"Like, It Still Looks Like A Car! Just… Also Like It Needs A Nap. And A Therapist." 😂😂😂

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barca x reader, platonic!alexia putellas x reader

warnings: talks of narcotics addiction, angst, depression

Spain is different. It’s more freeing than France ever was, less dark. There isn’t the same constant bustle and stimulation that you were surrounded by in Paris. Paris was survival, but Barcelona is the weird halfway between living and being alive. It’s the most alive you’ve felt in years, but yet you still hover a few metres below the surface. Drowning is still drowning no matter how deep you are.

Barcelona was a shock to put it lightly. After Paris, after the mess that had been your life and then had turned into your career your everything had blown up. A good situation for you was showing your face outside of your apartment, maybe kicking a ball around again if you could work up the courage. You’d never thought that you would get another shot at football, it just hadn’t been an option in your mind. You were blacklisted in the world of soccer, whilst it wasn’t public knowledge why, courtesy of PSG being extremely cautious of keeping a good public image, it was well known that your leave had been anything but honourable.

You really hadn’t kept up with any football afterwards, hell you hardly kept up with anything when you were playing, but supposedly Barcelona had fallen into a crisis of major season ending injuries and were struggling to find money to acquire many players.

You weren’t even aware you had an agent anymore, you certainly weren’t paying agents fees, yet the calls came, and the door knocking, and the zoom meetings, and the visits and eventually a hasty contract signing was done half an hour after you’d hopped on a plane to Barcelona.

It was over a year since you’d stepped foot on a football pitch, possibly a year and a half since you’d trained with a team.

Your new teammates, who you hadn’t bothered to touch up on all , stood to the sides and watched you train for the first time, getting in some private time with Pere before your first proper training session.

“She played in Lyon, no?”

You were a bit of a mystery, the first the team had heard of you was the day before when Pere had alerted them that you would be joining the squad along with some girls from the Barca B side. Afterwards, in the locker rooms they’d tried to find as much information as they could, but the most they could find was your wikipedia page. No social media, no interviews, no features on other players' social media, nothing. You were an enigma, this person that seemingly existed yet none of them could put a face to your name.

“No, PSG, Liverpool beforehand, remember?”

You’re rough at the edges, that much is clear. With your mane of hair in a ponytail that looks like it’s seconds away from falling from your head yet it never does. The ear piercings adorning every single inch of cartilage and tissue along your ear and the tattoos that don’t seem to stop or start.

“And she played for England?”

You don’t look English, not in how you play. You’re so… edgy? You play like you’re straggling to do everything, like you know what it is to struggle.

“Up until U23s, had a short stint in the senior team before she retired.”

Your eyes are bloodshot, like you don’t know what sleep is. It’s almost endearing and yet terrifying in the same way. In an odd way it reminds Alexia so much of Jenni, you look and play nothing like her, but it’s the same ferocity, the same hunt in your expressions.

“And she’s only 21?”

It’s hard to believe that you are the same age as Esmee or Salma, you just look so much older. Like you’ve seen so much more than that.

“Stop leering at her, how would you feel if we all did this to you on your first day?”

Irene’s voice seems to be enough to shake everybody out of their trance hovering to the side of the training ground. You’ve noticed everybody, but you shake it off in the same way you seem to shake off every comment from Pere and every ball you lose. Alexia smiles at you when you look over at her, your facial expression doesn’t deviate from the same pulled back that it’s been stuck in since Alexia started watching you.

You don’t know why you thought you were capable of doing any kind of football, yet alone trying to compete with the best football players in the world. Training with Pere on your own had been brutal enough, you were unfit to put it simply and fearful in a way you’d never been before. Then introducing some of the best midfielders and forwards to your game, well it was a recipe for disaster.

By the time you made it to your first drink break your lungs were burning more from intake of oxygen then exhaling. Your calves are cramping up like they’ve never been used for more than walking and you feel like you’re one sprint away from hurling up your whole stomach's contents.

By the time you make it to the end of training you seriously feel like you might be dying, potentially dramatic but you’ve genuinely never hated your body more than you do.

You leave the field as soon as you’ve been assisted, you want to leave. You’re here for one simple reason, money. Barcelona were desperate and whilst your salary wasn’t anything exorbitant it was enough to guarantee that you would be able to live off of yourself for a few more years before you figured out what to do with your life beyond football.

You’d been shown the locker rooms on your tour, but you don’t bother. You duck into the first bathroom you can find, tugging your cleats off and throwing them into the same carry-on bag you’d gotten through the airport. Your training gear comes off next, you switch it for the spare clothes you’d left in your bag. You feel disgusting, you want a shower and a bottle of vodka. You’d rather feel disgusting though then be thrown into a room of women who you’ve never met and don’t intend to make friends with.

You try to sneak away as easily as possible, but you get caught when you run into a few of your teammates on your way out.

“Hola.”

You would love to pretend that you don’t notice the three people walking your way but it’s hard when you’ve already made eye contact.

“Hey.”

You hope that’ll be it, you try and make it past the three of them but it’s hard when they’ve all stopped directly in front of you expectantly.

“I’m-.”

This is what you want to avoid.

“Alexia Putellas, I don’t live under a rock.”

The woman seems to falter at the sound of your voice, you don’t mind the shocked look on her face.

“Well it’s nice to meet you. This is Jana and Vicky.”

You nod at the other two, Vicky you’re familiar with from your time in the England team, though not enough that you can remember ever playing against her.

“Cool.”

The three women are very clear about their discomfort around your bluntness, it’s good, it’s what you want.

“We-The team, were going to head down to a favourite bar of ours later, weekend off and all, we’d love it if you could join?”

Jana nods along with Alexia and Vicky just smiles.

“The food is to die for and if you’re lucky Alexia will drink enough that she’ll shout our tab.”

Alexia hits Vicky over the back of the head and Vicky looks like she’s about to lunge to retaliate but one darting look at you from Jana stops her.

“I don’t drink, and I don’t do dinners.”

Both Vicky and Jana frown, as if you’ve directly said something to offend them. Alexia looks less surprised.

“Well plenty of the team don’t drink, Irene and Marta and Ingrid.”

You decide you’ve had enough socialisation.

“Thanks but no thanks, if you know what I mean.”

None of the three women know what you mean, and you leave them wondering as you push past the wall to escape their eyes.

“I heard that she was fucking one of the trainers, and they got caught by one of the coaches.”

“I heard that she was stealing from the girls on the team, taking stuff and selling it on ebay.”

“I heard that she went off of her meds and had a breakdown and cursed out the coach.”

“I heard that she-.”

You’re the topic of conversation for the night, your absence from dinner has left such a point of intrigue that even after food and drinks everyone still keeps coming back to it.

“Stop it, you’re all horrible, you’re all making stuff up.”

The younger girls have been the main ones fueling it, there’s so little information on you that it’s so easy to fall into a rhythm of rumours and whispers.

“Ellie, she played in England, surely you know something?”

Ellie’s normally a quieter presence at team events, and as all the eyes fall to her she’s very glad that she hardly harnesses the attention of the group.

“Absolutely not, I’m not feeding into your theories. If you want to know something, ask her yourself.”

The younger girls all groan, Alexia knows why, they’re all far too scared to ask you a single thing, even she's hesitant. With most of the new girls she takes up a caring role, helping people during their transition. Yet even with your number in her phone, courtesy of the team's manager, she can’t find any words that would be appropriate to send to you.

“C’mon Roebuck, you must know something.”

Ellie does, Alexia can just tell by the way she itches at her neck and reaches for her drink immediately.

“I know that she’s been through a lot and definitely didn’t plan on playing football again. That’s all I’m saying.”

Even though you’re rough, and play in such a way that Alexia can’t quite find words for. You have natural talent, it’s raw, but even as you’d struggled she’d seen it.

Then she’d inevitably gotten curious, and went into a deep dive of watching old PSG game videos in search of something. She’d found it, or she’d found you. She wasn’t quite sure how you’d alluded her two years ago, because as she watched game video after game video, she saw magic. There was so little footage and even less of you in an England shirt, but what’s there is brilliant. There’s less of the push and shove, more refined but it’s the same player.

She doesn’t like being left in the dark when it comes to teammates or people in her life, yet when it comes to you she’s completely lost, and extremely curious.

“Ellie’s right, it’s none of our business and if we want to know we should ask her or wait for her to tell us, she’s clearly guarded from past experiences.”

Irene’s voice has the kind of finality that tells everybody the discussion is over. The conversation shifts to something about the upcoming Champions League fixtures and you’ve once again stayed a closed book to everybody.

Alexia would love to say she has a breakthrough with you, but she doesn’t, not for a week.

For the first week it’s fairly quiet. One training or gym session a day. It’s not until 8 days after your arrival that the team has a day longer than a single session, forcing you to stick around for team lunch.

You’re sitting at your own table, headphones on and head stuck in your phone when Alexia comes in after some time in the physio room.

Instead of heading straight towards her normal table she beelines towards you.

You look up at her as she sits down across from you, give Alexia a bit of a squint and then look back down at your phone.

“How are you finding it here?”

You don’t even flinch at Alexia’s voice, and for a second she’s a bit taken aback by your rudeness. But then she remembers you have headphones on.

Alexia foot nudges you from under the table and you try to not look utterly pissed off as your eyes lift from your phone.

Her lips are moving and apparently she’s talking to you and whilst you have zero wishes to converse with her you have enough decency to reach up and slide your headphones off.

“You’re settling in okay?”

You’re glad she can speak English because you haven’t bothered to attend any of the Spanish lessons that the club has set up for you. You’re happy in your blissful bubble.

“Fine.”

You attempt to slide your headphones back on but Alexia’s voice stops you.

“You haven’t come to any of the team nights, we added the right number to the group chats, right?”

It’s almost laughable, how Alexia is trying to pawn your antisocial behaviour off.

“No, you’ve got the right number.”

You hadn’t gotten any food, so you’re left to awkwardly sip at your water whilst Alexia ponders over how to respond to that.

“If Spanish is an issue, most of us speak english and we’re happy to translate, there are plenty of girls who speak english primarily.”

You pick at your nails and as Alexia focuses on you she takes in certain parts of your appearance. Your nail beds are a wreck, or more specifically your hands. You’ve clearly picked and bitten them to the point of bleeding, and even as you continue to pick at the scabs and scars you don’t flinch away whatsoever.

She also notices the way you’re always shaking, your hands, your legs, your arms, you don't stop moving, Your body is in a constant state of awakeness. It mirrors the same exhausted look on your face, it’s like how sharks never stop swimming, you never seem to stop moving.

The scars on your face extend up your arms, it’s hidden between the ink but there are little scabs everywhere, little white healed marks that fall so randomly across your skin it’s hard to keep track.

“Spanish isn’t an issue.”

Alexia knows nothing about you, and yet she feels this weird empathy towards you. She doesn;t know if it’s because you remind her of Jenni in some weird way that makes no sense, or if it’s just the ominous feeling you radiate but she just feels it.

“Look, I get if you feel overwhelmed by it all, this team is a lot. How about you come to my house tonight, just you and I. I’ll cook dinner, or we can order in. It’s got to be hard moving to a city all by yourself without anyone here for you.”

You don’t know why Alexia’s taken an interest in you and you are getting slightly ticked off by her insistence.

“I’m perfectly fine, I’ve been moving since i was 6 for football this is no different.”

This time you didn’t move for football though, you moved because for the first time in your life you had no other options. Every other time it had been because you had endless options, because you were that good that you were wanted. This was all you had though now.

“I just thought you might want some support, or a friend after what happened.”

Alexia is dipping a toe in the water, there’s still so many rumours going around about what’s happened with you. Not a single person has come up with a theory that has factual evidence, even the girls with friends at PSG have come up empty handed. Ellie knows something, but she’s a vault that cannot be opened and Alexia thinks she’s doing so for good reason.

“After what happened? Don’t talk about something you have absolutely no idea about, it’s an ugly look.”

Alexia exhales at the way your body language immediately shifts, your shoulders go tight and your picking at your nails becomes more incessant.

“Tell me then, or at least let me see a side of you beyond football, I’d love to get to know the person beyond all of this.”

Alexia doesn’t know enough about you to know how to interact best with you, but she’s trying.

“I don’t really give a shit what you or anybody else thinks about me and who I am.”

Alexia is screwing this up big time.

“Look, just come for dinner, I’ll send you the address to my house and you can stay for as long or as little as you like. I don’t know what it’s like to be new but I can’t imagine it’s easy. Come tonight and I’ll get you a free pass for all team dinners for the month, I know Pere must have bugged you about coming to the next one.”

You don’t know what’s worse, having to hang out with the whole team or individually with Alexia. You opt for the option that is less likely to put you into a sensory overload panic attack.

“Fine, I’ll come for dinner.”

Alexia smiles like she's a child who’s won a prize.

“Awesome, I’ll send you my address, how about 6?”

You nod along because you feel like you have to. There have been a lot of you doing things because you have to recently, it’s like you’re stuck in the never ending cycle of having to do things because of your past actions.

By the time 6 rolls around you’re sore, have a headache and generally feel so exhausted that you want nothing more than to crawl into your bed and stay there forever. It’s been hard to remove yourself from your routine, for the past year all you’d done was lie in bed all day. Eat, nap, go to NA, sleep. That was your life, four simple steps that held you together. Now though you were adding in a boatload more that you were struggling to handle.

Alexia’s door swings open before you even knock, you try to not feel intimidated by the big smile on her face but it’s hard. You’ve done the cat and mouse before with new teammates, this time though you really don’t have the energy for the charade.

“Hola, come in, come in.”

You allow yourself to be ushered into Alexia’s house, you try to take in your passing surroundings. Alexia’s house is very… spanish? The entryway is fairly simple, photos here and there but the decor is fairly simple. As you enter her living room and kitchen though you get more of a sense. There are jerseys and trophies dotted in random spots, photos and paintings fill the walls and overall the feeling of the house is warm. It’s a big difference from your clinical apartment, which is as bare as it was when you’d moved in.

“Do you want something to drink? Wine, beer, water, tea?”

You doubt Alexia’s abilities to make tea the proper way, and anything with alcohol is an immediate no for you.

“Water is just fine.”

You settle against Alexia’s island counter, leaning against the stone top as she picks two glasses from her shelves.

“I’m warming up some of my Mami’s paella, trust me once you try it you’ll be back for more.”

You can’t take away from the fact that whatever is cooking on Alexia’s stove smells delicious.

“Smells good.”

Alexia smiles, up until this interaction all you’ve seen of her is football. Football awards, football games, football training. It’s weird seeing her outside of football, especially considering how you’d come to idolise her a few years ago.

“Thank you. I thought it was about time I gave you the proper introduction to some proper Spanish food.”

You don’t know if you're still in denial or if you just don’t care, sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between feelings for you. You do know though that the last thing on your list of discovering Spain has been food.

Alexia hands you your glass of water and the two of you fall into a weird silence.

“That’s your girlfriend?”

It’s all you can think of, there’s a photo right in front of you sitting on the island of Alexia and another woman who you’ve never seen before, in a hug that seems too intimate to just be friends.

“Sí, that’s Olga, she’s in Madrid right now for work.”

You nod, it’s odd in your world for people to not be dating other players. Less messy you suppose.

“How about you?”

You laugh, it’s almost funny, and then it’s kind of sad.

“I did, not anymore.”

Not anymore is kind of everything in your life. Your decisions have meant that you don’t get a lot of things, you don’t get the nice things.

Alexia cooks in silence, you observe her house in silence. It could be awkward but it’s not, it’s nice in a way that you haven’t experienced in such a long time. Even when you weren’t off the rails in Paris there were so many barriers between you and your teammates, it was impossible to feel like you weren’t alone.

Alexia plates up the meal and ushers you over to her dining table.

The meal starts silent, but eventually Alexia starts talking.

“So have you been living in Paris or did you move back home after PSG?”

You mostly pick at the food, your appetite nowadays is hardly there, you just can’t stomach most things.

“No, I got out of Paris as soon as I could. Was in London for a while and then mostly in Liverpool.”

Alexia nods thoughtfully, it’s impossible to feel like she isn’t interviewing you. You could ask her some questions back, but there isn’t a single one that comes to mind. You have no interest in learning more about this woman because it does nothing for you.

“Did you like it?”

Your eyebrows furrow, did you like moving from place to place because of your own actions?

“Did I like what?”

You push some of the rice and seafood around your place, the one bite you did take was delicious, but you really don’t want to lose your guts in a teammate's house.

“Paris, I’ve only really been for awards ceremonies.”

You chuckle, Ballon d’ors, Alexia’s well decorated with the awards. You’d wanted that once, it had been a realistic dream for you once, the past was a dangerous thing.

“That’s a can of worms that you don’t want to open.”

You wonder if the saying gets lost in translation as Alexia looks at you completely lost.

“What I mean is that we really don’t want to get into that, you really don’t want to get into that with me.”

Alexia looks even more lost, the silence all of a sudden feels a lot more awkward then it did.

“You got hurt?”

Alexia doesn’t know a thing, she genuinely feels so lost when it comes to you.

“I got hurt, and then I hurt myself, and then I hurt some other people and some other people hurt me.”

Alexia hasn’t learnt anything more, but she understands, as she looks into your eyes she understands to some extent what you’re saying.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, when you can’t hold it in anymore I’m here for you. I might not understand but I can try, or just be here for you when it’s too much.”

You have dinner at Alexia’s house twice a week every week after that. She sticks by her promise of having you excused from all the team dinners and the two of you develop a sort of understanding. She doesn’t push you to say anything, most of the time the conversation is surface level and about things that neither of you need to talk about but talk about anyways. You meet Olga and Alexia’s family, which is a bit overwhelming but you figure you need to branch out at some stage.

You don’t touch the field in your first month at Barcelona, the team is in injury trouble but they aren’t so desperate that they need you. You exist behind the scenes, avoid all the media team and teammates. Eventually though, inevitably really, photos of you surface and whilst it was public knowledge that you’d signed with Barcelona, pictures of you at training seems to be the sign of life that everyone in the football world needs. Your messages and emails flood, it’s the only way to contact you. Old England teammates, Paris teammates, Liverpool teammates, academy teammates. It’s overwhelming in the sense that people who knew that a year ago you were struggling and never reached out are all of a sudden interested now that you’re playing with the best team in the world.

It’s not until 6 weeks after your move that you get told to warm-up on the sidelines during the 50th minute of a game against Valencia. You try not to look shocked as Pere calls out your name around the 60th to go towards the substitute section.

You play like shit, or at least that’s how it feels. You’re sloppy, get messy fouls and add nothing to the team. You’re still unfit, still scared, still look like a feral dog as you run around the field and try to adapt to the style of your teammates around you.

After the game you do the same as you always do, pack up as quickly as possible, avoid every person that exists alongside you and get your ass out of the stadium before you have a breakdown.

You go home, and whilst you’ve had hundreds of bad games, far worse than the one you just played, you can’t shake the overwhelming feeling of shame as you look around your depressing apartment and think about everything that’s led you to this point.

You go to the only other place in Barcelona that you know besides the training grounds.

You don’t quite know how to feel when you knock on Alexia’s door, you don’t even know if she’s going to be home. You just know that you’re short circuiting, and a year ago if you were short circuiting you defaulted to a certain behaviour that you have no interest in engaging in now.

You stand on Alexia’s front porch, shaking and on the verge of tears for a few seconds before you hear noise on the other side of the door.

Olga’s the one who opens the door, and suddenly you feel a lot more vulnerable than you did a few minutes ago. You’re not a vulnerable person, ever, you’ve been through enough to hold standards for yourself now. You suddenly feel so stupid, like you’ve defied every rule you’ve ever set up for yourself.

“Hey Chica, come in.”

You take a step back, and you’re ready to bolt.

“I-Is Alexia here?”

You don’t normally feel your age, you matured so young that you’ve never really felt your age. But at this moment you feel so young, so much more inexperienced than you are.

“Yeah carino, she’s just inside. Come in, please.”

Olga manages to coo you into the house. Over the past few weeks you’d say that you’ve slowly become comfortable in Alexia’s home, but right now you’ve never felt more out of place. As soon as you spot Alexia though, you crumble.

Alexia’s brows furrow at the sight of you, Olga’s hand wrapped around your shoulders in an attempt to keep you inside the house.

“Hey chica.”

You don’t know what to say, because if you say anything it’s probably all going to start coming out in one big mess.

“How about you come outside with me?”

You can’t say no, so you follow Alexia blindly out onto her balcony. She takes a seat on one of the loungers and you opt for sitting on the one beside it.

Alexia’s never seen you shaken up. Yet the girl sitting beside her looks completely terrified. Your whole body is shaking, your hands are bloody and torn up, you have scratch marks all over your arms and face, your eyes are dark in a weird way and for the first time since she’s met you she can see the 21 year old in you.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You don’t know how to answer that question, because you really don’t. You haven’t talked to anybody about it, not your sponsor, not your therapist, not your coaches, not your teammates, nobody. But right now all you want to do is talk about it, just voice everything that feels like it’s holding you down.

“I don’t know where to start.”

Alexia’s never given you a hug, you don’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys physical contact, but all she wants to do at this moment is bring you in, in any attempt to make you feel less distraught.

“Start wherever it makes sense.”

Nothing really makes sense to you.

“I went to Paris because I wanted freedom. My parents, everybody was in England and I felt strangled. Paris was good, I felt good when I went there. I was playing well, I was on track. Then I picked up a tear in my tricep, it was nothing to my game, but it hurt, so they gave me a prescription for painkillers, narcotics to get me through. Everyone in Paris was always drinking, always partying, always doing. I never slept, I never rested, it was football then parties and that was it. The doctor at PSG kept refilling my script, all they cared about was me playing on the field and I thought for a long time that the only way I could do that was by taking the pills and the doctor told me that. He didn’t care that I was abusing, that I was taking eight pills a day to get me through. Even after my tricep had healed, he kept filling them. Sure, I knew I was abusing but they validated me, I just kept taking them. I was so addicted I couldn’t go two hours without popping a pill. I would literally wake up every hour during the night just to take another.”

Alexia just sits and listens, it’s the first time you’ve ever brought up anything from the past in front of her.

“Then I got invited to England senior camp for the first time and they ran all my baseline medical tests and I popped up for having opiates in my system. I flipped out, they accused me of being an addict, I lost my shit. Screamed at Sarina, screamed at everybody else when they told me I needed help. I was so high, all the time, I was living in an alternate reality in Paris where I was floating on this cloud of constant drug fueled ecstasy. It felt like I was being tugged into a reality I had no interest in. Sarina called our PSG coach, who acted like he had no idea that I’d been abusing, as if he hadn’t been the one signing off on it all. Told Sarina that I was ungrateful and that I was a loose cannon and couldn’t be trusted, that I’d been fucking around my whole time there. The same guy who had been telling me that I was the future of the team and the person he trusted most on the field and he went behind my back and turned on me. Held a meeting the next day and turned the whole team on me as well. My girlfriend never spoke to me again, and said she had no clue who I was. My teammates all unfollowed and blocked me. Every physio, the team doctor, the coaches, the trainers, they all axed me. Sarina sent me back to Paris and my contract had already been terminated on ‘mutual’ grounds. The only thing PSG did was pay for me to be admitted to a 8 week rehab facility. By the time I was out my apartment had been sold, I had nobody in Paris to support me and everyone I knew had turned their back.”

Alexia doesn’t know what to say, she’s in a state of shock, because everything that you're telling her is horrible.

“I had offers from other teams, training spots, and other things. Sarina reached out but I was so mad I cursed her out and told her I would rather die than ever play in an England shirt again. I was so scared of getting injured again, getting addicted again, taking pills again. It wasn’t football that scared me, it was the same situation happening again that petrified me. So I just faded into the background. But then Barcelona called, and I couldn’t turn the offer down, I would have been stupid to. But now I’m terrified, I’m sick to my stomach thinking about all the bad things that could happen. Pere’s been supportive, and everyone else is lovely but that didn’t stop it from happening the first time.”

Your lip is bleeding now and you feel like you might actually vomit. You haven’t told anybody what you just told Alexia, somebody you met six weeks ago and have zero connection to besides the very little time you spend at her house every week.

Alexia looks at you, looks at your body shaking like a leaf. The way you clutch onto your t-shirt and tug at the hem of your pants every few seconds.

“Come inside with me for a minute. Sit down at the table.”

You follow Alexia inside, she leaves you alone in her living area, sitting at her dining table for a few minutes before she returns with a tub in her hands.

Alexia sits down across from you, pulling your hands into her own in a weird way that makes you slightly uncomfortable.

“You didn’t deserve to be taken advantage of, you didn’t know better, you were so extremely young. You did not deserve what happened to you.”

Alexia reaches into the tub and pulls out a selection of nail polish bottles.

“Pick a colour.”

You're extremely confused, but you try not to show it.

You point to a dark red, almost brown, and Alexia nods her head.

“Olga paints my nails before every big game, it stops me from getting distracted. Gives me something to pick at if I’m nervous.”

You don’t quite know what it has to do with you but you nod along with her explanation.

Alexia uses a towel to clean up the mess that is your cuticles before applying a base coat.

“I’ve never had an addiction so I can’t tell you that I understand what you’ve gone through. What I can tell you is that you are not your addiction, and you are not defined by the actions you took in the past because of your addiction. You are allowed to be a different person to the person you were a year ago. We are always evolving as people. The person you were a year ago is not the person you are now.”

The varnish burns a bit when it connects with the parts of your fingers that are still open scars and cuts, you don’t flinch away from the pain though, not once.

“There is no point in being afraid of your past. Without your past you are not here, our past is what helps us learn. You’ve learnt that you can’t afford to be haphazard with pain medications, the fact that you can admit you had a problem is enough to show that you don’t want to be that person again. There is no validity in being afraid of a person you do not want to be. My uncle, he is a chain smoker, I know that I do not want to be the same but I do not live in fear that one day I will be him because that is not who I choose to be. You can make a choice and decide that your past is unchangeable but it no longer defines you. You do not want to be that person, correct?”

Alexia is gentle for the most part, focused as always as she covers each nail in the polish. It’s so platonically intimate, you feel so open in front of her.

“I don’t want to be that person.”

Alexia smiles, you really want to pick at your nails, it’s the first time in months that for longer than three minutes you haven’t fed into the habit.

“When I tore my ACL I chewed gum, every hour of every day. I couldn’t handle the sitting and the waiting and the lack of stimulation I was getting. It was horrible, my mouth would get all burnt and tingly from the mint flavouring and my jaw would get sore. It was awful, until Olga started painting my nails, and I started picking at the nail polish instead. It wasn’t the same but it gave me something to do when I would get antsy. I’m not saying stop, I’m saying that it’s not sustainable to be in a constant state of harming yourself, try this instead. Mapi uses stress balls when she does her knee, Kika taps her fingers, Ingrid braids hair. There are replacements.”

You want to point out that the pain is what makes your habit good, it gives a bit of relief from the constant fog you live in, but it doesn’t seem valid.

“As for being afraid of getting injured, I can guarantee you, from the deepest part of my heart that if you get injured I will advocate for you. I’m assuming Pere knows about some of this, he will advocate for you. There will be systems in place to stop what happened to you last time from happening again. Our team is here for you in whatever capacity you like, this is a fresh start for you, you are allowed to be whoever you want, you can be you. At the very least I can guarantee that no matter what happens, if you go back to drugs tomorrow I will be there for you, I care for you enough to help you. You can’t live in fear of a hypothetical, not when there are so many opportunities here for you to have more, you can have your career back if you want it. It’s all about how much you are willing to give, because I can guarantee if you give it all then you can be as good as you were, probably better.”

Alexia finishes with your first hand and moves onto your second. If she notices the tears rolling down your face she doesn’t say anything.

“The team doesn’t hate me?”

Alexia looks up at you, her eyes twinkling.

“No carino, absolutely not. They wish you’d open up some more, but they don’t hate you. They understand you’ve been through a lot and that you’re struggling.”

Struggle. You don’t feel like you’re ever not struggling, struggle is the word that defines you in your brain.

“I want to be better, I want to not feel scared all the time, I want to feel free.”

It’s hard to admit, when you’ve been trying to convince yourself of the opposite for months but it’s all a clear lie. You don’t want to feel like shit all the time.

“I think we can work that out.”

Alexia’s solutions aren’t perfect, but as the weeks pass and the seasons change life gets better.

You start to pick up more minutes at the club, your game is improving at a rapid rate and you manage to find a spot in the starting eleven. Alexia paints your nails at least three times a week, you pick at it at all hours, and sometimes you scratch or pick but overall it’s better. You branch out a bit as well, manage to find your place into multiple friend circles and connect with quite a few of the girls.

Kika decorates your apartment, Marta stocks your fridge with ‘proper’ food, Ingrid takes you shopping for clothes, Esmee goes book shopping with you and Mapi starts coming to your NA meetings with you when she has a spare night.

It’s so good, you settle into a lull for the first time in years.

You suppose comfort must be what comes to bite you in the ass.

It all lights up during a game against Levante.

You’re standing in the box for a free kick when a player pins your arm behind your bag and tugs, hard.

As soon as it happens you know exactly what's wrong. You know the feeling all too well.

The pain is the same excruciating feeling you’ve already experienced, you’d been doing so good, it had all been so good, until now.

You drop to the ground, you can feel the pain but it’s not what you're focusing on. All of the memories of the last year of your life flash right before your eyes like a movie, and you feel panic-stricken.

You feel like the exact same person you were a year ago, all the progress, all the changes, it’s all gone.

The medics come to your side in a matter of seconds, but you can’t talk, you can’t think, you can’t breathe.

It’s happening again. It’s all happening again. Everything you’d been running from is back.

The medics manage to pull you over to the sideline, they ask their questions but you can’t respond, you can’t think about anything besides your biggest fear now coming to fruition.

Everything had been so good. Hell, Sarina had come to watch you today, Pere was in talks with your agent about extending your contract, you were looking at new apartments with longer leases, you were looking at leasing a car. It was all too perfect, everything was too good.

They manage to usher you into one of the seats in the dugout, but you’re in an almost catatonic state as they try and assess you.

“Oi, pequena, I need you to focus, you need to tell us what hurts.”

Alexia’s face in front of you manages to pull you out of it a bit. She was sitting out today's match out in precaution due to a hamstring issue.

“M-My tricep.”

Alexia's face dims a bit, like she knows exactly what’s going through your head because it’s flashing through her own.

“Okay, it’s okay. Let’s get you back down into one of the physio rooms. I’m here, I’m coming with you, I’m here for you.”

Your brain feels heavy, every thought feels heavy. You’re so numb the pain is gone, the only thing that matters is what is about to happen, what could happen.

Alexia leads you out of the stadium and into the tunnel, the medics flank her on either side and lead you back into one of the medical rooms.

“Carino, the doctors need to examine your arm. They’re just going to look at it to make sure that nothings broken, okay? You’re being so brave for us right now, I just need you to hold on for a bit.”

Alexia goes to let go of you but you hold on. You don’t know what to say but she seems to understand.

“I’m staying okay, just let me move so that there’s some room.”

Alexia moves to the side of you, sitting down next to you on the physio bed you're perched on and interlocking your good hand with hers.

The medics are quick, you can hardly feel them.

“It’s probably a tear of some degree to her tricep. She'll need scans, we can get her a green whistle to deal with the pain now before we take her to the hospital for scans.”

Pain. Medication. Drugs. Addiction.

Chronic. It’s all a chronic issue. Addiction is chronic by nature, you have a chronic addiction that you will never be able to out live. You are in a cycle, and this is just the beginning of a new one. This was bound to happen, you knew this was going to happen, you were fearful for a reason. You are chronically living in your past, it’s going to keep happening over and over again. You could have avoided this if you weren’t greedy, if you weren’t so greedy this could have been avoided.

“No pain medication, nothing.”

The medics furrow their brows.

“Can you give us a minute, alone, please?”

The medics look hesitant but one glance from Alexia seems to convince them.

As soon as they’re gone Alexia lifts up from the bench next to you, her knees bumping with yours as she stands in front of you.

“I promised you I would be your advocate, right? I am here to support you. I am here to make sure that nothing happens that you don’t want. I know you’re up on adrenaline right now but your tricep is torn pequena, and in a few minutes it’s really going to hurt. The green whistle will stop that, it’s not drugs, it’s not your addiction. I will be with you every step of the way, but you don’t need to suffer. Whatever this is, I promise you it’s going to be okay. I am here to stop what happened last time from happening. I am here for you. Okay?”

You don’t know if you believe her, you don’t know if you can. Last time you were supposed to trust in other people to keep you safe. You couldn’t trust somebody to do the same this time around.

“Chica, look at me. Only at me. You’re going to take the whistle, not because you are an addict but because you are in serious pain. I’m going to come to the hospital with you and I will make sure that everything that happens is in your interest okay? No pills, if you don’t want pills, we will make it work.”

You concede, because the pain is starting to overwhelm you and you trust Alexia, properly trust her.

The green whistle helps, it helps you to feel less like you’re on the verge of a panic attack and it helps the team doctors to do a better inspection of your arm. They decide it definitely isn’t broken and that once the match has concluded they will take you straight to the hospital. Alexia sits with you for it all.

When the game does conclude Alexia walks you out and straight to the car of one of the medical staff. You’re both stopped on the way there though, by Sarina.

You feel like you’re going to hurl, but to throw being face-to-face with somebody you have so much shame for, you literally think you may vomit.

Alexia feels the way you tense up, and whilst she wants to pull you away she also doesn’t want to strip you from an opportunity that is clearly here for you. She’s watched you work your ass off for this moment.

“Ms Sarina, she would love to talk to you but we have to get her to the hospital.”

Alexia doesn’t really know what to say to the woman, she doesn’t want to say anything on your behalf.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, I’m very impressed with you y/n, you’ve come a long way and if this isn’t too much of a setback it would be great to have you back in England at some point.”

You laugh, Alexia isn’t sure whether it’s the pain medication or just you, but you laugh, loudly and obviously.

“Wait, really? After what happened?”

Sarina smiles, in the way that makes Alexia feel comfortable.

“I’ll call you, we can talk about it, but it’s clear you’ve come a long way and there is no reason why your past should define you.”

Alexia smiles to herself, it’s the same thing she’s been telling you for weeks now, but hearing somebody else tell you it as well makes her think she must be doing something right.

“Thank you Sarina, thank you so much.”

The scan confirms what you already know, which is that your tricep has a tear through it. The only saving grace is that it’s not a full tear so you don’t need surgery. You cry when the doctor tells you, properly, full body sobs.

It can’t be happening again. You can’t survive it happening again.

You wait around in the hospital with Alexia for a few hours whilst the Barca medical team talks with the hospital team to figure out what your best course of action is.

You don’t know what to say to Alexia, you don’t know how to articulate just how sickeningly horrific this all is, about how reliving the worst part of your life is. She seems to understand though, you figure that she can at least relate to having a major injury impact a person's career. Even though it wasn’t your injury that affected your career, but the support system around you.

Some of your teammates flow in and out to come and check on you, you don’t pay much attention, you really can’t. You feel so utterly consumed by it all, in a way that you can’t comprehend in any way.

When the physios come out they ask to talk with you and you can’t really say no. All you want is to go home, or go to Alexia’s house. You need some space to be vulnerable enough to process the shitstorm that’s happening in your life.

“We’ll keep this short because it’s late. Our concern is purely with your mental and emotional health. If you don’t want to play through this then you do not have to. We can make a plan for you to but if that’s not what you want then you can take the time off. If you want to play then we will support you but we are also going to be conscious of your past. You’ll need pain medication but we’ll keep it in small amounts and it will be handed out only by the physios and in strict doses. Past week three you’ll be slowly weaned off, in the proper way. We can coordinate with your sponsor as well if that’s what you’d like and we can find a specific psychologist who specialises in addiction to come in to see you. This is all about what is going to make it easiest for you. We want you to be able to rehabilitate however it’s going to be easiest for you.”

Everything they are saying, it’s all too good. You feel like you can breathe, a little bit. It’s too much, it’s so different to what you’ve experienced in the past. Overwhelmingly different in all the good ways that make you sad that you didn’t have it in the past when you needed it the most.

You cry, it feels good.

Alexia hugs you, properly hugs you for the first time and you let yourself seek out the comfort you need.

“It’s over carino, it’s all over, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay.”

You don’t know what to say, you’re actually at a loss for words. Crying seems to do it for now, it feels like enough, when the time comes you’ll be grateful and so incredibly happy that you were put in a place that helped you so much. For now though, you just let yourself feel it all, because once you couldn’t, and you refuse to be that same person, you refuse to let your past dictate who you are now.

cute 🥰😂

Jazz for Peanuts

About the time your daughter shows her attitude

》 Leah Williamson x Reader

》 words count: +1.1k

》 All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt.

Deciding to have a kid with Leah is a no-brainer choice, probably the easiest you ever made in your life.

Never been more sure of anything in your life.

She’s exactly the person you pictured growing a family with. Loyal, passionate, caring. Ready to win any fight for the ones she cares, the ones she loves.

The process of having a kid with Leah, however, is anything but easy.

Months of consults, check-ups, exams. Months of doubts and insecurities. Months of waiting out of your power. And for a control freak as the footballer is, those were the worst.

When it finally works, it’s the best feeling ever.

The English captain is over the moon, you’re pretty sure you never saw her happier – you know, you were right by her side when she won the biggest awards of her career, when she promised you forever in front of the most important people in her life.

It’s the best feeling, until the reality of pregnancy hits you like a wall.

It’s up and downs. It’s morning sickness and weird cravings, it’s kind kicks that reminds you there’s an actually living being inside you and painful reminders it’s growing and moving. It’s waves of emotions, all at once and all the time.

It’s a process and you’re glad more than anything that you can go through it with Leah next to you.

Finley comes into your lives loudly, immediately asserting her character and determination.

She surprises the nurses with big, curious eyes and even more impressive lungs. She shows her interest in Amanda’s hair with strong pulls, the same hands that, oh-so-gently, have your hearts wrapped in a thigh grip.

She grows so much and so fast that you end up questioning if such a tiny human being could shape time as she pleases.

Scrappy kicks turn into dangerously fearless tiny steps, and now she runs around the house like the miniature version of an athlete training for some mad competition.

Tiny onesies with animals and Arsenal’s badges turn into colorful and sparkling dresses she wears just a couple of times before she moves on. Now, she apparently inherits her mother’s fashion sense.

Sleepless nights spent crying turn into tantrums over underappreciated lunches, and now she negotiates her screen time like an unfair trial.

Finley is growing into a really determinant, stubborn kid despite being barely tall enough to get on the car seat on her own.

She’s witty, smart, and definitely too cute.

Leah looks at her with a light in her eyes that sparkles just around your daughter, a light that didn’t even exist before Finley.

You may have made her from scratch. Your own organs may have had to find new positions to let her space, but she has your wife’s flame burning inside. It’s something that never fails to amuse you, as annoying as it is sometimes.

Like right now, stuck in North London’s traffic with an inpatient Leah and a bored five-year old daughter in the back seat.

“Finny, my life, can you please stop kicking me?”, the blonde asks, voice over the edge in a way just a kid could get fly over their head.

“I’m not kicking you, I’m kicking the back of the seat”, she argues, as a matter of fact.

You hold a scoff just to not be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Of course, the traffic light turns red exactly when the car is about to run over it, making the defender drop her head in frustration.

The real challenge is fighting the urge to remind Leah you had, indeed, predicted it.

She had to watch the last minutes of Arsenal’s game, so sure it couldn’t be a problem to delay the drive to your mother’s house. And now you’re stuck, traffic laws and any kind of universal rule against her.

You place a comforting hand on her thigh, trying to be a supportive wife.

“Mama, I’m hungry!”

“I know, we’re almost there”

“Not if mom keeps driving this slow”, your daughter mutters, loud enough to be heard by Leah.

“I’m driving as fast as this idiot in front let me”, she grumples in the exact same way, earning a discrete slap for her words choice, “What? You shouldn’t be allowed on the road if you could be faster by walking, it’s not safe”

“Can I have the candies mama hide under the seat?”

Traitor.

“Finny, keep playing with Bear”, you change the subject, avoiding Leah’s raised eyebrow to divert the little girl’s attention to her toy.

“You could let me starve? That’s not really nice, mama, you always say sharing is caring”

A backstabber, your own daughter.

The English defender is the one trying to suppress an amused laugh now, guessing she’s not in the position to piss you off more, “Finny, it will ruin your appetite, granny made your favourite pasta”

“My appetite is already ruined. It’s taking so long granny’s gonna be dead when we get there”

“Finley!”

“What? You’re pretty old, and granny is even older! She keeps saying she’s ready to reunite with grandad anyway”

You need to have a serious conversation with your mother about the things she says in front of a smart kid that soaks up knowledge like a sponge.

Right now, though, Leah must be the proper adult as you’re trying your best not to burst laughing.

It’s inappropriate, the way you’re both reacting at the witty remarks of a five-years old girl who needs help to brush her teeth but apparently has no issues at roasting her entire family.

You can’t let her realise how clever and funny you think she is. It’s going to make her unstoppable - and insufferable.

Finley shows every sign of listening and understanding the lecture on being patient and gentle with her words that you and Leah are trying to give her. Two adults more troubled with getting a grip on themselves than with their kid’s attitude.

You just know she’s going to use it against you at the first opportunity.

“Fine, I’ll play nice”

It seems to get better after that.

The slowest car ever been on the road finally makes a turn and allows your wife to goose the engine, mother-in-law reassured over the phone for the second time.

Your daughter is calmer, still kicking the back of the seat, but reassured either granny or her are going to die anytime soon.

You, on the other hand, are debating if you could get through it all over again, knowing this is what your life with Leah and Finley looks like.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“How long?”

And, just like that, peace is over.

“Five more minute”

“You sure?”, the kid asks your wife, doubtful but innocently enough.

“I said five more minute, Finny”

It’s coming, she is preparing for the final blow.

You know it’s coming.

Finley waits a moment, then screams, “Siri, start a five minute timer!”

𝑻𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒔/𝑨.𝑷𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔

Trying something a little different. Let me know if this is something you want to see more of <3

Alexia exhales slowly, rubbing her temple as Emilia lets out another frustrated huff.

It’s been a long day. From the moment she woke up, Emilia has been on edge. First, she didn’t want to wear the clothes Alexia picked out. Then, breakfast wasn’t right -her toast was too crispy, her juice too cold. Every little thing has been a battle, and Alexia’s patience is wearing thin.

Now, in the middle of the grocery store, apparently it was all coming to a head.

“Mami, I want it,” Emilia says, gripping the bright pink doll box with both hands.

Alexia shakes her head. “No, mi amor. Not today.” She had no problems buying Emilia the things she wants, and she often does anytime the little one asks, but she had no intentions of rewarding bad behaviour.

Emilia’s lower lip wobbles. “Pero, Mami…”

Alexia crouches down, steadying herself. “Listen, you have not been good today, chiquitina. Lots of tantrums, sí?”

Emilia drops the box and crosses her tiny arms. “No.”

Alexia sighs, reaching out to tuck a curl behind her ear. “You have, mi amor. And when we are not good, we don’t get treats.”

Emilia stares at her for a second, processing the words. Then, without warning, she stomps her foot. “I want it!”

Alexia’s jaw tightens. “Emilia-“

“I want it!” Emilia repeats, louder this time.

A few shoppers glance their way. Alexia feels her patience slip further, her fingers pressing against her temple.

“Emilia, enough,” she says, voice firm.

Emilia, however, is past the point of reasoning. “No! I want it, I want it, I want it!”

Then, to Alexia’s absolute horror, Emilia throws herself onto the floor, kicking her legs and wailing. Alexia closes her eyes briefly.

She knows this is normal -knows that kids have days like this, knows that Emilia is just overwhelmed, overtired, or maybe both. But knowing doesn’t make it any easier when her child is screaming in the middle of the grocery store. She takes a deep breath, then kneels beside her.

“Emilia,” she says, voice low but steady.

Emilia doesn’t respond, just cries harder.

“Mi amor,” Alexia tries again, resting a hand on her back. “You need to get up.”

Emilia shakes her head against the floor.

Alexia exhales, her patience thinning even further. “Emilia. Now.”

Still nothing.

Alright.

Alexia leans down, slipping her hands under Emilia’s arms and lifting her effortlessly. Emilia kicks, fists pounding weakly against Alexia’s shoulders, but Alexia doesn’t budge.

“Shhh,” she murmurs, rubbing slow circles against Emilia’s back, her free arm beneath Emilia’s behind to keep her supported. “Respira, chiquitina.”

Emilia sniffles, face pressed into Alexia’s neck, and Alexia sways gently, rocking her in the middle of the aisle.

“It’s okay, mi amor,” she whispers. “I know you’re upset.”

Emilia lets out a muffled sob.

Alexia sighs, kissing her temple. “But this is not how we ask for things, sí?”

There’s no response, but the kicking stops and Alexia takes that as progress. She walks them toward a quieter section of the store, away from the curious glances and whispered conversations. She finds a bench near the pharmacy and sits, keeping Emilia cradled in her arms.

For a while, neither of them speak. Alexia just holds her, rubbing her back in slow, soothing motions.

Eventually, Emilia’s sniffles quieten.

Alexia tilts her head slightly. “Better?”

A small nod.

Alexia brushes her curls back. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, chiquitina?”

Emilia shifts, her little fingers twisting into Alexia’s hoodie. “I don’t know.”

Alexia hums, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “That’s okay.”

Emilia sighs, rubbing her eyes. “I just feel yucky.”

Alexia’s heart softens instantly.

She cups Emilia’s cheek, tilting her face up slightly. “Mi amor, you can tell me anything. You know that, sí?”

Emilia nods. “Sí.”

Alexia kisses the tip of her nose. “Even when we feel bad, we have to try to be good, sí?”

Another nod, this one more hesitant.

Alexia smiles gently. “And when we are not good, we do not get treats.”

Emilia pouts. “I know.”

Alexia chuckles, squeezing her a little tighter. “Do you want to help me finish shopping?”

Emilia nods.

“Vale.” Alexia stands, settling Emilia on her hip. “Let’s go, chiquitina.”

Emilia rests her head against Alexia’s shoulder, her tiny arms wrapped tightly around her. From that moment forward, Emilia doesn’t cause any more trouble, but she doesn’t let go of Alexia either. She stays wrapped around her, her small arms slung around Alexia’s neck, her head tucked right under Alexia’s chin

Alexia doesn’t mind -not really. She’s used to Emilia being clingy on her bad days. It’s just, as strong as she is, shopping with a five-year-old stuck to her hip isn’t the easiest thing in the world.

“Mi amor,” Alexia murmurs, adjusting her grip on Emilia as she reaches for a carton of milk. “I need both hands.”

Emilia shakes her head and clings tighter.

Alexia sighs, balancing the milk in one arm and maneuvering the cart with her foot so she could place the milk inside. It’s ridiculous, really, but she makes it work.

Emilia puffs out a tiny breath. “Mami.”

Alexia hums, absentmindedly scanning the cereal aisle for Emilia’s favourite. “Sí, chiquitina?”

“I’m sorry,” Emilia whispers.

Alexia shifts her hold, pressing a kiss to Emilia’s forehead as she pats her behind softly. “I know, mi amor.” She assures.

“I was naughty,” Emilia mumbles.

Alexia shakes her head. “You were upset. It happens.”

Emilia sniffles. “Still feel bad.”

Alexia cups the back of her head, rubbing her thumb in slow circles. “We all have bad days, chiquitina. Even me.”

Emilia lifts her head, looking at her with wide, serious eyes. “You do?”

Alexia nods, shifting the little one so she was settled on her front as opposed to her hip. “Sí. Sometimes I am grumpy too.”

Emilia frowns. “But you don’t cry on the floor.” She points out.

Alexia chuckles. “No, but sometimes I want to.”

Emilia giggles, a soft little thing that makes Alexia’s chest warm.

“You’re not mad at me?” Emilia asks, her voice small.

Alexia shakes her head. “Never, mi amor.”

Emilia exhales, nestling back against her. “Okay.”

Alexia runs her fingers through Emilia’s curls. “Almost done. Do you want to help me pick some fruit?”

Emilia nods but makes no move to get down, and Alexia smiles to herself as she grabs a few more things before finally heading to the checkout. Emilia still doesn’t let go, even when the cashier coos at her and tells her how cute she is. Emilia just burrows deeper into Alexia’s hoodie.

By the time they get to the car, Emilia has gone completely quiet.

Alexia buckles her into her car seat, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Tired?”

Emilia nods, rubbing at her eyes.

Alexia smiles, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s go home, mi amor.”

The drive is quiet. Alexia keeps one hand on the wheel, the other stretched toward the back, letting Emilia hold onto her fingers. When they get home, Emilia doesn’t even have to ask Alexia to scoop her up again.

“Nap time,” Alexia whispers, carrying both Emilia and the groceries inside, setting the bags on the counter before making her way into the living room.

Emilia doesn’t argue, just curls into Alexia’s arms, clinging like a little koala.

Alexia sighs, settling them both onto the couch. Emilia shifts, making herself comfortable on Alexia’s chest, tiny legs straddling her hips with her head nestled under her chin.

“Mami?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Alexia’s heart melts instantly. She tightens her hold, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of Emilia’s curls. “I love you too, chiquitina. So much.”

And just like that, Emilia drifts off, safe and snug in her mami’s arms.

**

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @simp4panos @silentwolfsstuff @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan @ktgoodmorning @chelseacult

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.

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity 

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack.  A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head. 

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it. 

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex. 

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit. 

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away. 

Ricardo means well, you know that. 

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I’m want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

~

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle. 

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper. 

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals. 

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating. 

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo. 

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations. 

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type. 

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another. 

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others. 

Maybe you do have a type.

~

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

~

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity. 

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far. 

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets. 

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise. 

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

~

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan. 

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics. 

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view. 

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things. 

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud. 

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

~

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it. 

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club. 

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike. 

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers. 

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth. 

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow. 

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

~

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way. 

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying. 

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

~

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on. 

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves. 

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them. 

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you. 

~

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed. 

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces. 

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline. 

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film. 

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

~

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason. 

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct. 

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal. 

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo. 

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you. 

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation. 

That's not the point right now.

~

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries. 

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

~

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this. 

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover. 

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen. 

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you. 

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief. 

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling. 

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now. 

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

~

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite. 

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands. 

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to. 

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat. 

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you. 

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it. 

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do. 

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed. 

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

~

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack. 

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over. 

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means. 

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight. 

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!” 

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face. 

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

~

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance. 

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink. 

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears. 

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now. 

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot. 

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses. 

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you. 

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing. 

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous. 

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance. 

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment. 

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

~

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together. 

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced. 

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul. 

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of. 

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure. 

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love. 

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again. 

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

~

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you. 

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads. 

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries. 

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever. 

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee. 

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it. 

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you. 

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow. 

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear. 

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future. 

Together.

🌹🌾

roses

you want to make your first sant jordi together perfect for her.

“Ale?” You called out, hearing a hum from the vague direction of the lounge. 

You'd just arrived at her place, reluctantly waking up in separate apartments on a free Sunday in early April since Alexia had a family thing the night before, and you spent the evening at Ingrid’s with a few friends. Individually, both of you had a good time, but it wasn’t without a grumble from you at having to walk up alone. You slept better with Alexia beside you, somehow she helped with your sleeping problems better than anything else you had tried. Whether that be because she’s a naturally calm person and that seeps into you, putting you at ease, or having her there worked as a distraction since you always fall asleep drowning in each other’s arms or with her fingertips running up and down your back soothingly.

The night before, however, you didn’t sleep too well. Your mind wouldn’t shut off at all. But, it allowed you to do some thinking. And the next morning, you walked into her apartment with a plan of action.

She was, what would seem uncharacteristic to others but not to you at all, sprawled out on her sofa, all long limbs in an oversized navy Nike tracksuit. The girl was like a sloth sometimes, a description of her she didn’t appreciate, yet one you loved to tease her with. As you rounded the corner from the hallway, she dropped her phone against her chest and glanced up at you with a warm smile. The sight of her so happy to see you never got old.

“Bon dia.” She uttered with a content sigh, moving an arm behind her head as she watched you take off your jacket and slide your shoes off. Then, you headed over to her, and her smile got wider as she braced herself for you to lay on top of her. You didn’t, to her disappointment. You sat by her feet, a determined look on her face. “What’s up with you?”

“I need you to tell me everything I need to know about Sant Jordi.”

Well, that, the brunette wasn’t expecting.

“Why?” She asked curiously, sitting up a little to lean back on her hands, her eyebrows pressed down into a confused scowl. All she wanted was a hug, but here she was having to give a history lesson.

“Because you said it’s your favourite holiday. So I need you to tell me all about it, so that I can make plans for us.”

Your words offered her a hug instead; her heart fluttered in her chest at the demand from you. It was incredibly sentimental to her, so much so she felt her cheeks heat up the tiniest bit.

“You want to make plans for it?” Alexia wondered, eyebrows now raised with a hopeful smile on her face that she tried to disguise.

“Of course I do. It’s your favourite.” You repeated, replying to her question like the answer was obvious. Because of course you wanted to make her favourite day of the year live up to her standards, and more.

“Okay.” Alexia blinked as she looked at the seriousness on your face, trying to process what was happening. There were butterflies in her stomach, like she was a teenager after their first kiss. But no, it was just you, and your limitless thoughtfulness and compassion. It only made her love you more, made her more excited for the holiday to come, because it was her first with you and that was good enough for her without all the added extras you seemed set on adding. “Well, what do you want to know?” 

You pulled your phone out, opened up your notes, pressing on the already half-written page from your impromptu research the night before, and looked back up at her.

“Everything, Alexia.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at your response. Not at your dedication, because she found that outrageously endearing, but at how deadset on this you were. How deadset you were on making her feel loved, and that was something she treasured more than you could ever know.

“Only if you actually give me a hug first. Maybe a kiss too for extra motivation if I have to tell you everything.”

You rolled your eyes at her, though fell for it regardless. You dropped your phone and watched as she shuffled closer, visible excitement on her face as if she hadn’t kissed you a hundred times before. She sat up properly and held your face with her hands on the side of your head, leaning in so fast you almost clashed heads, but that was the last thing on your mind the moment her lips landed on yours. They were soft, like always, soft and familiar, and the way they moved against yours had you wondering why on earth you’d delayed the moment when you arrived. 

Until your thoughts trailed off from her and back to the task at hand.

“So,” You started as you pulled away from her mouth with a wet smack. Your phone was back in your hand and you were straight back to business before she’d even registered that you had broken it off. “Tell me about it.”

Her hands were still cradling your face, eyes on yours as she caught her breath back. You looked down at her, eyebrow raised as you waited for her to compose herself again. After she inhaled another deep breath, she searched your eyes to check for any ounce of doubt or sarcasm as she took a moment to realise… just how much it meant to her that you were offering this.

“You’re really serious about this?” She murmured a moment later, a sheepish expression on her face. 

“Yes. I am. It’s our first together, I want to get it right.” You admitted quietly, a slightly embarrassed red tinge to your cheeks as she beamed at you, her thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. She leaned in again, a gentler kiss this time, one that conveyed her adoration rather than any other meaning.

“That means so much to me.” She whispered against your lips when she pulled away. A soft smile formed on your face at her words, because they alone were worth it and you hadn’t even done anything yet. That was exactly why you were doing it.

“Can only do it if you tell me.” You teased, turning your head to kiss her palm.

Alexia chuckled gently, shifting to sit back against the sofa and wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you into her a little. You turned slightly so that your back was to her shoulder and her hand slipped down to your chest, your own reaching up to link with hers and resting there. With a warmth in her chest, finally having you where she wanted you and a topic at hand where its future with you both excited her immeasurably, she was wholly content.

“I don’t even know where to start with it.” 

How could she explain it to you? The day spoke for itself. She hadn’t ever explained it to anyone before because it’d always just been there in her life, woven into April and she’d never known anything different. Now though, she had you, who hadn’t even heard of it until one movie night early on in your friendship where she rambled about it for twenty minutes straight when you asked if she liked Valentine’s Day. She had scoffed, to your confusion, before giving a hundred-and-one reasons why Sant Jordi was far superior due to the deep-rooted culture and everything else about it that fascinated her still, even after thirty years of it. Maybe you would have better knowledge of it, had you actually paid attention to what she was saying rather than how she looked. 

It wasn’t a holiday, exactly, more like the heartbeat of her city. A day where love drifted in the wind, swirling in the air, like oxygen, which it almost was. Nobody could survive without love and that’s what the day was about, always had been, since that time with the dragon and the rose that sprouted after. Since then, no matter what a person was going through, a simple rose was enough to put a smile on anyone’s face. Because a Sant Jordi rose wasn’t simple, it was more than just a tradition. It was love with roots, dating back centuries and sure to last for yet more to come. Giving a rose to you and receiving one from you on this day, to Alexia, meant that you had both chosen to love each other and wanted to tell so in the language of the place that meant everything to her. As she was explaining, she felt herself become giddy with excitement. It was hard to put it into words when all that was on her mind was you and roses and books and dragons and-

“You’re trailing off, Ale. Stay on topic.”

Right.

The brunette wholeheartedly believed there was never a more beautiful day in Barcelona than on Sant Jordi. There was a particular way the city softened then. Streets transformed from fast-moving busyness to slow streams of people stopping in their step, not out of obligation but from wonder. From actually pausing their life, taking a breath, and appreciating things they missed in daily life. Love, community, humanity. Something shifted in everybody during the holiday. Strangers smiled easily, weightless from their usual burdens, desperate to share the serenity they felt with others. Vendors with hundreds of the most gorgeous roses you could find handed them out willingly to everyone with the same care reserved for their loved ones, because that’s just what the day made you do. It was good, whilst also unfairly rare to have a reason to give beauty just for the sake of it. 

Deep down, maybe that’s why most people loved it. It was an excuse to share the pure sides of humankind in a world that lacked it so much.

And the way people showed these things was with the roses, yes, but books too. Alexia recalled her mother saying something to her when she was younger, where she had asked why it was books and roses, and her answer was ‘one for the mind, one for the heart.’ That memory came racing back to her, bringing a reminiscing smile to her face, before echoing it to you too. There was the legend of the knight and the dragon, of blood turned into rose, of course, but there was the celebration of two authors too, Cervantes and Shakespeare. So while the rose speaks of love, the book speaks of connection. To give one is just as precious as receiving one. It’s a gift of thought and attention, where someone has listened to another and decided on something that will resonate with them, whether it’s a topic about what they long for, what they fear, what they want to learn, or what they treasure. It’s sacred, in a way that’s different to the rose, but just as meaningful. 

The day was solely dedicated to care, to language, culture, and love. All the things that were most important to Alexia. She thought about it often in the weeks leading up to it, and apparently so did you. That gave her even more reasons, added to the already infinite list, of why you were her person.

“Wow.” You breathed out in awe when she finished, thumbs paused over your phone screen because you hadn’t quite expected her to go so in depth. She opened up to you about it, completely and honestly. You might be the worst person ever if you didn’t make it the best day of her life. 

“Yeah.” Alexia hummed, her ramble having caught herself off guard. But, sharing her adoration for the day with someone new, where she had to explain all the reasons she enjoyed it which she hadn’t really done out-loud before, simply reignited her love for it and made it stronger. “Was that… too much at once?”

You put your phone down, it being the last thing on your mind then, then turned around to face her. The midfielder seemed a bit shy, embarrassed even, and you had to change that.

“No. Never too much. You explained it a million times better than I thought you would. Thank you for sharing all that with me.” You told her, eyes wide and sincere as she met your gaze. She let out a small relieved sigh, before her lips widened into an admiring smile. 

“I can’t wait to spend it with you.” You gave a cheesy grin at her adorable comment, then got straight down to business.

“Who do you want to spend the day with?” You questioned, waiting for her answer expectantly as she frowned at you.

“You, obviously.” The midfielder answered.

“Okay, but I mean, don’t you want to see your family too? Some friends maybe? You don’t want to have lunch with Alba and your mother, dinner with your close friends, that kind of thing?” 

“No. Just you.” 

Oh. That took you by surprise a bit. You were flattered by her, and you couldn’t exactly hide it either with the way you blushed a moment or two after she spoke. She noticed and smirked at you, proud of her charm.

“Well, I still think we should visit Alba and Eli anyway, give them some roses.” You compromised, feeling a tad guilty for snatching your girlfriend away from her family.

“Sure.” Alexia shrugged. “As long as I get the whole day with you.”

“You will.” You mumbled under her piercing attention, her eyes unmoving from your face. “And where do you want to go together? What would you like us to do?”

It was then that she looked away. How could she say what she wanted to say without extinguishing your excitement?

“Let me take the lead on that. I know you want to surprise me, and you still can, but I want to show you to some of my favourite places, okay? I know all the good spots and I want to show you why I love them. I'd really like to share them with you.” You seemed to deflate at that, her wishes going against the rough plan you had for how this conversation would go, as well as Sant Jordi itself.

“But I want to surprise you, Ale.” You said dejectedly, which only made her smile. She leaned forward and kissed your cheek, hoping to cheer you up back into your good mood.

“I know, and I’ll let you. But I want to give you a good day too. Let me organise where we go, what we see, and you can do anything else you would like. Fifty-fifty.” She suggested, watching your reaction as you took a minute to think. After a moment or two, your eyes narrowed skeptically at her.

“Sixty-forty.” You bartered, which she laughed at. Nevertheless, she agreed.

“Fine.” 

Once that had been decided, she wrapped her arms back around you and pulled you into her. She nestled her head into your neck and dotted kisses up and down it, before settling comfortably on the couch with you in her hold as she smiled into your skin, with daydreams of the two of you on Sant Jordi clouding her mind.

—

Then the day arrived, finally. It felt like you’d waited an age for it. 

You were up as the sun rose, Alexia still away with the fairies in bed, and moving around the apartment as you checked your preparations for the millionth time. There was email after email on your phone, confirming your various orders of roses and their deliveries. Yellow ones for Ingrid, since she was your best friend and it felt wrong not to acknowledge how much you loved her on a day like today. Then some more for Jana and Aitana, who had helped you in planning and with where to get the best roses one could find in Barcelona, as well as their meaning. You felt endlessly grateful for everyone in your life, you’d give roses to them all if you could. 

However, your main focus was the sleeping form in your bedroom, whom you were about to make breakfast in bed for. On the menu for her, a smoked salmon omlette with traditional Catalan toasted bread, and a coffee. Simple, but her favourite for a day-off. Except it was her favourite when… she made it. It wasn’t exactly your specialty, but you were going to give it a try, considering you wanted to surprise her. 

And it worked, it didn’t come out half bad, and just as you’d served it up onto a breakfast tray for her with a coffee from the ridiculously fancy espresso machine she didn’t need (and took you months to learn just how to turn it on), the door rang with the most important delivery for the day. Her roses. Perfect timing for you to pick one out, wrap a Senyera ribbon around it, and put it on the tray with her breakfast. 

She was still out for the count when you walked back in, on her side with an arm outstretched where you would lay, something that brought a smile to your face as you put the tray on her bedside table. You sat on the edge of the bed and gently nudged her shoulder, causing her to stir.

“Bon dia, Ale.” You whispered, hearing her usual grumble at being woken up before she naturally woke up. “Wake up, you’ve slept long enough.”

“Wow.” She huffed groggily, rolling onto her back and rubbing her face tiredly. As she did so, you leaned over and grabbed the rose, presenting it to her as she opened her eyes. Her grumpy expression faded instantly, replaced by one of shy gratitude as she reached out to take it. “Thank you, amor.” 

“Feliç Sant Jordi.” 

Sitting up properly, Alexia met you halfway as you leaned in with a hand on her thigh to steady yourself. A kiss full of tenderness, brimming excitement for the day ahead, was the best way to start her day. Even better? It was followed by breakfast cooked with care and a coffee brewed to perfection (you couldn’t take credit for that, it was the machine) that hit the spot for her. It was only early morning, and it was already her favourite one she’d celebrated so far.

“Happy first Sant Jordi.” Alexia grinned sleepily, gazing at you with an admiration like it was your first day on earth. “You did a good job with the rose, it’s beautiful.”

“I had some help.” You admitted sheepishly, to which she shrugged it off. 

“Don’t care. Still your brain behind it.” She murmured, leaning back in again to steal another kiss from you. “I love you. Love everything about you. Happier than ever with you.”

“Shut up, eat your food.” You blushed, cheeks burning as she smirked at you before reaching for her coffee. “I love you too.”

“I can’t wait for you to see the city later.” Her eyes had a look of childlike wonder in them as she thought of what waited for you both outside the walls of your apartment. Before that, she had some bigger priorities she needed to deal with. She swallowed her mouthful of coffee before addressing you with a desperate question. “Did you leave time fo-”

“Yes, I left time for us to spend in bed after breakfast. Hurry up and eat, then we’ll have longer.” 

The girl was nothing without lazy mornings in bed, wrapped up in each other. Neither were you.

—

A couple hours later, after time together in the peace of the bedroom and a quick trip to her mother’s, the pair of you were wandering the streets, hand in hand and taking in the relaxed nature of everyone that you passed. There was this mutual contentment which possessed each person that celebrated the holiday, something that you loved being around. You hadn’t even made it to the main parts Alexia wanted to take you to.

She looked different. More relaxed than you’d seen her. She was calm, fully in the moment, everything loud in her life far away from her mind. Not a second went by without a smile on her face, whether it be one that stretched across her cheeks or one that was simply an upwards quirk of her lip. You adored seeing her so happy, seeing how much she loved the day.

At first, the city didn’t seem too different. There were red petals scattered every few steps on the tiled ground, some fresh and some bruised, and there was something poetic about that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The sun had decided to come out too, only adding to the atmosphere around. But apart from that, everything seemed normal. Just the early stirrings of Barna waking up.

Until you got closer and closer to the very heart of the city, where you turned one corner, and the streets became something else entirely. It was a slow unravelling of everything the day embodied; each person had a rose and a wheat sprig with an unbridled smile on their face, there was stall after stall as you stepped foot onto Passeig de Gràcia, tin buckets filled with bouquet after bouquet of flows, wooden tables creaking under the weight of the countless books stacked on them. It was unlike anything you had ever seen.

Barcelona truly did look like something out of a fairytale, just like your girlfriend had rambled about.

“This is the best place to be.” Alexia murmured into your ear as you paused to take in everything that was happening ahead of you.

And like every time she’d declared something before, she really wasn’t wrong.

Despite the crowds, you didn’t feel overwhelmed, because every single individual was sharing the same passion, celebrating the same traditions, holding their love to a higher importance. It was addictive, you wished everyday was like it. You would be more than happy, consider yourself lucky even, to live in this city for the rest of your life.

You moved slowly through the street, another ripple in the current of people fascinated like you were. The scent of roses was strong, how could it not be with how many hundreds there were in every square meter, with the metallic echo of scissors cutting stems each time a fresh flower was bought for someone that was treasured by their company. Honestly, that might have been your favourite thing about it, like Alexia had said; the love was so easily shared, each person so deeply valued, it didn’t matter that you were all strangers because it didn’t feel like it there. With the contagion of love in the area, you felt bonded to everyone that passed by you. It was a weird phenomenon to feel such a way, but you didn’t question it. No one questioned it. That’s just what Sant Jordi was, that was its pride.

Alexia had given you a rose after breakfast, having hid a bouquet for you out on her balcony. Even if you had expected it, it still did something to your heart as she handed it over to you. However, neither of you had exchanged books yet. You had a plan you kept to yourself, and so did Alexia. Yours was the first that came to fruition. 

One of her favourite authors had a stall that day where they were selling a new book Alexia had spoken about a number of times in the last few weeks. You had to, shamelessly, stalk her Amazon account to make sure she hadn’t pre-ordered it for herself. Fortunately, she didn’t, and the days since it was released ticked by without it suddenly making an appearance in her travel bag or on her coffee table. So when you saw the stall in question, the book standing out to you instantly on the table, you stopped the pair of you in place and turned to her with a beaming grin.

“Stay here.” You told her randomly, before rounding the corner and disappearing from her view. 

She frowned, a little suspicious, but did as you said regardless. As she waited, she saw a stall for fresh churros with chocolate off in the distance, mouth already watering as she thought of them. Anyway, just as you’d demanded, she stayed where she was until you came back, twiddling with the rose she’d tucked into the pocket of her jacket over her chest whilst she took in the surroundings. All that crossed her mind was that this truly felt like home. It grounded her, a reminder of where she came from and what she was representing on the global stage that football was. And she was proud to do that, indescribably so.

“Close your eyes, hold your hands out.” You appeared in front of her again, hands behind your back as you waited for her to follow through on your instructions. Once she had done as you said, you placed the book into her hands, the seller having even gone one step further and tying a red ribbon around the item too. “Open.”

The brunette looked down at the gift and let out a tiny gasp, glancing back up at you in slight disbelief. There was something about not only being heard and seen by people in her life, but having someone actually do something with all they learnt that landed inside her with a quiet kind of significance. 

“Mi amor.” She exhaled a shaky breath, a downturned smile on her face at the surprise. “Thank you. This is… thank you. You’re amazing.”

She drew you in for a tight embrace, there, in the middle of the avenue, where you couldn’t fend off the pleased grin that grew as a result of her reaction. Maybe she had wanted to buy it for herself which, to some, might have made it less of a surprise, but not to her. Things like this struck a chord within her, triggered that sentimental part of her that couldn’t ever really get over the fact people adore her so much they’d do something this thoughtful. 

“I had to muddle through the limited Catalan I know to get it but… luckily I know how to say that I need a gift for my hot g-” 

“Alright, you ruined it.” Alexia tutted, cutting you off with her words and a kiss that silenced your teasing pretty quickly. “You keep beating me to things, I need to step up my game.”

“God, you really have to turn everything into a competition.” You scoffed, to which she grinned and took hold of your hand again to start leading you both down the avenue.

“Of course. And I’m going to win myself back a goal by buying you the best churros you can find, right now.” 

Suddenly, the most sickeningly sweet scent you’d ever experienced invaded your senses and you had to hold in a groan at the deliciousness of it as she slotted you both into the queue. Churros had fastly become one of your favourite treats, but not something you indulged in often since, obviously, you were a footballer and they weren’t exactly the most nutritious things in the world. When else was a better time to share some with your girlfriend than on Sant Jordi? 

“You’re saying churros are better than your book?” You feigned a dejected expression and tone, feeling a tiny bit guilty at the panic on her face, but not when she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and grazed her lips against your temple.

“Never.” She reassured you, rolling her eyes when she heard you giggle. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Very lucky, it turned out, because she wasn’t lying when she said they were the best churros. For a little while longer, you walked along the avenue, your hand on her upper arm which held the cardboard tray, each of you picking from it every so often and laughing when some of the chocolate dripped down Alexia’s chin. You swiped it away with your thumb before letting her lick it off, not even ashamed about being that couple in public. You were in your own bubble, basking in the company and the devotion that thrived between you. It was quickly turning out to be one of your favourite days with her, maybe even ever in your life.

Shortly before you left Passeig de Gràcia, Alexia brought you to the place everybody wanted to see on Sant Jordi – Casa Batlló. It was front and center of the holiday, the photo that marked every headline in the news, and rightly so. Beautiful didn’t begin to cover it. 

“Worth letting me plan the day, no?” Alexia joked quietly, standing behind you as you gazed up at the building. Her hands were low on your waist, thumbs stroking up and down. As the day ticked by, it got seemingly harder and harder for her to control her devotion, it was just overflowing from her.

“This place is amazing.” You stated in awe; the longer you looked at it, the more details you spotted. From that building alone, with so much history embedded into its architecture, was enough reason to love Sant Jordi. “I never knew all this about Barcelona and Catalunya when I joined.”

“Now you have me to show you. Every year, for the rest of our lives.” She spoke soothingly, the words meant for you and you only. This woman.

“Somebody is really in their feels today, huh.” 

You were joking about it, but the whole day it’d set you alight. Never had being in a relationship felt so right to you. You were certain that you hadn’t known love before her, and she was really taking advantage of the holiday to show exactly how she felt towards you. God only knows you were feeling the same about her.

“What better day to do it? I love you. Let me love on you.” She replied, raw, vulnerable, honest. Her openness was one of the things you adored most about her, she never shied away from saying exactly what was on her mind. 

“Never said you couldn’t.” 

With her hands that sat on your hips, she span you around to face her, drawing you in closer just a bit. Her gaze was intense, communicating things that you didn’t want to share with anyone else, wanting to keep it between the two of you. 

“Your book.” She said out of nowhere, dragging you out of your thoughts and back to the present. One hand slipped away, reaching behind her back and presenting a small book, small enough to fit in her jeans pocket. You scanned over it, not quite sure what it was. “It’s a poetry book in Catalan. A lot of my favourites, some that are really important to me. Some that I’ve shared with you before and some that I haven’t yet because they feel too special to speak aloud, too sacred to translate. I wanted you to read it because it’s everything I’ve never said. But it’s always been for you, about you. And, I don’t know, maybe you’ll read the things in there and… think of me.” 

You didn’t answer, not right away. You stared at her, then the book, and back to her. The object turned from something light, like a feather in your hands, to something heavy with a pulse. This was the closest she could get to giving you her heart.

No part of you could quite comprehend how esteemed and dear this gift was. Whether the crowds were dying down or you were just honed in on the book and your girlfriend, but it was like the world around you knew not to intrude on such a moment. Nothing ceased to exist outside this pocket of time where you stood, with the woman you love, in the city that raised her, and a piece of her soul in your possession. 

One deep breath, then two, before you blinked and a tear fell. You didn’t wipe it away. She did.

“I don’t know what to say, Ale.” You whispered as if afraid that a decibel higher would steal the memory away from you. “This is everything to me.”

You couldn’t believe she had chosen you to share this part of her with. 

“You’re everything to me. That’s what I wanted to show you.” Came her response, in a soft, dulcet tone. Her knuckle wiped away another tear. “Don’t cry outside of Casa Batlló, that is so guiri of you.” 

Her humour broke through your astonishment and caused you to burst out into tearful laughter, the brunette joining you instantly. You tucked the book against your chest, coincidentally right over your heart without even thinking, before rushing forward to get a hug from her. She accepted it immediately, leaning her forehead against your temple, her heart rate higher than ever from the nerves she felt at giving you her book. In that silence, punctuated periodically by your sniffles of disbelief, she held you. Like she always did. 

—

It was a miracle that the pair of you made it to the dinner you’d booked later that evening. You with your emotions and Alexia with her lack of restraint at keeping her hands to herself. 

You did make it, though, of which you were glad for. Not only because you were hungry after a day of walking and a few too many tears, but also because the restaurant you’d booked a table at was difficult enough to find a reservation for, nevermind on Sant Jordi too. It was one of Alexia’s favourites and yours too, a surefire way to cap off the day successfully. 

Neither of you could stand being away from each other for a second; had anyone been with you for the duration of the day, it would have been sickening for them to see. But you just didn’t care. You sat in the same side of the booth at dinner, either with hands linked, a hand on the other’s thigh, or knees touching as you used your cutlery, like a couple that hadn’t seen in each other a year, not one that had spent the last twelve hours constantly in each other’s company. Dinner was perfect, the company even better, and the aftermath back at home just to top it all off.

Together, you ended the night with a bath. A cliche, rom-com type setting, with low light and candles and glasses of champagne seated next to each other on the ledge of it. You had your back against her chest, her legs caging yours, with her arm around your waist. In her hand, the book you’d given her. In yours, the poems in her mother tongue you were slowly making your way through with a little help here and there. 

You wanted the day to last forever. 

Instead, midnight was drawing near, the water was cooling, and yawns kept sounding from the pair of you as you read your books. Eventually, you heard the gentle sound of Alexia closing her book echo through the bathroom, before she carefully dropped it to the tiled floor. Both her arms came to wrap around your torso then, her head ducking down to scatter kisses across your shoulder, back, neck, any bit of skin she could comfortably reach. Then, in a low, coarse, tired voice-

“Best Sant Jordi ever.” 

Tia Alexia And Her Mascot

Alexia Putellas x Mila

The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of Alexia Putellas’ breathing and the occasional clang of weights hitting the floor. She was deep into her training session, pushing herself to be in the best shape possible. The Champions League quarterfinal second leg was coming up, and nothing mattered more than being ready. Her focus was razor-sharp, her expression serious, and her mind locked in.

That was, until she heard the unmistakable sound of tiny feet running across the gym floor.

Alexia barely had time to put the weights down before a small, dark-haired blur skidded to a stop a few feet away from her.

Mila.

With her messy hair, rosy cheeks, and an ever-present twinkle in her eyes, Mila was a walking ball of energy. She had likely spent the entire morning running around, climbing on things she shouldn’t, and making her mothers chase after her.

But right now, something was different. Instead of launching herself at Alexia like she usually did, Mila hesitated. She fiddled with her fingers, glancing at the ground, looking almost… unsure.

Alexia wiped the sweat off her face with a towel, then sat down on the bench. She narrowed her eyes slightly, studying the little girl in front of her.

“Mila?” she called softly.

No response.

Alexia’s brows furrowed, concern creeping in. Mila was rarely ever quiet, let alone hesitant around her.

“Come here, pequena,” Alexia said, patting her lap.

Finally, Mila took small steps toward her, her usual confidence replaced by shyness. She climbed onto Alexia’s lap, wrapping her arms around her neck in a tight hug before pulling back slightly.

“Tia… I have a question,” Mila mumbled.

Alexia smirked, tilting her head. “A question? That sounds serious.”

Mila nodded solemnly.

“Okay,” Alexia said, gently brushing a few strands of hair from Mila’s face. “Ask away.”

Mila took a deep breath, playing with the hem of Alexia’s training shirt. “This week is the semifinals.”

Alexia chuckled. “Oh really? I had no idea.”

Mila giggled, but her nervousness quickly returned. She hesitated for a moment, then finally said, “I want to be your mascot.”

For the first time in a long time, Alexia was truly caught off guard. She blinked, her usual intensity softening into pure surprise.

She had thought about this before, of course. She had watched Mila walk out onto the pitch as a mascot for her moms, for Caroline, for Esmee, Frido, and Kika. And while Alexia had secretly dreamed of having Mila by her side one day, she never wanted to pressure her. She had been waiting—waiting for Mila to come to her.

And now, here she was, asking all on her own.

A slow, wide smile spread across Alexia’s face. Without hesitation, she stood up, lifting Mila into her arms effortlessly.

“You want to be my mascot?” she asked, her voice filled with warmth.

Mila nodded eagerly. “Yes!”

Alexia let out a joyful laugh and tossed Mila up into the air, catching her as the little girl giggled uncontrollably. “Of course, you can!” she said, pressing a loud kiss to Mila’s cheek.

Then, still holding her niece, Alexia turned toward the other players in the gym. “MILA IS GOING TO BE MY MASCOT!” she announced proudly.

Her teammates laughed, some clapping, others shaking their heads in amusement. It was rare to see Alexia like this—so open, so unguarded. But with Mila, she was always like this. Always soft. Always full of love.

---

The tunnel was filled with tension, the anticipation of the match pressing down on everyone. Barcelona was minutes away from stepping onto the pitch, and the entire team was locked in.

But Alexia?

She was looking down at Mila.

Dressed in a tiny Putellas jersey, her dark hair neatly braided, Mila was practically vibrating with excitement. Her small hand was wrapped around Alexia’s, gripping tightly.

Alexia crouched down, her serious expression melting into something gentler. “Are you ready?” she asked.

Mila beamed. “Of course!”

Alexia smirked. “You think we’re going to win?”

Mila gasped, placing her hands on her hips. “Obviously! You have to score a goal for me, though.”

Alexia chuckled, shaking her head in amusement. “I’ll do my best.”

Before she could say anything else, the signal came. It was time to walk out.

Alexia took Mila’s hand again, squeezing it gently as they stepped forward. The moment they emerged from the tunnel, the stadium erupted into cheers, but all Alexia could focus on was the small figure beside her.

This—walking out with Mila, her niece, her little partner in crime—was one of the proudest moments of her life.

She could feel the cameras capturing the moment, but she didn’t care about that. All that mattered was that Mila was there, standing tall, looking up at her with nothing but admiration and love.

As the anthem played, Mila stood in front of Alexia, glancing back at her every few seconds. When it ended, she spun around and opened her arms wide.

Alexia crouched down again, embracing her tightly.

“Good luck, Tia,” Mila whispered.

Alexia kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, mi nina.”

Mila was led off to the bench, where she sat with some of her other honorary aunts.

---

The final whistle blew. Barcelona had won.

Alexia was shaking hands with the opposing players, still catching her breath, when she heard it.

“TIA!”

She turned just in time to see Mila sprinting toward her at full speed.

Alexia barely had time to react before the little girl launched herself at her. Without hesitation, Alexia caught her, lifting her effortlessly into her arms.

“You did it!” Mila cheered. “You scored!”

Alexia grinned, pressing another kiss to Mila’s cheek. “Of course, I did.” She tapped Mila’s nose. “You gave me good luck.”

Together, they made their way around the stadium, applauding the fans. Mila never left Alexia’s side, her little arms wrapped around Alexia’s neck, her head resting on her shoulder.

For Alexia, victories were always special.

But this one?

This one, with Mila by her side?

This one was perfect.

this fic lives in my mind rent free

Pitch Invader

summary: barça’s twelfth (wo)man

warnings: nothing

a/n: thank you for the request !

word count: 1.6k

-

There are certain truths universally acknowledged: gravity exists, toddlers are irrational, and the Putellas genes are a force of nature.

Today’s a big day: Alexia is playing one of the most important games of the season, and you’re in the stands with your two-year-old daughter, who, despite being the tiniest human in the stadium, possesses the energy of a thousand deranged squirrels. You are, in a word, nervous.

Your daughter, however, is anything but nervous. She’s strapped into her tiny jersey with Putellas scrawled across the back in letters that are nearly as big as she is. Her hair’s up in a ponytail, more like a pineapple sprouting out of her head, but you know that’s the only way she likes it. You’ve brought snacks, water, an iPad loaded with Paw Patrol, and a collection of those little rubber animals she’s obsessed with. You are prepared for every disaster except, apparently, the actual one.

The game kicks off. Your daughter’s glued to the action, her eyes tracking the players with a focus you wish she’d bring to bedtime. She’s screaming "Mami!" like she’s the head of the Alexia Putellas fan club. Which, let’s be real, she probably is.

You, meanwhile, are half-watching the game, half-watching her, and half-wondering when you’ll get the time to sleep ever again. The maths doesn’t add up, but then again, neither does the toddler logic you’re about to encounter.

In the 30th minute, the snacks run out. Which, you should have known, is a harbinger of doom. Your daughter, little genius that she is, finishes her juice box and immediately hurls it to the ground. She gives you the wide-eyed innocent look that usually precedes a request for more snacks or a sudden need to use the bathroom. But not this time.

This time, she leans in conspiratorially, whispering, “Mami!” It’s a statement, a question, and a declaration of war all at once.

“Yes, baby,” you say, patting her hand, thinking she’s just expressing her undying adoration for Alexia. You know what’s coming, but you’re oblivious. Blame it on the lack of sleep or the adrenaline of the match.

“Mami!” she repeats, louder, with more urgency. You’re too busy trying to figure out if she’s got another juice box somewhere in the black hole that is your nappy bag to notice that she’s been scoping out her escape route. You’ve taught her well: always look for the exits. You just never expected her to take that lesson so literally.

“Mami!” And before you can register what’s happening, she’s off like a shot, little legs pumping with the determination of someone who’s just discovered that the world is a lot more fun when you’re not stuck behind bars. Literally. Because she’s somehow squeezed through the railing and is now sprinting toward the field like she’s got the ball and is gunning for the goal.

There’s a split second where time stops. The crowd noise fades, the players blur, and you’re left watching your tiny daughter make her bid for freedom. Then, the panic sets in.

“Oh my God, she’s on the pitch!” you scream, leaping to your feet. Your heart's in your throat, and your legs feel like they’re made of concrete, but you move. You have to. Alexia is going to kill you. No, worse, she’s going to tell your mother.

This is it. You’re going to die. Not because your daughter’s about to get trampled by a bunch of world-class athletes, but because Alexia Putellas is going to murder you on the spot for letting this happen.

“Don’t move!” you yell, as if your two-year-old is going to suddenly develop a sense of self-preservation and stop in her tracks. You leap over seats with a grace you didn’t know you possessed, and suddenly, it’s you versus the grass, a race you never wanted to be a part of.

The security guards, bless them, are as stunned as you are. They’re used to dealing with rowdy fans, not rogue toddlers. One of them starts to move, but you’re faster. You vault over the barrier like an Olympian, not caring that you’ve just flashed half the stadium. Your brain is a mess of conflicting priorities: get the child, avoid the cameras, don’t trip, for the love of God, don’t trip.

“Mami!” Your daughter’s scream pierces the air as she beelines for Alexia, who, by now, has spotted her and is having her own heart attack on the pitch. Alexia freezes, eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless yell. You can see her future flash before her eyes: headlines like “Star Player’s Toddler Takes Over Match” or “Tiny Terror Halts Game, Becomes Internet Sensation.”

The ball is at the far end of the pitch, and most of the players haven’t noticed yet. But one of the defenders has. She’s staring, and then she starts laughing. You can’t blame her. You’d be laughing too if you weren’t about to faint from the sheer absurdity of it all.

Finally, you reach your daughter just as she reaches the center circle. You scoop her up, her little legs still kicking as if she’s going to make a break for it again. She’s giggling, thinking this is all the best game ever, and honestly, you’re too relieved to be mad.

Alexia, however, is sprinting toward you like she’s about to dropkick someone, probably you, into the next century. You flash her an apologetic smile, holding up the wriggling toddler as if to say, “I found her! Look, I’m a hero!”

Alexia doesn’t look like she agrees. Her face is a mix of horror, relief, and something that might be love if you’re lucky. She reaches you, breathless, eyes still wide as saucers. “What… the… hell…?”

“I took my eyes off her for two seconds!” you pant, defensively. “You try keeping up with her!”

Your daughter, oblivious to the chaos she’s caused, throws her arms around Alexia’s neck and says, “Mami, I won!”

Alexia softens instantly, her expression shifting to one of pure adoration. She holds your daughter close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, you did, mi amor. You won”

The crowd, which had been holding its collective breath, erupts into cheers and laughter. You’re pretty sure you see a wave of camera phones aimed in your direction. Great. You’ll never live this down.

But then Alexia grins at you, and it’s that grin—the one that says she’s both exasperated and completely in love with you—that makes all of this worth it.

“I’m going to kill you,” she whispers, but she’s smiling, and you know you’re in the clear.

“Totally fair,” you agree. “But can we do that after the game?”

With a resigned laugh, Alexia turns to walk you both off the field, your daughter still happily babbling about how she’s the best player ever, better than even Mami. And you? You just can’t wait to tell her how this day was 100% her fault when she’s old enough to understand the concept of consequences.

As you reach the sidelines, you catch the eye of the commentator, who’s openly laughing now. “And that, folks, is what you call a family affair!”

You wave awkwardly, knowing you’re going to be a meme by the end of the day. But as you hand your daughter back to her seat, watching Alexia return to the pitch with a look of determination that’s all business now, you can’t help but feel a rush of pride.

Sure, you almost derailed an entire match. But on the plus side, you just might have discovered a new sport: Toddler Sprinting, with a side of Parental Panic. Gold medals all around.

A/N: Secret relationship fic requested by a lovely anon. This fic is inspired by Notting Hill, one of my favorite movies. The beginning is pretty similar to the movie, but later on I pretty much make it my own. Keep in mind that Alexia is like 200x more famous in this fic. Hope you enjoy!

Just a Girl (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

Of course, you’ve seen her play and have always thought she was, well, incredible — but despite living in the same city, she’s a million miles from the small world you live in.

Carrer de la Riera Baixa is home to secondhand stores passed down from generation to generation, independent record stores with selections long forgotten, and a bar only sought out by those with something to forget. Tucked in between is your bookstore. Unlike the other stores, there is no storefront or windows to peak through. The only clue of what is sold is engraved on a plate, nailed to the door.

Llibres Rars FOR THOSE WHO SEEK THE PAST

Riera Baixa is gritty but honest, and most importantly, all you have ever known. From your apartment building, it takes exactly 80 steps to reach the shop. It’s a path you can take with your eyes closed if necessary.

And from this path you have not strayed.

Even when your girlfriend of five years asked you to take a detour and build a life together in a new city. The words ‘new’ and ‘different’ sparked feelings in you that greatly contrasted her own. Whereas she felt excitement, you felt fear. All you’ve ever known is Riera Baixa and all you’ve ever looked forward to are those 80 steps. You tried to explain this to her but your words were simply not enough. So, she packed her bags and sought out a new adventure. The morning after she left, you walked those 80 steps again, but it felt like you were walking for miles.

The pain of her leaving subsided with time, but she left a void in your heart you thought would be impossible for anything or anyone to ever fill — or so you thought.

On Saturdays something special happens on Riera Baixa street. The metal doors slide open and the stores spill out onto the streets for residents and tourists alike. The strum of an acoustic guitar fills the air, a beautiful melody mixed with the sound of excited chatter and intense bargains taking place.

Inside the bookshop, you’re hunched over the front desk, staring at numbers on a page that bring you no satisfaction. Your sole employee and close friend, Anna, stands by your side, her hand resting on your shoulder.

“A major sales push and all we have to show for it is 233 euros in profits,” you look at Anna, your voice, defeated.

“I think you need some coffee. You know, to ease the pain a little.”

You let out a deep sigh, “make it a café con leche and a chocolate croissant, please.”

With one small, comforting squeeze on your shoulder, Anna walks out of the bookshop in search of the only thing that can bring you a little bit of happiness.

You remain focused on the page, hoping that if you stare at it long enough the numbers will transform. The bookshop has never been the most profitable business on Riera Baixa street, seemingly always hanging by a thin thread— a very thin thread. And yet, it has remained a staple of the market, making just enough to survive year after year.

The little bell attached to the door rings out in the quiet, taking you out of your thoughts. You glance up casually, expecting to see just another customer with an unfamiliar face.

It’s like the air is sucked out of the room.

Despite the black cap and sunglasses, there’s no mistaking her. No matter where you are in the city, you see her. Her face is plastered on every newspaper, her name a constant sound on the radio, the city walls decorated with murals of her.

It’s Alexia Putellas, the greatest football player in the world, the pride and joy of Barcelona — here — in your store. She is the inspiration of many and the example of hard work and dedication. But also, the most heavenly, generous, beautiful woman on earth.

“Need some help?” you ask, the words almost getting stuck in your throat.

Alexia glances up from the book held gingerly in her hands, “No, thank you. Just looking around.”

“Ok.”

You feign interest in the scattered pieces of paper on the desk, flipping through the pages with no purpose.

From the corner of your eye, you can see Alexia wander from shelf to shelf, fingertips brushing against the spine of the books that intrigue her. Something does indeed catch her eye because she stops and picks out a book from the shelf. It’s a book you instantly recognize, even from a distance.

“Good choice, but uh, just a little bit depressing” you dare to say, hoping she won’t mind the interruption too much.

Alexia makes no effort to look in your direction, her attention on the cover of the book. “What’s it about?” she asks.

“Oh — well, long story short, all the main character knows is tragedy so to protect herself, she doesn’t let anyone get close. She thinks she’ll just inevitably lose them.”

“I see.” Alexia appears to give the novel some more thought but, in the end, decides to heed your warning and returns the book to its proper place.

Alexia continues her search — for what, you do not know. But whatever it is, you want to help her find it.

Eventually she plucks out another book, but this time doesn’t bother to look at the cover. Instead, she brings it up to your view, “and this one?”

“That one has too many men with insufferable egos.”

Alexia hides her smile behind the book, “not my thing,” she says, and puts it right back.

You lose sight of her when she wanders to the back of the shop, daring to explore the mess of books stacked up from floor to ceiling. Very rarely do customers visit that section and that only makes her far more intriguing.

After a few minutes, Alexia returns to the front of the shop with a book held delicately in her hands. “I think I found the one,” she says, resting the book on the desk.

Taking a peek at the cover, a smile tugs on your lips. “It’s one of my favorites, actually.”

Alexia tilts her head slightly to the side, removing her sunglasses and finally allowing you to see her eyes.

You wonder if she can tell your heart skipped a beat or two.

“If it’s your favorite, why do you have it all the way in the back?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” you pause for a moment to think, “I guess some novels are best stumbled upon y’know… found at just the right moment by the right person.”

“Am I the right person?”

“Definitely.”

Alexia looks at you with a slight smile and just like that, whatever worries you had before she walked in are no more. When you complete the transaction and hand her the bag, her fingers brush against your own for a brief, but electrifying second.

“Have a good day,” she says, bringing up the sunglasses to cover her eyes once again, much to your disappointment.

“Yeah… you too,” is all you can say, but the voice in your head is begging for her to stay.

Alexia opens the door to leave but hesitates, “I didn’t catch your name,” she says.

“Oh, it’s Y/N,” you manage to say, for a brief second forgetting your own name.

Alexia silently mouths your name and offers you a smile that warms your entire body. With that, she steps out onto the street and disappears from your view.

Once again, a quiet takes over the shop. You’re left in a daze, having to pinch yourself to prove that it was all real— that she was real.

Anna returns just a few minutes later with two cups in her hand and a flustered look on her face. “Café con leche as ordered,” she says, shuffling the papers out of the way and resting the hot, steaming cup of coffee on the front desk.

“You won’t believe who was just here,” you say, still in a state of disbelief.

“Alexia Putellas?”

You take a step back, shocked that she was able to guess so quickly. “Yes! Wait, did you see her when she walked out?”

Anna appears to be just as surprised as you, “hold on, I was right? That was a total guess, oh my god!” she exclaims, looking back at the door, hoping Alexia would just walk right back in. “But no, I saw her on the front page of a newspaper when I was at the pastry shop. That’s why she was my first guess.”

“It was a damn good guess.” You reach for the cup but go still when you realize something is missing, “no chocolate croissants today?”

“Oh shit!” she taps her forehead with her palm, “the new girl, Emma, was flirting with me again, and well, you know how I get,” she says, her cheeks red with a blush.

You let out a little snort, shaking your head. “Perfectly reasonable explanation,” you say, “I’ll go get it. I think some fresh air will do me good.”

Just as you’re about to step out onto the street, Anna calls out to you. “Wait! You mind getting me an orange juice? I meant to get one but-“

You give her a knowing look, “you looked into Emma’s beautiful eyes and forgot?”

“Yep!”

It’s usually a short walk to the pastry shop, but on Saturdays it takes a little longer with the crowd that gathers in search of antiques and other goods.

Emma smiles when you walk in and asks you about Anna to which you reply, “back at the shop, a flustered mess.”

While Emma works on your order, you can’t help but glance at the newspapers on display. Alexia’s face is on the cover of about half of them, and the headlines all attack her in one way or the other.

Alexia Putellas A Shell of Her Former Self, reads one of the headlines.

Another cover has Alexia crying on the pitch, her hands over her face and with the headline, Will Putellas Miss Again?

Ever since Alexia missed a penalty in last years Champions League final penalty shootout, the press have developed an obsession for attacking her. Only a few months prior to the final they were singing her praises, but as it turns out, highlighting her misfortunes brings in a whole lot more money and attention.

With a cup of orange juice, chocolate croissant, and some napkins in your hands, you swing out of the pastry shop with very little care. You’re about to turn a corner when you bump into-

“Alexia!” a rising panic in your voice.

“Shh!” she looks around to see if anybody heard, orange juice dripping from her shirt down onto the street.

“I’m so sorry! Here, let me help.” Without much of a thought, you attempt to pat dry her shirt but get a little too near to her breasts for someone Alexia just met.

“What are you doing?!”

You jump back, flustered, and so utterly embarrassed. “Sorry… again. Um, listen I live just right over there, please, you could get cleaned up and be good to go. I’d hate to ruin your day,” you pause, letting out an awkward chuckle, “If I haven’t already.”

The sunglasses shield her eyes, but you don’t need to see them to tell she’s annoyed. “Fine. But what do you mean, just right over there?”

You point in the direction of your apartment, “literally right over there, it's the one with the red curtains.”

Alexia looks down at her shirt, soaked and stained with orange juice. With a sigh, she nods and accepts your offer. __

Your apartment is an extension of the bookstore. Books everywhere and on everything; some closed, and some left open to your favorite passages.

“Something tells me you like to read,” she says, a hint of teasing in her words.

You give her a nervous smile, “just a little.”

Alexia takes off her sunglasses and places them on the nearest table alongside her bags. “It’s a good thing I decided to buy this top after all,” she says, taking out a black crop top, “Bathroom?”

“Right over there,” you reply, pointing to the bathroom door at the end of the hallway.

With Alexia out of sight, you take in a deep breath in hopes it will calm your nerves but it’s hard to ignore the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Saturdays are usually pretty eventful, but this is something else entirely. It’s not the fact that’s she’s incredibly famous that has you feeling like this. While it’s true that there’s no lack of beautiful women in Barcelona, none have ever made your heart explode in your chest and your soul stand still in awe with just one look.

Alexia steps out of the bathroom and there goes your heart again, picking up its pace. The top rides up her stomach just enough for you to see the carved rigids of her abs, and tight enough for you tell she’s not wearing a bra.

It’s so incredibly obvious that you’re staring, but the sparkle in her eyes hints that she doesn’t mind.

“Cup of coffee before you go?” you ask, forcing yourself to maintain eye-contact.

“No, thank you.”

“Tea?”

Alexia tugs on her bottom lip for a moment then shakes her head, “no.”

“How about a croissant? Best in all of Barcelona.”

Her lips twitch in an effort to fight her smile, “really, no.”

“Will I always get a no from you?”

There’s a pause.

“No,” she says and gives you a look that means something, but you just don’t know what.

“I should go,” she says, “I want to say thank you for all your help, but you are the one that spilled orange juice all over me so…”

You look down at your feet, trying to muster up a little bit of courage, “Before you go… I realize I might never get another chance to tell you this, considering I’ve done nothing but make a fool of myself today but,” you meet her eyes, “you’ll forget all about me the second you step out of that door, but… I fear you’ll never leave my mind.”

She smiles, and you realize that’s all you’ll get in return.

“Right, well…,” you guide her towards the front door, “it was nice to meet you, Alexia.”

With a nod, she steps out of the apartment and you close the door behind her. Leaning against it, you tap your forehead again, and again on the door in embarrassment. “That literally couldn’t have gone worse,” you say with a heavy sigh.

You turn away from the door but suddenly, you hear a knock. You expect it to be Anna, tracking you down since you never made it back to the shop. But when you open the door, you see Alexia.

“Hi,” she says, “Sorry, I forgot my bags.”

You look back and see her bags still on the table where she left them, “oh, right. I’ll get them for you.”

When you return to the door with her bags in your hand, you notice Alexia has taken two steps inside the apartment. You go to hand her the bags but surprisingly, she doesn’t make a move a muscle to take them from you.

You’re confused, but in her eyes, you only see certainty.

That’s when she kisses you, without any warning but without haste, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her. It’s a gentle kiss, without passion but with a tenderness that has you feeling like you’re floating in the clouds.

Alexia pulls away and it takes a few seconds for you to open your eyes. You have so many questions, but it seems you’ve lost the ability to speak. In silence, Alexia reaches for the bags still in your hands and with one last look, walks out once again.

This time, however, she leaves you with a little hope in your heart that one day, maybe she’ll return.

___________________

“So let me get this straight,” Anna says, pacing back and forth on the balcony of your apartment, “five-time Balon D’or winner, Alexia Putellas, kissed you?”

“That is correct.” You don’t blame Anna for having trouble believing your encounter with Alexia. Hell, it’s hard for you to believe and you lived it.

“And she just walked out? Didn’t say anything, just kissed you and went on her merry way?”

That part of it all was also difficult for you to wrap your head around. “Kissed me and walked right out,” you reply, looking down at everyone going about their lives on Riera Baixa street, “I swear I’ve never been so confused in my life.”

Anna plops down on the chair next to you and lifts her legs up to rest on the railing, “No wonder you were acting so weird when you got back to the shop. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t pass out — God knows I would have.”

“Well, I stood there like an idiot for like fifteen minutes after she left so… close enough.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, just trying to make sense out of something that makes absolutely no sense at all. The memory of the kiss is permanently engraved in your memory. No matter what you do to try and distract yourself from it, it’s impossible to not relive it in your mind.

“So what are you gonna do now?” Anna finally asks.

All you can do is shrug, “what can I do?” You’ve been asking yourself that very same question and have yet to come up with an answer. “She’s famous, Annie, it’s not like I can track her down or something. Let’s say I do somehow manage to get in contact with her, would she even want to talk to me? I mean, yes, she did kiss me but she also just walked out and left me standing there. I honestly don’t kno—”

“Oh my god!” Anna jumps out of the chair with her phone in her hands.

Her sudden outburst startles you, “what!?”

Anna starts gesturing wildly at the phone, “Alexia just followed the bookshop on Instagram!”

You jump out of your chair, just like Anna, and take the phone from her hands.

Alexia Putellas has followed you

“This is huge,” Anna says, peering over your shoulder at the screen, “not only for your love life but for the store too.”

Business is the last thing on your mind. The realization that Alexia hasn’t forgotten all about you has your head spinning, so much so that you need to sit back down. You’re staring at the notification with your heart ready to explode out of your chest, but then you get another one and this time, it’s a message.

Alexia: sorry couldn’t find you by your name 🙄 Alexia: it’s a little late notice but we have a game tomorrow. Can you make it? Alexia: I want to see you again

Each message sends you further into a state of panic, your hands trembling. All of the sudden everything feels really real. Your kiss with Alexia felt so surreal that you could almost trick yourself into believing it was all a figment of your imagination. But now, reality has smacked you right across the face and you’re terrified.

“You ok? You’re white as a ghost,” Anna says, reaching for your trembling hands.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you say to her, feeling a pressure in your chest, “she’s Alexia Putellas, Anna. She’s all people talk about in this city and everyone wants to know everything about her. Remember her last relationship?”

Anna nods, a slight grimace on her face. “Yeah, the press wouldn’t leave them alone. I’ll admit, it was all a little extreme.”

Just the idea of being followed around everywhere you go by strangers with flashing cameras has you paralyzed with fear. You’re a creature of habit, finding comfort in routine and happiness in an ordinary life. Alexia’s life is anything but ordinary and you fear you’ll sink rather than float in her presence.

“I can’t do this,” you say, giving the phone back to Anna and running your fingers through your hair feeling overwhelmed. “We’re from two different worlds.”

Anna knows you better than anyone else and was there by your side, helping you pick up the broken pieces of your heart. Like you, she lives in her own little world on Riera Baixa street and has never desired a change of scenery or change of pace.

“Are you going to reply?” Anna asks you, softly.

You take a shuddering breath, your eyes starting to tear up. “It’s better that I don’t. Besides, she’ll forget all about me soon enough,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh, wiping away the single tear running down your cheek.

Anna gives your hand a little squeeze. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” she says, but knows better than to push the subject.

___________________

It’s the end of yet another slow day at the bookstore which only makes it all that more difficult to keep your mind off Alexia. Anytime the bell rings announcing a new customer your heart drops at the small possibility of it being her. But it’s never her and as much as you hate to admit it, you feel disappointed each time.

The bell rings and you look up to find a man with a rather bored look on his face.

“Welcome,” you greet him, “can I help you?”

The man stops a few feet away from you and looks around slowly, “do you have any travel books?”

“Uh,” you look around the store, the answer very clear to you, “no, sorry, we only sell novels.”

The man doesn’t seem satisfied by your answer. “Rick Stevens?”

You try to recall the name of the author, but nothing comes to mind. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with his work. Do you know the name of the novel?”

“Best of Europe Guidebook.”

Fighting the urge to scream, you give the man a tight smile. “That’s a travel book. We only sell novels, sir.”

“What about Fodor’s Essential Europe?”

You take a glance at the clock and breathe a sigh of relief when you see its almost closing time. “Nope, don’t have that either,” you say, stepping away from the counter and towards the door, “unfortunately it’s time for us to close. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you find what you need.”

The man takes an unbearably long time to walk out of the door and you try to hide your eagerness when you close the door behind him.

“Why is Anna never here to deal with the weird customers,” you mumble to yourself.

Shrugging off the annoyance, you start to pack up your belongings to head on home.

But once again, the bell rings and that same annoyance starts to creep up again, “We don’t sell travel books,” you say without even bothering to turn back and see who walked in.

“That’s good to know,” says a very familiar voice.

Your body goes still, a chill running down your spine. It’s the very same voice that’s been haunting your dreams for days. With your eyes closed, you take one deep breath before turning around and finally facing her.

“Alexia.”

Same as the first time she walked in, a black cap and sunglasses conceal her identity. When she takes off her sunglasses, a part of you wishes she would have kept them on. Her eyes pierce through you, making you feel weak in the knees.

“You left me on read,” Alexia says, taking a step closer to you.

“I did,” you say, taking a step back.

“Why?” She says, now a little bit closer.

You go to take another step but feel your back against the bookshelf. “I just don’t belong in your world, that’s all.” You want to be firm with your words, but your voice falters.

Now within arm’s reach, Alexia shakes her head. “You don’t know my world,” she says.

When you don’t answer, she closes the little bit of distance remaining between your two bodies. Your skin ignites when she brushes a finger along your cheek, your eyes flutter as you instinctively lean into her touch.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” her voice is quiet, almost a whisper against your ear. Alexia slides her hands down to your hips, her grip firm but gentle: making it clear she has no intention of letting you go.

Your pulse beats loudly in your ears, her scent invading your lungs and clouding your mind. Nothing good can came of this, you know it, and yet you’re incapable of pushing her away. Your eyes flick down to her lips, just for a quick second, but it’s all the confirmation Alexia needs.

She bows her head down warily, watching your reaction, almost as she’s scared you’re going to run away any second. She tests you by brushing her lips against yours, a jolt of electricity running between you. Her tongue runs across your bottom lip and you can’t take it anymore.

“Kiss me.”

And Alexia doesn’t hesitate. The kiss starts slow — deep but hesitant. Your hands trembling lightly as you reach up to cup her cheeks. Eventually, the whole world disappears and all you’re left with is the feeling of her lips.

___________________

You give in to temptation and agree to keep seeing Alexia in secret. After every game, she finds her way to your apartment, sneaking away from the press that wait for her outside of Camp Nou. The only one who knows of your relationship is Anna and you’ve sworn her to secrecy.

It turns out that what exists between the two of you is far deeper than just a physical attraction. More than just lust. There is a certain kind of comfort and peace you feel when she holds you in her arms. You’re certain Alexia feels the same way as you see the way her shoulders relax when she steps inside your apartment, and the sadness in her eyes when she has to sneak away in the morning.

You’ve also picked up on the ease with which Alexia has settled into your apartment. Her favorite Barça sweatshirt has found a home in the top left drawer of your dresser. Her toothbrush now keeps yours company in the bathroom. And every morning, without fail, she asks you to stop by the pastry shop for a coffee and chocolate croissants that, according to Alexia, are indeed the best in all of Barcelona.

Having been given a few days off to rest, you have the rare privilege of spending all day together. So, of course, the two of you decide to waste an entire day in bed.

There’s a full-length mirror in the corner of your bedroom. In its reflection, you see two bodies tangled up in messy white sheets, legs intertwined, Alexia’s fingers lightly grazing against your bare back. Goosebumps form on your skin and you don’t know if it’s from her touch or the cool breeze that’s coming through the balcony sliding door.

You turn around to face Alexia. Her hair is tousled; a small smile on her face, thoughts hidden behind her eyes.

“Everything ok?” you ask softly, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

Alexia supports her head with her hand, looking at you with tenderness. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time,” she says, “I haven’t felt like myself in a long time.”

Little by little, Alexia has clued you in on her life as a professional athlete and all the pros and cons that come with it. At first it was a dream come true to be recognized as the best, but through the years, that title has become more of a burden than anything else.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

The media demands Alexia to secure the Champions League trophy in order to be deemed worthy of yet another Ballon D’or. They demand a player who can show up in important games: a player who can make that crucial penalty in a final. All her previous accomplishments be damned. All they remember is that penalty.

“You know I forgot my bags on purpose,” she says, tugging on the sheets draped over your body.

“What do you mean?”

Alexia let’s out a little chuckle at the memory that’s replying in her mind, “the day we first met” she says, “remember, you were rambling about how you would never forget me...”

You tug the sheets up to hide your face, a warmth on your cheeks.

“I thought it was so cute,” she says, sneaking her hand underneath the sheets to rest on your stomach, “I knew I had to get the bags before leaving but I decided to leave them behind.”

You peer out from under the sheets, “how come?”

“I wanted an excuse to come back and see you. I thought I’d let a few days go by but I don’t know, I wanted to kiss you so bad and just I couldn’t wait.”

Her confession comes to a surprise as you have always believed you made a complete, total fool of yourself that day.

“Hm, well I do have that effect on people,” you tease.

Alexia rolls her eyes and throws the sheet over the two of you. Underneath the covers, you share lingering kisses, giggles, and promises of forever.

___________________

You watched it happen live from the bookstore.

The game was tied and there was no sign of either team conceding a goal in the final minutes. But with only three minutes left in the game, Aitana was fouled inside the box and the referee immediately blew her whistle.

Penalty.

You were certain Alexia would be the one to take it and for that reason, you were on edge. Despite putting on a great performance all game, if Alexia missed the penalty, that’s all people would talk about. You knew that and most importantly, so did Alexia.

Everyone at the stadium, including you all the way at the bookstore, held their breath. You watched Alexia very carefully as she stood there, staring down the goalkeeper. What you saw sparked in you concern. There was an undeniable confidence in her posture, but in her eyes, you noticed something else entirely.

Your hands covered your face, but through the gaps, you watched the ball fly up and over the crossbar.

Alexia missed the penalty and the first leg of the champions league semifinal ended in a draw. While not the worst result, you had no doubt the media would attack her mercilessly for failing to secure the win.

Which is why you’re waiting for her at the bookshop, like you always do after a game— no matter the result. Right now, your number one priority is being there for her and to silence all the negative thoughts that are undoubtedly running through her mind.

Every tick of the clock feels like an eternity but the door does eventually open. The second Alexia’s eyes lock on you, her lips start to quiver. “I missed,” she manages to say before covering her mouth with her hands, shoulders shaking as she fights the sobs building in her chest.

You run and take her in your arms. “Oh, baby…” you say, tears welling up in your own eyes.

Alexia hugs you so fiercely, as if afraid you’ll disappear. All the disappointment, frustration, and pain rush out of her as she sobs in your arms. All you can do is stroke her back, whisper words of affection in her ear, and simply hold her in hopes that will be enough to ease a little of her pain.

But it’s hard to fight the pain when it shows up at the front door.

Strangers with flashing cameras overwhelm the entrance of the bookshop, shouting and begging for a glimpse of Alexia.

Hearing the disturbance outside, Alexia looks up from your shoulder with tear-stained cheeks. “Mierda,” she mumbles, “I rushed to get here and they must have followed me.”

Fear begins to creep on you but you try your best to hide it from her. This is exactly what you feared: your world being invaded by the press. Now that they know you and Alexia have some sort of connection, they won’t stop until they get to the bottom of it. In just one night, your little world is not so little anymore.

“It’s ok,” you assure her, running your fingers through her hair. “But we can’t stay here all night. When you’re ready, we’ll walk out and make a run for the apartment.”

Alexia, not wanting to face the press in her current state, takes a few minutes to gather her composure. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and takes a few good, deep breaths. It’s a ritual you imagine she’s had to do on more than one occasion, and it makes you hate those who are waiting outside with even more of a passion.

Hand in hand, you share one last look before walking out of the bookshop.

Nothing could have prepared you for this. All at once they all scream their questions at you and Alexia, forcing their cameras and microphones directly in front of your faces. They take no mercy despite your obvious fear and discomfort. The only one who notices is Alexia, who tightens her grip on your hand and forces her way through the crowd of reporters.

“Alexia is this your girlfriend!?” asks one of the reporters, following closely.

You put your head down, trying your best to hide your face from the cameras. Your silence does nothing to deter their never-ending onslaught of questions. All their voices mix into one, but your ears manage to catch some of the questions thrown at Alexia, and each one makes you rage more than the last.

“Do you deserve to win the Balon D’or!?”

“Why are you still taking the penalties!?”

“Alexia, how does it feel to let the team down again!?”

Little by little, the two of you manage to navigate through the crowded Riera Baixa street and make it to the front door of your apartment building. With a hand on your back, Alexia helps you get inside first as the reporters grow more and more aggressive. With force, Alexia closes the door behind her.

You can still hear their muffled voices coming from outside, but with the reporters now out of sight, you allow yourself to let out a sigh of relief. Feeling overwhelmed, you lean your back against the wall and slide down to the floor. Alexia kneels next to you and wraps her arms around you. It seems like it’s now her turn to comfort you.

“I’m so sorry, mi amor,” she whispers, softly kissing your temple, “it won’t always be like this, I promise.” Alexia tries her best to comfort you with her words, but you fear nothing will relieve the pressure you feel in your chest.

By some miracle, Alexia manages to fall asleep despite everything that happened, but you suspect it might have something to do with playing a full 90 minutes of intense professional football. You on the other hand, are still awake. The thoughts running through your mind make it difficult for you to find rest. That, and all the reporters still camped outside your front door. Some have given up and left, but others seem to be more persistent.

Glancing at Alexia, you feel a tug in your heart. The time you have spent together has been nothing but magical. Her presence in your life has reintroduced love and hope to a heart that feared it would never feel those things again. But, despite making you the happiest you’ve been in a very, very long time, you fear she might have also introduced you to something you never sought to experience.

Fame.

___________________

You haven’t been able to step a foot inside the bookshop in days. Every time you dare to step out of your apartment, reporters jump out of their hiding spots and hound you with questions about Alexia, and about your relationship with her.

Even though you have not spoken a single word to them, the press somehow managed to find out everything about you. Alexia has warned you not to go on social media for a little while, at least until everything calms down a little. You should have listened to her because it would have saved you a lot of stress and discomfort.

There are hundreds of articles written about you, diving deep into your personal and professional life. Some are even dedicated to comparing you to all of Alexia’s ex-girlfriends to see where you rank next to them. The article that affected you the most was the one that exposed your long-term relationship with your ex, and questioned if you ended it in pursuit of Alexia and her fame.

So many lies written about you and you feel powerless to them all.

You’re at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket with a newspaper in your hands when Alexia walks in. Interested in what you’re reading, she makes her way to you and sighs when she reads the headline.

All You Need to Know about Alexia Putellas’s New Love

“I told you to not read these things,” she says, taking the newspaper from your hands and throwing it to the side.

You don’t put up much of a fight since you already read the article a hundred times. “I know, baby, but I can’t help it,” you argue, “one day nobody knows my name and the next they know everything about me.”

Alexia sits down at the seat next to you and reaches for your hand, “I understand, mi amor” she says, her thumb caressing your knuckles. “But I promise things will get better. They’ll get bored eventually and move on to the next thing. We just need to give it a little time.”

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you have to suppress the little bit of frustration you feel at her words. You want to go outside and point at all the reporters still there and ask her if things will truly, ever get better. But you don’t. You don’t because you know Alexia is not to blamed for any of this as she is just as much of a victim as you are.

“How was training,” you ask, trying to shift your focus to literally anything else.

Alexia lets go of your hand and runs her fingers through her hair in frustration. “Horrendous,” she says.

After her penalty miss, Alexia has been all over the place. She has no trouble falling asleep but has struggled to sleep through the night. You’ve lost count of how many times she wakes up through the night, gasping for air, her hand on her beating heart.

Every night in her dreams, Alexia steps up to take an important penalty and she misses. Every time.

“Jona tells me I’m playing with too many voices in my head,” she says, “that I should stop listening to what the media is saying about me and just play my game.”

“Kind of like how you tell me to stop reading these articles,” you counter, glancing at the newspaper Alexia threw to the side, “but we both know it’s easier said than done.”

Realizing that the both of you needed to take some time and relax, you asked Alexia to join you for a bath and she agreed without much convincing needed. When all the voices get too loud and the words printed on the pages hurt a little too much, the two of you find in each other arms a peace and quiet you so desperately need.

In the bathtub, Alexia is lying back, using your chest as a pillow. Lulled by the warmth of the water and the comfort of each other’s bodies, neither of you have said much.

“One day it will be just you and me,” she says softly, breaking the silence, “no reporters following us around, no more articles. Just you and me.”

You tighten your hold on her just a little bit and lean down to leave a kiss on her shoulder. “One day,” you reply, but your words are not said with the same amount of confidence.

Alexia gives you no indication that she picked up on the uncertainty in your voice, but she also doesn’t say anything else.

___________________

“I think it’s safe for me to go out.”

Alexia joins you by the window and takes a peek. When she doesn’t see any reporters, she smiles. “Chocolate croissants?”

“Coming right up,” you say, a little surprised to actually hear some excitement in your voice.

For the first time in what seems like forever, you dare to step out onto Riera Baixa street. The reporters camped outside your apartment appear to have taken a break and therefore, have allowed you to try and go back to your normal life. Things are different, however. Before you walked the street with no care in the world, now, you have to walk with caution and always be on the alert.

When you walk inside the pastry shop, however, you’re reminded that your life is anything but normal. Emma is working today and you hear her voice call out to you, but you can’t make our her words though the white noise and the muffled sound of your heart beating rapidly in your chest.

Your trembling hands reach for the newspaper and you read the headline to yourself.

“Dating a Football Player is Good for Business.”

The article goes into depth about the bookstore and its financials. How they managed to get this information, you don’t know. The article reveals that the bookshop barely makes a profit and clearly implies that you’re using Alexia to bring attention to the store. Their evidence? The insane number of followers the store has gotten since your relationship with Alexia was made public.

Crumbling the newspaper in your hands, you walk out of the pastry shop without even bothering to pay for it. While there are no reporters around, the familiar faces of Riera Baixa all give you a second glance and some don’t bother to lower their voices as they gossip.

“Maybe that girlfriend of hers will visit our shop and get us some attention,” someone says and it takes everything in you not to turn around and give them a piece of your mind.

The first thing Alexia notices when you walk inside is that there are no chocolate croissants in your hands. Then the newspaper and the look on your face. “What happened?” she asks, concern in her voice.

Without a word, you drop the crumbled newspaper on the kitchen table and then walk to the sofa, where you sit down with your knees tucked close to your chest.

Just like you, Alexia sees red when she reads the article. Instead of crumbling the newspaper, she shreds it to pieces with her hands.

Alexia joins you on the sofa, her hand reaches out to comfort you but you pull back from her touch. It breaks your heart to do so, but you’re just not sure you can keep going on living like this. No longer do you feel safe in your home. The street that you have grown up in and have dedicated your life to, no longer seems to welcome you. Everything you once held dear has turned its back on you.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say, feeling that familiar lump forming in the back of your throat. “This is all too much for me, Ale,” Your words are directed at her, but you don’t have the strength to look her in the eye. “You make me so happy; you really do. But I can’t take another day of lies being written about me. Tired of not being able to work… of not being able to live.”

Alexia tries to reach out to you again but hesitates, “baby, please, look at me.”

The look in her eyes shatters your heart into a million little pieces. Alexia knows you have reached your breaking point and that means she’s on the verge of losing you — if she hasn’t lost you already.

“What they said about you is horrible, but mi amor, I know the truth. We know the truth and that’s all that matters.”

You shake your head slowly, “but it’s not enough.”

Alexia leans back, visibly hurt by your words. The realization that she has indeed lost you washes over her, and you force yourself to look away once again. Alexia doesn’t say anything else and gets up to walk to your bedroom.

From the sofa, you hear her open the drawers and pack up her belongings. You fight the tears for as long as you can, but it’s a fight you never had a chance at winning.

Her footsteps draw closer and then stop in front of you. Still, you can’t look her in the eyes.

“You pushed me away once and I came back for you,” she says, “if you let me walk out this door, don’t expect me to come back again.”

When you don’t say anything in return, she looks down and nods. “If you focus on the media and their lies, you’ll never see the truth. And the truth is that at the end of the day,” she sighs, her voice soft, “I’m just a girl, standing in front of another girl, asking you to love her. That’s all.”

With that said, Alexia slings the duffel bag over her shoulder and makes her way to the front door. She doesn’t open it right away, like she’s hoping you’ll stop her.

But you don’t.

You let her walk out of your life.

___________________

“Do you think I made the right decision?”

Anna takes a moment to think, having just been told about your breakup with Alexia. “Um, well,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “yeah… I mean, all the reporters and all that ugly stuff written about you, it had to stop, right?”

You nod your head, relieved your friend understands why you had to make such a difficult and heartbreaking decision. “It was never going to end,” you say with a sigh, finding a little happiness again in restocking the shelves with the new books that arrived while you were locked away in your apartment.

Anna hums in agreement, but you fail to notice the hint of doubt in her eyes. Behind your back, she pulls out her phone and sends a quick text to someone.

A little while later the bell announces a new visitor, and you don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The smell of coffee and of fresh baked pastries are big hints, but it’s the goofy smile on Anna’s face that confirms your suspicions.

Anna’s crush, Emma, walks to the desk with coffee and a bag with croissants in her hands. “I was told there was an emergency,” she says, a teasing smile on her lips.

You appreciate their effort to make you feel better, but they just doesn’t know that chocolate croissants will forever remind you of Alexia.

“Our girl is feeling a little down, that’s all,” Anna says, walking over to Emma and giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

Emma gives you a little pout, “did something happen?” she asks with genuine concern.

Taking a deep breath, you walk towards the counter and take the cup of coffee in your hand, feeling the warmth radiating from the cup. “I ended things with Alexia,” you tell her, taking a sip of the coffee.

Anna and Emma exchange a look, a conversation taking place between them with just their eyes.

“Bad breakup?” Emma asks but seems to immediately regret it, “sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it’s alright,” you tell her, leaning against the very same bookshelf Alexia kissed you against that night. “I just told her I couldn’t take it anymore. You know, all the attention that comes with being with her.”

“How did she react?” Emma asks.

Your chest rises and falls with a deep sigh, “she packed her bag with what she had in my apartment and left.”

You’re about to take another sip when you remember what Alexia said before leaving, “she wanted me to know that if I just focused on the reporters and all that craziness, that I would fail to see that she was just a girl, standing in front of another girl… asking me to love her.”

Anna stops mid-bite into her croissant and looks at you with her eyes wide open, “You didn’t tell me that part.”

You look back and forth between Anna and Emma and quickly, very quickly, realize you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life.

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” you ask despite already knowing the answer.

They nod in unison.

With your coffee back on the desk, you start to pace the room with your hair in your hands. “How could I have been so stupid!?”

Once again, you allowed your fear of change to control your life. For so long you’ve lied to yourself, thinking that letting your ex walk away was ultimately for the best. But at the end of the day, all she wanted was a change of scenery. There was no doubt in her mind that the love you shared would flourish anywhere. And yet, you pushed her away. You tricked yourself into believing you were the victim but really, you were the one to break her heart. And now, you have made the same mistake with Alexia.

While you’re lost in your thoughts, Anna and Emma have their faces buried in their phones.

“Chicas, what do I do!?” you ask them, fearing that you just might be too late.

“We’re checking Twitter,” Anna says, scrolling through the app with a serious determination.

Emma looks up from the phone, “the team bus hasn’t left yet for the airport,” she announces, “it’s a little dramatic and will bring you more attention than you probably want, but I think desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“I don’t care about causing a scene,” you tell her, surprised by how confident you sound, “I’ll deal with the cameras. I just want her back.”

Anna and Emma both nod and spring to action.

“I’ll get the keys. Em, take her to the car,” Anna says, running to the backroom to get the car keys.

The three of you jump in Anna’s car with only one goal in mind: get to Alexia before it’s too late. It’s important you get to her before she leaves because one, you need to apologize for pushing her away. And two, you need to calm the thoughts that are more than likely driving her crazy.

“Buckle in everyone, today feels like a great day to lose my license,” Anna says, shifting the car in gear.

The car screeches out into the street and the engine revs as it speeds away. Maneuvering through the streets of Barcelona, your body gets thrown to the side with every turn Anna takes. You’re a little concerned at the speed, but you don’t dare to ask to her slow down.

The car comes to a halt in front of a red light and Anna taps the steering wheel in frustration. “come on… come on…” she says to herself.

As soon as the light turns green, Anna slams her foot on the pedal leaving clouds of rubber dust behind. She earns herself a few honks from the nearby drivers and when you glance back, a few middle fingers too.

In the back of the car, you’re lost in thought trying to figure out what you’re going to say to Alexia when you see her. So lost in thought that you failed to spot the familiar Bluagrana colors in the distance, moving further and further away from you by the second.

“There it is!” Emma screams out, pointing at the bus.

Staring at all the traffic up ahead, Anna grips the steering wheel and takes in a deep breath, “my time to shine.”

Emma glances back at you with a little fear in her eyes and there’s no doubt she sees the same in yours.

Anna expertly weaves the car in and out of the chocked line of traffic. A few cars swerve out of the way when they see Anna coming up behind them, earning her more honks and a few more offensive gestures. Miraculously, Anna manages to come up right up alongside the bus and repeatedly taps the horn to get the drivers attention. When the bus doesn’t slow down, Anna accelerates in an attempt to get in front of it.

“Anna, please remember that’s a bus full of professional athletes,” Emma warns her.

Anna nods, determined, “I got this.”

The bus driver, finally realizing there’s a maniac driving next to them, starts to slow down a little bit. This gives Anna the opportunity to pass the bus and get in front of it. The car starts slowing down and the bus driver has no choice but to also slow down and come to a stop.

“It’s go time, Y/N! Go get your girl,” Emma says, looking back at you and giving you two thumbs up.

You want to throw up. You’re not sure if it’s because of the nerves or because of Anna’s driving, but there’s a concerning feeling in the pit of you stomach. But, you know there’s no time to lose so push it out of your mind.

“Thank you, Annie,” you lean into the driver’s seat and give her a kiss on the cheek, “you’re the best!”

Just about you’re close the car door behind you, you hear Anna say, “and they say lesbians can’t drive.”

With the team bus stopped in the middle of a busy street, it’s no surprise a crowd has started to gather around it.

“Alexia!” you scream out, hoping she’ll hear you from the inside. If your face hadn’t been plastered all over the news these past few weeks, people would assume you’re a lunatic fan chasing after Alexia.

Instead, you’re just a girl fighting to win back the love of her life.

“Alexia! It’s me!”

You start to make your way around the bus, hoping you’ll see her sitting by one of the windows. Unfortunately, the glass is so tinted that you can barely see inside.

The sound of the bus door opening gets your attention, and you turn around to see Alexia peeking outside.

“Ale!” you say, running to her.

Alexia looks around, confused. “What’s going on?” she asks, “what are you doing here?” and you can hear the unmistakable hurt in her voice.

“I’m here for you.”

Now that you’re both standing outside, people have started to take out their cameras to capture the moment. You can see them from the corner of your eye, but you pay them no mind. You only have eyes for Alexia.

“Baby, I’m so, so sorry,” you plead, reaching for her hands but she keeps them tucked to her side, “I made a huge mistake. I was so scared, and I acted like a huge idiot. The day you walked into the bookshop; you changed my life. For so long I’ve been so afraid of change. I’ve resisted it like you wouldn’t believe. But I’m done being afraid, mi amor.”

You reach for her hand again and this time, she allows you to.

“I’ll take it all to be with you, the good and the bad. Let them write whatever they want, I don’t care,” you take a step closer, your other hand reaching up to caress her cheek, “you were right, baby, you were so right. All that matters is that we know the truth, that you know the truth,” you pause, a small smile tugging on your lips, “and the truth is that I’m so deeply and madly in love with you.”

Alexia looks around, seeing more and more people with phones in their hands all directly pointed at you. And yet, you don’t seem to care at all. There’s no doubt this little scene will be all over the news, but again, you don’t care.

“Are you sure you want all of this to be your life?” she asks, giving you one last chance to back out.

You nod without hesitation, “As long as you’re in it.”

Alexia looks deeply into your eyes, trying to find even a hint of doubt but she sees none. Out in the middle of the street, with the entire world watching, the two of you stand there. No words. No movement. No sound but a million words being said through locked eyes.

Alexia reaches up for your face with both hands and brings your lips to hers with urgency. She kisses you in front of everyone, as if though you are the only two people in the world and that’s exactly how it feels. It’s a kiss that takes your breath away and makes your heart soar.

Dazed, you open your eyes when Alexia reluctantly releases you. All around you, people clap and whistle.

“I hate to interrupt you two lovebirds,” a voice calls out, and you look behind Alexia to see her manager, Jona, outside the bus, “but we have a plane to catch.”

Alexia nods back at him but you have a feeling that if it were up to her, she wouldn’t be going anywhere.

You take her face in her your hands, “listen to me, Putellas,” a serious tone in your voice, “you are the best football player in the world, do you hear me? We all make mistakes but you should never let them define you. Those penalties mean nothing, Ale. Ballon D’or or no Ballon D’ D’or, it will not tarnish your legacy. So, I want you to walk out onto that pitch with your head held high, and kick some ass.”

Your words seem to resonate deeply with her because she pulls her shoulders back and nods her head with a new, fierce determination in her eyes.

“And you’ll be here when I come back?” she asks.

“No matter what.”

___________________

With Anna and Emma by your side, you watched Alexia take the free kick that guaranteed Barça’s spot in the final. While they jumped up and down in each other’s arms, your eyes remained glued to the screen. Alexia celebrated the goal with so much passion, unleashing all the frustration and anger that has plagued her for so long. But, as her teammates started to return to their positions, Alexia pointed at one of the cameras and formed a heart with her hands. A message for you.

Barça went on to win the final and you got to watch the love of your life, and the captain of the greatest football club in all of Europe, lift the Champions League trophy.

After the spectacle they witnessed when you proclaimed your love for Alexia to the entire world, reporters follow the two of you everywhere you go. While it certainly has not been easy to get used to, you find comfort in Alexia’s touch. When she senses you’re feeling overwhelmed, she whispers, I love you, in your ear and reminds you of what is really important.

Like now, you’re sitting in a limousine about to walk your first ever red carpet. Alexia is by your side, confident, with no hint of nerves on her features.

“You ready, mi amor?” she asks, her face illuminated by the flashing cameras that wait for her outside.

“I’m ready.”

The door opens and the fans explode in a roar when they get their first good look at Alexia. Winning the Champions League final only cemented her as the best football player in the world, and the entire world stands at attention in her presence.

Alexia leads you to the red carpet, not once ever letting go of your hand. You stand together, side by side, posing for pictures you know will be plastered on every newspaper and spread all over social media. And yet, you feel no fear or discomfort. All that matters to you is that light in Alexia’s eyes, and how it has continued to shine bright with you by her side.

“I’m happy you’re here,” she whispers in your ear, causing a blush to creep up on your cheeks.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

When they call her name and announce her as the winner of the Ballon d'Or, you watch as the most prominent members of the football world all rise in her honor. The spotlight shines on her ethereal beauty and it makes your heart skip a beat. You fall in love with her all over again.

Right as she’s finishing up her speech, she looks down at where you are sitting and smiles at you with love in her eyes. “I love you,” she mouths, and blows a kiss in your direction.

A kiss you reach up to catch, and hold very dearly close to your heart.