just revealed you’re actually royalty.

"You animal," Liv wheezes.

Marta is in shambles, clutching her stomach. "Did people walk past?"

"I don’t know!" you groan. "It wasn’t like we were— I mean—it was just—"

"You can’t even finish a sentence!" Claudia howls. "Putellas actually broke you."

"Okay, but was it like… hands-on-the-wall kind of thing?" Liv teases. "Or was there a couch?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Why are you like this?"

"Because this is the best thing that has ever happened to us," Maya grins.

Marta fans herself. "The balcony, though. That is a power move."

Liv smirks, tossing her phone onto the bench. "I mean, damn. I knew Alexia had game, but I didn’t think she had public-balcony-at-an-exclusive-club game."

Maya howls. "Holy shit, no wonder you look like you barely survived a hurricane!"

Claudia snickers. "And here I thought you were all responsible and professional."

You shoot her a look. "I am responsible!"

"You made out with Spain’s captain on a private balcony where anyone could have seen if they got the right angle,” Liv reminds you. "Babe, that ship has sailed."

Your face betrays you before you can even think about stopping it. A flicker of something—guilt, panic, something—must cross your expression, because suddenly, the whole room goes silent.

"Wait."

Maya's eyes go wide. "Wait, wait, wait."

Claudia actually gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth like she just uncovered the world's greatest scandal.

Marta points at you, her jaw dropping. "No way."

Liv is the first to recover, leaning in with a wicked grin. "You didn't just make out, did you?"

You open your mouth to argue—deny, deflect, anything—but you hesitate for half a second too long.

Chaos.

"OH. MY. GOD!"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WASN’T JUST A MAKE-OUT?"

"You absolute menace!"

Claudia clutches her chest like she’s having a heart attack. "ON THE BALCONY?!"

Marta is howling, actually having to sit down. 

Claudia nearly slides off the bench. "Do you have any shame?!"

Marta is howling, banging her fist against the locker. "No, no, no. This is legendary behaviour."

Liv, barely able to contain herself, grips your arm. "You’re telling me— you two went up there, where anyone could have walked past, and got handsy?”

You groan, rubbing your hands down your face. "I am never telling you guys anything again."

Maya gasps dramatically. "Oh my god, did she—"

"STOP!" you interrupt, grabbing your training top and shoving it over your head. "I’m leaving. I don’t need this."

"You absolutely do," Liv calls after you. "Because the second this session is over, we’re gonna want to talk about it all over again."

Marta smirks. "And, we’re getting details.

Training is supposed to be your escape. A place where you can drown out the noise, focus on the game, and forget the absolute circus your teammates turned the morning into.

But apparently, the universe has other plans.

You’re midway through warm-ups when you hear it— "What the hell is that on your neck?"

You freeze. The ball you were absentmindedly passing back and forth with Maya clatters away as your head snaps toward the voice. Coach is standing there, hands on their hips, staring directly at you with narrowed eyes.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath.

There’s a moment of silence. Then, from somewhere behind you, Liv wheezes. Claudia physically turns away so her laugh is muffled in her sleeve. Marta isn’t even trying to hide it, hands on her knees as she cackles.

Your jaw clenches. "It’s nothing," you say quickly. "Just—uh, caught an elbow in a challenge yesterday."

Coach squints, stepping closer. "Really?"

You resist the urge to back away. "Yup. Happened so fast, didn’t even see who did it."

"Huh." They fold their arms, eyes flicking from your face to the mark on your neck. "Because it kinda looks like a—"

"IT WAS AN ELBOW," you blurt out, voice slightly too high.

Maya snorts.

Coach stares at you for a moment longer. Then, with a long sigh, she pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don’t even wanna know. Just don’t let it be a distraction."

You nod so fast your neck almost cracks. "Absolutely. 100%. No distractions here."

Coach walks away, muttering something under her breath. The second she’s out of earshot, your teammates lose it.

Liv practically collapses against you. "An elbow?" she howls. "That’s the best you could come up with?"

Marta wipes tears from her eyes. "Who knew Alexia Putellas had such sharp elbows, huh?"

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I hate all of you."

Maya grins. "No you don’t. But what we do hate is you keeping secrets. So, after training—"

"No."

"—you’re giving us details."

"Absolutely not."

Liv slings an arm around your shoulders. "Oh, babe," she says sweetly, "I wasn’t asking."

Training is brutal—not because the drills are particularly hard, but because your teammates won’t let up. Every time you so much as breathe near one of them, there’s a smirk, a whispered comment, or an exaggerated glance at your neck.

Marta jogs past you during a passing drill and mutters, "Hope Alexia stretched properly before last night. Wouldn’t want Spain’s captain pulling something."

Claudia bumps your shoulder in a small-sided game. "You sure you’re not sore? Sounds like a lot of touching on that balcony."

Even Maya, usually the least chaotic, raises an eyebrow as you line up for sprints. "Didn’t know you had a thing for exhibitionism," she muses. "Good to know."

By the time the session ends, you’re exhausted—and not just from the running. You make a beeline for the showers, hoping to escape before anyone can ambush you with more questions. You fail. Spectacularly. The second you step into the locker room, the door shuts behind you with a click, and suddenly, you’re cornered.

Marta flops onto the bench, stretching out like she owns the place. "Alright, princesa," she grins, "spill."

You groan. "I already told you—"

"You told us nothing," Liv interrupts. "Except that it wasn’t a back room. And your face said it was more than making out."

A chorus of ooohs follows. Your face burns. "I meant—"

"No, no," Claudia cuts in, wagging a finger. "You can’t backtrack now. You dropped that little bombshell, and we will be getting details."

Maya leans forward. "So, the VIP balcony, huh?" Her eyes gleam. "You know people could see you, right?"

You rub your hands over your face. "We were near the back of it, you couldn’t see.”

"No?" Marta smirks. "Because from what we’ve seen, you two weren’t exactly keeping things low-key any other time.”

You glare at her. "We weren’t thinking about that.”

"Mmm," Liv hums, "so what were you thinking about?"

You open your mouth—then shut it immediately when you realise there’s no safe way to answer that.

Marta howls. "Look at her! She’s thinking about it right now!"

You groan, head dropping back against the lockers. "I hate you all so much."

"No you don’t," Liv grins. "Now, be a good teammate and tell us everything.

"Was it against the wall?" Claudia demands.

"Or was there, like, a couch or—"

"Jesus Christ," you groan, throwing your head back. “We’re circling, Can you all chill?!”

"Absolutely not," Liv grins. "You know we have no other drama or gossip around here!”

Marta leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So…?"

The room goes silent, everyone hanging on your answer.

You exhale, dragging a hand down your face, but eventually… you can’t help the small smirk tugging at your lips. "It was…" You hesitate, then shake your head, biting back a very incriminating smile.

Another explosion of noise.

"OH MY GOD, IT WAS THAT GOOD?!"

"YOU’RE ACTUALLY BLUSHING."

"PUTELLAS BROKE HER, GUYS."

Maya pretends to wipe a tear. "They grow up so fast."

You exhale sharply, dragging your hands down your face before finally looking at them. "Fine. You want details? You got them."

They practically vibrate with anticipation, leaning in like a pack of gossip-starved wolves.

"The kissing," you start, your voice steady even as your stomach flips at the memory. "God, the kissing. She—" You shake your head, biting your lip. "She kisses like she plays. Intense. In control. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly what she wants."

Liv groans, clutching her chest dramatically. "I knew she’d be like that. Knew it."

Marta fans herself. "Continue."

You huff a laugh, running a hand through your hair. "It started slow. Teasing. She likes to make you wait for it, make you want it. But when she gives in? Fuck. She doesn’t hold back. One second, it was just this slow, heated build-up, and the next, it was—" You cut yourself off, shaking your head. "Messy. Breathless. The kind that makes your knees weak."

"And the touching?" Claudia presses, eyes wide. "You said there was touching."

You swallow hard, heat creeping up your neck, but there's no backing out now. "It was—" You search for the right words, but they all feel inadequate. "She’s got strong hands. You feel it when she touches you. When she grabs your waist, pulls you against her—"

Maya exhales sharply. "Shit."

"—And then her hands are everywhere, right?" Liv urges. "Like, everywhere?"

Your silence says enough.

Marta slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with delight. "No."

"Yes, her hands just moved that way and I didn’t stop her” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "She—fuck, she knows what she’s doing. She knows how to pull you apart with just her hands. And we weren’t thinking about where we were, or who could see, or anything except—" You stop yourself, shaking your head, chest tight. "It was just—intense."

For a moment, there’s nothing but stunned silence.

"You got fingered on a VIP balcony," Liv finally breathes. "I am never letting you live this down."

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "We didn’t—"

"No, no," Marta waves you off. "That was implied."

Claudia shakes her head, grinning. "Jesus. I thought you were just sneaking around. I did not expect you to be feral."

"It wasn’t like—" You stop, realising you have absolutely no defence. "Okay, maybe a little."

Liv snickers. "You are so down bad, babe."

You don’t even argue. Because, honestly?

Yeah. You might be.

Your phone buzzes with a text. Not the group chat. Not social media.

Liv lifts her chin, “Who dat?”

You smiled raising your eyes, “Alexia”

“What does she want?” Liv asked, “She found another public place to finger you in”

“Ok” You groan, “Too much”

Alexia: Morning. We should talk. Coffee?

Your heart does a complicated somersault. Three simple sentences that somehow manage to sound both casual and ominous.

You: When and where?

Her response comes immediately.

Alexia: The place on Carrer de València. 30 minutes?

You glance at the clock. That doesn't give you much time.

You: I'll be there.

You're dressed and out the door in record time, grateful for the sunglasses hiding your eyes as you navigate streets already buzzing with speculation. Two teenagers recognise you, whispering and giggling as you pass. A street vendor selling newspapers gives you a knowing wink.

The café is tucked away on a quiet corner, the kind of place locals frequent and tourists rarely find. When you step inside, you spot her immediately—corner table, back to the wall, baseball cap pulled low over her face. Classic celebrity incognito. It wouldn't work for long, but it might buy you a few minutes of privacy.

She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable behind large sunglasses. When you sit across from her, she pushes a coffee toward you.

"I remembered how you take it," she says quietly.

You take a sip—perfect. The small gesture shouldn't make your chest tighten, but it does.

"So," you begin, because someone has to, "we're trending."

A faint smile touches her lips. "Not the first time. Won't be the last."

"Is that all you have to say about it?"

She removes her sunglasses, folding them carefully beside her cup. The morning light catches in her eyes, turning them the colour of whiskey. Without the barrier of tinted glass between you, her gaze is direct, unflinching.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks quietly. "That I regret it? Because I don't."

The directness of her response makes your stomach flip. You take another sip of coffee to buy yourself time, to steady your nerves. "I don't regret it either," you admit, watching her shoulders relax slightly at your words. “I can’t stop thinking about it actually… that’s not like me at all, I don’t do that”

"Neither do I," Alexia says, her voice low enough that only you can hear. She traces the rim of her coffee cup with one finger, a gesture so casually intimate it makes your throat go dry. "But here we are."

The cafe bustles around you—baristas calling out orders, the hiss of steam wands, the murmur of morning conversations—but in your corner, time seems suspended. You study her face, noting the shadows beneath her eyes that suggest she slept as poorly as you did.

"Our teams are going to have a field day with this," you say, trying to inject some lightness into the conversation.

She laughs softly, shaking her head. "Mine already is. Aitana sent me seventeen texts before I even got out of bed."

"Only seventeen? My group chat has over two hundred messages." You pull out your phone to show her, and your fingers brush as she takes it, sending that same electric current through you that you felt last night. Remembering where they'd been.

Her eyes scan the messages, a small smile playing at her lips. "Your teammates seem... supportive."

"They're nosey is what they are," you counter, but there's no heat in it. "What about yours?"

Alexia hands your phone back, her expression turning thoughtful. "They're protective. They've seen how the media can be when it comes to my personal life."

The reminder of who she is—of who you both are—settles between you like a physical presence. This isn't just about two people attracted to each other. It's about two public figures, two competitors, two women navigating a world that will dissect every interaction.

"So what now?" you ask, echoing her words from last night, but this time in the harsh light of day, with real consequences looming.

Alexia leans forward, her elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours. "That depends. Was last night just... letting off steam? Getting it out of our systems?" Her voice remains steady, but you catch the slight tension in her jaw, the way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her cup.

The question hangs between you, loaded with implications. The smart answer would be yes—a one-time thing, exciting and memorable but ultimately contained. No complications, no distractions from the season ahead. But looking at her now, remembering the way she'd whispered your name, the vulnerability in her eyes afterward... you know it would be a lie. “You like the chase remember? You tell me, you got what you wanted”

Alexia exhales sharply, a quiet laugh escaping as she shakes her head. "That’s not fair," she murmurs, her fingers still curled around her coffee cup. "You make it sound like this was just a game to me."

"Wasn't it?" you challenge, arching a brow. You don't mean it as an accusation, not really, but you’re still trying to figure out where the line between competition and something more actually is with her. "You spent weeks taunting me, pushing my buttons, daring me to push back. You got what you wanted, didn't you?" 

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you for a long moment, as if deciding how honest she wants to be. "Maybe I did," she admits finally, voice quieter now, more measured. "But that doesn’t mean I’m done."

The words send a slow ripple of heat through you, and you don’t even bother pretending they don’t. "Yeah?" you murmur, tilting your head slightly. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"It means…" She trails off, exhaling as she leans back in her chair. "It means I haven’t figured that part out yet." She gives you a rueful look. "Not used to this, either."

That admission surprises you, but it also sends a pulse of satisfaction through you. You’re not the only one thrown off balance. "Alright," you say after a beat. "Then let’s figure it out."

Alexia watches you carefully. "And how do we do that?"

You consider for a second before responding. "For starters, we stop pretending we don’t actually want each other. We agree we’re not wanting more than a bit of …fun." 

She nods slowly, as if turning the idea over in her head. "And what about everything else? The press, our teams, the season?"

"One orgasm at a time," you say, offering her the faintest smirk. "Unless you’re afraid of a little fun, capitana."

That makes her huff a quiet laugh, shaking her head at you. "You really never back down, do you?"

"Not when something’s worth it."

Alexia’s expression flickers, something shifting behind her eyes, but before you can dissect it, she reaches for her sunglasses again. The moment passes, but the weight of it lingers.

"Okay," she says, voice steady. "One orgasm at a time. Eleven.”

Possible Sequel

tutors from hell | something blue

pairings: barcelona femeni x teen!reader

summary: azulita is slacking in the education department and the team decides to help

notes: this was requested and unfortunately i lost the request but i am so happy it was omg 😭

“For such a smart person, you are acting so dumb right now,” Olga snapped, pacing back and forth like she was trying to wear a hole in the carpet. Her hands were flailing, hair slightly frizzy from how many times she’d pushed it back in frustration. You sat in the chair across from her, arms crossed, expression unreadable… at least until you threw your head back with a sigh.

“This is so dramatic,” you muttered, just loud enough.

Alexia winced from the corner of the counselor’s office, like she’d just seen a red card about to be raised. She pressed her fist to her mouth, trying not to say anything. The counselor, bless her soul, had already peaced out ten minutes ago, sensing the storm brewing and deciding that this was very much a family problem.

“You’re this close to getting benched,” Olga warned, pinching her fingers together. “You think it’s a joke? You think any of this is a joke?”

“I already have a job,” you shrugged, like you weren’t actively poking the bear. “A full-time job. School is the thing that’s optional.”

Alexia let out a low, horrified groan like she could already hear the explosion coming.

“Oh, you are so right,” Olga said, her voice going calm in a way that meant danger. “If you think school is optional, then let’s make football optional too. If your grades aren’t up by the end of the week, no more football. No training, no matches, nothing.”

Silence.

You stared at her. Alexia stared at her. The silence stretched into disbelief.

Alexia was the first to break. “Mi amor, let’s talk about this! We play Madrid on Saturday! She’s been holding the back line like a champ! You want me to play center-back? I’m going to snap like a breadstick!”

“Then I guess she should’ve thought about that before deciding to tank her education like an absolute lunatic,” Olga said, pointing straight at you. “D’s? Straight D’s, Azulita? D’s?”

You muttered something about the system being rigged, which only made it worse.

Alexia made a panicked gesture like she was conducting an orchestra. “Wait, wait, wait, just—let’s not threaten suspension! Maybe a compromise. Like…no boots until homework’s done. Or she has to write a three-page essay on defensive formations to practice. Or—or—”

“No.” Olga’s tone was final. “End of the week. Passing grades or she doesn’t step onto a pitch.”

Then she walked out.

You and Alexia both sat frozen for a moment, then turned and looked at each other in slow motion.

“We’re dead,” Alexia whispered.

You nodded. “She’s actually gonna do it.”

Alexia stood up like she was preparing to sprint the 100m. “Come on, car, now. Recovery session in ten and we are not being late, especially not today, especially not looking guilty.”

You scrambled after her, backpack half-zipped and bouncing.

In the car, Alexia had her head against the steering wheel before she even started the engine. “Okay. Okay. This is fine. We can fix this.”

You snorted. “I mean…we probably can’t.”

“No! No, no. You are going to get your grades up. I am not letting you get benched before Madrid. You know what? I’m calling Frido. She likes math. I bet she’ll make you a study plan.”

“She’s scary when she’s serious,” you mumbled.

Alexia turned to look at you. “And you need someone scary right now. Aitana will do history. Maybe we bribe Patri with snacks for science.”

“What about English?”

Alexia paused. “…You’re on your own with that one.”

You groaned, slumping down in your seat as the car pulled out of the school lot.

“Start mentally preparing,” Alexia added. “You’re about to have three teammates dragging you through academic bootcamp. You don’t pass, you don’t play. And if you don’t play, Olga’s going to revoke your football privileges and I’m going to have to explain to Pere why our defensive line collapsed. I can’t live like that, Azulita.”

You stared out the window, quietly panicking. But somewhere underneath the panic was a flicker of something else, reluctant amusement. If nothing else, you had to admit, this team really didn’t let you fall. Even if it meant turning into your personal homework army.

The gym doors burst open with a loud clang, and everyone inside turned just in time to see you and Alexia practically trip over each other. You were both slightly out of breath, bags bouncing off your backs, faces flushed with panic and urgency.

Sydney raised an eyebrow from where she was stretching. “Y’all good?”

“No,” Alexia said immediately, grabbing your wrist and dragging you forward like she was offering you as tribute. “No, she is not good. Tell them what you did.”

You blinked. “Why do I have to—”

“Tell. Them.”

The room went quiet as your teammates gathered around, sensing drama like sharks sniffing blood. Vicky stopped juggling a ball. Ingrid paused mid squat. Even Pere, leaning against the far wall with his clipboard, looked over with curiosity.

You shoved your hands into your hoodie pocket and mumbled, “I’m failing all my classes.”

An audible groan rippled through the room like a wave. Aitana literally flopped backwards onto a mat and threw an arm over her face like she’d just been hit by a car.

“Oh, come on, Azulita! We’ve talked about this!” she started, already in full rant mode. “Education is fundamental to personal growth, and statistically—”

“I’m not done,” you interrupted, deadpan. “Olga said if I don’t have passing grades by the end of the week, I’m benched.”

Dead silence. Someone dropped their resistance band.

“She’s gonna kill you!” Jana yelped.

“You’re doomed!” Ona added.

“She’s actually gonna do it, too,” Vicky muttered, horrified. “She benched me once for not eating a vegetable for three days.”

Alexia held up her hands, trying to calm the chaos. “Okay! Okay! Let’s not panic.”

“You were the one sprinting into the gym like a horror movie victim,” Ingrid said.

“I was panicking internally, Ingrid. There’s a difference.”

Fridolina crossed her arms. “So what’s the plan? Or are we all just going to sit around and let her get benched before the Madrid match?”

“I cannot defend without her,” Ona said immediately. “No offense, Jana.”

“None taken,” Jana replied.

Aitana sat up, rubbing her temple. “Fine. I’ll help her with history. Again.”

Frido stepped forward. “Math is mine.”

“Wait, wait,” Pina said, turning toward the weight racks. “Patri! Get over here! You’re doing science.”

Patri was mid-bicep curl, headphones still in. “What?”

“You’re tutoring Azulita in science.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are now!”

Patri sighed the sigh of someone who regretted every decision that led her here.

Ingrid cleared her throat. “I’ll help with English. She’s writing an essay, right?”

“Trying to write an essay,” Alexia corrected.

You held up your hands, overwhelmed. “Okay! Whoa! Everyone calm down.”

“No,” said Aitana, pointing at you like you were a criminal. “You don’t get calm. You get studious.”

Pere walked over, flipping his clipboard around and looking amused. “Well, in light of the collective meltdown, I’m shortening training for the week. Azulita, consider this an intervention-slash-academic bootcamp. The rest of you, don’t let her fail.”

“Teamwork,” Alexia said solemnly.

“Dreamwork,” Sydney added, patting your shoulder like she was prepping you for war.

You groaned and pulled your hoodie over your head. “This is so humiliating.”

“No, this is love,” Frido said, pulling out her glasses like she was about to run a TED talk. “Aggressive, slightly terrifying love.”

And so began the most chaotic tutoring schedule ever created, powered entirely by panic, guilt, and pure Barça girl drama.

Frido had commandeered one of the smaller tactical briefing rooms in the facility for your “academic rehabilitation,” as she called it. She had her hair up in a bun, glasses perched on her nose, and a whiteboard already filled with lines of numbers and equations by the time you shuffled in, dragging your backpack like a bag of bricks.

She turned to face you, marker still in hand, and gave you a tight nod. “You’re two minutes late.”

“We just finished recovery,” you mumbled, slumping into a chair. “I had to fight for the last protein shake.”

“No excuses,” she said, pointing at her self-made schedule taped on the wall with big, aggressive bullet points like “DERIVATIVES = SURVIVAL.” “We only have an hour, and we’re not wasting time.”

You groaned dramatically. “This feels illegal.”

She handed you a thick stack of worksheets. “Calculus. We start here.”

You blinked. “We’re starting with Calculus?! Shouldn’t we, like, build up to it?”

She sat down, glanced at the top sheet, and paused. “Wait a second… this is AP Calculus.”

“Yeah?” you shrugged. “I was in honors before all the truancy.”

She gave you a flat stare. “You’re doing Calculus? Like, actual Calculus?”

You gave her a look. “Frido. I’ve been smart this whole time. I’m just selective with what I care about.”

She shook her head slowly, muttering, “Wow. You’re actually smart.”

“Actually?! What the hell, Frido!”

“I’m just saying! You come off very…” she waved vaguely, “…feral.”

You rolled your eyes. “So do you!”

She smiled. “Fair.”

The session started off okay. She went full professor mode, standing in front of the whiteboard and writing down a series of derivative rules. Her accent made it sound cooler than it should’ve been.

“This,” she said, underlining with dramatic flair, “is the power rule. You’ll need it for every problem in this set. Now, what is the derivative of x to the fourth?”

You squinted. “Uhh… 4x cubed?”

She looked genuinely delighted. “YES! See? I knew you had it in you.”

You grinned and leaned back in your chair a bit, feeling good about yourself. Unfortunately, that moment of comfort was your downfall.

Thirty minutes later, she was halfway through explaining implicit differentiation when she turned around to check your work—only to find you completely slouched in your chair, eyes fluttering shut, head bobbing like a baby goat.

“Azulita,” she said sharply.

You jerked awake. “Huh? Yes? Derivatives?”

Fridolina narrowed her eyes. “Stand up.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if you sit, you sleep. Up.”

Groaning, you stood, grumbling under your breath. “This is abuse. I’m telling Alexia.”

“She’s the one who begged me to help you,” Frido said, grabbing her marker again. “Now. Chain rule.”

You stood awkwardly near the whiteboard, trying to keep your eyes open. Frido kept writing and lecturing, but your eyelids were traitorous. One second you were watching her explain u-substitution, the next your chin was resting on your chest.

“Are you falling asleep standing up?” she said, genuinely offended.

“I have low iron!” you cried, jolting awake.

She walked over and handed you a protein bar. “Eat this. And march in place.”

You stared at her. “Fridolina.”

“March.”

So there you were, chewing a protein bar, knees lifting like a sad little soldier, trying not to pass out while Colonel Frido ran the most intense Calculus bootcamp in the entire European football circuit.

“Can I at least sit for integrals?” you begged.

She thought about it. “Only if you can explain what an antiderivative is without blinking.”

You blinked.

She pointed to the floor. “Keep marching.”

By the end of the hour, you were sweaty, slightly smarter, and deeply traumatized. Frido patted your shoulder. “You did good. We’ll go again tomorrow.”

You stared at her, dead inside. “What if I just accept benching?”

She laughed and pushed you out the door. “Not happening. Go get Aitana. It’s history time.”

You groaned, dragging your feet. “Can’t wait to cry over kings and queens.”

Aitana was ready before you even walked in. She’d chosen a meeting room next to the physio suite, claiming the vibes were “conducive to intellectual flow.” There was a whiteboard, a projector (which she did not know how to use), and most alarmingly, a stack of her own handwritten notes with highlighters color-coded like a textbook on steroids.

“Sit,” she said, not looking up from her packet. “We are beginning with the Catholic Monarchs.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“The Catholic Monarchs. Isabel and Fernando. Los Reyes Católicos. Spain’s unification. Come on, Azulita, this is basic stuff!”

“Yeah, basic for you,” you muttered, slumping into the chair.

She was already pacing. “So, 1469, Isabel of Castile marries Fernando of Aragon. Boom. Political union. Not total unification yet, but close. Then, they finish the Reconquista in 1492, Granada falls—and the same year, they finance Columbus. That’s the big year. It’s always 1492.”

You stared at her blankly, eyes slightly glazed over. “Why are there so many numbers already?”

She didn’t hear you. “Then you have the Alhambra Decree, expulsion of the Jews, and—are you writing this down?”

You glanced down at your notebook. It was open to a page that said “I’m hungry” in very neat block letters.

Aitana stopped. “Azulita. Focus.”

“I am focusing,” you said, even though you absolutely weren’t. “You just talk so fast. Like… I’m not catching a single thing. Not even fragments. I think you said something about bananas.”

She stared at you in disbelief. “Bananas? I said Granada! That’s a kingdom!”

“Okay, well, the way you said it sounded like fruit.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alright. I’ll slow it down.”

She tried. She really did. She said the words slower, drew timelines, even mimed the marriage of Isabel and Fernando using two highlighters like Barbie dolls. But you were still staring at her like she was reciting an IKEA manual in Swedish. Eventually, she threw her hands up. “Why are you like this?!”

You blinked. “Because I’m American.”

Aitana growled something under her breath in Catalan, then paused like a light bulb went off in her head. “Okay. Fine. Football terms.”

You perked up. “Now we’re talking.”

She took a deep breath. “Isabel is the captain of Castile. She’s smart, she runs the midfield, very Alexia. Fernando is from Aragon, think like Patri. Strong, solid, a little less flashy but reliable. When they get married, it’s like… combining Barça and Madrid—not as rivals, but as a superteam.”

“Ooh, okay. Superteam.”

“Exactly. Together, they ‘win’ Spain. That’s their La Liga title. And Granada—not bananas—is the final match of the season. The final point needed to clinch the title.”

You nodded slowly. “And Columbus?”

“He’s like… the wildcard signing they bet on. Like when a club spends big money on a young player who ends up changing the game.”

You gasped. “So Columbus is like… Lamine?”

“Kind of, but more controversial and with colonization,” she said dryly. “It’s a metaphor.”

“Oh. Okay. Keep going.”

She was on fire now. “The Alhambra Decree? That’s the scandal after the championship. Like a PR disaster. A very bad press conference.”

You were nodding enthusiastically now, scribbling notes. “Expelled the Jews = red card?”

“YES! For the entire team!”

“Oh my god! Aitana, this makes so much sense now!”

She dropped her marker, exhausted. “I hate that this is what works for you.”

You grinned. “Admit it, you love teaching me.”

She sighed but smiled anyway. “You are the most frustrating academic experience of my life.”

“I’m honored.”

You both looked up as the door cracked open and Alexia popped her head in. “How’s it going in here?”

“She thought ‘Granada’ was fruit,” Aitana deadpanned.

Alexia nodded like that tracked. “Yup. That sounds right.”

“She’s learning now!” you said proudly, holding up your notebook. It now read:

“1492 = La Liga win. Isabel = Alexia. Fernando = Patri. Columbus = controversial signing. Granada ≠ fruit.”

Alexia laughed and left. Aitana rubbed her temples again. “Okay. Now we move to Carlos V.”

You raised your hand. “Is he also a football player?”

She sighed. “No, but… maybe we can say he’s like Erling Haaland.”

You snapped your fingers. “Say less.”

“God help me,” she muttered, turning back to the board.

Patri had been reluctant from the start.

“She doesn’t respect science,” she grumbled when Aitana cornered her at lunch and practically shoved a study packet into her hands.

“She doesn’t respect anything unless it’s shaped like a football,” Aitana replied. “But she’s smart, just lazy. Treat her like an annoying prodigy.”

So that’s how you found yourself sitting in a conference room with Patri Guijarro, a giant periodic table taped to the wall, three notebooks, two water bottles, and exactly zero interest.

To her credit, Patri tried to set the mood.

“We’re doing biology,” she said, with the energy of someone heading into war. “Specifically cell respiration and photosynthesis.”

You nodded solemnly. “Let’s get this bread.”

She stared at you. “Bread has carbs. Not relevant. Focus.”

Ona and Pina were already seated in the back like neutral witnesses. Pina had snacks. Ona had the patience of a monk.

“I needed backup,” Patri said, adjusting her marker. “In case I snap.”

“Snap from what?” you asked innocently.

Patri didn’t answer. She launched into the Krebs Cycle.

Everything went surprisingly well. She was clear, concise, writing big diagrams on the board, and for once, you were actually following.

Until she got to the second step and mixed up the order of ATP and NADH.

You raised your hand. “That’s backwards.”

She turned around, eyebrows lifting. “No it’s—” She paused. Looked at the board. Sighed. “Okay, maybe it is. Not the point.”

She corrected it. Two minutes later, she wrote “mitocondria” instead of “mitochondria.”

You raised your hand again. “There’s an H in that.”

“I know,” Patri said, eyes twitching.

“You forgot it.”

“I know.”

She fixed it.

Ona and Pina exchanged glances but said nothing.

Then, the final straw. You were halfway through photosynthesis when Patri cheerfully transitioned to the Calvin Cycle and said, “And that’s why, in the mitochondria, the Calvin Cycle takes place after glycolysis.”

You blinked. “Wait. That’s the Krebs Cycle. Calvin is in the chloroplast.”

Patri froze mid-marker stroke.

Ona instantly moved from her seat. “Okay. That’s enough.”

Pina stood and held onto Patri’s arm as the midfielder muttered, “I swear to God, I am going to put her in the fume hood and close the door.”

You leaned back smugly, arms crossed. “Just saying. Someone needs a refresher.”

Patri gave you a look that could curdle milk.

“She’s doing it on purpose,” she hissed to Pina.

“Probably,” Pina said, tossing you a gummy worm.

“You’re so annoying,” Patri snapped.

“You love me.”

“I barely tolerate you.”

“You were the one who volunteered to help.”

“I was blackmailed!”

The room descended into bickering until Ona clapped once and everyone went quiet. “Enough. Patri. Breathe. Azulita. Lock in.”

You sat up straighter, still grinning. “Okay, okay. I’m serious now.”

Patri grumbled something under her breath but went back to the board. “Alright. Where were we?”

You looked at the diagram. “You were about to redeem yourself after the most embarrassing biology lesson in history.”

“I will throw you out of this room.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re right,” she muttered. “Because I’m a professional.”

To your surprise, she actually managed to finish the lesson without any further interruptions. And you, to everyone’s shock, actually retained information. Enough to answer questions. Correctly. On the first try.

Patri stared at you at the end like you’d just shapeshifted.

“I told you I was smart,” you said smugly.

“You are the most insufferable intelligent person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Pina tossed you a second gummy worm in celebration.

“Okay,” Patri said, dropping her marker. “You’re done with science. Never speak to me again.”

You gave her a thumbs up. “Love you too, Professor Guijarro.”

As you left, Ona patted your shoulder. “That was impressive.”

Pina just muttered, “She’s chaos. But she’s our chaos.”

Ingrid had come prepared.

She entered the media room like a woman on a mission, armed with a copy of Macbeth, three highlighters, a thesaurus, a laptop, and a look that said I will not be defeated by a teenager who thinks Shakespeare is boring.

You were already seated with your hoodie pulled up, looking like you were preparing for battle, too. The difference was: Ingrid had a plan. You had a headache.

She dropped the book in front of you dramatically. “Let’s begin.”

You squinted at the title. “Do we have to?”

“Yes.”

“Do you even know what it’s about?” She nodded confidently. “Of course. It’s about ambition, power, guilt—”

“No, no, like… plot-wise. Like, who dies?”

“Lots of people. That’s not the point.”

“It’s kind of the point.”

Ingrid sighed and sat down beside you. “Alright. Let’s do a quick rundown before we write your essay.”

“Okay.”

She pulled out a sheet of paper and started asking questions.

“What’s Macbeth’s fatal flaw?”

“His name?”

She blinked. “What internal conflict does Lady Macbeth face?”

“Being married to Macbeth?”

“What does the ‘Out, damned spot’ scene symbolize?”

“A really bad laundry day?”

Ingrid stared at you. “Have you even read the book?”

You hesitated. “…Not exactly.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

You shrugged. “I read the Wikipedia summary.”

Ingrid groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “Azulita, you have to read it.”

“I tried!” you said, dramatically slumping over the table. “But it’s all in Old English! Every time I read a line, I feel like I’m decoding a secret message from 1603. Why does everyone talk like they’re in a riddle?”

Ingrid tapped her fingers, clearly thinking.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Then we’re going to act it out.”

You sat up. “We what?”

She stood, already flipping the book open. “Come on. On your feet. I’ll be Macbeth. You’ll be Lady Macbeth. Or Banquo. I don’t care. We’re going full theatre kid now.”

“God help me,” you muttered, dragging yourself up.

Ingrid cleared her throat and began in a booming voice, “‘Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?’”

You blinked. “Why are you yelling?”

“It’s theatre!” she snapped. “Commit to it!”

She handed you a prop dagger from the physio cart… okay, it was an ice roller, but still, and pointed at you. “React!”

You raised the ice roller. “Yes, my king, I… see the dagger too?”

She groaned. “No! You’re not supposed to see it!”

“Then why am I holding this thing?!”

“You’re Banquo now. Pretend to be suspicious.”

You arched an eyebrow dramatically. “Sir, why are you talking to thin air?”

Ingrid burst out laughing. “Okay, now you’re getting it.”

The two of you spent the next thirty minutes yelling dramatic lines, sneaking around the media room, and using physio props to represent swords, goblets, and ghosts. At some point, Patri walked by, stared at the scene, and just kept walking without a word.

Finally, exhausted but victorious, Ingrid plopped back into the chair and handed you your laptop.

“Okay,” she said, panting slightly. “Now write the essay. You have to understand it now.”

You opened a blank doc and stared at the blinking cursor. Then, something miraculous happened. You started typing.

Your fingers flew over the keys as you wrote about Macbeth’s descent into madness, Lady Macbeth’s guilt and unraveling psyche, and the tragic consequences of unchecked ambition. You even used quotes. Properly cited.

Ingrid leaned over your shoulder, stunned. “Wow. That’s actually good.”

You grinned. “Told you I was smart.”

“You just needed to sword fight your way through Shakespeare.”

“Exactly.”

She patted your back. “You’re gonna pass. Maybe even get a B.”

“B for ‘blood on my hands,’” you said in your best Lady Macbeth voice.

Ingrid laughed. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“And you made me act out a ghost scene in the physio room. We’re both weird.”

“Fair point.”

And just like that, Macbeth was conquered—ice roller daggers and all.

The locker room felt like a pressure cooker.

Everyone was in their pregame rituals, headphones in, stretching, pacing, but there was a quiet tension that had nothing to do with kickoff. The whole team kept glancing at the door, waiting. You were in your locker, hunched over, retying your boots for what had to be the sixth time. Your foot had gone numb three reties ago but you weren’t stopping. Not until you knew.

Aitana, sitting on the bench across from you, whispered, “You’re going to cut off circulation.”

You ignored her and pulled the knot tighter. Just then, the door opened. Heads snapped up. Someone gasped.

There stood Olga, wearing her visitor’s badge like a press credential, and behind her, Alexia, already fully kitted, shin guards in, captain’s armband tight around her bicep. She looked like she’d walked straight out of a propaganda poster: determined, majestic, and definitely hiding nerves.

Olga held up a large manila envelope.

“Oh my God, it’s happening,” Ingrid muttered.

“Everybody gather up!” Alexia clapped, her voice firm and tinged with a smile. “Grades are in!”

There was an actual stampede. Pina tripped over her own boots. Ona shoved Aitana out of the way like it was a loose ball. Patri literally climbed over a bench. Within seconds, they’d formed a tight semicircle around Olga, who was holding the envelope like it was the final rose on The Bachelor.

“Do I have everyone’s attention?” Olga asked, dramatic as ever.

“Yes!” half the locker room yelled.

She peeled the envelope open slowly. Too slowly.

“Olga, please,” Frido said, clutching her heart. “Just open it. I can’t take it.”

She pulled out the paper with your grades and scanned it for a moment, face unreadable.

Alexia whispered, “Oh no. She’s doing the neutral face. I hate the neutral face.”

Olga looked up and cleared her throat. “First subject… History. Grade: A.”

The room erupted. Someone screamed. Patri started shaking you.

“Math,” Olga continued, “B+. Science, A-. English…”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“…B.”

The cheers were deafening.

“A B in English?!” Ingrid hollered. “That’s my girl!”

“I’m a genius!” you screamed, even as Patri launched you into the air like a sack of flour.

“PUT HER DOWN!” Frido shouted, already grabbing at your ankles like you were a loose balloon.

“NEVER!” Patri roared, spinning you around.

Aitana burst into tears. “She was failing two weeks ago!”

“She was using Wikipedia as a source!” Ingrid yelled through laughter.

“She said Macbeth was about a haunted kitchen!” Ona cried.

You were red-faced and breathless as Patri finally dropped you onto the bench. Alexia clapped her hands loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“Okay, okay, we’re proud. We’re happy. But we also have a Clasico to win. Let’s focus up!”

Everyone grumbled and slowly began returning to their gear, re-tying boots, slipping into jackets. The energy was lighter now, buzzing with excitement and joy.

You looked over and saw Olga quietly stepping back toward the door, her visitor pass swinging on her lanyard, ready to head up to her seat in the stands. You rushed to her, catching her just before she disappeared out of sight.

You threw your arms around her without saying a word, squeezing her so tightly she made a soft “oof.”

She hugged you right back, warm and steady, hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“Thank you,” you whispered into her shoulder. “For caring. Not just about the grades. About… all of it.”

She leaned back and smiled at you with those familiar, gentle eyes, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“I will always care,” she said softly. “You’re my little sister. That means you get nagged and loved.”

You laughed a little, wiped your eyes.

“You’re still grounded if your next essay is late.”

“Olga!”

She winked and ducked out the door, leaving you standing in the hallway, grinning like a fool.

From behind you, Alexia called out, “Let’s go, genius! You’ve got a game to save.”

You turned, squared your shoulders, and jogged back into the locker room, head high, heart full, and for the first time in weeks, completely present.

❤️❤️

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

You and Alexia tell your family and friends

Another evening, as you changed into one of Alexia’s oversized hoodies to head out for a casual dinner with some of her teammates, she stood in the doorway watching you yet again

You caught her smirk in the mirror. “What?”

Alexia’s grin grew. “You think no one’s going to notice if you keep dressing like that?”

You tugged at the hoodie, making a face. “It’s comfortable.”

She walked forward, arms slipping around your waist, hands immediately finding your bump. “It’s obvious,” she murmured, her thumbs brushing the curve. “You’re getting rounder.”

You groaned dramatically. “That’s what you want to say to your pregnant wife?”

She laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I love it,” she murmured.

You sighed, melting into her touch. “It’s getting harder to hide.”

“Why are we hiding it?” she teased. “We should get you a shirt that says, ‘Pregnant with a footballing legend.’”

You rolled your eyes. “No one is finding out until the all ok on the next scan. That’s the rule.”

Alexia huffed. “Fine. But after that, I’m buying you all the tightest maternity shirts.”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

—

It starts off slowly—small things.  

Burt, your gentle giant, begins following you more closely than usual, shadowing you from room to room like your fluffy, silent bodyguard. Ernie, your little stubby-legged sidekick, starts curling up right at your feet every time you sit, instead of his usual spot squished up next to Burt or on his throne of pillows.  

At first, you think it’s just them reacting to how unwell you’ve been. You’re barely eating, you nap constantly, and your movements are slower, cautious. They’re just being protective.  

But then, one morning, it becomes obvious.  

You’re stretched out on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket with a mug of cold ginger tea resting on the coffee table. Alexia is in the kitchen, fussing with toast and muttering to herself in Catalan about how plain crackers shouldn’t be this hard to make appealing.  

Burt ambles over first, lumbering with his usual lazy grace, and without hesitation, lowers his head and rests it gently—delicately—on your stomach.  

You blink, freezing for a second.  

“Hi, buddy,” you murmur, scratching his ear. “You comfy there?”  

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t nudge. Just… rests.  

And then Ernie trots over, climbs halfway onto your lap like he’s always done, and nudges his little head just under Burt’s, resting it right against your belly.  

You stare down at them, a lump forming in your throat.  

They know.  

Somehow, without being told, without a single ultrasound photo or whispered secret, they know.  

They know there’s someone new in there.  

Alexia walks in and stops mid-step, eyes softening instantly at the sight of all three of you. “Mira’t,” she says gently, smiling so wide it makes your chest ache.  

“They know,” you whisper, your hand resting on Burt’s big, warm head. “They know I’m pregnant.”  

Alexia comes to kneel by the sofa, brushing a hand across Ernie’s back and then resting the other gently on top of yours. “Of course they do,” she says softly. “They’re family.”  

You glance down at the two of them—Ernie snoring softly, Burt’s eyes watching you like he’s guarding something sacred.  

“They’re going to be so good with the baby,” you whisper.  

Alexia kisses your temple, her hand still over yours, over your belly, over everything the four of you are now protecting.  

“They already are.”

—

It was already one of those days where everything felt like it was moving too fast.  

The crucial scan was scheduled for 5:30pm—a big one. The kind where you’d finally be far enough along to see real definition, measure growth, maybe even hear more than just the rapid-fire thump of a heartbeat.  

You were nervous. So nervous.  

And Alexia was still at training.  

She’d promised—sworn—she’d be done by 4:30, back home by 5:00, and the two of you would go together, hand in hand like you always did.  

But 4:45 came. Then 5:00.  

And you were still standing in the hallway, dressed, holding your water bottle and your folder of notes and appointment letters, watching the front door like it might open on its own.  

Your phone buzzed.  

Alexia 🖤  

Training ran over. I’m trying to leave now. Don’t wait. I’ll meet you there. I’m sorry, mi amor. I’m coming as fast as I can.

You stared at the message, heart sinking slightly. You understood—God, you did. It wasn’t her fault. She’d been pulled for media, and then a short team talk had somehow turned into a full breakdown of the last three matches.

But still.  

You wanted her there.  

Especially today.  

---

By the time you made it to the clinic, your hands were shaking slightly, your nerves setting in. You checked in, sat down, and texted her.  

You: In the waiting room. Room 4. I’ll stall them if I can.  

No reply.  

You assumed she was driving.  

The nurse called your name at 5:37. You stood, hesitating—wanting to beg for just five more minutes—but the words wouldn’t come.  

You followed her in, lying down on the exam table, the same room where you’d been told there was no heartbeat. You hoped it wasn’t an omen.

Your eyes fluttered shut. Please, please let this be different.

Just as the nurse rolled the machine closer, the door burst open.  

Alexia.  

Out of breath, flushed from sprinting, her Barça hoodie half-zipped, boots clomping awkwardly against the linoleum floor.  

“Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento,” she panted, holding up a hand to the nurse as she crossed the room in two long strides. “I ran from the car park. I’m here. I’m here.”  

You let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh, and the nurse gave you both a soft smile. “Perfect timing. Let’s take a look, shall we?”  

Alexia immediately took your hand, her forehead resting against yours for a second. “Never again,” she whispered. “I swear, I’ll walk out mid-training next time if I have to.”  

You squeezed her fingers. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”  

And then—  

The sound.  

That perfect, powerful heartbeat, stronger than last time.  

And on the screen a tiny, clear shape. Arms. Legs. Movement.  

Your baby.  

You felt Alexia's hand tremble in yours as the two of you stared, breathless, overwhelmed, absolutely undone.  

She whispered, voice cracking, “That’s our baby.”  

And this time, you were both exactly where you were meant to be.

—

The soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the heartbeat fills the room like music. You can feel Alexia’s grip on your hand tighten, not painfully—just grounding, like she needs to hold onto something before her heart floats right out of her chest.

The nurse smiles at both of you, adjusting the angle of the probe slightly. “Your baby is measuring beautifully,” she says kindly, her voice warm and calm. “Let me show you a few things.”

You both lean closer to the screen, eyes wide as the grainy black and white image pulses with life.

“Here’s the head,” she says, pointing gently with her cursor. “You can see the curve of the skull here, and this shadow is the brain starting to form. Strong and symmetrical.”

You gasp quietly, heart stuttering. “That’s their head?”

Alexia’s face is soft with awe, her eyes fixed to the monitor like it holds the entire universe. “Dios mío…”

“And right here,” the nurse continues, shifting the view slightly, “are the arms—little hands starting to form at the end.” She chuckles softly. “Look at those fingers.”

You actually see them. Tiny, wiggling, real fingers.

“They’re moving,” you whisper, voice caught in your throat. “They’re really moving.”

“They’re practicing already,” the nurse grins. “Busy little one.”

You look over at Alexia, whose eyes are completely glassy, her lips parted in stunned wonder. She hasn’t blinked once.

She clears her throat, voice slightly hoarse. “Our baby has hands.”

“And feet,” the nurse adds, tilting the probe again. “Look at those toes.”

You both laugh, and you feel a tear finally slip free, tracing a warm path down your cheek. Alexia catches it with her thumb before it can fall further.

The nurse takes a few more measurements before clicking a button. “Would you like a printout of the scan?” she asks gently.

You nod immediately. “Yes, please.”

Alexia, still slightly in shock, lifts her hand. “Can we—uh, can we get more? Like, the extras? Whatever you have.”

The nurse raises an eyebrow, amused. “Photos, USB, key rings, digital files?”

“All of it,” Alexia says without missing a beat, reaching into her jacket for her wallet. “We want everything.”

You snort a laugh, your heart swelling. “Are you buying out the baby merch stand?”

“If I could frame the heartbeat and hang it in the hallway, I would,” she says without a hint of irony.

The nurse chuckles, handing you a warm set of glossy scan prints. “Here’s your first photo album, then.”

You take them in trembling fingers, staring down at the blurry but perfect image of your baby, your heart thudding in time with theirs.

Alexia wraps an arm around you as you sit up slowly, careful not to smudge the prints with your fingertips.

You lean into her shoulder and whisper, “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

She presses a kiss into your hair, her voice low and steady. “Yeah, mi amor. We are. And they already have the best nose I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh into her shoulder, holding the scan to your chest. And for the first time, in a long time, your joy doesn’t feel careful.

It just feels real.

—

The car is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.  

You're parked just outside the clinic, the soft hum of Barcelona’s evening settling around you, people passing by unaware that in the small, private world of your car, something extraordinary has just happened.  

Alexia sits in the driver’s seat, keys still in the ignition but engine off, her body angled toward you, legs tucked slightly beneath her as she holds the envelope of scan photos like it’s made of glass.  

You’re beside her, curled slightly sideways in your seat, seatbelt off, one leg folded under the other, eyes still fixed on the black and white print in your hands.  

The baby is small, but there’s no denying they’re there. A shape. A form. Arms. Legs. Fingers. A heartbeat.  

“Look,” Alexia says softly, holding one of the scans up to the light as if it’ll help her memorise every single detail. “That’s their little hand. You can see it.”  

You nod, eyes welling again. “I know. I still can’t believe it’s real.”  

Alexia gently slides one of the scans into your lap, her voice reverent. “This one’s my favourite. The profile… they have your nose.”  

You let out a wet laugh, dabbing at your cheeks with your sleeve. “Alexia that’s biologically impossible.”  

“It does” she says firmly, grinning even as her voice shakes with emotion.  

The grin fades slowly as she stares down at the photo again, her expression softening. “They’re ours.”  

You glance at her. Her eyes are glassy again, lashes damp, and she’s not trying to hide it.  

“I was so scared to go to this appointment,” you admit quietly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about last time. What it felt like to walk out of there empty.”  

Alexia reaches across the centre console, slipping her hand into yours, weaving your fingers together. “I know. I felt it too. Like I was holding my breath the whole time.”  

“But we walked out with this.” You hold up the scan, your thumb gently brushing over the shape of your tiny baby. “We walked out with them.”  

She squeezes your hand. “We walked out as parents.”  

The word hits you like a soft thunderclap.  

Parents.  

You sit in silence for a moment, just feeling it.  

The responsibility. The beauty. The miracle of it all.  

You gently turn to her and whisper, “Do you think Burt and Ernie will be jealous?”  

Alexia snorts, blinking through her tears. “They’re going to be obsessed. Burt’s going to be a bodyguard, and Ernie’s going to teach them how to sneak food off plates.”  

You laugh, wiping at your eyes. “We’re going to have a baby. In a few months, we’re going to be waking up to cries, and diapers, and chaos… and it’s going to be the best thing we’ve ever done.”  

Alexia leans over, her forehead resting gently against yours, her other hand still clutching the envelope of scan photos to her chest.  

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” she admits, her voice barely a breath. “But I’ve also never loved anyone the way I love you. Or wanted anything more than this with you.”  

You smile, brushing your nose against hers. “We’re doing this together. Every second of it.”  

She kisses you softly—slow and full of promise—then pulls back just enough to whisper:  

“Let’s go home, mamá.”  

And just like that, everything feels right.

—

Eli’s home always felt warm.

It was the kind of place where love was stitched into the very walls, where the smell of home-cooked meals clung to the furniture, where laughter echoed through the hallways even on the quietest nights.

And tonight, it was no different.

Alba was already nursing a glass of wine, chatting animatedly about something ridiculous that happened in her life, while Eli busied herself serving up far too much food for just the four of you.

But you were struggling. The smells of everything—the garlic, the roasted meat, even the faint scent of wine—had been assaulting your senses since you walked in the door.

Alexia had noticed immediately. And so had Eli. Her sharp eyes flicked toward you as she placed a bowl of food in front of you, her brow furrowing slightly when she saw how pale you looked. “Mi amor,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Are you still sick?.”

You forced a smile, pushing your food around with your fork. “I’m fine.”

Eli narrowed her eyes slightly, unconvinced. “You haven’t touched your food.”

“I’m just not too hungry,” you tried again.

That made everyone go silent.

Alba blinked dramatically, looking between you and Alexia. “Since when are you not hungry?”

Alexia let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “Mami, I think we have something to tell you.”

Eli froze.

Her eyes widened slightly, her hands stilling over the napkin she had been adjusting. “Tell me what?”

You exhaled, setting down your fork. Your hands trembled slightly as you stood up from your chair, suddenly feeling so many emotions at once. Then, slowly, you reached for the hem of your hoodie and lifted it—just enough to reveal the small but undeniable bump that had begun to form.

Eli gasped.

Alba nearly choked on her wine.

“I get morning sickness in the mornings and the evenings,” you murmured, a soft but certain smile on your lips. “because, I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Eli’s hand came up to her mouth, eyes wide, her entire body still as she stared at your stomach.

Alba’s chair scraped against the floor as she pushed back from the table, standing so suddenly she nearly knocked over her glass. “Wait, WHAT?!”

You laughed softly, pulling your hoodie back down as Alexia reached for your hand, her warmth grounding you.

“You—” Eli blinked rapidly, looking at you, then at Alexia, then back at you. “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded, feeling tears sting your eyes at the sheer emotion in her voice.

Eli let out a soft sob and immediately wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a warm, desperate embrace. “Mi niña…” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

You melted into her, feeling the weight of the moment settle deep in your chest.

Alba, on the other hand, was still staring at you both like you had just told her the world was ending.

“You—” She pointed wildly between the two of you. “You’re pregnant?!”

Alexia smirked. “Yes, Alba.”

Alba blinked. “Like, for real?”

You let out a breathy laugh, wiping at your eyes. “For real.”

Her eyes widened further. “But you—” She frowned slightly. “I didn’t even know you were trying yet?”

You swallowed hard, glancing at Alexia before turning back to them. “We kept it private. We, um—” You hesitated before inhaling deeply. “We’ve actually been trying for a while.”

Eli pulled back slightly, concern flickering in her gaze. “Cuánto tiempo?”

You squeezed Alexia’s hand, finding strength in her touch. “This is our fourth attempt.”

Eli’s breath caught. “Four?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “The first two times didn’t work. The third time… we got a positive, but we lost the baby.”

Alba let out a soft oh under her breath, her expression instantly shifting to something more serious. Eli’s hands gripped yours tightly, her eyes shining with pain and understanding. “Mi amor,” she whispered.

You offered her a small, grateful smile. “But now, this time… we feel so lucky.”

Eli wiped at her eyes, sniffling before letting out a watery laugh. “I can’t believe this.”

The moment wraps around all of you like a warm blanket—arms tangled, breath hitching, emotions hanging heavy in the air.  

Eli’s still clutching you tightly, murmuring soft blessings against your hair, one hand now splayed protectively over your bump like she already considers herself a guardian of the little life growing inside you.  

Alexia leans into your side, her eyes locked on yours like she’s still trying to absorb the reality of what’s happening—her wife, her mother, her sister, and your baby all woven together in a moment you never knew your heart needed so badly.  

And then, you notice it.  

Alba.  

She hasn’t said anything since her initial outburst. She’s stepped back from the hug, standing slightly off to the side now, hands wrapped around herself. Her face is unreadable for a moment, her jaw tight, her eyes glassy.  

Alexia turns her head, still holding you close. “Alba?” she says gently. “You okay? We’ve just told the most incredible thing is happening to us and you look like you couldn’t care any less”  

Alba blinks, like she’s only just noticed the attention shifting to her. Her lips press together, her throat bobbing once. “Yeah,” she says quickly, but her voice cracks halfway through.   She tries to brush it off with a shaky laugh. “I’m—God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  

And then it happens.  

Her voice breaks completely, and she brings a hand to her face, trying to stop it, but the tears are already slipping down her cheeks.  

You and Alexia freeze.  

“Alba…” Alexia says softly, stepping toward her. “Hey, hey, what is it?”  

Alba tries to speak but chokes on the first word. She lets out a sob, frustrated and emotional and completely unguarded—so unlike her usual chaotic, firecracker self.  

“I’m just—” She laughs and cries at the same time, wiping at her face. “I’m so happy. I’m so happy you’re pregnant and I—” She stops, breath catching. “I didn’t know how much I wanted this for you both until you said it out loud.”  

Alexia pulls her into a hug immediately, arms wrapping around her younger sister with such force that you feel it in your chest.  

Alba clings to her, burying her face into Alexia’s shoulder like she did when they were kids, when things were overwhelming, when she needed someone to hold her while she felt.

Eli stands beside you, eyes still damp, her hand sliding back into yours with a squeeze.  

You watch Alexia whisper something into Alba’s ear, soothing, loving, and Alba nods through her tears, pressing her forehead to her sister’s chest.  

“I thought she was sick,” Alba murmurs. “I thought something was awfully wrong, I’d convinced myself we-you’d loose her and i didn’t know how we’d handle that, you were so sick that night, you looked so sick and it looked like you’d lost weight, it scared me”  

Alexia huffs a small, tearful laugh. “You idiot”

You walk over quietly and slide your hand into Alba’s. She looks at you, still tear-streaked, and lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “I’m fine, i speak to my doctor all the time” you showed your bump again, “It’s just morning sickness, i promise, i’m doing everything the doctor tells me to, to make sure the baby and I are healthy through this little bit”

“I’m going to be a Tía.”  

“You’re going to be the most chaotic Tía ever,” you say with a grin.  

“I’m going to buy them the loudest toys known to man.”  

“Absolutely not,” Alexia says immediately.  

All three of you laugh through the tears. And standing there, wrapped up in love, in emotion, in family—you know it more than ever.  

This baby is already surrounded by a world so full of love, they’ll never go a day without feeling it.

You gently tug your hand free from Alba’s and slip it into your coat pocket where, carefully folded and protected like a sacred treasure, the scan photo has been tucked away since the clinic visit.  

Your fingers tremble a little as you unfold the paper, the soft crinkle drawing Eli’s and Alba’s attention immediately.  

“I have…” you begin, voice still thick with emotion, “…something I want to show you.”  

Alexia, still standing with one arm around her sister’s shoulder, glances over at you with that soft, knowing look—the one that says I know how much this means.  

You hold the photo out toward them, your thumb brushing over the image like you can’t quite believe it’s real, even now.  

“From our last scan,” you say gently. “We saw everything. Their head, their hands… we even heard the heartbeat again.”  

Eli gasps softly and moves in close, her hand coming to rest over her heart the second her eyes land on the image. Her lips part, and her breath catches. “Ay, míralo…”  

Alba steps beside her, peeking over her mother’s shoulder. At first she’s quiet, her eyes scanning the blurry but unmistakable shape of the baby—so small, curled like a comma, but there.  

“Is that their…?” she starts, pointing clumsily to the head.  

Alexia steps in, smirking. “Yes. That’s the head. Not a potato, like you’re probably thinking.”  

Alba laughs through a sniffle, nudging her playfully. “I wasn’t going to say potato!” A beat. “...But it does kind of look like one.”  

Eli swats her gently, but she’s still crying, her thumb now tracing the edge of the photo like it’s the most precious thing she’s ever held.  

“They’re perfect,” she whispers. “Already perfect.”  

You step closer to Alexia, letting her wrap an arm around your waist, her hand automatically resting against your bump.  

“I’ve stared at this photo a hundred times already,” you admit, resting your head on her shoulder. “And every time I do, it hits me all over again—they’re real. They’re ours.”  

Alba reaches for the photo, asking softly, “Can I hold it?”  

You nod, and she takes it gently, like she’s afraid she’ll break it. She stares at it for a long moment, then looks up at you and Alexia, her expression open and vulnerable in a way you rarely see.  

“I’m going to love them so much,” she says quietly. “You don’t even know.”  

Alexia smiles, her own eyes misty again. “We do know. We’ve discussed it at length”  

The four of you stand there in Eli’s kitchen—food forgotten, hearts wide open, surrounded by the smell of roasted garlic and the sound of quiet sniffles.  

And in that moment, with your scan photo passing from hand to hand, something settles in the room.  

This baby is already home.  Already loved. Already theirs, too. You step back from the circle of warmth in Eli’s kitchen, cheeks still flushed from all the tears and laughter, your heart full but pounding with a new kind of anticipation. You’d been waiting for the right moment to do this. And now, watching Alba cradling the scan photo like it’s made of stardust and Eli still dabbing at her cheeks with a napkin, you know maybe you were ready to reach out to your own family. 

Alexia reaches for your hand, pulling you gently into her side, her voice soft and low against your ear. “I love you.”  

You smile into her shoulder, tears prickling your eyes again. Eli steps forward, pulling you into a hug again, whispering, “This baby is already so lucky. So loved.”  

And in that moment, wrapped in her arms, Alexia’s hand on your back, Alba quietly swearing she’s going to be the “cool emotional aunt,” you feel it again—  

That this little life growing inside you has already built a family bigger than blood.  

They’ve built a home.

Alba is still standing there in the kitchen, one hand clutched to her chest and the other holding the framed scan at arm’s length like she’s trying to mentally zoom in. Her eyes are narrowed, tongue poking out slightly as she inspects the grainy image with ridiculous focus.  

Then, she says it.  

Totally serious.  

“I’m telling you… they have your nose.”  

You blink. “What?”  

Alexia perks up instantly, standing straighter beside you like a lightbulb just went off. “Thank you!” she exclaims, pointing at her sister. “I said the same thing when we left the clinic!”  

You gape at them both. “How—how can you possibly tell that from a grainy black and white scan that looks like it was taken with a potato?”  

Alba smirks, triumphant. “You can totally tell. Look at this little bump on the bridge! That’s you.”  

Alexia crosses her arms with a smug grin. “Exacte. I said they had your nose, and you told me I was being ridiculous.”  

You throw your hands up, exasperated but laughing. “Because it is ridiculous! You do remember it was your egg, right? Your DNA? I’m just the deluxe human incubator in this equation.”  

Alba gasps. “Did you just call yourself a deluxe human incubator?”  

Alexia bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “That’s going on a T-shirt.”  

You groan dramatically, dropping into the chair. “You two are unbelievable. The baby is genetically yours, Alexia. Your egg.”  

Alexia shrugs, still staring at the scan like she’s searching for clues. “Maybe. But they’re growing inside you. And if they’re already getting your attitude—”  

“—they’re definitely getting your nose,” Alba finishes.  

You cover your face with your hands. “I regret telling you anything.”  

But you don’t, not really. Because when you peek through your fingers, they’re both grinning at the scan like it’s a masterpiece, like this blurry photo has already revealed an entire person.  

Your person.  

Alexia catches your gaze, her teasing fading just enough for something softer to settle into her expression. She kneels beside your chair and places a hand on your belly, gentle and sure.  

“Regardless of whose nose they have,” she murmurs, “they’re ours. Every little bit.”  

You smile through the warmth rising in your chest, brushing your fingers through her hair.  

“Yeah,” you whisper. “They really are.”  

And just like that, even with all the bickering and chaos, the room is full of peace again. A quiet knowing. A family already falling in love with someone they’ve never met.

—

Something shifted as the second trimester arrived.

It wasn’t dramatic—there wasn’t a switch flipped overnight—but it was definitely noticeable. Your nausea, while not entirely gone, began to give you some grace. You could finally keep food down, you started sleeping better, and the fatigue that had made your limbs feel like lead slowly began to fade. You started to feel more like yourself.

Except… not quite.

Because this version of you? This new, radiant, glowing, tingling version of you? She was insatiable.

At first, you thought it was just a fluke—a flurry of hormones shifting as your body adjusted, a couple of blush-inducing dreams that left you tangled in sheets and aching in a way you hadn’t felt for weeks. But then it kept happening.

A lingering glance from Alexia while she dried her hair. The way her hand would rest lazily on your thigh as you lay on the sofa. The sight of her in her training gear, all strength and casual swagger, or standing at the kitchen counter in a hoodie and nothing else, humming softly to herself.

It did things to you.

You tried to play it cool at first. A few stolen kisses while she made breakfast. Your hands wandering a little lower than usual as you cuddled in bed. Her hand cradling your bump during a sleepy embrace would have you biting your lip, trying not to press into her palm.

But Alexia, of course, noticed.

She always did.

And she definitely wasn’t complaining. One night, lying on the couch with your head in her lap while she mindlessly scrolled through Netflix options, your fingers were tracing slow, lazy circles on her knee. You weren’t really paying attention to the screen. You were watching her. The curve of her jaw, the way her lips curled in thought, the subtle flex of her thigh under your head. You shifted slightly, pressing a little closer.

Her eyes flicked down. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes hooded. “Yeah. Just…”

She tilted her head, smirking. “Just what?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “I really want you right now.”

She blinked, caught off guard—but only for a second. That knowing smirk deepened as she leaned down and brushed a slow kiss against your lips. “You’re glowing,” she murmured, her hand smoothing down over your bump. “And kind of dangerous right now.”

You grinned against her mouth. “Dangerous?”

“You’ve been giving me that look for a week. I’ve been trying to behave.”

You shifted again, this time straddling her lap slowly, wrapping your arms around her neck. “Don’t.”

Alexia’s hands slid to your hips instinctively, her breath catching. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to hers. “You won’t. I feel good, Lex. Really good. Better than I have in months.”

She kissed you then—deep and slow, the kind of kiss that said she’d been waiting for you to feel like this again, the kind of kiss that didn’t just ignite your skin but centred you. That night was soft and careful and full of laughter and breathy sighs, full of the quietest kind of fire. Alexia’s hands cradling your body like she was holding something precious. Her lips mapping your skin slowly, reverently, like she’d missed every inch of you and wasn’t going to waste a second more.

She didn’t rush you. She didn’t push. She followed your pace, your need, your rhythm. And God, you needed her. Not just the closeness, not just the aching low in your belly. You needed her—the warmth of her breath on your shoulder, the press of her lips to your bump as if thanking it for giving you back to her like this.

After, she held you with one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting on your belly, her thumb brushing soft strokes over the curve of it.

“I missed us,” she murmured into your hair.

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Me too.”

And she smiled against your skin, whispering, “Let’s make up for lost time.” You laughed—soft and satisfied—already knowing that with her, you had all the time in the world.

—

You were standing in front of the mirror, tugging gently at the hem of the flowy black top you’d chosen for the night. It draped comfortably over your bump—still not obvious to the untrained eye, but enough that you’d started reaching for looser fits out of instinct.

Behind you, Alexia was sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping on her trainers, one eyebrow arched in focused determination.

You turned slightly, smoothing your shirt again. “Hey, Lex?”  

She grunted in response, still battling her shoes.

“I think… I want to tell Carla tonight.”  

She paused, looking up like you’d just said you were moving to the moon. “Tell Carla what?”  

You gave her a look. “About the baby.”  

Alexia blinked. “Wait—you haven’t told her yet?”  

You shrugged a little, avoiding her eyes in the mirror. “No, I mean… I kind of assumed you had?”  

She stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “No, I figured you would. She’s your best friend.”  

“I know, but I thought maybe with all the training, and the away games, and how close you two have gotten, it would’ve just… slipped out.”  

Alexia stepped behind you now, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Mi amor, Carla thinks your ‘stomach bug’ is the longest-running flu case in Europe.”  

You winced. “Okay, yeah. Fair point.”  

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I just assumed you told her ages ago. She’s going to lose her mind.”  

You turned to face her fully, nervous energy fluttering in your chest. “Do you think she’ll be upset we waited this long?”  

Alexia shook her head immediately. “Not for a second. She’ll probably cry, and then call you dramatic, and then demand she gets to be godmother without even asking.”  

You laughed, because it was so Carla.  

“She just means so much to me,” you said softly. “I think part of me wanted to tell her when it felt safe. When it felt real. And now that it does… I want her to know.”  

Alexia cupped your face, her thumbs brushing your cheeks gently. “Then tell her. Tonight. I’ll make sure everyone’s distracted so you two can have your moment.”  

You smiled up at her, heart swelling. “You’re good at this whole supportive wife thing, you know.” 

She smirked, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I’m practicing. I hear pregnant women can get needy.”  

You pulled back with a playful glare. “Excuse me?”  

“Emotionally needy. Physically clingy. Obsessed with their gorgeous footballer wives.”  

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and swatting her with it lightly. “You wish.”  

She caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, then rested it gently against the curve of your stomach.  

“Carla’s going to be so happy,” she said softly. “She loves you. And she’s going to love them too.”  

You nodded, heart full, nerves buzzing just a little.  

It was time.  

And tonight, you were finally going to share your biggest joy with one of the people who’d loved you through everything.

The restaurant was loud in that comforting way—ambient, warm, filled with clinking glasses and voices layered over upbeat music. The team had already taken over a long table at the back, some players halfway through their first round of drinks, laughter echoing as Mapi recounted something dramatic with hand gestures big enough to nearly take out a waiter.

You and Alexia walked in hand-in-hand, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, grounding you the way she always did when you were buzzing with nerves. She leaned in as you neared the table, voice low and teasing against your ear.

“You’re going to cry when you tell her, aren’t you?”

You scoffed. “Please. I’m perfectly composed.”

Alexia smirked. “You got misty-eyed at a baby socks display last week.”

“That was different. They were tiny and knitted.”

She laughed, gently squeezing your hand one last time before breaking away to greet her teammates. “I’ll buy you ten pairs if it helps you breathe right now.”

You scanned the table, and there she was—Carla, sitting on the end, already waving when she spotted you, her grin wide and chaotic as always. She made a space instantly, scooting over with a dramatic “Finally! Took you long enough!” and motioning for you to sit beside her.

You sat, nerves rolling like thunder in your chest.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, bumping your shoulder. “You look…” Her eyes narrowed, studying you for half a second too long. “…a little tired. Still fighting that virus?”

You smiled carefully. “Sort of.”

Carla turned her body toward you slightly, sipping from her drink. “You okay though? You’ve been kind of… I don’t know. Not off, just… low profile.”

Now or never.

You wet your lips and set your bag down beside your chair, shifting slightly so your knee touched hers. “Actually… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. For a while. I just—wasn’t ready before.”

Her brows lifted immediately, and the playful energy dimmed into something more focused. “Okay. What’s going on?”

You swallowed thickly, glancing down at your lap for a second before looking back at her. “I’m pregnant.”

Carla stared.

You waited.

For once in her life, she said nothing.

“I know,” you said gently, watching the shock ripple across her features. “It’s been a long road, and we weren’t sure it was going to happen, but… we’re in the second trimester now. It’s really happening.”

Her hand came to her mouth, eyes already glassy. “Wait. Wait—shut up.”

You laughed softly. “Carla—”

“You’re pregnant?!” she whispered fiercely, smacking your arm before launching herself across the small space to throw her arms around you. “You’re—oh my God, you’re—why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you held onto her. “I wanted to. We just… had a few scares. I needed to feel like it was real before I could share it.”

Carla nodded against your shoulder, still gripping you like she might not let go. “God, I’m so happy. I’m so—like, I don’t even know what to say. You’re going to be the best mama.” When she finally pulled back, she sniffled and immediately tried to laugh it off. “Ugh, I hate you for making me cry in public.”  

You wiped at your own eyes. “It had to be you tonight. I couldn’t keep it from you anymore.”

“Wait—does everyone else know?”

You shook your head. “Just family. You’re the first person from the team.”  

Her eyes went huge. “I’m honoured. I’m actually—Oh my God, does this mean I get to be the fun godmother?”  

You laughed. “You kind of already are.”  

She wiped under her eyes again, then glanced over your shoulder, and her expression shifted to mock-serious. “Tell Alexia if she doesn’t give me godmother rights, I’m stealing the baby.”  

Alexia, returning to the table with two glasses of water, slid into the seat next to you and arched an eyebrow. “Stealing our baby?” she asked dryly, handing you one glass.  

Carla grinned through her drying tears. “You heard me.”  

Alexia glanced at you, then at Carla, then smiled softly. “You can be the godmother. But only if you agree to babysit when we haven’t slept for three nights in a row.”  

Carla lifted her glass dramatically. “Done. I’ll even bring snacks.”  

The three of you clinked glasses quietly while chaos bubbled around the rest of the table. But in that little corner, with laughter and tears and secrets finally spoken, everything felt a little more real. A little more whole.  

The night hums on around you—dishes clinking, conversations overlapping, laughter rising every so often from one end of the table or the other. Carla’s still next to you, now proudly pointing out baby items on her phone she thinks are essential, including, for some reason, a bassinet shaped like a race car.

You’re in the middle of politely telling her the baby doesn’t need its own pit crew when someone stops beside the table.

“Ingrid!” you say brightly, your smile wide and honest.

She returns it, but it’s soft—slightly tight around the edges. Her eyes drift over your face, studying you in that careful way people do when they’ve been worried.

“Hey,” she says quietly, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Can I… just check in for a second?”

You nod immediately, and Carla wordlessly scoots over to give her space.

Ingrid crouches slightly to be more level with you, her eyes kind. “I didn’t want to crowd you, but I’ve been meaning to ask if you’re okay. Alexia said you’ve been unwell for a while… and when you didn’t really talk to Carla the other day, I—” she hesitates, her brow furrowing, “—I just got a bit worried.”

Your heart tugs, the genuine concern in her voice making your chest ache in a surprisingly tender way.

You glance sideways, toward Alexia, who’s been watching the exchange quietly from the other side of you. Her eyes flick to yours, and you see it there—the guilt, the unspoken truth she’s been holding onto.

She hadn’t told them because it wasn’t just her story to tell. But maybe it was time. Maybe it was time to let everyone in.

You rest your hand over Alexia’s on your knee, giving it a light squeeze.

“Lex?” you say softly. She meets your gaze, and you offer her a small, reassuring nod. “I think you should tell them now. While we’re all here.”

Her brows lift slightly. “You’re sure?”

You nod again, heart pounding in your chest, but the relief already washing over you like sunlight breaking through a long winter cloud. “I’m ready,” you whisper. “We’re ready.”

Alexia leans over and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, then turns, reaching gently for Ingrid’s hand to pull her upright.

Ingrid looks confused for a moment, eyes darting between you both, before Alexia clears her throat—just loud enough to catch the attention of those closest.

It doesn’t take long. One person notices, then another, and within seconds, the whole table begins to quiet. Heads turn. Conversations pause.

Alexia stands slowly, still holding your hand. Her voice is calm, but her eyes are lit with something electric, something trembling but proud.

“I know a few of you have been wondering why this one here,” she says, nudging you gently, “has been a little MIA lately.”

The girls around the table start murmuring—some smiling already, some just curious.

“She’s been dealing with a lot,” Alexia continues, looking down at you with soft adoration, “but not because of a bug. Or stress. Or anything of the other lies I’ve told you.”

You stand now too, the nerves bubbling under your skin like champagne, but Alexia steadies you with her hand in yours.

“She’s pregnant,” Alexia says simply.

A stunned beat.

Then—

“WHAT?!” Mapi shrieks.

“No jodas—”

“OH MY GOD—”

Chaos erupts.

Voices raise, chairs scrape as half the table jumps up in excitement. Mapi launches herself over the table like she’s diving for a trophy, nearly knocking over a candle in the process. Aitana’s mouth is hanging open in disbelief. Ingrid’s hands are covering her heart, her face softening with every second.

Carla is grinning like the cat that got the cream, proudly taking credit like she was the one who made the announcement.

And in the middle of it all, Alexia has her arm around you, her head bent to yours as you both soak in the sound of pure, unfiltered joy.

When Ingrid finally reaches you again, she doesn’t say anything right away. She just wraps you in the warmest, most genuine hug.

“I’m so happy for you,” she says into your shoulder. “You’re going to be incredible.”

You close your eyes, heart full. For the first time, you feel it completely. Now they all know. And they already love your baby like they’ve been waiting for them too.

The noise eventually settles—if only slightly.

There’s still laughter and excited voices bouncing around the room, a few players wiping away surprised tears (Aitana’s pretending not to, but her red nose gives her away), and the waitstaff bringing over more drinks and desserts with cautious smiles, clearly clocking that something big just happened.

Alexia hasn’t let go of your hand since the announcement, and you don’t want her to.

Carla’s still beaming, whispering something about how she’s going to ‘crash every family photo’ and ‘bring a suitcase to the hospital,’ while Ingrid quietly rests a hand on your back like she’s still anchoring you to the moment.

And then—of course—Mapi stands on her chair.

She clears her throat dramatically, raising a glass of something sparkly that definitely wasn’t what she originally ordered. “Everyone. Please. Shut up and give me the floor. For once in your lives.”

A few groans, some cheers, and at least one “don’t fall, Mapi” echo from across the table, but the room does fall quiet—albeit with amused, expectant grins.

She turns, facing you and Alexia directly now, her gaze more focused than usual, her smirk softening into something almost reverent.

“I make a lot of noise,” she begins, eliciting a collective “¡sí!” from the table. She ignores it with a wave. “But tonight I want to make noise for them.”

She nods at you. Then at Alexia.  

“You two have been through a lot. We all know that. And you’ve built something together that’s… unbreakable. Something strong. Something soft. Something that all of us admire more than we probably say.”

Alexia shifts beside you, clearly trying not to get misty-eyed already. You squeeze her hand tighter.  

“And now,” Mapi continues, lifting her glass higher, “you’re bringing someone new into that love. A tiny person who’s going to be ridiculously lucky from the very first breath they take. Lucky to have two mamis who already love them more than anything. Lucky to grow up with warmth and safety and laughter—and the best damn football education in the world.”  

Laughter breaks across the table, but it’s gentle, affectionate.  

Mapi’s voice softens, but her words ring clear.  

“To the little one—who doesn’t even know yet how loved they already are. Who’s going to be raised in a world full of strength, softness, and chaos. We can’t wait to meet you. We’ve got your back already.” She pauses, then adds with a wink, “And if you come out with great hair and questionable jokes, we’ll know exactly who to blame.”  

You and Alexia both burst out laughing as everyone lifts their glasses, the entire table echoing in chorus:  

“To the baby!”

The clinking of glasses surrounds you, a symphony of celebration.  

And as you press your forehead to Alexia’s, both of you laughing, a little teary, you whisper, “They’re going to have so many people in their corner.”  

Alexia nods, eyes shining. “The best team we could ever ask for.”  

And in that moment, with love wrapped around you in every direction, you feel it in your bones—this baby isn’t just coming into a family.  

They’re coming into a legacy.

actress reader and alexia please 🥺

that’s why you’re getting dw!

just putting some finishing touches on it

I'm such a softy for getting all emotional over this 🥹🥰⭐️❤️

How often does Estrella switch between calling Alexia “Ale” and “mami”??

— estrella switches between “ale” and “mami” so randomly that no one can predict it, not even alexia.

— when she’s teasing, or trying to get on alexia’s nerves, it’s usually “ale.” “ale, relax, you’re so dramatic.” “alexia, you’re literally like a hundred years old.” “ale, don’t be boring, let’s go do something fun.”

— but the second she wants something or needs comfort, it’s “mami.” “mami, can you make me food?” “mama, i’m tired.” “mami, they were mean to me.”

— the team has absolutely picked up on it. “oh, she said ‘mami’? she’s definitely trying to get something.”

— she’ll be in the middle of arguing with alexia, all attitude, throwing out “ale” every other word, but the moment alexia gives her the look, estrella shifts gears instantly. “mami, don’t be mad, i love you.”

— whenever she gets injured, no matter how minor, it’s immediately “mami” with the most pitiful look on her face. “mami, i think i’m dying.” alexia doesn’t even react anymore.

— if she’s extra sleepy or emotional, she doesn’t even realize she’s using “mami” constantly, and it always makes alexia a little soft.

— sometimes she calls her “ale” just to be annoying and immediately switches to “mami” when alexia ignores her.

— when alexia is upset, estrella gets serious and only calls her “mami” because she knows it grounds her.

— after games, especially tough ones, estrella will just walk up and mumble “mami” before leaning into alexia for a hug. no words needed.

— no matter how much she teases, no matter how much she pretends to be all big and independent, at the end of the day, estrella will always be alexia’s kid.

picture perfect | blue stars

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader, barca femeni x teen!reader

summary: you and estrella will NOT ruin this media day for alexia

notes: ITS A CROSSOVER YALL!! it’s a play on the first fic i did for estrella!

Alexia had one goal today. Just one. A perfect media day family picture with the two teenagers in her and Olga’s life. In a normal household, it wasn’t too much to ask. In the Putellas-Rios household, it was like asking someone to carry an elephant.

Because one of them lived to spread chaos like glitter in a carpet, and the other was a stubborn little rock who would rather wrestle a bear than smile for a camera.

The morning was already off to a cursed start. Alexia blinked awake, slowly registering the bright sunlight pouring into the room. A glance at her phone made her bolt upright.

“¡Mierda! I slept through all my alarms!” (Shit)

Olga, beside her, stirred groggily, still in dreamland. But before Alexia could fully panic, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen.

“JESUS CHRIST!”

Then came the shrill wail of the fire alarm.

The two women bolted out of bed like soldiers under attack, Olga yanking on a hoodie as they sprinted toward the chaos.

They arrived to find: the blender on literal fire, Estrella curled in the corner of the kitchen, screeching like a banshee, you covered in foam, wielding the fire extinguisher like a warrior in a war zone.

“What in God’s name made you put a SPOON into a blender?!” you yelled, wheeling around on Estrella once the fire fizzled out.

“I didn’t mean to!” she shouted back, still not meeting your furious eyes. “It was an accident!”

Alexia looked between the two of you, the smoke, the foam, the utter state of the kitchen, and let out the most exhausted sigh in history.

“Okay,” she began, rubbing her temples. “What. Happened.”

“She wanted a smoothie and told me to do it because she was ‘too tired to function,’” you snapped, still glaring.

“She pushed me out of the way and said I was too dumb to blend fruit,” Estrella snapped right back, standing up now with her arms crossed.

“You put a metal spoon into a blender—”

“I didn’t know it was in there!”

“You didn’t check?!”

And just like that, it devolved into a full-on mimic war.

“‘I’m sooooo serious all the time,’” Estrella mocked, lowering her voice and hunching her shoulders in a perfect (and wildly offensive) imitation of you. “‘I wake up scowling and I eat cereal like it wronged me in another life.’”

“‘Oh look at me,’” you fired back, flailing your arms around dramatically. “‘I get yellow cards for sass and call it performance art. I’m an artist, okay, not a menace.’”

“Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

“Both of you SHUT UP!” Alexia finally roared, voice bouncing off the walls. “Silencio. Ahora.” (Silence. Now.)

The silence that followed was immediate and terrified. Olga stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes narrowing like a mother hen about to throw hands.

“Couch. Now.”

Both of you shuffled over like guilty toddlers, still occasionally shooting glares at each other. You sat stiffly, arms crossed. Estrella kicked her feet and tried to whistle, failing miserably.

“I want you both to listen carefully,” Olga began, voice calm but absolutely terrifying. “You are not to go near the kitchen again today. Do you hear me?”

You both nodded.

“You are going to your rooms. You are going to get ready for media day. You are going to wear what we laid out for you. And you are going to behave like normal human beings who don’t set things on fire. ¿Entendido?” (Understood?)

“Yes, ma’am,” Estrella muttered. You grumbled something that vaguely resembled a “yes.”

“Go.”

Estrella skipped off like she’d won a prize. You groaned loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

As soon as the two of you disappeared down the hall, Alexia dropped into Olga’s arms with the grace of a dying swan.

“I just want one photo,” she moaned. “One. One where Azulita’s not scowling like she’s at a funeral and Estrella’s not making jazz hands in the background.”

“Good luck with that,” Olga chuckled, stroking her back soothingly.

“They’re impossible.”

“Our girls are… special,” Olga said, trying not to laugh.

Alexia groaned louder. “That’s the problem.”

Olga kissed her head with a grin. “You picked them, cariño.”

“No, I picked one, you brought the other, and somehow they both got your attitude.”

Olga laughed as they both turned to look at the blender wreckage.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing the cleaning supplies. “Let’s try to make the kitchen look like it wasn’t ground zero.”

Meanwhile, in Estrella’s room, the chaos was far from over.

She had a white T-shirt on the bed with black stripes drawn on it, a whistle, and a pocket full of red and yellow cards.

“I’m going as a referee this year,” she declared proudly.

You stared at her like she had grown three heads. “You’re actually insane.”

“It’s a protest.”

“A protest?”

“Yeah. Against injustice. Like all the cards I got last season. I was targeted,” she said dramatically, holding a hand to her chest. “Like a political prisoner.”

You snorted. “You told the ref she should be banned from the sport and then clapped in her face.”

“She deserved it.”

You rolled your eyes.

Estrella smirked. “What about you? Gonna smile this year? Maybe try not to look like someone just punched your cat?”

You gave her a glare so deadly it could’ve been listed as a weapon. “Say that again and I will hide all your cards before we leave.”

“Try me, stoneface.”

You lunged at her with a pillow.

She shrieked.

And down the hall, Olga and Alexia exchanged a long, knowing look as they wiped down the counters.

“Ten bucks says they ruin the group photo again,” Alexia muttered.

“Twenty,” Olga grinned.

The drive to the training facility was…tense. Alexia sat in the driver’s seat, one hand clutching the wheel, the other pinching the bridge of her nose like it was the only thing holding her sanity together. In the passenger seat, you had your hoodie pulled up and arms crossed, glaring out the window like someone had personally offended your bloodline. In the backseat, Estrella was humming a suspiciously upbeat tune, kicking her feet and clearly up to no good.

Alexia knew that tune. It was the same one Estrella sang before trying to convince their team physio she’d developed narcolepsy to get out of fitness testing. This was not a good sign.

“Okay,” Alexia began, her voice tight with the kind of hope only a truly desperate parent has. “Please. I’m begging you both. Just this once. Can we have a normal media day? Please.”

“Define normal,” Estrella said innocently from the back.

“One where no one ends up banned from the press area, no one photobombs every teammate’s headshot, and no one fake-cries on camera for attention.”

“You told me to be authentic,” Estrella shot back with a grin. “Those tears were real. Real artistry.”

“You got into a fake argument with the mascot last year,” Alexia reminded her, voice rising. “It ended with you giving him a yellow card and yelling, ‘Read the rulebook, rat!’”

“He was offside!” Estrella protested. “Mascots should play by the rules too!”

Alexia closed her eyes. Counted to ten. It did nothing.

She turned to you next. “And you. Please don’t scowl in every photo like we’re at a funeral. You’re beautiful. Just smile.”

You huffed, still staring out the window. “I’ll smile when Estrella stops breathing.”

“Oh my God,” Alexia groaned.

“Fair,” Estrella muttered.

“Please. I’m serious. I just want one nice family picture,” Alexia pleaded, eyes darting between the two of you. “One. That’s it. For my desk. For the wall. For my sanity.”

“Fine,” you both mumbled at the same time, in the same tone of someone agreeing to do chores under duress.

The moment she pulled into the parking lot, you both flung the doors open and bolted like escaped zoo animals.

“I didn’t even park yet!” Alexia yelled after you. “WE TALKED ABOUT EXITING LIKE HUMANS!”

But you were gone. You’d vanished into the building like media day goblins. Alexia stared at the empty seats, her soul slowly peeling off her body. She laid her head against the steering wheel and let out a groan so deep it echoed into another dimension.

A few cars down, Fridolina Rolfö paused mid-sip of her smoothie and turned to Lucy Bronze, who was leaning against the hood of her car.

“…Did you hear that?”

Lucy nodded slowly. “Sounded like someone just got their soul crushed.”

They exchanged a look before making their way over. Frido tapped on the car window. Alexia lifted her head just enough to look like a haunted Victorian ghost.

“Are you… okay?” Frido asked gently.

“No,” Alexia mumbled into the steering wheel.

“What happened?” Lucy asked, already smirking.

Alexia sat up and pointed a dramatic finger in the direction you both had disappeared. “They happened.”

“Which one?”

“Both.” Alexia threw her hands up. “Estrella has something hidden in her backpack. I know it. She’s got that face. The ‘I’m planning chaos’ face. And you—” She gestured vaguely in the direction you had stomped off. “—are in a mood. And I have six interviews today. I cannot babysit two menaces and pretend to be a media darling at the same time. I just want one nice picture. ONE. And I’m gonna end up with Estrella dressed up as god knows what and her sister looking like she’s on her way to commit arson.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Did she actually bring a costume?” Lucy asked, trying not to laugh.

“She claims it’s a protest,” Alexia muttered. “Against… being carded too much. I don’t even know anymore.”

Frido smiled sympathetically and patted Alexia’s shoulder. “I’ll get her to smile.”

Lucy grinned and cracked her knuckles. “And I’ll wrangle Estrella.”

“You would do that for me?” Alexia asked, looking up like she’d just seen angels.

“Absolutely,” Frido said. “But I expect baked goods in return.”

“And I want to be in the good Christmas card this year,” Lucy added.

“Done,” Alexia said, already digging into her glove compartment for emergency thank-you snacks. “There’s chocolate in here if you survive.”

Lucy grabbed a mini Snickers. “I’m going in.”

Frido cracked her neck like she was preparing for battle. “Operation: Smile Like You Mean It begins now.”

As they walked off toward the facility, Alexia stayed behind just a moment longer, staring out the windshield.

“They’re lucky they’re cute,” she muttered, before finally exiting the car to deal with the mess her life had become.

Little did she know, inside the building, Estrella was already putting the whistle around her neck and practicing her best “foul!” voice, while you sat next to a very confused makeup artist silently radiating “do not touch me” energy.

This was going to be a long day.

“Leave me alone, Frido.”

Frido gave you a look. Not a mad look. Not a disappointed look. No, it was worse. It was her “I’m gonna smile at you until you cave” look. The one that had defeated many before you. But you were made of stronger stuff. Hardened by teenage angst, Estrella’s nonsense, and the agony of being dragged to media day against your will.

“I need a smile, kärlek. Captain’s orders,” Frido said, sitting down beside you as the camera crew finished setting up. (Love)

“Leave me alone,” you repeated, staring straight ahead like a statue in witness protection.

“Don’t worry,” the media manager chirped. “We’re just gonna play a fun little game of ‘Who’s Most Likely To?’ Should be quick, easy, and full of laughs!”

Frido beamed. You blinked. Slowly.

“Let’s start with an easy one,” the interviewer said, chipper as ever. “Who’s most likely to oversleep and miss training?”

“Estrella,” you and Frido said at the same time.

“Because she sets seven alarms and sleeps through all of them,” you added flatly.

Frido nodded. “It’s like a symphony of chaos. Honestly impressive.”

“Not when she drags me down with her.”

The interviewer laughed nervously. “Okay! Next one… Who’s most likely to cry during a sad movie?”

“Frido,” you answered immediately.

Frido gasped, clutching her chest. “What? I am not—”

“You cried when the dog in that commercial found his way home.”

“That dog had resilience!”

You stared at her, deadpan. “It was a detergent commercial.”

“HE SMELLED HIS FAMILY.”

The interviewer was losing it. “Okay, next, who’s most likely to get in trouble on media day?”

There was a beat. Both of you said, “Estrella.”

At that exact moment, as if summoned by the sheer force of your mutual exasperation, Estrella leapt into frame like a caffeinated raccoon, launching herself onto your back with an obnoxiously gleeful “WHEEEEE!”

Your soul left your body. Your expression didn’t change, but your eyes said, ‘I am about to commit a crime on camera.’

You stood up, Estrella clinging to your back like a koala, and in one clean motion, threw her off.

“Unhand me, chaos demon,” you said, brushing yourself off.

Estrella hit the bean bag beside the set, bounced up like it was a trampoline, and tackled you to the floor. The camera was still rolling and the media team was thriving. One guy was nearly in tears from laughter.

“Get OFF!” you yelled, grabbing Estrella in a headlock. “You smell like glitter glue and Red Bull!”

“You love it here!” she screamed back, wrapping her legs around your waist like she was practicing jiu-jitsu.

Enter, Lucy and Frido, both with the resigned energy of babysitters at a sugar-fueled sleepover.

“Why is she always on her back?!” Lucy barked, grabbing Estrella by the collar and yanking her off you like she was pulling a cat off a curtain rod.

Frido tried to help you up, only for you to swat her hand away. “I got it,” you muttered, smoothing your slick back with a grumble. “I’m already emotionally injured.”

Estrella was still kicking in Lucy’s arms like a rabid possum. “I had a whole monologue prepared!”

“No,” Lucy said, deadpan. “No monologues.”

“No more caffeine,” Frido added. “And no more sneaking onto interviews!”

The Barca media crew was thrilled. The whole scene went viral within the hour. Clips of your dead-eyed glare as Estrella launched herself onto you were already trending. Fans were obsessed.

“Me when my sibling breathes.”

“She’s fighting for her life.”

“Barça should make a reality show of just these two.”

You were not amused.

The media room at Ciutat Esportiva was packed. Journalists buzzing, cameras flashing, a Barça banner perfectly centered behind the long table where four chairs sat.

In those chairs was, Fridolina Rolfö, poised and smiling. Lucy Bronze, polished and charming. You, arms crossed and already three minutes into regretting everything. And Estrella, practically vibrating in her seat with chaotic energy, legs swinging, sunglasses on indoors, and what looked like a whistle clipped to her collar.

“Thank you all for coming to this special Barcelona Femení media panel,” the moderator began, chipper like they hadn’t just walked into a lion’s den. “Let’s start with a fun one, who on the team brings the best vibes to training?”

Frido leaned into her mic, smiling softly. “I think Patri always brings calm, but also a lot of joy. And Vicky too, she’s young, but she lights up the room.”

Lucy nodded. “Agreed. And obviously, Jana. She’s hilarious even when she doesn’t try to be.”

Estrella threw her hand up like she was in class. “I bring vibes too. Not good ones, but definitely powerful ones.”

The room chuckled. You stared at her, unimpressed.

“My vibes,” she added, leaning forward, “are disruptive. Unfiltered. Deliciously unpredictable.”

Frido let out a nervous laugh. “Yes, Estrella certainly… brings something.”

The moderator pivoted quickly. “Let’s move on. What’s one personal goal you’ve set for the second half of the season?”

“Win the Champions League,” Frido said confidently.

“Stay healthy and keep building our defensive chemistry,” Lucy followed.

Estrella leaned back in her chair. “I would like to… not get carded for saying someone’s haircut looks like a crime.”

You slowly turned your head to her. Glared.

She burst out laughing.

The moderator, barely keeping it together, turned to you. “And you?”

You leaned into the mic, monotone. “Stay out of trouble.”

Estrella wheezed.

You didn’t blink. Just turned to her again with the slow, soul-piercing glare of an older sibling who’s so over this.

“Okay,” the moderator said, definitely enjoying the growing tension, “If you weren’t footballers, what do you think you’d be doing?”

Frido thought for a second, “I’d probably still be in something athletic. Maybe coaching or sports science.”

Lucy nodded. “I always liked kids, so maybe something in education.”

“I’d be a DJ-slash-Instagram-meme-page admin.” Estrella answered, getting scattered laughs.

You blinked. “So…unemployed.”

She slapped the table, laughing so loud a camera wobbled. “YOU’RE JEALOUS.”

You turned to her fully now. “Jealous of what? Your TikTok addiction or your suspension record?”

“Those cards were political!”

“No, they were because you told a ref, ‘Your eyebrows are uneven and so is your judgment.’”

“It was accurate!”

The moderator was now wheezing behind their cue cards. The media room was eating it up. Phones were out. Recordings were on. Journalists were openly laughing.

Frido and Lucy exchanged slow, exhausted glances like they’d rehearsed this before.

“Girls,” Frido said, her voice cutting through the chaos like a disappointed kindergarten teacher. “Can we not fight in front of fifty journalists?”

You and Estrella froze like you were being told off by your mom in public.

Simultaneously, you both muttered, “She started it.”

“I literally didn’t,” Estrella hissed.

Frido gave you both the look— the one that promised consequences if you didn’t reel it in. So you sat back in your chair, arms crossed, your expression once again returning to emotionally bankrupt.

Estrella slumped in hers with a dramatic sigh, muttering something about “oppression.”

The moderator looked like they wanted to kiss Frido’s feet for regaining control.

“Well then! Next question… which of your teammates would survive a zombie apocalypse?”

Frido blinked, considering. “Caro.”

Lucy nodded. “Definitely Caro. She’d build a bunker.”

You leaned in. “I’d feed Estrella to the zombies.”

Estrella, without missing a beat, “I’d taste delicious.”

The entire room lost it. Even Frido laughed, despite herself, while Lucy shook her head, fully regretting ever agreeing to this.

The hallway outside the Barça media photo room was tense. Frido and Lucy stood in front of you and Estrella like two parents about to deliver the most intense heart-to-heart of their lives. You were slumped in your chair, chewing gum like it had offended you. Estrella had her feet propped on a stool and was flipping a whistle around her finger like she was about to cause a security lockdown.

Frido clapped her hands once, loud and sharp.

“Okay. Listen up.”

Estrella blinked, “Yes, coach.”

Frido narrowed her eyes. “Don’t test me.”

Lucy stepped in, folding her arms. “We need to talk about what this day means. To Alexia.”

That made Estrella pause. You looked up briefly, suspicious.

“She’s been planning this media day for months,” Frido said, softening a bit. “You two are all she talks about. She’s been telling everyone how good these pictures are going to be. She’s picked out spots in the house. She has frames ready.”

“She has a Pinterest board,” Lucy added grimly. “A Pinterest board, guys.”

“She rehearsed her smile,” Frido said. “In the mirror.”

“She’s printed reference poses!” Lucy said, scandalized.

Estrella’s mouth parted slightly. “Wait, for real?”

Frido nodded solemnly. “And she said and I quote: ‘These are going to be the kind of pictures that make me feel like my little family is complete.’”

You and Estrella exchanged a slow, loaded look. Your brows furrowed. Her whistle stopped spinning. The hallway went silent.

Lucy whispered to Frido out of the corner of her mouth, “What’s happening?”

Frido whispered back, “I don’t know. Should we stop them?”

“Are they communicating telepathically?”

“What if they’re plotting our demise?”

“Then it was a good run.”

Then you both stood up simultaneously. You, cracking your knuckles. Estrella, cracking her neck.

Frido and Lucy both took a cautious step back.

You looked Lucy dead in the eyes and said, “Fine. For Alexia.”

Estrella adjusted her oversized sunglasses. “Let’s go take these damn pictures.”

Inside the photo room, Alexia stood near the backdrop, nervously checking her phone. She was already in her kit, hair done, looking every bit the Captain of Chaos Control. She had asked the photographer three times if he had enough battery. She was two seconds away from pacing a groove into the floor.

Then the door opened. You strolled in, hands in your pockets, chewing gum with purpose. Estrella followed behind, uncharacteristically calm, not a single whistle in sight.

Alexia blinked like she was hallucinating.

You stopped in front of her. “Let’s get this over with.”

Estrella patted her shoulder. “Let’s make history, Mami.”

Alexia looked behind them, expecting Frido and Lucy to jump out and yell ‘Surprise! They’re AI clones!’ But nothing happened.

Then, miracle of miracles: you and Estrella took your places on either side of her. Smiling. Genuinely.

The photographer blinked in disbelief.

“Alright, let’s start!” he said.

You didn’t groan. Estrella didn’t pull out a clown nose. Nobody shoved anyone off a stool.

The three of you smiled like a perfectly coordinated little football family. Estrella rested her head on Alexia’s shoulder for one. You put your arm around her waist in another. There was even one where Alexia turned to kiss the tops of both your heads while you pretended not to be touched by it.

When it was done, Alexia just stood there, blinking like she was going to cry.

“You guys…” she said softly. “You actually…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Estrella said, waving her off, “don’t get emotional. That’s your job.”

You rolled your eyes. “This better get me out of the next five interviews.”

Alexia was already pulling you both into a hug. “I love you guys.”

Estrella mumbled, “Whatever.”

But she didn’t pull away.

Two weeks later, the framed photo sat proudly above the fireplace in Alexia’s house, perfectly centered, with the caption “My Girls” etched underneath.

Another copy hung right at the entrance of Eli’s house, where no one could miss it. Eli cried when she saw it. Alba teased her for days.

Alexia pointed to it every time someone walked in. “Look at them. Look at my beautiful, normal family.”

Meanwhile, you and Estrella walked by it every day like you didn’t plan the whole thing telepathically.

“Should we tell her?” Estrella once whispered.

You deadpanned, “Let her believe in miracles.”

And Alexia still smiled every time she saw it. Even when Estrella was banned from two training sessions for trying to ref a scrimmage again. Even when you got another warning for telling a La Liga photographer to “crop your face out or else.”

Because no matter what, that picture existed. And to her, it was perfect.

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.

Word Count: 5k

The stadium is humming before kickoff — not with noise, but energy. That kind of low, anticipatory buzz that settles over everything like mist. Golden hour pours across the pitch, turning white lines soft and shadows long. You step out into it and feel the heat of the turf rise through your boots. The crowd’s not huge, but they’re close. Intimate. Every sound sharp and personal.

Then you see her.

Alexia.

She’s across the pitch, tying her laces with a calm that feels choreographed. Head down, then up. Hair pulled back into that signature ponytail, a strip of white tape wrapped neat around her left wrist. There's no announcement of her presence — just the quiet command of someone who doesn't need one. She's not looking at you, but you feel it anyway. The pull.

Warm-ups blur. You stretch out, chase touches, listen half-heartedly to the pre-match talk. But your focus — truly — stays across the halfway line. You’re not meant to mark her directly. Doesn’t matter. You’re already watching her like it’s your job.

Kickoff comes.

You move like you always do: quick, precise, sharp in the tackle. But this time, every shift of your weight seems to carry an extra purpose — an undercurrent of something... else. She's not in your zone, but she drifts there, like smoke, like she knows you’ll follow.

And you do.

She gets her first touch near the sideline. You’re too far to challenge, but you press anyway, closing space. Not urgent — just enough to let her know you’re there. Her first pass is perfect, of course. But as she turns away, she glances back. Not long. Just a blink. But it hits you low in the ribs.

You're in this now.

Minutes later, she receives it centrally. You close her down — this time properly. She shields, body between you and the ball. You press tighter than necessary. Not reckless. Just firm. She leans back into you — a subtle shift of weight, a muscle twitch against your torso. You stay with her, step for step.

Then she spins.

Clean. Sharp.

You miss the interception by inches, but you recover and chase her all the way to the flank. When the play resets, she jogs by you — not fast, not slow — and there's a flash of amusement in her eyes. Not quite a smile. Not yet. Just a promise.

She’s enjoying this.

So are you.

You start to anticipate her. Not just tactically — intuitively. She moves left, you’re already drifting. She checks her run, and somehow your feet do too. You find her even when you don’t mean to. When she ghosts into the pocket between the lines, you're already there, shoulder brushing hers before the pass arrives.

There’s a tension, electric and unspoken, in every overlap.

It builds.

On a through ball in the 18th, she breaks the line. Perfect run. You’re chasing, watching the flag — and then it goes up. Offside.

She stops with a shake of her head, arms slightly raised, frustrated but composed. Not dramatic. She turns like she might say something, eyes scanning the assistant ref — then she catches you jogging past, lips already tugging upward.

You tilt your head, a little smirk playing on your mouth, and lock eyes just long enough to let her know: "you were" you mutter in amusement.

Her expression falters for just a moment. The corner of her lips tighten — the beginning of a grin that dies before it can bloom as her hand wipes over her mouth. You watch it fall away. The air between you goes warmer. Denser.

She says nothing. But her gaze lingers.

Later, in the box for a corner, she finds you again. Neither of you are jumping for this one, not really — it’s too wide, too slow. But you stand shoulder to shoulder anyway. Her forearm presses lightly against yours, not enough to draw notice, but enough to feel every twitch of her movement. You don’t look at her. You don’t need to. You feel her looking.

The ball’s cleared. Still, neither of you move.

The longer the game stretches, the more your duels feel like choreography — like you’re dancing just behind the game itself. Winning balls, losing them. Pushing, pulling. Touches that linger. Eyes that hold just long enough to mean something.

In the 37th minute, you dive in for a challenge at midfield and win it — clean, sharp, textbook. She goes down, just barely, catching herself on one hand as you pass forward. When you glance back over your shoulder, she’s still on one knee, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You turn back around.

But you feel her eyes.

The tackles bite a little harder. The spaces close faster. The tension between you both thickens. She doesn't smirk anymore — not like before. Now it’s all controlled glances, occasional brushes of contact, her hand lingering on your hip just half a second longer when you battle for position. On one late run, she taps your calf with her toe as she passes behind. You pretend not to notice. She knows you did.

There’s another corner in the 40th. You’re standing close again, tighter this time. Her arm slips across your back as she maneuvers for position, then stays there — soft, light, grounding. You don’t move away. You don't breathe, really. Just watch the ball float in, both of you static. Eyes locked.

Neither of you jump.

It’s not about the ball.

In the 43rd minute, she makes a diagonal run into the box. You follow — again, unnecessarily — but this time you don’t stop. She cuts across you, brushing close, and her hand grazes your side. This time you’re the one who lingers, your arm trailing across her shoulder as you jockey. No one else sees it. But the spark of it pulses down your spine.

When the cross sails over, you don’t even notice.

The whistle finally comes. Half time. You 0 - Barcelona 3

The score is blurry. You barely registered the last five minutes of play. All you know is that you’re breathless, sweat-soaked, pulse still chasing her down the tunnel. You're about to walk toward your teammates when you feel it — a soft slide of skin on the back of your hand.

Her knuckles.

She passes behind you, close enough for her shoulder to graze yours. No words. Just that fleeting contact.

You turn slightly, catching the edge of her profile.

And she glances back.

Not a smile. Not this time.

Just eyes — warm, locked onto yours — and the kind of look that lives in the space between challenge and confession.

Then she disappears into the shadow of the tunnel.

The locker room is muffled noise and static. Coach’s voice floats somewhere above you, strategy and structure laid out in practiced rhythm. But none of it sticks. Not really. Your chest is still tight — not from exhaustion, but from the way she looked at you before vanishing into the tunnel.

That gaze hasn't left your skin.

0–3. You should be crushed. Instead, you're electric.

You step back onto the pitch with a pulse in your veins that has nothing to do with the scoreline. You scan the field, the sideline, then finally — you see her.

Alexia.

Hands on hips, head tilted slightly, watching you under the lights like she knows what’s coming. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. She just waits.

Kickoff again.

From the whistle, your touch sharpens. You start playing like your body remembers how good it feels to win balls off her. To beat her to second touches. To be seen by her. You stretch into space, call for the ball more often. Her presence drifts near you — still not marking, but always present, always there.

In the 52nd minute, you cut inside from the wing and bury a low shot past the keeper’s left glove.

1–3.

You don't celebrate hard. Just turn away, chest heaving, pulse pounding. And when you glance toward the halfway line, she's watching. One brow raised. Almost impressed.

Almost.

The next ten minutes, she turns it up. You can feel it — the snap in her passes, the bite in her shoulder when you challenge. She knocks you off the ball once — clean, strong, fierce — and when you fall, she walks past you without breaking stride. But you catch the subtle tilt of her head. She’s waiting to see if you’ll rise.

You do.

By the 70th, the crowd has leaned back in. The buzz is back. That mist from before has thickened into fog. You’re everywhere now. Chasing, creating, pressing. You intercept a loose pass, beat two defenders, and curl one in from the edge of the box.

2–3.

You sprint toward the corner flag, teammates crashing into you. But even as they pile on, your eyes find hers. She’s standing still, hands on hips again — chest rising, jaw tight. The look she gives you isn’t frustration. It’s something deeper. Something personal. You’re not just clawing your team back into the game.

You’re matching her.

And she knows it.

Now, the duels between you are heavier. Every shared breath on a corner. Every chase down the sideline. Her hand grazes your hip again. Yours brushes her shoulder. Neither of you say a word. But your bodies speak in contact, in rhythm. There’s nothing casual anymore — not even the fouls. She clips your ankle lightly in the 77th. You fall, roll, rise — and jog past her with a grin tugging at the edge of your mouth. Her eyes flick to your lips.

Neither of you are pretending this is just football anymore.

The minutes crawl.

88th minute. Your team is pushing. The crowd rises. You feel the shape of the game bend in your direction. She’s deeper now, tracking back more, drawn toward your gravitational pull.

You find the space.

Wide right. Diagonal ball over the top. You take it down on the run, one touch to settle. One touch to beat the final defender. The keeper comes out.

You lift it.

It floats — slow, perfect — into the far corner.

3–3.

The stadium erupts. Your teammates catch you in a hurricane of arms and cheers, but your chest is heaving like it’s only the start. You jog back toward the halfway line, high on adrenaline, sweat slick down your spine.

And she’s there.

Standing in the center circle, hands on her thighs, staring at you like she’s not sure whether she wants to shake your hand or pull you closer.

You walk past her. This time, it’s your hand that brushes hers — deliberate, light.

She doesn’t move it away.

When the final whistle blows, it doesn’t sound like an end.

It sounds like a pause.

You're walking around doing the customary slapping of the opponents hands when you feel her behind you. Close again, like earlier, like always. The brush of her arm. The soft knock of her shoulder into yours.

But this time she doesn’t pass.

She stops beside you.

Neither of you speak.

You just look at each other. Fully, finally. No smirks. No glances.

And then she nods — small, private — like a secret just between you and her, puts her hand up you slap it she taps your arm as she gives your hand a gentle squeeze and keeps going.

⚽️

Your apartment is still and low-lit, the only sound the occasional creak from the radiator and the soft shuffle of your post-match playlist bleeding from your phone speaker. You’re sunk deep into the corner of the couch, hoodie loose over your shoulders, thighs still sore and buzzing in that heavy, satisfying way. Hair wet from the shower. Muscles stretched, feet up, heart finally slowing.

The match feels like it happened in another life — but the images flicker in your head on a loop: the goals, the crowd, the corner flag, her.

Alexia. Her look. Her touch. That nearly-smile in the tunnel.

You’ve barely let yourself process it, haven’t said a word about it to anyone. It’s like holding something delicate in your hands, afraid the air might break it.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh.

Ellie 🧤: Oi you absolute menace That last goal was disgusting 😮‍💨🔥

You grin, typing back with your free hand.

You: Had to give your defense nightmares somehow 😇 You good?

Ellie: Yeah yeah, I’m fine. Cata got a hand to your second though lol Also 👀

You pause, then watch the typing bubble start and stop.

Ellie: You’ll love this Alexia literally hasn’t shut up about you since the game ended lol

You blink. Sit up a little straighter.

You: … What do you mean?

Ellie: I mean she was in the locker room like 'number 7 is so intelligent on the ball' and 'did you see how she peeled off the shoulder??' And then she hit us with 'that third goal was world class' and just sat there smiling like she had a secret You should’ve seen her lol

Your pulse trips over itself. That heat from earlier — the kind that sat just under your skin during the match — is back, blooming warm in your chest, up your neck.

You reread the texts. Twice.

You: Shut up.

Ellie: I’m DEAD serious. She looked like she was replaying the game in her head like it was her favorite film. Like she knew something we didn’t.

You laugh under your breath, phone balanced against your knee, teeth sinking lightly into your bottom lip.

You: Maybe she does

You lean back, exhaling slow. You should be tired — spent, even — but you’re more awake than ever. The city hums beyond your window, lights dancing across your ceiling, and in the quiet… your mind drifts again.

To her.

To the touch of her hand at your back. The weight of her stare after your third goal. That unspoken thing passing between you on the pitch.

And now this.

You stare at your phone.

Your thumb hovers over her name.

You haven’t followed her yet.

Not officially.

But maybe it’s time to stop pretending this was just a game.

⚽️

You step out onto the pitch like you’ve been here before.

Same golden light. Same soft shadows drawn long across the turf. Same crowd gathered tight in the stands, every voice blurred into a single heartbeat.

But this time — it’s different.

This time, you’re walking out with a name humming under your skin.

Alexia.

It hasn’t left you since the last match — since her hand brushed yours, since Ellie’s text sent your pulse spiralling, since you caught yourself watching her clips like they might explain the way she watched you that day.

You haven’t spoken since. Not directly. But she followed you on Instagram.

No message. Just the follow. Quiet. Bold. Certain.

And now here you are — return fixture. Barcelona away. Everything on the line, but the only pressure you feel is the question hanging in the air like smoke:

Will she play it the same… or will she play it different?

You don’t have to wait long for the answer.

Kickoff comes.

She finds you inside the first minute. No ball. No contact. Just… proximity. A drift. Like gravity pulling her orbit to match yours. You’re pressing high, eyes scanning the field, when you feel her behind you. That familiar hum. That presence.

You glance over your shoulder.

She’s watching you.

You hold her gaze for a breath too long, then break into a sprint. The ball zips past the midfield, and you're on it like instinct, slicing between defenders, teasing space. You don’t get the shot — not yet — but you force the corner. Crowd rises. You walk to the flag, head high, and you know she’s there behind you.

She always is.

This time, her hand grazes your back as you step into position. Light. Intentional. No words.

Just heat.

The ball curls in. You leap. She does too. You collide midair — elbows and ribs, breath against neck — and the ball sails over both of you. When you land, you stumble slightly, and she steadies you. Briefly. Her hand presses against your lower back. You freeze for a moment, chest rising fast.

Still, no words.

Just her hand, steady. Familiar. Dangerous.

The game builds. Faster than last time. More physical. You’re both sharper, and it shows. Shoulder to shoulder, you clash again and again — not careless, but not gentle either. She fouls you once near the touchline, a tactical trip. You hit the grass, roll once, then push up to your knees.

You expect her to be jogging away.

But she’s right there, offering her hand.

You take it. You don’t have a choice, really.

She pulls you up with one firm tug, her hand wrapping around yours a second longer than necessary. Your bodies stay close. Breaths overlapping. Her eyes search yours like she’s waiting for something — for a crack in the façade, or maybe a confirmation.

You give her a smirk.

It’s the only language either of you have spoken all game.

Second half begins. It’s 1–1. Everything on edge.

You catch her drifting wide, and this time you cut her off clean. Shoulder check. Controlled aggression. She presses back into you, muscles flexing. The ball’s already gone, but neither of you pull away. Your forearm brushes hers, your wrist against her side. Neither of you move.

Then she laughs.

Not loud — just a breath. A soft exhale that hits your collarbone.

She steps away. You're left standing still.

And you’re furious at how much you want to chase.

75th minute. The pitch has grown heavy. Legs are tired. But your mind is sharp, zeroed in. You receive the ball at the edge of the box, flick it inside, cut past one, then another. She’s there — the last one between you and the goal.

You don't slow down.

She doesn’t either.

You meet.

Hard. Messy. Beautiful.

The ball moves loose to your teammate, who slams it into the back of the net.

2–1.

The stadium erupts.

You don’t hear it.

You’re still tangled up with her — half-standing, half-falling, your hands on her shoulders, her fingers curling around your jersey. She’s not letting go.

Neither are you.

Still no words.

But her eyes? They say everything. You both help steady each other before you jog off to celebrate, head spinning, throat dry, lungs full of heat and grass and her perfume.

When the final whistle comes — 2–2, again — it feels like unfinished business. You both played like the scoreboard didn’t matter. Like the real game wasn’t in goals.

It was in moments. In looks. In touches. In silence.

You walk the pitch following the play. You hear her behind you. Again. But this time, when she brushes your hand, lingering longer than before.

The score hangs on a knife’s edge now. 2–2 on the night. 5–5 on aggregate.

You’re in extra time now. Legs gone heavy. Lungs burning. Every run feels like a risk, every breath costs more than it did a minute ago. But you’re still here — still moving — because it matters. Because it’s Barcelona.

Even now, even in the thick of it, you know where Alexia is. Always. She’s the hum behind every decision, the silhouette in your peripheral, the rhythm in your heartbeat when the ball lands near her boots.

But you’re not watching her as much now.

Now, it’s survival.

You trade blows, chances. Cata Coll makes two saves that keep you breathing. You make one darting run into the box that nearly finishes it. Nearly. But not quite.

Then the final whistle comes.

Still level.

It goes to penalties.

The huddle is tight, arms around shoulders, heads pressed in. You can feel your pulse in your fingertips, in your temples, in the way the coach looks at you when they ask if you’ll take one.

You nod.

Not because you want to.

But because you have to.

Cata’s in goal for them now. Alexia stands off to the side with the rest of the squad — arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes not on the keeper…

But on you.

One by one, the shots come. Your team scores. They score. You save. They miss. They save. You miss. It builds. Evens. Spirals.

Until it comes down to you.

Final kick. Final player.

Score — and you send your team to the semifinals. Miss — and it’s over. Right here. Right now.

You step forward, boots dragging just slightly across the spot. The crowd has gone quiet — not silent, but that strange kind of stillness where every sound feels wrapped in cotton. Your breath. Your heartbeat. A faraway whistle. You set the ball down and step back.

Cata bounces lightly on the line, gloves flexing.

You exhale. Then take your steps. One. Two. Strike.

You hit it clean. Driven. Left corner. It’s going in. It should go in.

But her glove flashes.

Cata gets a fingertip. Just enough.

The ball lifts — not wildly, not violently. Just enough.

You watch it rise, helpless, as it spins over the crossbar.

And then it’s done.

The stadium erupts — not for you.

You drop to your haunches.

Head down. Hands on your knees.

You don’t cry — not yet — but your throat is full of glass and your chest is caving in. You stare at the turf, at the spot where the ball used to be. Still breathing like you’re running. But it’s over.

You hear it before you see it — the celebration. Barcelona flooding Cata. Alexia somewhere in the centre of it, jumping, shouting. Your world in reverse.

But then you feel hands.

Your team. One hand on your back. Another on your shoulder. A voice murmuring something — low, reassuring, breaking.

You don’t move right away. You just crouch there. Let it hurt.

It was yours to win. And it slipped.

Through fingertips. Through inches. Through fate.

And you’re left kneeling on the turf whilst she's in euphoria, still breathing through the weight of it all, your team lifting you up, arms around your shoulders as they pull you back toward the locker room.

This wasn’t the ending you wanted.

-

You stay where you are long after it’s over.

The crowd is still loud. Barcelona’s players are still flying, clinging to each other like magnets drawn together by joy. Somewhere in the tangle of blue and red, Cata is being swarmed. You can hear her name rising from the stands, tossed around in chants and celebration.

You stay rooted to the spot.

The grass beneath your boots feels heavier now, like it’s holding you in place. Hands on hips, lungs dragging in air like it might steady you. But nothing settles.

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

And when you open them again, she's in your line of sight.

Alexia.

Not jumping. Not screaming. Just standing back from the crowd, watching them — and maybe, just maybe, watching you too.

You wipe your face with the hem of your shirt. Not to cry — not yet. But because something about the air suddenly stings. The sweat, the weight of it, the sting of almost.

You draw in a breath and turn away.

Not toward the tunnel.

Not yet.

You walk instead to the far side, to the small clutch of away fans still standing, still clapping. Flags over the railings. Hands outstretched. Faces flushed with effort and hope and heartbreak.

You jog slowly toward them, nodding, lifting one hand in thanks — then the other waving. You press your palm to a few hands. Sign a shirt handed over the barrier. Take a photo with a young girl in your kit who’s still trying not to cry, even though you just did too.

You stay there longer than you should.

Because it matters.

Because they matter.

Because even in this moment — especially in this moment — showing up matters.

When you finally turn back toward the tunnel, the pitch is emptier. Quieter. Most of your team is gone. The lights still shine down like they haven’t noticed it’s over.

You glance once more toward midfield.

She’s still there.

The celebration has died down but the elation still electric between the players.

You exhale, tuck your chin to your chest, and start the slow walk off the field.

You don’t rush.

You carry the silence with you.

Your head still fogged, shirt clinging damp to your skin. The stadium’s quieter now. The away end’s still murmuring, and the Barcelona fans are singing, but the intensity’s dulled. It’s not roaring anymore — it’s echoing.

You’re halfway to the tunnel when you hear footsteps. Not loud. Measured. Deliberate. You look up, and she’s coming toward you. Alexia.

Still in full kit, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to her neck. She’s pulling gently at the collar of her shirt, stretching it slightly with her fingers. A silent question.

You know what it means. Your breath catches — just a little. You nod. Slow. Silent.

You peel your own shirt off and hand it over, heart thudding a little harder now than it did when you stepped up to take that penalty. Her fingers brush yours as she takes it, and she holds your gaze for a moment longer than needed before swapping.

Then, just as you start to pull her shirt over your head, she steps forward. Arms out. And pulls you into a hug. Not a polite one.

Not a professional, pat-on-the-back, good-game kind of hug.

A real one. Full-bodied. Honest. Warm.

You freeze for half a second — caught off guard — then melt into it, your forehead resting lightly against her shoulder, her arms around your back, strong and sure.

“You were unbelievable,” she murmurs against your ear, voice low and soft. You close your eyes, tears threatening yet again, the slight kindness chipping at the wall keeping your tears back like a dam “I mean it,” she adds. “You didn’t deserve that ending.” Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. “I’ve played against a lot of players,” she continues, pulling back just enough to look at you — not stepping away. “But you? You had us on edge all night.”

There’s something in her eyes when she says it. Not pity. Not consolation. Something sharper. Something deeper. Admiration. Respect. Something else. You manage a smile. Just a small one. But it’s real. “Thank you,” you murmur.

She gives a small shake of her head, still holding you at the elbows, “You’ve got nothing to hang your head about. Not tonight.”

You look down. At the shirt in your hands — hers. Still warm. Still carrying her scent, her sweat, the imprint of a game that changed something between you.

She finally lets go, steps back. And then — the faintest smile. The first one all night.

You watch her, your shirt already pulled on, number bold between her shoulder blades. You’re still standing there. Shirtless. Breathless.

And for the first time since that penalty… You're not thinking about the miss.

The floodlights are still burning overhead, casting long, tired shadows across the grass. The pitch is mostly cleared now — a few staff, some security, the odd Barcelona player still lingering near the dugouts. But for the most part, it’s just you and her.

You’ve both started walking. Side by side. Slow. Neither of you seem in a rush to leave the moment.

You’re still holding her shirt loosely in your fingers. She’s already wearing yours.

There’s a silence between you that doesn’t feel heavy anymore — just full. Soft. Comfortable in the way shared experience allows.

Alexia’s the first to speak.

“That second goal of yours…” she says, glancing over at you with a small shake of her head, “—we weren’t ready for it. Not one of us. I still don’t know how you got that shot off.”

You shrug, a wry smile pulling at your lips.

“I blacked out,” you say. “Might’ve had divine intervention. Or maybe it was just Cata screaming something in Spanish that I got scared”

She grins wide, teeth flashing under the stadium lights. It softens her whole face.

You take the opening and add, dryly, “Though I think the real miracle was me not collapsing from sheer intimidation every time you breathed down my neck.”

She turns her head fully toward you now, laughing properly — head tilted back, hand briefly brushing your arm.

“You mean when I gently existed in your space?” she teases, eyes gleaming.

You raise a brow. “Oh sure, gently existed. That must be what they call full-body marking with bonus psychological warfare.”

She laughs again — not loud, not sharp, but the kind of quiet, delighted laugh that people don’t fake. One that stays in her chest, one that stays with you.

You both keep walking, a little closer now, still smiling. The tunnel’s ahead, glowing softly like the end of a dream.

But for now, neither of you are quite ready to step inside. And somehow, after everything — the goals, the glances, the heartbreak, the hug — this is the part you know will stick with you. The walk. The warmth. The grin she only gave you, you'd seen the coolness in her handshakes with your teammates. She hadn't asked for there shirts or held a conversation with them.

It was a wonder but it seemed between the lines of the pitch- you'd gained the best in the world's respect.