Justareader7 - Just A Reader 👀

learning curve part 5

alexia putellas x reader [& r's nephew] after a hectic and rushed morning, will gets sick. r and alexia take care of him. later in the week, r and alexia lose to real madrid, and will tries to help. fluff + hurt comfort 🙂

—

It seemed as though for every obstacle overcome, another one almost immediately presented itself. Every time you were able to push some doubt you had about yourself out of your head, another one replaced it. And every time, Alexia was there to ground you back to reality. She had enough confidence in you that it was okay when you didn’t really feel it in yourself.

And as time passed, your own confidence grew, and it seemed like Alexia’s did too. Until it was shaken.

Mornings in your household were pretty routine. Alexia got up, giving you time to sleep in as she got Will up and ready for the day. At first, you’d felt bad that she was taking the morning with him and you weren’t doing anything. But, as Alexia argued, you did almost the entirety of his bedtime with him, while Alexia pretended not to fall asleep on the sofa. And Ale liked having time with him in the morning, and she was awake anyway.

The two of them had their own special little morning routine, which included a walk around the neighborhood and Will spending 10 minutes picking his outfit out. It was practiced, at this point; Will and Alexia moved through the morning with purpose while you moved through the morning practically half conscious until your coffee kicked in, normally just as you were leaving the house to drop Will at school and head to training.

This morning, however, was neither routine nor practiced. You and Alexia had been up later than you’d intended. Normally, her internal clock woke her up without fail. It seemed that not getting her 9 hours had messed with her internal alarm, and she was roughly shaking you awake just 20 minutes before you had to leave.

“Amor. Amor. We overslept, levántante!” Alexia was almost frantic.

You groaned, batting her hand away from your shoulder. She was usually much nicer when she woke you up, though the circumstances obviously wouldn’t allow for the few minutes she normally spent stroking your hair and kissing your face.

“If you do not get up right now, we won’t have time for coffee.” Alexia called over her shoulder, heading down the hall to get Will up.

And with that, you were scrambling out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom. What followed was a very chaotic and very rushed 20 minutes, but you managed to make it out of the house in time, travel mug of coffee in hand. Will was eating his breakfast quietly in the backseat on the way to his school, Alexia driving calmly like she hadn’t acted like a maniac to get everyone out of the house on time, and you were trying to make your hair look less like Alexia had very clearly had you on your back the night before.

Alexia pulled into the dropoff line, and you reached back to undo Will’s car seat buckles.

“Have a good day, buddy. We’ll see you later.” You told him, ruffling his hair as he gave you a small smile.

“Love you Tia, love you Ale,” he called, opening the door and carefully climbing down out of the car.

You only really had time to think once you were driving towards training, half your coffee already gone. It was more than a little odd that you and Alexia had been allowed to oversleep. Will woke up at roughly the same time everyday, and in the rare event Alexia didn’t get him up, he got her up. Today, though, he’d still been sleeping when she’d gone in to wake him, almost an hour and a half later than normal. It hadn’t struck you as odd until you’d thought about it for more than 5 seconds, but once you had… you were retroactively trying to analyze your nephew’s behavior in the short time you’d been with him that morning.

“Did something seem off to you? With Will this morning?”

Alexia hummed, thinking. “No. A little quiet, I guess. Maybe he didn’t sleep well.”

You nodded, going over Wil’s behavior that morning. Quiet felt like it was only part of it, but Alexia was always more observant than you.

“You’re right. He’s fine.”

“He’s fine.” Alexia echoed, reaching over to grab your hand and lace your fingers with hers. She glanced over with a reassuring smile. “You’re overthinking. He’s okay.”

You returned her smile, trying to convince yourself. There was just this nagging feeling in the back of your head, one you couldn’t get rid of. Will’s face as you dropped him off this morning kept popping into your head, and maybe you were imagining things, but it seemed different than his usual smile. His goodbye had been quieter, and you could have sworn he walked slower into the building than normal.

You shook your head, squeezing Alexia’s hand and trying to focus on her next to you before you began to freak out over nothing. Will was fine.

—

Will was not fine. He’d woken up feeling positively awful, like everything in his body wasn’t working right. His head felt cloudy and his brain felt slower than normal. He’d barely been able to eat even a few bites of his breakfast before he had to give up, his stomach turning. He was warm when he woke up, his dinosaur comforter and matching sheets pushed to the bottom of his bed, but so cold his teeth were chattering in the car on the way to school, even wrapped in his new Barcelona sweatshirt. [Alexia had brought it home for him two days ago, despite you telling her he didn’t need anymore clothes. Alexia was always bringing him home little things she saw that made her think of him, and those were his most favorite things. The brontosaurus ornament from the christmas shop she’d gone to with you, the glow-in-the-dark shoes she’d brought home from a nike photo shoot, the spiderman keychain to attach to his backpack she’d gotten in the airport on the way home from an away game.]

Will wanted nothing more than to go home and burrow under the knit blanket you kept on the couch. He didn’t even care if you didn't let him watch the TV, as long as the icky feeling that filled his entire body went away soon. He thought about saying something, telling you he didn’t feel well.

But then he’d remembered what Alexia had said the night before, about today being an important training session before you played Madrid over the weekend. Will wasn’t quite sure how long training was, but he assumed it was like school, and you’d be gone all day. And Will knew that football was your and Alexia’s job, and his Dad had always told him how important jobs were. When Will still lived with his Dad, he hadn’t been allowed to stay home sick, because his Dad couldn’t miss work.

If anything, your and Alexia’s job seemed even bigger and more important than his Dad’s job. If Will said he was sick, one of you might have to stay home with him and miss training. That would be making way too much trouble, Will had decided. So, he’d put on a brave face and gone to school.

Maybe, when he got home, he could say he was extra tired, and take a nap on the couch with one of you. Maybe you’d lay with him on the couch and scratch his back like you did when he had a bad dream. He had to get through the school day first, a task that was feeling more and more impossible with every passing second.

—

The call came after the gym session. You always kept your phone on you now, as the adult responsible for a small child. It was a beautiful day, the kind that you pictured when you’d signed with Barcelona. Sun shining, warm on your skin. Your muscles ached in the best way, and though your worry for your nephew persisted somewhat, Alexia had been very reassuring. You walked with her now, from the gym out to the pitch, chatting easily about some gossip her sister had told her on the phone. It was funny, how you spent practically all your time together but you never ran out of things to talk about. Your teammates teased you for it, how you were constantly together, attached at the hip.

Your phone rang, but Alexia kept going on about Alba’s horrible co-worker, assuming it wasn’t a call you’d need to take in the middle of training. Yet when you pulled it out of your pocket and saw it was Will’s school calling, and Alexia caught a glimpse of the caller ID over your shoulder, she cut herself off abruptly.

“Hello?” You answered, stopping just off the pitch. You motioned for Alexia to go ahead without you, as Pere was calling everyone to gather around him, but she just rolled her eyes, leaning her head closer to try to listen.

“Hello, is this Will’s guardian?”

“Yes. Is everything okay?”

“Well, we have Will here in the nurse’s office, and…”

You listened intently, as did Alexia, though there was something heavy now weighing on her mind. You’d told her that something wasn’t right with Will that morning. And she hadn’t listened. She’d been more focused on reassuring you and calming your anxiety, not pausing to think whether you might be worrying for a good reason.

The nurse explained that Will had gotten sick in class, and needed to be picked up right away. Alexia was telling one of the assistant coaches who had wandered over that there was a family emergency and you both had to go before you’d even hung up the phone. As soon as you did, though, you turned to Alexia, face pinched with concern.

“Ale, you can stay–”

“No.” Alexia said assuredly, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the building. “We will both go get him.”

Through your concern, your heart felt like it grew in size. Alexia never missed training voluntarily. Never. But now, she was rushing out with barely any notice to go with you to get Will, and you were reminded of how lucky you were to have her with you in this.

Even if she wasn’t thinking the same thing about herself in that moment.

—

The two of you rushed into the nurse’s office, panicked to a level that the nurse was not unfamiliar with. It was always the same with first time parents, when they had to come get their sick kid from school for the first time. The panic was always the same, you and Alexia practically breaking down her door in your haste to get to your nephew.

“Will,” you sighed, some of the stress and anxiety leaving your body at the sight of him in front of you. He was curled up on his side, tears still falling, pale and shaky, yet you were with him now, and that made it a little better.

“I’m sorry.” Will whimpered, sitting up shakily and wiping at his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay, mi amor, don’t be sorry.” Alexia cooed, crouching down in front of the small cot and leaning in to kiss Will’s temple. She followed up with her hand right after, pressing it to his forehead and feeling the heat of his skin. He had a fever. How had she missed this?

Carefully, you pulled Will into your arms, lifting him easily.

“Please don’t be sorry, Will. I’m sorry we didn’t realize you weren’t feeling well.” You told him, slowly rubbing his back as he cried.

“I threw up in class and everyone saw.” He sobbed, burying his face in your neck. Your heart broke, and one look at Alexia told you hers was doing the same.

“I’ll sign him out.” Alexia murmured, resting one hand on Will’s back for a moment before heading to the desk, Will’s dinosaur backpack comically slung over her shoulder. You began to walk with your nephew out of the building and to the car, hearing his cries begin to slow.

When you finally got him buckled into his seat, after some convincing required to get him to let go of you, you felt his forehead just as Alexia had.

“Oh, buddy, you’re burning up.” You murmured.

Will’s lip was still trembling, but he tried to smile at you. “I’m… I’m okay.”

You could have laughed at how visibly untrue that statement was, but nothing about this was funny. Not even Alexia wearing Will’s backpack out to the car, much too small on her back.

You just kissed the top of his head, shut his door and headed around to the passenger seat. The car was quiet for a minute as Alexia backed out of the parking lot, only just noticing how poorly she had parked in her haste to get to Will.

“Are we going to football?” Will piped up quietly from the backseat. He’d come a few times, when he hadn’t had school, and he was hoping you and Ale would just bring him there so you wouldn’t miss work.

You and your girlfriend exchanged confused glances, Alexia studying him in the rearview mirror.

“No, bud, we’re going home. You’re sick, you need to rest.” You replied.

You weren’t expecting Will to start crying again, but the sound of his sniffling soon filled the car.

“But… but work is important. You can’t miss just for me!”

You twisted around in your seat to look at him, reaching out a hand to rest on his knee. His little face was flushed red, from sickness or emotion you weren’t sure. It shattered your heart that he would ever presume that football was more important than him.

“Will, you are much more important than work. So much more important.” You told him, tilting your head slightly to make eye contact with him.

“Cariño, did you feel ill this morning and not tell us because we had training?” Alexia cut in, the question practically burning on the way out.

A moment passed before your nephew nodded slightly. You half wanted to tell Alexia to stop the car so you could get into the backseat and pull Will into your arms, and half wanted Alexia to just run you over. You weren’t sure where he’d gotten the idea to lie about being sick, but it felt like a massive failure on your part.

“If you’re sick, baby, you have to tell us so we can take care of you. You don’t need to worry about football or training or anything; you come first, okay?”

“Will, you are the most important to us. More than football, do you understand?” Alexia asked, her voice shaking slightly with emotion.

Will nodded, his brown hair flopping into his eyes as he did so. “Okay.”

—

Alexia felt like the guilt could crush her. She never never wanted you or Will to think that football was more important to her. Yet here Will was, so sick his little body was shaking, but he’d tried to power through so he wouldn’t interrupt training.

It was with this guilt in her mind that she hovered uncertainly over the sofa, watching as you tucked Will under her favorite knit blanket, the one she preferred when she was sick, too. Alexia assumed neither you nor Will would want her around in that moment. You, because she’d talked you out of being rightfully worried for your nephew. And Will, for making him feel like he came second to her.

She was minutes away from offering to go to the grocery store and get the ingredients to make soup, just so she could have an excuse to call her Mami in the car and tell her how badly she messed up.

Well, how badly she thought she messed up.

“Okay, buddy. What can I get you? A snack? Soup? Anything?” You wondered, brushing his hair out of his face.

Alexia’s thoughts were still racing as Will’s gaze flicked over to her.

“Pancakes?” He wondered quietly, giving you a half smile. You chuckled, not sure why you thought he’d ask for anything else.

“Of course. I’ll go make them.” You stood, freezing when Alexia cleared her throat and spoke shakily.

“No, I can. You stay here with him.” She said quietly.

You raised your eyebrows, something about your girlfriend’s demeanor throwing you off. She seemed miserable and close to tears, somehow. Frowning, you opened your mouth, ready to ask her to join you in the kitchen for a minute so you could figure out what was wrong.

Will beat you to it, though. “Tia, sit with me?”

Will wasn’t looking at you, though. He was looking at Alexia. Her gaze flickered between yours and Will’s for a moment, completely dumbstruck.

“M-me?” Alexia asked, wringing her hands together. It had been a while since you’d seen her like this, so visibly upset when she was normally the picture of composure.

It didn’t seem to push Will off, though, because he just nodded. “Tia Ale sit with me. Tia go make pancakes.”

Will had called Alexia… Alexia the entire few months he’d been here. Sometimes Ale, but never anything else. You were Tia, and Alexia was Alexia. Until now, apparently.

Alexia could have sobbed, truly. Just when she’d been thoroughly convinced she was a horrible.. guardian or whatever she was, Will had innocently asked for her to sit with him, and fixed every doubt that was gripping her heart.

And you… you were looking at her with tears in your own eyes, a smile on your face. There was no annoyance on your face, no blame in your eyes. You just looked happy.

Maybe she hadn’t messed up as bad as she thought.

Without another word, Alexia sat on the couch, sliding under the blanket with Will and tucking him into her side. He snuggled right against her, his face still slightly pinched with discomfort, but seeming a lot more comfortable now.

After a minute of silence, Alexia now beaming at you from the couch, Will looked away from the TV back to where you were standing, watching the two of them fondly.

“Tia? Pancakes? Please?” He reminded you.

You nodded with a small laugh, leaning down to kiss his temple, and Alexia’s before heading into the kitchen.

You really loved your little family.

—

Will admittedly didn’t know much about football. He knew that you and Alexia were very good, knew that you both worked very hard. He knew Barcelona wore the blue and red colors, and he’d learned the numbers that appeared on the back of your kits. Though he’d yet to attend a match, he’d watched most of them from Eli’s couch while she gave him all the snacks he could ever want.

Will was watching when you and Alexia lost to Real Madrid, and Eli tried to explain to him the significance. All he really took away from that conversation, though, was that you and Ale would be sad, and he should probably give you hugs to make it better.

He’d done so when you picked him up from Eli’s, allowing Alexia time to head home and decompress. Will hugged you tight, Alexia even tighter once he got home and saw the frown on her face. It was late in the evening, already past his bedtime, and the two of you were very quiet.

Will thought he sort of knew how you felt, because he didn’t like losing the games at recess, either. There wasn’t much he could think to do, though. He’d barely been home 10 minutes before you were asking him to go get his pajamas out, so he could start getting ready for bed. You and Alexia walked in a few minutes later, after having a tense whispered conversation in the hall, one that Will did not miss.

He could tell you were both upset, but you tried your best not to let it show that you were somewhat upset with each other. It always happened after a loss, especially one like this. You and Alexia would be tense, snap at each other. It was a different situation entirely now that Will was here, his little face gazing up at the two of you, wide eyed, where he sat tucked under his covers.

He’d put his pajamas on himself, and both you and Alexia cracked smiles when you noticed his shirt was on backwards. He smiled back, wordlessly holding out his favorite book for one of you to read.

You took it, perching on the edge of his bed while Alexia leaned in the doorway, exhaustion causing her eyes to droop. Will looked between the two of you as you opened the book.

“Are you fighting?”

Alexia’s eyes were on you, you could tell, waiting for you to take the lead. You didn’t quite feel like looking at her, so you smiled softly at your nephew, running a hand through his brown curls.

“No, bud. We’ve just had a long day.”

Will looked dubious, even as Alexia nodded along.

“It sounded like you were fighting. In the hall. When you said Alexia was being mean and Alexia said you didn’t care about her feelings.”

You froze at that, not quite sure what your response was supposed to be. You were so tired, too tired to figure out how to explain that you and Alexia were just having a small argument to Will. Every part of your body ached from the physical match that had been played, and you swore you still felt as cold as if you’d stepped out of the rain just a minute ago and not several hours ago.

Just before you were about to stumble your way through some explanation, Alexia cleared her throat.

“We aren’t fighting, cariño. Your Tia and I just care a lot about football, and when we lose, it makes us sad.”

“That’s what Eli said, that you would be sad, and I should give you a really big hug.”

Alexia smiled softly, stepping further into the room, but not quite approaching you. You still wouldn’t look at her.

“She’s right, your hug made me feel so much better. Your Tia and I hate losing, and sometimes we aren’t very nice to each other after we lose. But we aren’t fighting, just… disagreeing.”

Will thought for a moment, his fingers fiddling with his navy blue spiderman pajama top.

“You should be better at losing.” He said finally.

You snorted, and Alexia laughed. Will smiled proudly, even as you shook your head in mock disbelief.

“Says the little boy who flipped the board over when he lost at checkers yesterday!”

Will giggled, and the tension was broken. Mostly.

Neither of you wanted him to carry the weight you were feeling, feel sad just because you both were. You kept his nighttime routine as normal as possible, reading his book and tucking him in, both of you kissing his forehead before heading out.

Alexia didn’t say anything as you headed to your shared bedroom, but to be fair, neither did you. It was a bit early for the two of you to head to bed, but after the day you’d had, both of you knew sleep would be the best thing.

Pajamas on, you and Alexia slid into bed, the room still silent. It only took a minute after you flicked the light off for the bed to shift, Alexia’s warm body sliding closer until she was pressed up against you.

Tired of being mad, you turned into her, resting your head against her chest as her arms encircled you. A deep sigh escaped you, and you felt like it was the first real breath you’d had since the full time whistle had blown.

“I’m sorry. I was harsh, and I shouldn’t have been. I love you.” Alexia murmured, lips pressing a kiss to your hair.

You snuggled closer, inhaling again the scent of her. “I’m sorry too. You’re allowed to be upset, I shouldn’t have tried to fix it when you just needed to feel it.”

“And we both need to get better at losing.” Alexia replied. You could hear the small grin in her voice, feel her chest shake slightly as she chuckled.

“Apparently.” You agreed.

“Goodnight, mi amor.”

“Goodnight my Ale.”

And just like that, everything was fine again. Everything was fixed.

—

Will woke early the next morning. As was his routine, he got up and headed for your room to wake Alexia up. She was an early riser, didn’t mind getting up with him and letting you sleep in. Most of the time, she was already kind of awake, scrolling on her phone.

This morning, though, when Will pushed the door open and peaked his head in, Alexia wasn’t awake. She was out cold, head practically shoved under her pillow, while you slept completely on the other side of the bed, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. You both looked very comfy, and Will remembered last night, how tired Alexia had seemed. She’d practically fallen asleep in his doorway standing up.

Thinking for a moment, Will turned around and headed back to his room. He grabbed his ipad out from his backpack, the one he took with him for the car trip to Eli’s. He wasn’t technically supposed to have it now, but he figured that you wouldn’t mind if he let you sleep. He grabbed his headphones, too, his favorite blanket and his most favorite dino, Robert. As quietly as he could, he crept back down the hall and into your room. Climbing up on the bed, he took advantage of the ample space between the two of you, settling back against the pillows under his blankie. He plugged his headphones in, tucked his dino under one arm, and pressed play on his favorite dinosaur show.

This way, you both could keep sleeping, and he didn’t have to play alone somewhere by himself.

—

You awoke to small, insistent hands pulling at the comforter so it covered more of you. Before you could open your eyes, little hands pushing into the blanket, tucking it in nice and tight around you. Groggily, you cracked an eye, finding Will’s face just a few inches away. He looked… guilty, like he’d looked when he broke the vase on the coffee table, and you were immediately alert.

“What’s up bud?” You whispered, conscious that Ale was still asleep on the other side of your nephew.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean t’wake you.” Will whispered back. “You looked cold.”

“What are you doing in here, hm? You should be in your bed.”

Will pulled a face, tugging his headphones off his head. “But it’s late and I was bored.”

You clocked the sun peaking in between the curtains, startled to realize it was much higher in the sky than it should have been. It was at least 10, and Will always got up before 7:30.

“Oh, buddy, it is late. I’m so sorry, why didn’t you wake one of us up?”

By one of us, you meant Alexia.

Will just shrugged, shyly smiling at you. “You were sad last night. And when I’m sad, you tell me it makes my body tired and that’s why I’m more sleepy. So you needed more sleep too, you and Tia Ale.”

Your heart melted and you pulled the small boy down into your arms, squeezing tight.

“You are the sweetest boy.” You told him.

Will beamed, squeezing you back. “I got my ipad even though I wasn’t supposed to.”

Leaning back, you brushed his messy hair off his forehead. That was what the guilty look was for. As if you’d be upset with him for wanting to let you both sleep, but also not wanting to be by himself. As if you’d be mad he brought his ipad in here and put on his Dino show and wore his headphones and tucked the blankets around you because you looked cold.

“That’s okay, buddy.” You replied. “You are so thoughtful to let us sleep in.”

“Tia Ale says it’s important to be thoughtful and kind.” Will said, echoing something you knew Alexia told him every morning before he left for school. It was something her Mami had always said to her, Alexia had told you once.

“Alexia is right.” You nodded, settling back into the pillows with Will now laid in your arms. Next to him, the mattress shifted, and a raspy voice piped up.

“Alexia is always right.” Ale said sleepily, not even opening her eyes as she blindly reached to pat Will on the head. Will laughed, a sound that was quickly becoming one of your favorites in the world.

For a few minutes, the room stayed silent, Will laid between the two of you, for the moment content to sit still. You were still waking up, and Alexia could probably barely be considered awake.

“Hey, Tia?” Will murmured, breaking the quiet peacefulness of the morning. You hummed for him to continue. “Can I call my Daddy?”

Sometimes you forgot. You shouldn’t forget, but you did, and you knew Ale did too. Sometimes things just went so well, Will fit so perfectly into your family that you forgot the circumstances under which he was here. And when you remembered, you were instantly filled with guilt. Like you were stealing something from your brother. You should be talking more about Leo, calling Leo more often.

Will wasn’t yours, but he was. It was a difficult line to walk, a difficult thing to balance. Will wasn’t your son but you felt like a parent. Alexia felt like a parent, had taken to being one so easily. But Will wasn’t your son. He was your nephew, and the last thing you wanted was to try to take the place of Leo.

As you pulled your phone out, dialling the number for the prison, you wondered if you’d ever figure out how to fit into Will’s life without feeling like you weren’t doing enough, were doing too much. You wondered if you’d ever feel like you were doing right by your brother, and right by Will.

You were torn from your spiral when the call connected. Instead of the usual robotic voice stating you would soon be connected through to Leo, it was the same robotic voice, telling you the call had not been accepted. There were plenty of reasons for Leo not to pick up the phone, plenty of real, valid reasons. For some reason you couldn’t explain, though, your stomach had dropped. Something about it felt wrong, especially knowing that Leo knew Will liked to call Sunday mornings.

You glanced over to where Will was poking at Alexia’s face, where she was pretending to be going back to sleep. He was laughing, and you could see Ale fighting a small smile herself. With a deep sigh, you forced a tense smile onto your face.

“Will?” The boy turned towards you, face lit up with excitement as he reached for the phone. “I’m sorry, baby, your Dad couldn’t pick up. He’s… he’s busy.”

The smile fell from Will’s face, the room suddenly feeling a few degrees colder. Alexia’s eyes flew open, fixed on Will’s face as he tried to hide his disappointment.

“Oh. Okay.” He whispered, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap.

It was like the life had been sucked out of him. You thought hard, trying to think of anything you could offer him or promise him that would lift his mood again. Alexia beat you to it.

“Hey, cariño? Do you want to go out for pancakes?” She suggested, resting a hand on Will’s back.

Still staring at his hands tightly clasped in his lap, Will slowly shook his head, much to your astonishment. Will never turned down pancakes, especially at his favorite breakfast place. You didn’t go often because it was a ways away, and normally, the suggestion would have had him skipping around the room with joy.

“No thank you.” He mumbled, sniffling. His small fist came up to rub at his face and your heart broke even more. Alexia looked like she was in physical pain, fighting the urge to pull Will into a bone crushing hug.

Carefully, you shifted back down in the bed, opening your arms for your nephew. He practically lunged forward, wrapping his arms tight around your neck and shoving his face into your shoulder.

“Oh, buddy.” You murmured, wishing there was something you could say to make it better.

There wasn’t.

Alexia ran a hand through her disheveled hair and moved closer, wrapping her arms around you both as she kissed the top of Will’s head. One of Will’s hands unwrapped itself from around your neck, moving to grab a fistful of Alexia’s sweatshirt. Like he was trying to be as close to the two of you as possible, as if you could protect him from what he was feeling. You wished you could, more than anything.

The three of you sat there in silence, all deep in thought, and you knew neither you nor Alexia would move until Will moved.

What you didn’t know, though, was that this was the first of many unexplained declined calls from Leo. Just the beginning of a sudden complete silence you couldn’t begin to explain to yourself or to Will.

—

:) cranked this out in between studying. hope you enjoyed ❤️‍🩹

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justareader7

4 weeks ago

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.

812 notes View Post

justareader7

4 weeks ago

Bonmatellas moment at the end 😁

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMBwUREJy/

look how quickly she went over to check on aitana. always paying attention to what's happening 🥹

75 notes View Post

justareader7

1 month ago

In A Match Where The Scoreboard Tells Only Half The Story, A Fierce On-pitch Rivalry Between You And

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

Word Count: 5k

The stadium is humming before kickoff — not with noise, but energy. That kind of low, anticipatory buzz that settles over everything like mist. Golden hour pours across the pitch, turning white lines soft and shadows long. You step out into it and feel the heat of the turf rise through your boots. The crowd’s not huge, but they’re close. Intimate. Every sound sharp and personal.

Then you see her.

Alexia.

She’s across the pitch, tying her laces with a calm that feels choreographed. Head down, then up. Hair pulled back into that signature ponytail, a strip of white tape wrapped neat around her left wrist. There's no announcement of her presence — just the quiet command of someone who doesn't need one. She's not looking at you, but you feel it anyway. The pull.

Warm-ups blur. You stretch out, chase touches, listen half-heartedly to the pre-match talk. But your focus — truly — stays across the halfway line. You’re not meant to mark her directly. Doesn’t matter. You’re already watching her like it’s your job.

Kickoff comes.

You move like you always do: quick, precise, sharp in the tackle. But this time, every shift of your weight seems to carry an extra purpose — an undercurrent of something... else. She's not in your zone, but she drifts there, like smoke, like she knows you’ll follow.

And you do.

She gets her first touch near the sideline. You’re too far to challenge, but you press anyway, closing space. Not urgent — just enough to let her know you’re there. Her first pass is perfect, of course. But as she turns away, she glances back. Not long. Just a blink. But it hits you low in the ribs.

You're in this now.

Minutes later, she receives it centrally. You close her down — this time properly. She shields, body between you and the ball. You press tighter than necessary. Not reckless. Just firm. She leans back into you — a subtle shift of weight, a muscle twitch against your torso. You stay with her, step for step.

Then she spins.

Clean. Sharp.

You miss the interception by inches, but you recover and chase her all the way to the flank. When the play resets, she jogs by you — not fast, not slow — and there's a flash of amusement in her eyes. Not quite a smile. Not yet. Just a promise.

She’s enjoying this.

So are you.

You start to anticipate her. Not just tactically — intuitively. She moves left, you’re already drifting. She checks her run, and somehow your feet do too. You find her even when you don’t mean to. When she ghosts into the pocket between the lines, you're already there, shoulder brushing hers before the pass arrives.

There’s a tension, electric and unspoken, in every overlap.

It builds.

On a through ball in the 18th, she breaks the line. Perfect run. You’re chasing, watching the flag — and then it goes up. Offside.

She stops with a shake of her head, arms slightly raised, frustrated but composed. Not dramatic. She turns like she might say something, eyes scanning the assistant ref — then she catches you jogging past, lips already tugging upward.

You tilt your head, a little smirk playing on your mouth, and lock eyes just long enough to let her know: "you were" you mutter in amusement.

Her expression falters for just a moment. The corner of her lips tighten — the beginning of a grin that dies before it can bloom as her hand wipes over her mouth. You watch it fall away. The air between you goes warmer. Denser.

She says nothing. But her gaze lingers.

Later, in the box for a corner, she finds you again. Neither of you are jumping for this one, not really — it’s too wide, too slow. But you stand shoulder to shoulder anyway. Her forearm presses lightly against yours, not enough to draw notice, but enough to feel every twitch of her movement. You don’t look at her. You don’t need to. You feel her looking.

The ball’s cleared. Still, neither of you move.

The longer the game stretches, the more your duels feel like choreography — like you’re dancing just behind the game itself. Winning balls, losing them. Pushing, pulling. Touches that linger. Eyes that hold just long enough to mean something.

In the 37th minute, you dive in for a challenge at midfield and win it — clean, sharp, textbook. She goes down, just barely, catching herself on one hand as you pass forward. When you glance back over your shoulder, she’s still on one knee, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You turn back around.

But you feel her eyes.

The tackles bite a little harder. The spaces close faster. The tension between you both thickens. She doesn't smirk anymore — not like before. Now it’s all controlled glances, occasional brushes of contact, her hand lingering on your hip just half a second longer when you battle for position. On one late run, she taps your calf with her toe as she passes behind. You pretend not to notice. She knows you did.

There’s another corner in the 40th. You’re standing close again, tighter this time. Her arm slips across your back as she maneuvers for position, then stays there — soft, light, grounding. You don’t move away. You don't breathe, really. Just watch the ball float in, both of you static. Eyes locked.

Neither of you jump.

It’s not about the ball.

In the 43rd minute, she makes a diagonal run into the box. You follow — again, unnecessarily — but this time you don’t stop. She cuts across you, brushing close, and her hand grazes your side. This time you’re the one who lingers, your arm trailing across her shoulder as you jockey. No one else sees it. But the spark of it pulses down your spine.

When the cross sails over, you don’t even notice.

The whistle finally comes. Half time. You 0 - Barcelona 3

The score is blurry. You barely registered the last five minutes of play. All you know is that you’re breathless, sweat-soaked, pulse still chasing her down the tunnel. You're about to walk toward your teammates when you feel it — a soft slide of skin on the back of your hand.

Her knuckles.

She passes behind you, close enough for her shoulder to graze yours. No words. Just that fleeting contact.

You turn slightly, catching the edge of her profile.

And she glances back.

Not a smile. Not this time.

Just eyes — warm, locked onto yours — and the kind of look that lives in the space between challenge and confession.

Then she disappears into the shadow of the tunnel.

The locker room is muffled noise and static. Coach’s voice floats somewhere above you, strategy and structure laid out in practiced rhythm. But none of it sticks. Not really. Your chest is still tight — not from exhaustion, but from the way she looked at you before vanishing into the tunnel.

That gaze hasn't left your skin.

0–3. You should be crushed. Instead, you're electric.

You step back onto the pitch with a pulse in your veins that has nothing to do with the scoreline. You scan the field, the sideline, then finally — you see her.

Alexia.

Hands on hips, head tilted slightly, watching you under the lights like she knows what’s coming. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. She just waits.

Kickoff again.

From the whistle, your touch sharpens. You start playing like your body remembers how good it feels to win balls off her. To beat her to second touches. To be seen by her. You stretch into space, call for the ball more often. Her presence drifts near you — still not marking, but always present, always there.

In the 52nd minute, you cut inside from the wing and bury a low shot past the keeper’s left glove.

1–3.

You don't celebrate hard. Just turn away, chest heaving, pulse pounding. And when you glance toward the halfway line, she's watching. One brow raised. Almost impressed.

Almost.

The next ten minutes, she turns it up. You can feel it — the snap in her passes, the bite in her shoulder when you challenge. She knocks you off the ball once — clean, strong, fierce — and when you fall, she walks past you without breaking stride. But you catch the subtle tilt of her head. She’s waiting to see if you’ll rise.

You do.

By the 70th, the crowd has leaned back in. The buzz is back. That mist from before has thickened into fog. You’re everywhere now. Chasing, creating, pressing. You intercept a loose pass, beat two defenders, and curl one in from the edge of the box.

2–3.

You sprint toward the corner flag, teammates crashing into you. But even as they pile on, your eyes find hers. She’s standing still, hands on hips again — chest rising, jaw tight. The look she gives you isn’t frustration. It’s something deeper. Something personal. You’re not just clawing your team back into the game.

You’re matching her.

And she knows it.

Now, the duels between you are heavier. Every shared breath on a corner. Every chase down the sideline. Her hand grazes your hip again. Yours brushes her shoulder. Neither of you say a word. But your bodies speak in contact, in rhythm. There’s nothing casual anymore — not even the fouls. She clips your ankle lightly in the 77th. You fall, roll, rise — and jog past her with a grin tugging at the edge of your mouth. Her eyes flick to your lips.

Neither of you are pretending this is just football anymore.

The minutes crawl.

88th minute. Your team is pushing. The crowd rises. You feel the shape of the game bend in your direction. She’s deeper now, tracking back more, drawn toward your gravitational pull.

You find the space.

Wide right. Diagonal ball over the top. You take it down on the run, one touch to settle. One touch to beat the final defender. The keeper comes out.

You lift it.

It floats — slow, perfect — into the far corner.

3–3.

The stadium erupts. Your teammates catch you in a hurricane of arms and cheers, but your chest is heaving like it’s only the start. You jog back toward the halfway line, high on adrenaline, sweat slick down your spine.

And she’s there.

Standing in the center circle, hands on her thighs, staring at you like she’s not sure whether she wants to shake your hand or pull you closer.

You walk past her. This time, it’s your hand that brushes hers — deliberate, light.

She doesn’t move it away.

When the final whistle blows, it doesn’t sound like an end.

It sounds like a pause.

You're walking around doing the customary slapping of the opponents hands when you feel her behind you. Close again, like earlier, like always. The brush of her arm. The soft knock of her shoulder into yours.

But this time she doesn’t pass.

She stops beside you.

Neither of you speak.

You just look at each other. Fully, finally. No smirks. No glances.

And then she nods — small, private — like a secret just between you and her, puts her hand up you slap it she taps your arm as she gives your hand a gentle squeeze and keeps going.

⚽️

Your apartment is still and low-lit, the only sound the occasional creak from the radiator and the soft shuffle of your post-match playlist bleeding from your phone speaker. You’re sunk deep into the corner of the couch, hoodie loose over your shoulders, thighs still sore and buzzing in that heavy, satisfying way. Hair wet from the shower. Muscles stretched, feet up, heart finally slowing.

The match feels like it happened in another life — but the images flicker in your head on a loop: the goals, the crowd, the corner flag, her.

Alexia. Her look. Her touch. That nearly-smile in the tunnel.

You’ve barely let yourself process it, haven’t said a word about it to anyone. It’s like holding something delicate in your hands, afraid the air might break it.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh.

Ellie 🧤: Oi you absolute menace That last goal was disgusting 😮‍💨🔥

You grin, typing back with your free hand.

You: Had to give your defense nightmares somehow 😇 You good?

Ellie: Yeah yeah, I’m fine. Cata got a hand to your second though lol Also 👀

You pause, then watch the typing bubble start and stop.

Ellie: You’ll love this Alexia literally hasn’t shut up about you since the game ended lol

You blink. Sit up a little straighter.

You: … What do you mean?

Ellie: I mean she was in the locker room like 'number 7 is so intelligent on the ball' and 'did you see how she peeled off the shoulder??' And then she hit us with 'that third goal was world class' and just sat there smiling like she had a secret You should’ve seen her lol

Your pulse trips over itself. That heat from earlier — the kind that sat just under your skin during the match — is back, blooming warm in your chest, up your neck.

You reread the texts. Twice.

You: Shut up.

Ellie: I’m DEAD serious. She looked like she was replaying the game in her head like it was her favorite film. Like she knew something we didn’t.

You laugh under your breath, phone balanced against your knee, teeth sinking lightly into your bottom lip.

You: Maybe she does

You lean back, exhaling slow. You should be tired — spent, even — but you’re more awake than ever. The city hums beyond your window, lights dancing across your ceiling, and in the quiet… your mind drifts again.

To her.

To the touch of her hand at your back. The weight of her stare after your third goal. That unspoken thing passing between you on the pitch.

And now this.

You stare at your phone.

Your thumb hovers over her name.

You haven’t followed her yet.

Not officially.

But maybe it’s time to stop pretending this was just a game.

⚽️

You step out onto the pitch like you’ve been here before.

Same golden light. Same soft shadows drawn long across the turf. Same crowd gathered tight in the stands, every voice blurred into a single heartbeat.

But this time — it’s different.

This time, you’re walking out with a name humming under your skin.

Alexia.

It hasn’t left you since the last match — since her hand brushed yours, since Ellie’s text sent your pulse spiralling, since you caught yourself watching her clips like they might explain the way she watched you that day.

You haven’t spoken since. Not directly. But she followed you on Instagram.

No message. Just the follow. Quiet. Bold. Certain.

And now here you are — return fixture. Barcelona away. Everything on the line, but the only pressure you feel is the question hanging in the air like smoke:

Will she play it the same… or will she play it different?

You don’t have to wait long for the answer.

Kickoff comes.

She finds you inside the first minute. No ball. No contact. Just… proximity. A drift. Like gravity pulling her orbit to match yours. You’re pressing high, eyes scanning the field, when you feel her behind you. That familiar hum. That presence.

You glance over your shoulder.

She’s watching you.

You hold her gaze for a breath too long, then break into a sprint. The ball zips past the midfield, and you're on it like instinct, slicing between defenders, teasing space. You don’t get the shot — not yet — but you force the corner. Crowd rises. You walk to the flag, head high, and you know she’s there behind you.

She always is.

This time, her hand grazes your back as you step into position. Light. Intentional. No words.

Just heat.

The ball curls in. You leap. She does too. You collide midair — elbows and ribs, breath against neck — and the ball sails over both of you. When you land, you stumble slightly, and she steadies you. Briefly. Her hand presses against your lower back. You freeze for a moment, chest rising fast.

Still, no words.

Just her hand, steady. Familiar. Dangerous.

The game builds. Faster than last time. More physical. You’re both sharper, and it shows. Shoulder to shoulder, you clash again and again — not careless, but not gentle either. She fouls you once near the touchline, a tactical trip. You hit the grass, roll once, then push up to your knees.

You expect her to be jogging away.

But she’s right there, offering her hand.

You take it. You don’t have a choice, really.

She pulls you up with one firm tug, her hand wrapping around yours a second longer than necessary. Your bodies stay close. Breaths overlapping. Her eyes search yours like she’s waiting for something — for a crack in the façade, or maybe a confirmation.

You give her a smirk.

It’s the only language either of you have spoken all game.

Second half begins. It’s 1–1. Everything on edge.

You catch her drifting wide, and this time you cut her off clean. Shoulder check. Controlled aggression. She presses back into you, muscles flexing. The ball’s already gone, but neither of you pull away. Your forearm brushes hers, your wrist against her side. Neither of you move.

Then she laughs.

Not loud — just a breath. A soft exhale that hits your collarbone.

She steps away. You're left standing still.

And you’re furious at how much you want to chase.

75th minute. The pitch has grown heavy. Legs are tired. But your mind is sharp, zeroed in. You receive the ball at the edge of the box, flick it inside, cut past one, then another. She’s there — the last one between you and the goal.

You don't slow down.

She doesn’t either.

You meet.

Hard. Messy. Beautiful.

The ball moves loose to your teammate, who slams it into the back of the net.

2–1.

The stadium erupts.

You don’t hear it.

You’re still tangled up with her — half-standing, half-falling, your hands on her shoulders, her fingers curling around your jersey. She’s not letting go.

Neither are you.

Still no words.

But her eyes? They say everything. You both help steady each other before you jog off to celebrate, head spinning, throat dry, lungs full of heat and grass and her perfume.

When the final whistle comes — 2–2, again — it feels like unfinished business. You both played like the scoreboard didn’t matter. Like the real game wasn’t in goals.

It was in moments. In looks. In touches. In silence.

You walk the pitch following the play. You hear her behind you. Again. But this time, when she brushes your hand, lingering longer than before.

The score hangs on a knife’s edge now. 2–2 on the night. 5–5 on aggregate.

You’re in extra time now. Legs gone heavy. Lungs burning. Every run feels like a risk, every breath costs more than it did a minute ago. But you’re still here — still moving — because it matters. Because it’s Barcelona.

Even now, even in the thick of it, you know where Alexia is. Always. She’s the hum behind every decision, the silhouette in your peripheral, the rhythm in your heartbeat when the ball lands near her boots.

But you’re not watching her as much now.

Now, it’s survival.

You trade blows, chances. Cata Coll makes two saves that keep you breathing. You make one darting run into the box that nearly finishes it. Nearly. But not quite.

Then the final whistle comes.

Still level.

It goes to penalties.

The huddle is tight, arms around shoulders, heads pressed in. You can feel your pulse in your fingertips, in your temples, in the way the coach looks at you when they ask if you’ll take one.

You nod.

Not because you want to.

But because you have to.

Cata’s in goal for them now. Alexia stands off to the side with the rest of the squad — arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes not on the keeper…

But on you.

One by one, the shots come. Your team scores. They score. You save. They miss. They save. You miss. It builds. Evens. Spirals.

Until it comes down to you.

Final kick. Final player.

Score — and you send your team to the semifinals. Miss — and it’s over. Right here. Right now.

You step forward, boots dragging just slightly across the spot. The crowd has gone quiet — not silent, but that strange kind of stillness where every sound feels wrapped in cotton. Your breath. Your heartbeat. A faraway whistle. You set the ball down and step back.

Cata bounces lightly on the line, gloves flexing.

You exhale. Then take your steps. One. Two. Strike.

You hit it clean. Driven. Left corner. It’s going in. It should go in.

But her glove flashes.

Cata gets a fingertip. Just enough.

The ball lifts — not wildly, not violently. Just enough.

You watch it rise, helpless, as it spins over the crossbar.

And then it’s done.

The stadium erupts — not for you.

You drop to your haunches.

Head down. Hands on your knees.

You don’t cry — not yet — but your throat is full of glass and your chest is caving in. You stare at the turf, at the spot where the ball used to be. Still breathing like you’re running. But it’s over.

You hear it before you see it — the celebration. Barcelona flooding Cata. Alexia somewhere in the centre of it, jumping, shouting. Your world in reverse.

But then you feel hands.

Your team. One hand on your back. Another on your shoulder. A voice murmuring something — low, reassuring, breaking.

You don’t move right away. You just crouch there. Let it hurt.

It was yours to win. And it slipped.

Through fingertips. Through inches. Through fate.

And you’re left kneeling on the turf whilst she's in euphoria, still breathing through the weight of it all, your team lifting you up, arms around your shoulders as they pull you back toward the locker room.

This wasn’t the ending you wanted.

You stay where you are long after it’s over.

The crowd is still loud. Barcelona’s players are still flying, clinging to each other like magnets drawn together by joy. Somewhere in the tangle of blue and red, Cata is being swarmed. You can hear her name rising from the stands, tossed around in chants and celebration.

You stay rooted to the spot.

The grass beneath your boots feels heavier now, like it’s holding you in place. Hands on hips, lungs dragging in air like it might steady you. But nothing settles.

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

And when you open them again, she's in your line of sight.

Alexia.

Not jumping. Not screaming. Just standing back from the crowd, watching them — and maybe, just maybe, watching you too.

You wipe your face with the hem of your shirt. Not to cry — not yet. But because something about the air suddenly stings. The sweat, the weight of it, the sting of almost.

You draw in a breath and turn away.

Not toward the tunnel.

Not yet.

You walk instead to the far side, to the small clutch of away fans still standing, still clapping. Flags over the railings. Hands outstretched. Faces flushed with effort and hope and heartbreak.

You jog slowly toward them, nodding, lifting one hand in thanks — then the other waving. You press your palm to a few hands. Sign a shirt handed over the barrier. Take a photo with a young girl in your kit who’s still trying not to cry, even though you just did too.

You stay there longer than you should.

Because it matters.

Because they matter.

Because even in this moment — especially in this moment — showing up matters.

When you finally turn back toward the tunnel, the pitch is emptier. Quieter. Most of your team is gone. The lights still shine down like they haven’t noticed it’s over.

You glance once more toward midfield.

She’s still there.

The celebration has died down but the elation still electric between the players.

You exhale, tuck your chin to your chest, and start the slow walk off the field.

You don’t rush.

You carry the silence with you.

Your head still fogged, shirt clinging damp to your skin. The stadium’s quieter now. The away end’s still murmuring, and the Barcelona fans are singing, but the intensity’s dulled. It’s not roaring anymore — it’s echoing.

You’re halfway to the tunnel when you hear footsteps. Not loud. Measured. Deliberate. You look up, and she’s coming toward you. Alexia.

Still in full kit, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to her neck. She’s pulling gently at the collar of her shirt, stretching it slightly with her fingers. A silent question.

You know what it means. Your breath catches — just a little. You nod. Slow. Silent.

You peel your own shirt off and hand it over, heart thudding a little harder now than it did when you stepped up to take that penalty. Her fingers brush yours as she takes it, and she holds your gaze for a moment longer than needed before swapping.

Then, just as you start to pull her shirt over your head, she steps forward. Arms out. And pulls you into a hug. Not a polite one.

Not a professional, pat-on-the-back, good-game kind of hug.

A real one. Full-bodied. Honest. Warm.

You freeze for half a second — caught off guard — then melt into it, your forehead resting lightly against her shoulder, her arms around your back, strong and sure.

“You were unbelievable,” she murmurs against your ear, voice low and soft. You close your eyes, tears threatening yet again, the slight kindness chipping at the wall keeping your tears back like a dam “I mean it,” she adds. “You didn’t deserve that ending.” Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. “I’ve played against a lot of players,” she continues, pulling back just enough to look at you — not stepping away. “But you? You had us on edge all night.”

There’s something in her eyes when she says it. Not pity. Not consolation. Something sharper. Something deeper. Admiration. Respect. Something else. You manage a smile. Just a small one. But it’s real. “Thank you,” you murmur.

She gives a small shake of her head, still holding you at the elbows, “You’ve got nothing to hang your head about. Not tonight.”

You look down. At the shirt in your hands — hers. Still warm. Still carrying her scent, her sweat, the imprint of a game that changed something between you.

She finally lets go, steps back. And then — the faintest smile. The first one all night.

You watch her, your shirt already pulled on, number bold between her shoulder blades. You’re still standing there. Shirtless. Breathless.

And for the first time since that penalty… You're not thinking about the miss.

The floodlights are still burning overhead, casting long, tired shadows across the grass. The pitch is mostly cleared now — a few staff, some security, the odd Barcelona player still lingering near the dugouts. But for the most part, it’s just you and her.

You’ve both started walking. Side by side. Slow. Neither of you seem in a rush to leave the moment.

You’re still holding her shirt loosely in your fingers. She’s already wearing yours.

There’s a silence between you that doesn’t feel heavy anymore — just full. Soft. Comfortable in the way shared experience allows.

Alexia’s the first to speak.

“That second goal of yours…” she says, glancing over at you with a small shake of her head, “—we weren’t ready for it. Not one of us. I still don’t know how you got that shot off.”

You shrug, a wry smile pulling at your lips.

“I blacked out,” you say. “Might’ve had divine intervention. Or maybe it was just Cata screaming something in Spanish that I got scared”

She grins wide, teeth flashing under the stadium lights. It softens her whole face.

You take the opening and add, dryly, “Though I think the real miracle was me not collapsing from sheer intimidation every time you breathed down my neck.”

She turns her head fully toward you now, laughing properly — head tilted back, hand briefly brushing your arm.

“You mean when I gently existed in your space?” she teases, eyes gleaming.

You raise a brow. “Oh sure, gently existed. That must be what they call full-body marking with bonus psychological warfare.”

She laughs again — not loud, not sharp, but the kind of quiet, delighted laugh that people don’t fake. One that stays in her chest, one that stays with you.

You both keep walking, a little closer now, still smiling. The tunnel’s ahead, glowing softly like the end of a dream.

But for now, neither of you are quite ready to step inside. And somehow, after everything — the goals, the glances, the heartbreak, the hug — this is the part you know will stick with you. The walk. The warmth. The grin she only gave you, you'd seen the coolness in her handshakes with your teammates. She hadn't asked for there shirts or held a conversation with them.

It was a wonder but it seemed between the lines of the pitch- you'd gained the best in the world's respect.

370 notes View Post

justareader7

4 weeks ago

Part 6: Spain stay at St George's Park Other Parts

Word Count: 7.6k

This one needs to come with a bit of a warning for the ending.

⚽️

The queue for food stretches toward the end of the room, trays clattering, girls chatting, familiar noise filling the space like steam.

You’re last in the line moving slow, distracted, gaze caught behind you, because they’re there. The Spanish squad, gathered loosely at the back of the room, hovering like they were going to join the line but not quite in it.

They look unsure not out of place, just... hesitant. Like they’ve stepped into someone else’s routine and don’t want to get it wrong. You catch it instantly, you pause, hand on your hip, and glance back scanning instinctively until your eyes find Alexia.

She’s not at the front of the group, she’s off to the side arms crossed loosely, scanning the scene ahead like she’s trying not to overthink it. And you watch her. Not subtly. Not secretly. Just openly, willing her to look back. It takes three heartbeats and then her gaze flicks up like she could sense someone was watching.

Right into yours, your stomach flips, your breath catches, but your face stays calm. You give her a smile, soft, closed-lipped, silently asking if everything was ok, the edges of her posture ease almost immediately.

She mutters something to her team and stars in your direction, quiet, graceful, stops in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And then voice soft, English careful “What do we do?” She’s looking at the line, the trays, the cutlery, the way people are moving through but her eyes keep darting back to yours, like she’s checking whether this is okay.

You nod once, matching her low tone. “Get in line. Grab a tray. Go down the line. Take what you want.” You gesture subtly. “It’s… chill. Sit where you like. By the looks of it, the girls have left some empty tables so you can sit together"

Alexia’s eyes track the movement of your hand, then flick back to your face. "Gracias," she says quietly.

You nod again, but don’t say anything else. You don’t have to she steps back toward her team, then speaks in Spanish and they all filter towards her.

You turn forward again. But you feel her still in the space behind you, in the warmth in your chest, in the slow, steady way she was lingering.

Georgia infant of you in the line turns, then clearly she spotted the figure behind you, smirks and turns back to the front.

Your phone buzzes, you pull it out your pocket enough to see what it is, it's Gee.

Gee: Looks cozy

You roll your eyes shoving it back in your pocket using your foot to nudge the back of her knee, earning you a back hand.

The line’s moving slowly trays clinking, steam rising from silver containers, the buzz of two languages folding over each other.

You’re focused ahead hand on your tray, eyes scanning what’s left of the roasted veg when you feel it. A shift behind you. Tone, not volume. Sharpness, not sound. Spanish rapid, clipped, a little too loud for how close she’s standing. You don’t know the words, but you don’t have to. You feel it in your spine.

Montse Tomé, Spain’s coach, has joined the line just behind. She’s talking quickly to Alexia something that sounds like instruction but lands like criticism. Not raised, but tight.

You glance back, Alexia’s face is composed, but her shoulders have gone slightly still. Around her, a couple of the Spanish girls shift uncomfortably. One glances at the food like it’s suddenly very interesting.

You watch Montse a second longer, then turn back to your tray, grabbing a spoonful of something without seeing it.

You keep your voice casual quiet enough that only those just behind can hear. “Does she always have an attitude,” you murmur dryly, “or has she reserved that for our benefit?”

There’s a beat of silence behind you. Then a soft, barely stifled snort from someone near the front. A giggle from another. And then Alexia’s laugh, quiet, warm, caught in her throat like she hadn’t meant to let it slip.

You don’t look back. You just smirk down at your tray and add, still facing forward: “I don’t need subtitles to clock that energy.”

Another laugh this time from Mapi, somewhere behind Alexia. Montse either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore it, stepping out of the line to take a call. You finally glance back over your shoulder.

Alexia’s looking at you now tray in her hands, expression very carefully neutral… except for the small tug of her mouth.

You raise an eyebrow. She doesn’t say anything. But her eyes sparkle. And it tells you everything.

⚽️

You’ve found your seat by the time it happens two trays down, the table split half-English, half-Spanish, a soft mix of conversations rippling between the two sides.

The air’s lighter now. Whatever tension Montse brought into the line, your one-liner cleared it like a breeze through fog. You’re sipping from your water bottle when you hear it a soft but clear voice from across the table.

Cata Coll, her English is careful, her tone curious. Not hostile. Not testing. Just… interested. “When you played us…” she says, pausing to find the phrasing, “with your club and with England, you played out of position. Both times. Why?”

You blink not expecting the question. There’s a slight hush near the middle of the table, even the clatter of cutlery softens.

You glance up and find her eyes steady on yours. Beside her, Alexia is speaking, but she’s listening. You set your fork down gently and give Cata your full attention. "Both your coaches publicly said they were worried about me,” you say, voice even. “So naturally, tactically you adjust to best contain and counteract me." You let that hang for half a beat. "Can’t control what you don’t know."

Cata stares at you a second longer and then her mouth curves. She nods. Respect. No pushback.

From a few seats down, Mapi gives a low whistle and mutters in Spanish, just loud enough for you to catch the tone even if you don’t get the words.

Alexia bites her lip to hide a smile. Beth grins beside you, nudging your arm. "Remind me never to play poker with you."

You shrug, picking your fork back up. "Don’t bluff," you say simply. “Just study.”

Leah sat opposite, voice full of that trademark smugness throws out, “So. Would you play for Barça?”

You don’t even get a chance to blink before Georgia cuts in instantly, “She’s not leaving me alone in Germany. Stop putting ideas in her head, Leah!”

The table laughs. You smile slow, controlled and drag your fork slowly between your lips, sucking it clean before resting it on the plate. You glance at Georgia with a small, knowing smirk. “I’m not leaving her in Germany.”

Across the table, Leah narrows her eyes like she’s lining up a shot “Then why were you in Barcelona?” she says, tone mock-sweet. “You’ve still not answered me.”

You don’t blink. “I told you I wasn’t in Barcelona.”

Leah’s already pulling out her phone, tapping the screen. “I literally have the thread open. Pictures. Of you. At a game.”

You shrug, reaching for your water. Calm. Measured. “Wasn’t me. Must have a Spanish twin.”

Beth lets out a high-pitched laugh and claps her hand over her mouth. Georgia groans dramatically beside you. Leah points her fork at you like it’s a knife. “I know you’re lying to me.”

Before you can reply, Millie, who has missed absolutely everything, looks up from her bowl of fruit like it’s the first she’s hearing of this. “Wait— is your contract up at Bayern?”

You turn to her, unbothered. “Not ’til the end of next season.”

Millie frowns thoughtfully. “So you could move on?”

You nod once. “I could.” You stab a bit of sweet potato with your fork. Cool as ever. “We’ll see.”

The table quiets just slightly not completely but enough, because now everyone’s reading into it. The phrasing. The calm. The deflection.

Beth leans back in her chair, shaking her head with a grin. “She’s so annoying when she’s like this.”

Georgia crosses her arms. “She does that thing where she technically tells the truth but also doesn’t say anything.”

You say nothing. Just smile, because they’re not wrong.

⚽️

You’d come down here to be alone. To switch off. Headphones plugged in, controller in hand, Call of Duty loading on the screen.

The match kicks off. You settle into it easily focus narrowing, shoulders loosening, brain finally dialling into something simple and competitive. You barely notice when the door opens. Spanish voices. Low. Familiar.

You glance up, expecting them to pass by but they hesitate. Just inside the threshold, a small group of them hover. Patri, Jana, a couple others you’ve only exchanged nods with so far. They’re dressed in hoodies and sliders, clearly winding down. But they don’t move farther in like they’re waiting for permission.

You pause the game, pull one headphone off, and smile. “Hey,” you say simply, nodding. “Come in. I don’t bite.”

They laugh softly, surprised. Patri mutters something in Spanish to the others, and after a few beats, they drift in. Quiet, casual. Still a little cautious. You realise then they’ve been keeping their distance, not out of disinterest, not out of attitude, but out of respect.

They didn’t want to step into your space unless you made it clear they were welcome. You unpause, fingers working the controller again. Patri lingers near the edge of the nearest sofa, watching the screen.

“You play?” you ask.

She shakes her head with a grin. “Only when I’m bored enough to embarrass myself.”

You laugh properly this time and she grins wider. She sits nearby, not next to you, but close enough. The others do the same spilling onto bean bags and floor cushions, chatting amongst themselves, tossing occasional comments your way as you mow down enemies on-screen.

It’s easy. Light. You’re mid-reload when the door opens again. You hear her before you see her Alexia, finishing a phone call, voice low, Spanish soft and measured as she tucks her phone into the pocket of her hoodie.

You glance up. The second she sees you, she smiles small, effortless. Like of course you’re here. Like this is exactly where she expected to find you. She walks past the others with a gentle squeeze to Patri’s shoulder.

And without hesitation she takes the one spot left on the sofa, next to you there were other cushions. Other chairs, but no one else took that place, not one of them, not even when you’d sat there for fifteen minutes alone.

And now, sitting beside you knee brushing yours, hands resting calmly in her lap Alexia leans back like she belongs there.

And something clicks, they didn’t take that seat... because it wasn’t theirs to take.They knew, maybe not the whole story, maybe not everything. But enough.

You say nothing, don’t look at her, but your chest is warm, your mouth can’t help its curve, and your hands are steady on the controller even as your pulse thunders beneath your skin.

Alexia shifts slightly beside you not speaking, not looking but her leg presses against yours, gentle, grounding.

And for the first time all day, you feel completely still.

You finish the game you were playing, you toss the controller onto the table beside you, stretching your arms overhead with a satisfied sigh as the final stats flash on screen.

The girls around you clap half in celebration, half in sarcasm teasing you for your accuracy, your kills, your body count. You grin through it all, playful and relaxed.

Alexia is still beside you, legs crossed beneath her now, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, close without crowding. The Spanish girls have broken off into small conversations Patri and Mapi trading jokes, Aitana curled up with her phone, Jana humming softly to the song playing from someone’s speaker.

It’s quiet. Soft, then in a lull Patri looks up from her spot two cushions over, eyes on you, voice casual but clearly meant to land. “So,” she says, in English, “Why didn’t you tell your team you were in Barcelona?”

The question hangs there not sharp, not cold but deliberate. You feel it land between you and Alexia like a small spark on dry grass.

You glance over, she’s not looking at you, but she’s not pretending not to listen either. You shift slightly, leaning back into the cushions, playing with the hem of your shorts.

You don’t answer right away, you don’t need to, Patri’s gaze is calm. Patient, but underneath it you can feel the pulse of what’s really being asked.

You take a breath. Then you shrug, voice quiet but steady. “It wasn’t their business.”

Mapi raises an eyebrow, amused. “No?” she says. “Beth seems to think otherwise.”

You smirk can't help it, “She always does.”

That gets a few chuckles. The mood stays light but the thread doesn’t slip. Patri’s eyes stay on you a moment longer. “Just curious,” she says, holding your gaze. “That’s all.”

You nod, a beat of silence. Then without looking, without shifting Alexia finally speaks. Quiet. Calm. “Sometimes it’s easier not to explain what people will turn into something else.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even directed at you, technically, but it lands squarely in your chest.

“I didn’t go for headlines,” you say simply. “I went for... time.”

No one pushes after that and somehow the quiet deepens. Not uncomfortable. Just... settled.

Alexia shifts again beside you closer this time, just slightly, her hand brushes yours, and when you don’t pull away when neither of you moves it says more than anything else in the room.

It happens slowly. One by one, yawns, stretches, quiet excuses in Spanish. Mapi glances between the two of you and smirks knowingly before she stands. Jana gives you a warm smile as she collects her phone. Patri lingers the longest, offering a casual "Buenas noches" like she hasn't just left a small ripple in the middle of the room.

Then the door swings shut behind them, and it’s just you and Alexia.

She’s still curled on the other end of the sofa, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, eyes flicking between you and the now-idle TV screen. You glance over at her. She looks away. Classic. You smile softly to yourself.

You manoeuvre on the sofa to sit facing her, "Could they be any more obvious?"

She clears her throat, cheeks just a touch pink, she lets out a quiet laugh shy and warm and so her. She pulls one leg up onto the sofa, facing you now, even if she still won’t meet your gaze for more than a second.

She pulls her sleeve over her hand and starts gently picking at a loose thread a tell you’re beginning to recognise now. You watch her for a moment, then say, low and warm, “Did they leave the seat open for you?” Her eyes flick up at that quick and startled. You smile, not cocky, just sure. “You know they did.”

Alexia exhales slowly, the smallest curve at the corner of her mouth, “They’re not subtle,” she murmurs.

You lean back slightly, folding one leg under the other. “No,” you agree.

She goes still at that, just for a beat, then she shifts again, rests her chin on her hand, eyes finally meeting yours properly.

There’s a softness there, not shy, just... unguarded.

“Would you care if I'd told them about me going to see you and you coming to see me?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

It’s not loaded. It’s not even afraid. Just curious. You sit with it. Let it settle in the space between you, because it’s not the kind of question that needs a fast answer.

You shrug gently, voice matching hers in tone. “It's your story to tell I suppose.”

She nods once, thoughtfully. Like that’s enough, you hold her gaze, steady and open. She smiles, small but sure and this time it doesn’t falter. She shifts closer, knee brushing yours now. Not tentative. Not unsure.

Just... there. You let out a slow breath and say, teasing, “You’re still terrible at small talk.”

She rolls her eyes but grins, and this time, it reaches her eyes. “I’m better at passing,” she says.

You huff a laugh. “That’s debatable.”

“Do you want me to prove it?” she challenges, mock serious.

And just like that, the tension lifts, because between the laughter, the teasing, the way your knees stay touching now, she leans back a little, eyes scanning your face, and then quiet again, soft again, “I like being near you.”

You feel it land low, deep, honest. “I like you near me,” you say back.

"When can I see you again?"

You bang your knee to hers, "What? Is this not good enough for you?"

"I've come to love cliches"

You knock your knee against hers again, grinning, she pretends to wince, overly dramatic. “You’ve come to love clichés?” you echo, raising an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Alexia shrugs soft, honest but whatever she’s about to say never lands, because the door bangs open, sharp and jarring.

You both look over as Montse strides in, her words clipped, brisk Spanish cutting through the calm like a blade. Alexia tenses beside you, the moment folds up, you shift back slightly as Montse rattles off something you don’t understand, her eyes never even flicking in your direction.

You’re invisible, but not to Alexia, she’s already pushing to her feet, hoodie sleeves tugged down, chin lifting slightly.

“I have to go,” she says quietly, regret threading through every syllable.

You nod, already feeling the weight of the shift, the loss of her warmth beside you. She reaches a hand out, you raise yours half reflex, half habit and slap it gently in return, but she doesn’t let go.

Her fingers close around yours. A pause. “They’ve sorted us a hotel,” she says, softer now. “We’re going.”

You glance up at her, still seated, suddenly not ready. “See you soon then,” you say hopeful, too much like a question.

She stands over you, gaze fixed on yours, something unreadable moving in her expression.

And then a hand comes on the arm of the sofa beside you, the hand on your hand leaves and finds your chin slow, certain and she tilts your face gently up to hers.

You don’t have time to speak, don’t have time to think, because she kisses you.

Not rushed. Not apologetic. Just sweet. Soft.

Like a promise, like she’s making up for the airport, like she finally let go of whatever was holding her back.

Her lips move slowly against yours, careful, almost reverent her thumb brushing lightly against your jaw and when she pulls back, it’s not far. Just enough to look at you, really look,

“I didn’t want to leave it again,” she murmurs, "I should of done that at the airport"

You just nod, barely. "You should have" you whisper because your heart’s in your throat and her touch is still warm on your skin and she finally, finally did what you'd been thinking about since you came ever so close at the airport,

She finds your hand again and gives it one last squeeze and then she’s gone.

But her kiss stays with you. Like the most perfect cliché. You just had to find Gee and Beth, you counted to ten in the hopes Alexia would not be in the hall way when you left the room.

But of course she was. As you came out the door there she was, with her team Montse speaking yet again, "Sorry" you mutter walking by through the lined corridor of Spanish players.

Your eye connect with Alexia's ever so briefly as you brush by her finger runs over your wrist intentionally, a silent conversation, you bump your hand into her hip in return not missing a step on your way to find just someone to tell. You had to tell someone.

And then you’re gone. Still walking. Still moving. Still trying not to explode.

Your skin’s buzzing, your heart’s somewhere in your throat, and you don’t care where you’re going exactly just that you find someone.

Someone to tell. Beth. Georgia, it doesn’t matter who’s first. You take the stairs two at a time, mind racing, face burning, mouth stretching into a smile you can’t suppress.

You find them in the corridor of the rooms Beth half-asleep on a beanbag, Georgia picking at crisps as she sat her back against the wall. Georgia out of the team spot you first, she narrows her eyes instantly.

“You’ve got that face.”

Beth sits up straighter. “What face?”

Georgia grins. “The something’s happened face.”

You just stand there, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to not grin like an idiot, at this point you don't care the whole team is here.

“She kissed me,” you say.

Georgia’s eyes go wide

“Who—” Beth starts.

“Who do you fucking think!,” Georgia cuts in.

"What?" Millie was paying attention, "What did you just say?"

You collapse into the beanbag with Beth, head spinning, hands covering your face.

“Okay, tell us everything,” Beth demands, already grabbing your wrist.

“Was it good?” Georgia asks at the exact same time, already smirking.

You laugh into your hands. It’s too much. It’s perfect. “She kissed me,” you say again, softer this time. Like repeating it will help you believe it.

The room stills. Like someone hit mute. Beth’s eyes are huge, but her mouth is already splitting into a grin that looks ready to explode.

Georgia’s the only one moving slowly folding her arms, smug as anything, nodding like she’s been proven so right, but the rest pure stunned silence.

Millie’s frowning like you just told her two plus two equals fish.

Tooney finally says it. “Wait. Who kissed you?”

A little sheepish, heart still in your throat, you say, "Alexia"

Lucy nearly chokes on her protein shake.

Keira drops her phone in her lap. “Alexia Putellas?”

You glance at Georgia, who raises an eyebrow and mutters, “Told you this lot weren’t paying attention.”

“No, sorry.” Alex leans forward, hand in the air like she’s at school. “When did that become a thing?”

Beth’s already bouncing next to you, grabbing your arm. “Are you kidding me? This is so exciting!”

“But how—” Ella cuts in. “Like when? Where? How do you even know her like that?!”

You laugh helplessly, because yeah, you get it, to them, this came out of nowhere.

Georgia leans back, arms behind her head, she says smugly. “They were making eyes at the champions League games. And when we played Spain last month. You were all too busy watching the ball.” Beth cleared her throat, "Except Beth, she saw it"

"So you went from making eyes to kissing?" Millie asked

“Erm, no. She uh she came to Germany. She visited me, stayed with me, we hung out for a few days” you say finally, voice soft. “Then I visited her in Barcelona, stayed with her.”

You glance around the corridor at the sea of shocked faces, half in awe, half still short-circuiting.

“She kissed me before she left just now,” you add, quieter again. “It wasn’t dramatic. Just… real. Said she should of done it at the airport yesterday”

And that’s when the chaos starts, "Thats why you were in Barcelona?" Leah exclaimed, "You were seeing Alexia"

"So are you like? Dating?"

You shrug, "I don't know. It's-"

Georgia smiled, "It's giving clueless shy teenager"

"Fuck you Gee" You laugh as she did.

⚽️

It’s only a friendly, that’s what they keep saying.

Low stakes. Rotations. Minutes in legs, but you feel different, there’s something crawling under your skin not nerves exactly, but anticipation.

You step out into the tunnel, boots scuffing lightly against concrete, the murmur of the crowd leaking in from the stands. You roll your shoulders, breathe through it.

Beth jogs up beside you, bumping your elbow. “You good?” You nod, too fast. She squints at you. “You sure?”

Before you can answer, Georgia jogs past, turning back over her shoulder. “You heard? Spain are here nothing else to do so came the came”

You blink. “What?”

Gee's already pointing subtle, just a tilt of the chin toward the lower stand across from the benches. You follow her gaze and there they are.

A block of familiar red hoodies Spain’s internationals still stuck in England. Still!

And right in the middle Alexia. Hair loose around her shoulders, sunglasses perched in her hair, coat undone like she didn’t even think about looking cool and yet still does. She’s watching warm-ups casually, like it’s nothing, but you feel it.

You shake your head, fighting the smile already creeping up your face as you pick up a jog to go join the warm ups in the lovely early afternoon sun.

It dawned on you, she's never watched you play like this, you've watched her, you've played against her, but she's never done this. Sitting in the stands to watch you play. No pressure. None at all.

You knew where they were all sat and the position you were in today, you would be playing right up and down in front of them all the first half.

You finish the final stretch of warm-ups, but peel off before heading inside as you spot them. Your little brothers.

Tiny hands waving over the hoardings, feet bouncing, eyes glowing. Your dad’s standing beside them, and beside him his wife, and her daughter twelve, polite, slightly shy, but smiling when she sees you heading over. You give her a little wave, as you approached.

You slow your jog as you get to the barrier, "DAD!" you shout, he can't hear you. Of course. "DAD!" You motion to Freya to get your dad which she does and you point at the boys and motion for them. You lean on the advertising board as they excitedly rush down the steps past the Spanish team.

“Look who’s here,” you grin, ruffling there hair and kissing there heads.

The six-year-old is practically vibrating. “We saw you on the big screen already!”

You laugh, reaching to squeeze his chin. “You excited?”

The four-year-old thrusts out a drawing, a sign he made, crumpled at the edges, a stick figure version of you in an England kit with arms outstretched like a plane.

“I made this!” he yells.

You press a hand to your heart mock surprise on your face, "I love it, make sure you hold it really high so I can see it"

They’re a little overwhelmed with the amount of people and noise already, but full of joy this is their moment, seeing you out there, and you drink it in like water.

You smile, "I have to go but one question, if I score what celebration should I do?"

They lose it.

“Do the sui!” “No, do a heart!” “Do the cartwheel!” “Backflip!”

You’re laughing, fully gone, hands fixing your hair as you shake your head.

“Okay, okay,” you say. “If I score… I'll pick one.”

They both agree loud and excited and you squeeze their hands before you go, you went to go but spot Freya coming down, you give her a quick side hug check she's ok before sending the boys off with her and sprint across the pitch and down the tunnel now no one else was out here.

But as you turned, brushing your palms on your shorts, you feel it. Eyes. You didn't have to turn to know it was Alexia watching you.

Seated amongst the rest of her team, her arms folded, eyes fixed on you but not in the way she would watch you on a pitch.

It was softer than that, warmer.

⚽️

It’s been one of those starts, they’ve clearly done their homework Portugal’s midfield and defence collapsing on you every time you get the ball, and the ref was letting way too much go.

First it was a late hip-check. Then a clipped heel. Now it’s every possession hands on your back, arms across your chest, studs snapping too close to your shins. You keep shaking them off, keep getting up, until you don’t.

The ball’s played into your feet just outside Englands half, you open your body, try to spin and the moment your touch shifts into space, a challenge comes straight through you. Legs gone. Feet out from under you.

You don’t fall, you hit the ground shoulder first and hard. With a sickening thud, the kind of impact that knocks the breath out of your lungs before you can process the pain.

The whistle doesn’t come, of course it doesn’t. You stay down, not in a dramatic way, not milking it, but because you have to. Just still., trying to breathe, trying to see straight, access if it hurts just because it does or if you were injured,

You hear the crowd screaming at the ref that sharp collective roar, sounds of whistles being made with mouths. Alessia the only one up the pitch shouts your name, but you don’t respond right away.

Your shoulder pulses. Your elbow’s scraped raw. Your ribs feel like they got rung like a bell.

And above all of it you feel her, you don’t look toward the stands, you don’t need to. You know Alexia’s watching not as a player, not even as someone who knows the game but as her. The one who held your chin last night, the one who kissed you like it meant something, the one who sees you, now, folded on the pitch and not bouncing back since it happened right in front of the Spanish team.

You push yourself up slowly, testing weight on your arm, breathe coming through your nose. You hear the bench yelling for the fourth official. You hear Alessia calling across the pitch again, the bench wanting her to find out if you were ok as the ref was still not taking you on stopping the game.

But through all of it, there’s only one person you want to look for you glance toward the crowd, and there she is sunglasses gone, hands clenched in her lap, eyes locked only on you.

You’re up. Barely, but you’re already walking it off, because she’s watching and so is your family. And that’s enough to keep you upright even if you’re hurting.

Down the opposite end of the pitch, stretching the pitch, two passes and they’re in the box.

Before you can even catch your breath, the ball’s in the net.

0-1.

The stadium groans, the bench is shouting. Your teammates throw up their arms in frustration.

You just stop, right there on the pitch, you throw your head back, chest heaving, throat closing tight with exhaustion and heat and pure frustration.

Then you drop, not like before this time, you choose to. You lower yourself back to the turf flat on your back, arms above your head, lungs dragging at air like it’s suddenly gone thin.

Your eyes sting, not from tears not exactly, but from everything. The pain. The helplessness. The way you can feel your family watching. The way you know Alexia is too.

You press the heel of your hand to your chest, try to breathe through it.

It doesn’t work, you squeeze your eyes shut, and suddenly, a shadow cuts across you.

Beth.

She’s already crouching beside you, a hand on your side voice low and tight. “You alright?”

You can’t answer you just shake your head once. Tiny. Honest.

Georgia’s there too now, someone’s signalling to the bench as your team all descend on you making the watching crowd now even more worried it wasn't you to stay down, let alone go back down.

The ref’s finally calling for the physio, but you don’t move. You just stay down, chest rising too fast, eyes fixed on the blue sky overhead.

And all you can think for just a second is whether she’s still watching, and how stupid you look.

You don’t open your eyes when the physios arrive. You feel the soft tap on your ankle, the calm voice saying your name twice, then a third time.

Beth’s still crouched beside you, one hand braced on your shin, her voice close to your ear. “Breathe. Okay? I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

One of the medics asks, “Where’s the pain?” and you gesture toward your ribs with a shaky hand, still not speaking.

The other’s pressing gently against your shoulder now. "Range of motion?"

You nod once. But you’re still flat on your back. Still trying to find a breath that feels full.

Millie's voice comes from somewhere just above. "She’s been getting kicked every five minutes. Are we seriously gonna wait until she can’t stand to protect her?"

You push yourself up, quicker than before, pain flares down your side like it’s laughing at you, but you grit your teeth, get an elbow under yourself, then the other, until you’re sitting. Barely.

Beth’s hand steadies your back. "You’re not weak for coming off," she murmurs.

“I’m not,” you rasp. “Coming off.”

She gives you a long look, not impressed, not unkind.

Then quiet, but pointed, “Saw her stand up when you hit the deck.”

Your jaw tightens.

You get to your feet stagger, then plant them, he physios hover, the ref checks in. You’re not okay, but you’re not done and as the whistle goes to restart, and your waiting on the touchline to be let back on, your hand drifts briefly toward your ribs, grounding yourself.

The pain’s not gone, but your feet are under you and you know she’s still watching and it was time to put on a show.

You’re still feeling every step.

Each sprint tugs at your ribs. Every pivot sends a throb through your shoulder. You’ve gone quiet on the ball not because you’re hiding, but because you’re calculating. Watching, biding your time, you watch as slowly your markers distance, giving you more and more space as you slow to a walk back and to follow the direction of the play but not involved. You know what you’ve got left for this half and you’re saving it.

The board goes up: +3.

There’s a murmur through the crowd not a roar, not yet but people are shifting, expecting whistles, slow jogs, the halftime lull, but you’re still moving.

The ball breaks down the left Beth, of course, fighting through two defenders like she’s got something to prove. She cuts it inside, sharp and low, and Georgia takes the touch on the edge of the box.

You’re trailing, late, not marked, open.

Georgia sees you flicks it your way the pass is bouncing, awkward not clean, but you don’t need clean. A roar of shoot erupted from the England fans and you just hit it.

Left foot, none preferred foot, first time, outside of the boot, top of the laces. It rises fast skipping the turf, arcing, curling away from the keeper. You know it’s in before it even finishes rising.

Top corner. The stadium erupts.

You don’t stop to think you’re already turning, already running toward the touchline with your arms out but halfway there, your ribs bite, and you stop short.

Instead, you slow, you bring your hands up and you make the heart exactly the way you promised.

You glance up as your swamped by your team not toward the bench, not toward the camera, but the stands. And there she is, Alexia, not standing, s smile over her mouth. Not shocked, not disbelieving.

Just… in awe.

Mapi beside her nudges her hard. Patri shouts something you don’t understand. Alexia's just watching you.

You lower your hands, still breathless, still burning, but smiling.

⚽️

Second half starts and you press.

Every time they try to close you down in twos, you draw one in and spin away. Every time they get physical, you use it a shoulder drop, a feint, a switch of pace.

In the 48th minute, the gap opens.

Beth sends it to you from wide overhit slightly, bouncing but you chase it anyway. The Portuguese centre-back goes shoulder-to-shoulder with you.

Big mistake.

You let the contact roll you forward, slip low around her blind side ball sticking to your foot like it's tied there.

Two touches then you bury it.

Low. Near post. Keeper stuck.

2-1.

You don't celebrate wildly you just turn back toward the halfway line, all calm smirk and low nods, like this is exactly what was always going to happen. By the time the 55th minute hits, they’ve stopped pressing you.

And that’s when you go again this time it starts with Keira — ball recovered deep, pinged straight to your feet just outside the box. You drop a shoulder, glide right, and they don’t follow, they’re waiting. Sitting, so you take the space.

One touch. Two. Left foot. Curled. Over the keeper, bottom corner.

3-1.

You don’t even lift your arms, you just turn, eyes sweeping the crowd until you find Alexia as you await the onslaught of your teammates

Standing this time, one hand fisted low at her side like she’s trying not to cheer too obviously, but her eyes shine.

65th Minute

The cross is perfect fast and low skimming past the first defender, bending into that no-man’s-land between keeper and back line.

You see it early. You know the run. You’ve made this run a hundred times. It’s instinct now. You break the line. You dive.

Head low, shoulders tucked, eyes on the ball. You dip and drive forward and connect. It’s beautiful. A flick, just enough, ball sails past the keeper’s hand.

The ball is in, you know it, you felt it glance off your forehead, the weight of it pulling away toward goal.

But you never see it go in, because the defender’s boot slams into the side of your face mid-dive hard, blind, no malice, just collision and your body crumples and twists with the force mid-air.

You hit the ground with a dead weight thud, sparking fears you were out cold instantly with the way you fell, face first, no reaction to try and cushion your fall with your arms, they were just as limp as the rest of your body appeared to be.

The stadium reacts before you can, he gasp the collective inhale rolls like thunder, before that silence you never wanted to hear in a football stadium,

Boots thudding as your teammates swarm, but you don’t move, because your body won’t let you.

The blow rings through your skull, white-hot and suffocating. The sound disappears dulled like you’re underwater, your vision pulses with light and black edges, your jaw slack. Your lips parting. And the blood warm and constant begins to stream from your cheekbone, nose, lip, you taste it.

You're aware of nothing other than pain and the dull weight of your head on the grass.

You hear your name again and again but it feels far away, even Beth’s voice, usually sharp as a knife, barely lands.

The medics reach you in seconds, one is already holding your head, the other’s checking your breathing, murmuring something you can’t follow.

You catch phrases in broken pieces.

"Concussion protocol." "Stay with me." "Bleeding from the orbital..." "Possible fracture."

Your breath shudders, and a timid cry escapes your lips as the medics are rolling you carefully now, stabilising your neck, pressing something against the blood to slow it.

Someone taps your shoulder, tells you to squeeze a hand if you can hear them. You do. Barely.

Your eyes flutter half-open, lashes wet with blood and sweat, and then your eyes move, they find Alexia frozen risen in her seat still as stone.

She’s standing feet braced like she doesn’t trust her own knees eyes locked on you. She’s not shouting, not calling your name, she’s just watching, and she doesn’t move.

You come back to yourself in pieces.

First, the cold. Not the air the grass. Damp and sharp beneath your body. The way it clings to your skin. It smells like dirt and turf pellets and blood.

Then, pain, spiking, dull, all at once.

Your cheekbone throbs with a heartbeat of its own, your jaw’s locked, your eyes won’t open all the way, your nose doesn't even feel like it's still apart of you and your ribs still sore from earlier now ache with the effort of every breath.

You flinch when gloved fingers press gently to your face.

“She’s responding,” someone says. “Pupils reactive.”

Your lips part, dry and cracked, the taste of iron spreads again across your tongue.

You feel pressure on your shin steady, grounding and then a voice, closer, lower, “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re here.” Georgia.

You can’t see her, but you feel her crouched beside your legs, probably giving the medic hell in her own way. You manage to shift one hand. It twitches against the turf. That’s all.

Still, the physio murmurs, “That’s good. You’re doing good.”

Another figure joins the edge of your blurred vision Leah, maybe, pacing just out of reach. Someone calls for water. There’s shouting you can’t track, the ref speaking to the fourth official.

And still beneath it all that awareness, she’s watching, you don’t see Alexia, but it's like her presence is stitched to your skin. Like the back of your neck can feel the weight of her stillness.

The physio cuts through again. “Hey, can you hear me?” You nod. Barely. “Can you talk?” You try. Nothing comes, just a low breath, half-choked on the edge of your tongue.

Georgia grabs your hand. “Don’t force it. You're doing great, yeah?”

The ref leans in, there’s talk of subs, of time, but you’re not leaving. Not yet. You blink once slow, heavy and drag your gaze toward the sideline.

Alexia is still on her feet, still rooted to the same spot, hands clenched now, hoodie sleeves bunched in her fists.

The voices begin to settle, the urgency in them thins not gone, but changed. Less panic, more preparation. The medic closest to you leans in, voice low and careful. “We’re going to help you sit up, okay?”

You nod. Or something like it.

They count one, two, three and gently roll you, shoulder first, until you’re propped awkwardly onto your side. Your head swims a wave of heat washes over your skin.

Georgia is right there, crouched beside you still, her hand braced against your back.

“You’re alright,” she whispers, her voice thick now. “You scared the hell out of us.”

You let out a breath through your nose all you can manage, another medic moves in with gauze. They press it carefully against your face the bleeding’s slower now, but your face is tacky, red, sticky with sweat and blood.

You can’t quite open your left eye but you’re awake, then they start to lift you one under each arm, guiding your weight, giving you the chance to push with your own legs, it’s slow. Your knees don’t feel like yours at first. The pitch tilts. The lights feel too close.

But you rise, bit by bit, until you’re upright.

The stadium comes into focus blurred edges, crowd murmuring again, then clapping. Louder now, you blink into it, dazed.

You glance sideways Georgia's still at your side, she’s not letting go. You mouth, “Water?” She’s already handing it over, when you’ve swallowed, when your balance returns in shaky breaths you look up.

Alexia is speaking quietly to one of Spain’s staff, eyes only on you and when you look at her, she stops talking, her jaw sets.

Her gaze flickers over your body your limp, your hand pressed to your ribs, the blood still staining, well everywhere.

And for the first time, she looks angry not at you at the game, at the way it takes and takes, no matter how much you give it.

You start the walk.

Flanked by a physio on your left and Georgia still glued to your right, you take that first step off the touchline and immediately, the stadium rises.

It’s not thunderous, not rowdy, it’s steady, respectful, the sound of people knowing what you gave.

You can barely lift your chin your ribs ache with every inhale, your vision still fuzzy on one side, your jaw tight against the throb in your cheek, but you’re walking.

And as you pass the halfway line, they start coming.

Beth is the first hand to your shoulder, a squeeze that says proud. No words needed.

Leah next, touching your back gently, then stepping aside so you don’t have to slow down.

Ella jogs over from midfield, half-breathless, half-emotional. “Don't scare us like that” she whispers as you pass, “Fucking hell.”

You smile with only half your mouth.

Keira’s further down, eyes flicking over your face, her brow tight with worry. “You alright?”

You nod once. Just once.

Lucy, last before the tunnel claps your back, firm. “Reckon that’ll be on highlight reels for years.”

Each touch steadies you, each word softens the ache just a little, but still the tunnel looms. Cool, shadowed. Removed.

Georgia stays close, shoulder brushing yours, “You did it,” she says quietly, only for you. “Even if the rest of us barely kept up.”

You glance toward the crowd again instinctively, your family, your brothers, your dad and just before you vanish beneath the overhang, you glance to Alexia.

Still watching, still unreadable, but you step into the tunnel, the roar fades behind you.

367 notes View Post

justareader7

3 weeks ago

❤️

Part 7 Other Parts

Word Count: 10K

It’s cold in the treatment room. Not freezing just sharp, clinical. The air smells like antiseptic and gauze, the hum of the fluorescent lights loud in the silence. No players. No noise. Just the slow rhythm of your breath, jagged and uneven, and the quiet shuffle of a medic preparing saline and bandages.

You’re half-seated on the treatment table, kit stripped down to your sports bra, skin blooming with bruises one across your ribs, one already formed beneath your cheekbone, angry and swollen.

The pain is sharper now that you’re still, no more adrenaline to cover it. The physio works in silence for the first few minutes. Gloves on, gentle hands, a cold compress wrapped around your ribs. Gauze pressed gently to your face.

“Breathe through your nose,” she murmurs when you flinch. “Slowly. You’re alright.” You do. You try. It hurts. She dabs the blood away. “We’ll get the doc to check for a fracture. You’ve taken quite the walk and by the swelling and bruise it wouldn't surprise me if somethings broke”

You don’t answer. You’re staring at the wall the blankness of it. The stark light of a mounted screen still looping the broadcast. It’s on mute, but you catch it:

Your fourth goal, then the replay, your head to the ball, the defender’s boot. The fall.

You turn away, the medic catches it, “Want me to switch it off?”

You shake your head. “No.”

It stays on, not because you want to see it, but because it happened and you're still here. You close your eyes for a moment just to breathe. The room buzzes around you, distant, unreal and then your phone buzzes from the counter.

You don’t look, not yet, because you know who it is and you need one more breath before you’re ready to see her name on that screen.

The doctor finishes the last stitch with practiced hands, her voice low and even as she snips the thread at your cheek. “You’re lucky,” she says, not unkindly. “Could’ve been worse.”

You’re reclined slightly on the treatment table now, eyes half-closed, one hand curled around a half-empty water bottle, the other limp in your lap.

They’ve cleaned you up mostly, your cheek still stings, numbed but tight beneath the fresh white bandage. The split skin near your eye stitched neatly, though the swelling’s already giving you a half-closed squint.

Your nose is broken but other than cleaning it up you're told there's not much else they can do, the dull ache pressing from the inside out makes you feel sick.

And your ribs bruised, not broken, but burn whenever you breathe too deeply.

“She’ll need imaging when we get back to club,” the doctor says to the medic at her side. “Hairline fracture of the zygomatic bone. Stable. Broken nose minor. Clean break. No concussion. Somehow." She says that last part with a note of disbelief.

You manage a whisper. “Just stubborn.”

She gives you a look. “You don’t say.”

There’s a pause.

Then, “I'll sure you’ll be sidelined for a few weeks. Minimal contact. You’ll be back for the end of the season for sure, but… not next week. Not the one after that.”

You nod, slow and stiff, it’s not a surprise, you felt it when you went down, you knew something cracked, but now it’s real.

She hands you a mirror, you hesitate, then lift it. Your reflection is… brutal. Your cheekbone is swollen, the stitches red and raw, your nose is taped, skin yellowing around the bridge from where the blood’s settled, your mouth is split at the corner.

You stare for a moment. Then lower it without flinching.

The doctor finishes making notes. “The pain meds should kick in soon,” she says gently. “Someone’ll check in before we leave”

You nod slowly as you move to sit on the edge of the bed, "Can you pass me that coat?" You reach your hand out

Ajan furrows his brows at you, "Why?"

"I've got no shirt on and I need some air, I want to watch the last 10 minutes"

"Y/N I don't think that's a good idea"

You slid off the bed, "I'll just get it myself"

Ajan sighed at your stubbornness turning to grab the coat, "Fine, but you're sitting next to me, I'm keeping my eye on you"

You nod sliding the coat on, he sees you fiddling to zip it before doing it for you at your pathetic attempt, "My head spins when I look down" you mutter

"Are you sure she doesn't have a concussion?"

The physio nodded, "We did the test twice, she passed both times"

⚽️

You step out of the tunnel slowly, coat wrapped tight around your shoulders, a medic still at your side even though you insisted you were fine. You’re not in boots now just sliders and bandages and the dull, echoing ache of every muscle in your body reminding you what you’ve just gone through.

The crowd doesn’t notice at first why would they? You’re not subbing on. You’re not doing anything but sitting down.

The ones who know are the ones who watched you take every hit and still make magic, they see you.

Beth lifts her head from the bench and gets to her feet to come to you as you're stood in the technical box Sarina chatting to you about your injuries, you let Beth tuck under your arm as her arms come around you.

Georgia clocks you next as she's subbed off, you give them a small nod. That’s all you’ve got right now.

You sink slowly onto the bench beside Georgia, Beth claiming the chair the other side and pull your coat tighter. The air hits your cheek and it burns, but you don’t flinch.

You’re not here to be comfortable, you’re here to finish it, and across the pitch a few figures in red shift. Mapi says something and nudges her, Jana leans forward, nodding, Patri straight up points.

And then Alexia looks up, follows the line of Patri's hand and finds you her expression shifts. Not fast. Not big. The worry is still there threaded through her jaw, her brow, but her shoulders soften.

You turn your attention back to the pitch, but the heat you feel down your spine, that’s her. Still watching.

You’re sat low on the bench, legs stretched slightly out in front of you.

The stadium is buzzing, full of that final-minute energy the game is already won, 4–1, the result never in question anymore. England’s pressing, but it’s clean now. Calm.

And then you hear it, a cheer rises not for a goal, not for a tackle, it spreads, louder, rowdier and familiar.

You frown slightly, then glance up at the screen above the far end of the pitch. It’s you, big as anything, sitting quiet watching.

Not doing much of anything at all but the crowd roar.

And then the chant starts, from one pocket of fans, rippling into another, until it takes over,

“YN’s on fire, your defence is terrified!”

You blink then laugh low, stunned as the camera lingers on your face, you go a little shy. You shake your head, ducking it slightly, lips pressed together in an embarrassed but charmed smile. One hand lifts to your cheek without thinking the good one like you’re trying to cover your face, but the camera catches the smile anyway.

And behind the noise, you steal one more glance across the pitch to the opposite stand, where red hoodies still sit Alexia is smiling, soft and proud and looking a little relieved.

You drop your gaze to your knees, smiling quietly to yourself and whisper, barely under your breath “…idiots.” But you don’t stop smiling.

⚽️

The whistle blows, the home crowd erupts, you’re already on your feet. Stiff. Slow. Pain flaring in your ribs with each shift of weight but you walk.

Wrapped in your coat, face still swollen, you step off the bench and onto the pitch, boots traded for sliders, gait uneven but steady. Determined.

Your teammates notice instantly.

Beth rushes over, throws a careful arm around your shoulders mindful of the bandage on your face. “You stubborn legend,” she says, beaming.

Georgia’s next, clapping your back a little too hard you wince, and she grimaces. “Sorry, sorry, forgot you’re held together with tape now.”

Leah appears too, hugging you gently from the side. “Still got the best chant of the night.”

You wave her off, blushing slightly. “Don’t start.”

They’re all here now surrounding you, checking, smiling. And you nod through it all, repeating the same three words, over and over:

“I’m fine. Just sore."

The lap begins slow, informal, arms waving to the crowd, you follow them around the pitch, keeping to the back coat zipped up to your throat, moving slow, ribs tight.

You pass the section where you know she’s standing, you don’t look at first, just wave to the crowd behind there section. Finally you glance sideways, Alexia is leaning forward on the barrier, her hands gripping the edge, her expression tight and concerned.

Her eyes meet yours, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just gives you a look, one you know is asking if you're ok, you don’t stop, you just nod once.

Because just behind the barrier, a familiar voice yells your name.

Your little brothers bouncing with joy, you jog over, face lighting up properly now for the first time since you left the tunnel. “You coming?” you ask, they nod, wide-eyed.

Your dad lifted the younger one over the rail while the older clambers down with help from security. He checked on you as the boys were excitedly waiting on the pitch for you, "I'm ok I promise, just a couple stitches"

"Sure? They sending you home?"

"I don't know maybe, I'm not concussed so no real reason to not play the next game if I can keep the swelling down"

"Y/N"

You laugh gently, "I'm a big girl dad I'm fine" you walk backwards, "When have I ever quit?" you holler back with a smile

"Never that's the problem!" Your dad couldn't help the smile he had shaking his head, you had that cheeky grin on your face you'd had since you were a kid as you started shimming to the music playing, "Fuck off" he jerked his thumb laughing gently at you, "Go celebrate baller"

You laugh walking away, clapping the fans and it made for a cute scene your little brothers excitedly jogging beside you to keep up, watching your every step and mimicking you clapping the fans.

⚽️

The locker room is warm. Still buzzing in low waves, not loud now the kind of comedown that only happens when everyone knows they’ve done their job.

You’re seated near the back, kit stripped away, a hoodie zipped halfway up, ribs still aching under the band of compression and bandages.

Beth sits cross-legged near you, a banana in one hand, talking to Lucy about something you’re not fully tuned into.

You’re still… elsewhere, then the door creaks open and Sarina steps in calm as ever, arms crossed lightly.

“Hey,” she says softly, voice aimed at you but measured for the room. “You’ve got someone waiting.”

You frown. “My dad?”

She shakes her head. Her lips twitch not quite a smile, but something close. “No,” she says, gentler now. “Visitor.”

You already know. You push up slowly stiff, sore and Sarina leans in slightly, voice low now, just for you.

“She said she didn't want to disturb you, but she looked pretty worried.”

You nod once. Grab your jacket. You don’t need to fix your hair. You don’t need to clean up. You just need to go.

It’s quieter outside. Just the occasional echo of footsteps from staff, the hum of faraway press chatter. The night air filters in from the side exit, cooler now.

And there she is.

Her back to you. Hands in her coat pockets. Her hair tied loosely, a few strands falling as she turns at the sound of the door. You walk toward her slowly, stiff-legged, jaw still aching.

She meets you halfway.

“I’m okay,” you say before she can even ask.

Alexia’s eyes flick to the gauze on your cheek, the swelling, your wince as you shift your weight. “You’re not,” she says quietly.

You huff a dry breath. “Not dead, though.”

That earns you the smallest eye roll. “I wanted to check before we left,” she murmurs, voice low. “I didn’t want to leave… without seeing you.”

You nod slow, grateful. “I’m glad you did.”

For a second, neither of you speaks. Then very gently she lifts her hand, doesn’t touch your face, not with how bruised it is. Just tugs at your zip. “You still scored.”

You smile barely. “Is that your version of flirting?”

She laughs softly. “No."

You nod again, for the first time since you left the pitch you breathe without pain not because it doesn’t hurt.

But because she’s here and she’s not rushing off, "Are they sending you home?"

You nod with a swallow, "Yeah, I leave soon"

"I'm coming with you" Her eyes don’t shift. She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t soften the words. “I’m coming with you.”

You blink. Your mouth opens, then closes, something caught in your throat that has nothing to do with the pain in your ribs. You try again, “No you’re not.”

Alexia takes a step closer. Just one. Enough for the heat of her coat to brush yours, her hand still light at your zip. “I am.”

“Alexia,” you say, quieter now. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You shake your head. “You’ve got camp. Whatever plan Montse’s come up with since you can't play your games.”

“I’ve already told them.”

That stops you. Your brows lift, a flicker of disbelief slipping into your voice. “Told them what?”

“That I’m leaving. I won't gain anything staying and playing games against the under 21's”

You let out a half-laugh, part incredulous, part exhausted. “You cleared that with Montse?”

She shrugs. “Told her, I wasn’t asking.”

You blink slowly. “You’re serious.”

Alexia’s gaze softens just a touch, but the weight in it doesn’t waver “You need someone. You just won’t say it.”

Your chest pulls tight. Not from the bruises. Not this time. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“I don’t,” she says.

You look at her really look, at the line between her brows where worry’s lived since the moment you hit the grass. At the way her fingers curl around the edge of your coat now, like she’s ready to tug you forward or hold you up. Maybe both. You glance down at her hand, then up your voice is almost a whisper, “I’m won't be much fun”

She exhales, a tiny smile catching the edge of her mouth. “I’m not coming for fun.”

You laugh softly. Tired. Real. “Okay,” you murmur finally. “Okay.”

Her shoulders ease and she nods once, "I'll.. text you when I land"

⚽️

You're home, in your bed under the duvet where you and Teddy are curled beneath it.

He's asleep, his head tucked under your arm, occasionally twitching a paw in a dream. You haven't moved in over an hour since you got into bed, not really. Just breathing through it. Letting the dull pulse in your face and ribs remind you, it wasn’t a dream.

You're home and you’re hurting. Your phone’s within reach on the bedside table, screen dim, the battery hanging on at 8%. You know you should plug it in but you can't will yourself to move.

A knock comes on your door one, then two, then stillness, you blink slowly. Teddy stirs. You don’t move. Can’t.

Instead, you unlock your phone, open Instagram, find her name.

alexiaputellas, then tap out one sentence,

Was that you?

Seconds later, the typing bubble returns.

Sí

Your throat tightens, your ribs protest as you shift onto your side, blinking against the light, against the tears stinging tired eyes.

You type again fast, thumbs aching, every motion pulling at the bruises.

There’s a key under the plant pot.

You drop the phone, fingers shaking just a little as you rest your hand on Teddy’s back.

A few moments pass, then the click of the door, quiet footsteps as Teddy lifts his head, ears perked.

Alexia appeared standing in your bedroom doorway, coat still on, overnight bag on her shoulder, eyes searching the room until they land on you.

Teddy is excitedly in front of Alexia instantly, whining his bum moving in time with his extatic tale, "Hola cachorro" Alexia was smiling and her giggling was the warmest sound you'd ever heard when she crouched and was getting a barrage of Teddy kisses. "Me has extrañado? Si si Se"

You smile as Teddy bounds back on the bed barking at you before looking to Alexia, "Is your friend back?" you ruffle his head and he got even more excited as she walks over slowly.

“Hi,” she whispers.

You nod, a small smile tugging at one corner of your sore mouth, "You look tired?"

Alexia drops her bag, gently peels off her coat, and without hesitation she sits on the edge of your bed. "Didn't get much sleep, tried to sleep on the plane but everyone was too loud"

Her hand finds yours on the covers, seemingly by accident as she leans back on one hand to see you better, "I lay down before making the bed up in the other room, so... um, join us"

That’s all she needed to lie down beside you not touching, just with you her presence folding into the stillness of your room like she belongs there.

You smile when Teddy put his paw onto Alexia's shoulder as he was sharing your pillow yet again as you were spooning him, Alexia looked at him and smiled, she rolled to her side to scratch his chest, "Do you need anything?" she asked moving her eyes to yours, you could do with a drink but you shook your head seeing how tired her eyes were.

⚽️

You’re not sure how long you’ve been out, but it's still dark. There’s no sound except the slow inhale-exhale rhythm of the dog curled now at the foot of the bed and the faint creak of floorboards shifting as the apartment cools.

Your eyes blink open slowly lashes sticky, face heavy, that familiar ache blooming beneath the surface again.

As you shift your head gingerly, ribs reminding you who’s boss you see her asleep.

She’s still lying beside you, one arm bent under the pillow, the other resting close to yours on top of the duvet. Her face is turned toward you, relaxed, the softest hint of breath pushing a strand of hair against her cheek.

She doesn’t move, not when you shift, not when Teddy lifts his head, tail thumping lazily against the sheets.

You lie there a minute longer, just watching her, no pressure, no noise. Just the quiet confirmation that she meant it when she was coming.

Her bag's still on the floor, her coat draped over the back of your dressing table chair, and her presence real and heavy in the best way anchors something in you that had been floating loose.

You lift your hand, slowly, carefully, not to wake her, just to let your fingers brush hers, the contact is enough to make her shift slightly eyes fluttering, not quite open, her fingers tightening around yours on instinct, not thought.

She exhales, settles again, still asleep. You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the dark pain free, knowing when you wake up again she’ll be here.

⚽️

You wake to warmth, Alexia’s still curled beside you, one leg slightly tangled with the edge of the duvet, hair mussed from sleep, the faintest crease on her cheek from the pillow.

Her hand’s still resting loosely against yours, and she’s closer than before like somewhere in the night, you both drifted that way without thinking.

She stirs as you blink your eyes open, a soft inhale, a shift of weight. “Mmm…” Her voice, thick with sleep. “You awake?”

You hum softly in reply. “Sort of.”

She cracks one eye open, then blinks it shut again. “You look slightly more beaten than before.”

You smirk, lips barely moving. “And you look like you slept through an earthquake.”

Alexia huffs a tired laugh. “I did. You’re snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do.”

"Its probably the broken nose"

You smiled, "Of course it is"

You try to argue, but the ache in your jaw reminds you otherwise, so you settle for a slow, stubborn exhale instead.

She shifts up onto one elbow, hair falling messily into her face. Her eyes scan you quiet, observant, a little guarded. “How’s your head?”

“Sore,” you admit.

“Face?”

“Still attached.”

She leans down slightly, her fingers grazing just beside the edge of your bandage, light as breath. “You’re still beautiful,” she murmurs.

You shut your eyes, only for a second, that word from her said like it doesn’t cost anything, like it’s just simply that simply true.

Teddy ever the scene-stealer picks that moment to stand with a dramatic shake, tail thumping your leg.

Alexia glances over her shoulder. “Right,” she says, stretching. “I’ll take him for a walk.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

She cuts you off gently. “I know. I want to. You need a minute.”

You look at her hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, sleep still in her voice and something in your chest tugs. “You sure he won’t walk you?”

She smiles. “Let him try.”

You laugh under your breath, then wince slightly, hand to your ribs.

“I’ll be back soon.”

Then she’s up, scooping Teddy’s lead off the hook near the door, already in motion.

You lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, heartbeat settling into something you haven’t felt in a while. Looked after.

⚽️

Teddy’s lead is looped around her wrist, his nose already glued to the pavement like he’s on a mission. His tail sways, ears perked, the soft click of his nails the only sound on the otherwise quiet residential street.

Alexia walks beside him slowly, hands in her pockets, head down beneath the hood of her borrowed sweatshirt yours, in fact. She only noticed once they were already outside. It smells like you.

She lets him lead the way, pausing every few steps as he investigates lamp posts and hedges like they hold state secrets. She doesn’t rush him. She doesn’t check her phone. She just lets it happen. He knows his walk off by heart. He'd lead the way.

She watches the way he moves alert, curious, slightly dramatic when he sniffs something he really likes. He’s got a little bounce in his step. A lot like you.

At the end of the block, he stops to sneeze three times in a row and then looks up at her like he expects applause.

Alexia crouches, brushes his fur behind one ear, and murmurs, “You’re silly." He wags his tail harder.

She pulls out her phone, snaps a blurry photo of him mid-wiggle, then types quickly:

[Image Attached] He’s already tried to fight a bird. Thought you'd want to know.

She doesn’t send it right away, she just stares at the screen for a second then tucks it away.

She walks a bit farther quiet residential corners, warm brick buildings, the occasional bike humming past. The city feels soft this time of morning, a little blurred around the edges, like it’s waiting for people to wake up.

Just as they reach the small park at the end of the street, she pauses. The wind’s gentle here, birds call, Teddy tugs toward the grass. Alexia sits on a bench, still in your hoodie, watching him sniff a bush with intense dedication.

And for a moment, just a moment, she lets herself relax completely.

No camera. No captain's armband. No decisions to make. Just your dog, and your street, and the echo of your sleepy voice in her head as you tried to argue you don’t snore. She smiles to herself.

She pulls out her phone again, opens your chat, and sends the photo.

A minute later, three dots appear. And even here, on a bench in a city that isn’t hers, she already feels like she’s safe here, with you.

Back in your apartment meanwhile, you’re still in bed.

Pillows behind your back now, blanket pooled around your hips, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands. You’ve managed to brush your teeth and wipe the sleep from your eyes, but that’s as far as you’ve made it.

Your phone buzzes. You open it, thumb slow over the screen, and there it is. A blurry photo of Teddy, tail mid-wag, fur flying, eyes wild like he’s chasing an imaginary rival probably a bird, if you know him at all.

Your lips twitch into something crooked and warm, even with the bruising.

Her message is short. You type. Pause. Then type again.

Good. Someone’s got to protect you out there. That hoodie looks better on you, by the way. Don’t stretch it.

You hover.

Then — one more thing.

Will you be mad if I've not got up when you get back?.

You hit send and not thirty seconds later you hear keys.

The lock turns. A soft click, then the door opens and Teddy barks once, triumphant.

She’s back. The door clicks shut behind her and Teddy trots ahead proudly, tail high like he just saved the world.

You hear Alexia before you see her, her soft laugh carrying from the hall as she drops her keys into the bowl, kicks off her shoes.

“Still in bed?” she calls.

You smile to yourself. “I’ve moved. I’m just… horizontal.”

She steps into your room, one eyebrow lifted. You expect a joke, but her gaze sweeps over you instead the blanket around your shoulders, the tired crease in your brow, your phone still in hand from the message you just sent.

Then she holds out her hands. “Come on. Up.”

You hesitate not from pain this time. Just from the way she’s looking at you. Steady. Amused. So soft it makes your chest ache. You shift forward, wincing a little, and take her hands. She braces her weight, pulls you gently until your feet hit the floor.

Your ribs protest but it’s manageable. What’s not manageable is the fact She doesn’t step back and now, you’re right there.

Close. Chest to chest. You meet her eyes. Neither of you says anything. Not a word. Then she leans in slowly.

Her hands slide from yours to your waist one resting carefully against your bandaged ribs, the other curling at your lower back.

And she kisses you. Softly. But with intention. No adrenaline. No tension. Just warmth. Breath. The kind of kiss you remember after because it felt like everything inside you quieted at once.

You kiss her back. Careful, but completely. When she pulls back, she stays close nose brushing yours, her lips still almost touching yours. After the kiss after the stillness, the closeness she eases back just enough to rest her hands at your hips, her eyes flicking over you once more.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you out of the room. I’ll make a cup of tea.”

You groan softly. “A cup of tea from a Spaniard, this feels like punishment.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re dramatic.”

Still, she helps.

One arm steady at your back, you shuffle together down the hallway, slow and careful. Teddy trails behind, the occasional quiet pawstep on the hardwood his only contribution.

She helps you down onto the sofa fluffing the cushion behind you, tucking a blanket over your lap without asking.

“Sit. Don’t move,” she says, gently bossy.

You watch her move around your kitchen like she’s been there for years barefoot now, sleeves pushed up. She opens the right cupboard on the first try. Fills the kettle. Pulls out mugs. Chooses the exact tea you always reach for when you’re sore by pure fluke. You lean your head back and let yourself watch.

It’s quiet. Just the whistle of the kettle. The shuffle of her feet. The soft clink of the spoon. And then she’s back, she hands you your mug, fingers brushing yours, warm and slow before sinking into the other end of the sofa, her body angled toward you, her knees folded.

You both sit in silence for a while. Your ankle rests lightly against her thigh beneath the blanket. Her fingers absently trace the rim of her mug. Outside, the day unfolds. Somewhere else, the world turns, but here, in your small living room, in the glow of mid-morning sun you sit with Alexia content.

Your eyes are on the mug in your lap, your body angled toward her, blanket still curled around your legs. Alexia sits opposite, one hand lazily stroking Teddy’s fur where he’s curled against her thigh.

She glances at you gently, her voice low. “Has your club been in touch?”

You pause. Just a second too long. Then shake your head.

Her brow furrows. “Nothing?”

You lean your head against the back of the sofa, eyes tracking the line of sunlight on the floor. “They’ll know the injury report,” you say. “Our team doctor’s already sent it through. They’ll have everything.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she says quietly.

You glance at her, she’s not accusing. Not prying. Just… confused. You sigh, “They’re not exactly rushing to check in.”

She sets her mug down. Slowly. “Why?”

You hesitate not because you’re unsure, but because you’ve been holding it in too long. “I’m not on the best terms with my coach right now,” you admit. “Haven’t been for a while.” Her expression doesn’t change still patient, still listening so you go on. “There’s tension. About my minutes. About where I’m played. About... a lot of things.” You pause, then add, “And this?” You gesture lightly toward your face, your side, your entire battered self. “Probably won’t help.”

Alexia’s gaze softens, her fingers stilling on Teddy’s fur. “You think they’ll hold it against you?”

You shrug. “I think they’ll see it as confirmation.”

“Of what?”

You glance away. “That I’m not worth the risk.”

There’s silence, then her voice steady and certain spoke, “They’re wrong.” She shifts closer. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t press. Just says, “If you need to say it out loud, I’ll sit here all day.”

And you nod once, because you know she means it.

⚽️

You’re still on the sofa, legs under a blanket, hoodie sleeves half-covering your hands. Teddy’s asleep with his nose tucked against your foot. Across the room behind you, Alexia is at the kitchen counter, focused, pouring hot water into mugs.

Your phone buzzes.

Georgia Stanway 💥 — FaceTime Incoming

You answer, already bracing for chaos. The screen jolts to life with Georgia’s face filling it way too close.

“Oi,” she grins. “You look like someone swung a frying pan at you.”

You smile, tired but amused. “That’s pretty much what happened.”

Voices pile in behind her. You spot Beth first, leaning into frame, then Leah, Keira all hovering, half-shoved together in some random lounge back at England camp.

Beth waves, smile gentle. “Hey, you okay?”

“Getting there.”

Georgia flips the camera around “We just wanted to check in. And also confirm you’re still alive.”

Keira’s voice follows, quieter. “And still... you, under all that bruising.”

Leah tilts her head, studying your bandage. “That’s definitely a fracture, yeah?”

“Yeah. Cheekbone. And the nose.”

Beth grimaces. “Still fit though.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks?”

Before anyone can ask anything else, a voice floats in from the kitchen, “Do you want sugar in this or not?”

Their faces shift. Every single one of them, Leah eyebrows shoot up and blinks, just once, Georgia’s mouth opens… and then closes, Beth straightens.

You hesitate. Then glance at the camera. “It’s… Alexia.”

Beth is the first to speak, quieter. “As in... Putellas?”

You nod, and the energy changes. It’s not tense. Just… softer, respectful.

Keira smiles gently. “Didn’t realise she was staying with you.”

You shrug. “She showed up last night. Brought tea. Took Teddy out.”

“She’s still there now?” Georgia asks.

You glance off-camera as Alexia reappears, setting a mug down beside you, her hand brushing yours briefly, before heading back to the kitchen "Yeah"

Leah's the first to lean back slightly from the screen, her smile still there, but calmer now. “Well,” she says, glancing off-camera like she’s suddenly remembered she has an actual job to do. “Guess we’ll let you rest up, then.”

Beth hums. “Yeah. Don’t want to interrupt your little… tea ceremony.”

You snort softly. “You literally FaceTimed me out of nowhere.”

Georgia grins, but she’s softer too. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t curled up in bed with no one looking after you.”

You lean your head on your hand with a smile, “I’m fine. Got someone now who keeps making me actually take my pain meds, so that’s new.”

“Growth,” Keira says with a smirk.

Georgia leans in one last time. “Message if you need anything. And I mean anything. I can be at the airport in an hour.”

You smile, genuinely now. A little cracked at the edge from the bruising, but it reaches your eyes. “Thanks, girls. Seriously.”

Beth nods once. “Love you, you idiot.”

You whisper it back. “Love you too.”

Keira blows a kiss. Leah waves and then the screen goes dark.

You’re still staring at the phone when you hear the quiet sound of a mug being placed on the table in front of you. Alexia’s returned. She doesn’t say anything just eases down beside you again on the sofa, one leg folded beneath her, her body angled toward yours.

You look over at her. “They just wanted to know I wasn’t alone.”

Alexia nods, eyes soft. “And now they know.”

You don’t have to say it but you do anyway. “Thanks for being here.”

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles once. “Where else would I be?”

⚽️

Alexia moves through your kitchen like it’s familiar now, she doesn’t ask where things are she somehow just knows.

A pan warms on the stove, low sizzle starting. The smell of garlic fills the space, you’re sat at the table nearby, wrapped in your hoodie, elbows on the wood, mug in both hands.

Teddy at your feet, completely useless now that he was fed, he was having to his post feed nap. You’re not saying much and neither is she, but it’s comfortable as usual.

Now and then you glance over. Watch her stirring something in the pan, pausing to taste it. She catches you once raises an eyebrow, smirking a little. “Si?”

You shake your head, smile low. “Nothing.”

She slides a dish in front of you a few minutes later pasta, simple, warm. Exactly what you didn’t realise you needed.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” she says, settling into the chair next to you. “I wanted to.”

You both eat slowly, between bites, the only sound is the quiet clink of forks, a bit of low music from your speaker. You don’t talk about football or your injury, instead, she tells you a story about Alba’s dog stealing someone’s flip-flop and hiding it in the garden for a week. You laugh actually laugh and it surprises you, you press a hand gently to your ribs, wincing and grinning at the same time.

She watches you through it all, grinning herself, clearly happy that she could make you laugh quite that hard.

When the food’s done, you both sit there for a while longer, Alexia shifts first not to move away, but to slide her chair slightly closer. She rests her arm across the back of yours, fingers brushing the fabric of your hoodie.

“You tired?” she asks softly.

You nod. “A little.”

“Go lie down. I’ll clean up.”

You look at her the curve of her jaw the calm behind her eyes and you nod again. “Okay.”

⚽️

You’re in bed by the time she finishes rinsing the dishes Teddy fully stretched out beside you, head resting like royalty atop the second pillow clearly unbothered, clearly home.

You hear her approach, footsteps soft on the hallway, and then she’s there in your doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, hair tied back, eyes already tired but warm when they find yours.

“You decent?” she teases.

You nod. “Teddy says it’s fine.”

She laughs and steps in, the moment she reaches the bed, though, she stops, because Teddy does not move. Not a shift. Not even a twitch. He’s laid claim to the whole left side of the bed, tucked neatly between you and the edge like he’s guarding it.

Alexia blinks. Looks at you. Then at him. “Seriously?”

You try to keep a straight face. “He’s very particular.”

She raises a brow. “He’s two feet tall.”

You shrug, clearly helpless. Teddy stretches, audibly, Alexia sighs, then grins. A proper, full smile that crinkles at the edges, without another word, she walks around the bed and lies down horizontally across the foot of it, feet dangling off one side, arms folded beneath her head.

“This is fine,” she mutters, like she’s in a hostage negotiation. “Really. Comfortable. Don't mind me Teddy, lucky you're cute”

You laugh soft, real and tilt your head to look at her. “You can push him.”

“I’m not getting into a fight with your dog.”

“You’d win.”

“I wouldn’t. He’s got your loyalty.”

You smile, and after a beat, you say quietly, “You don’t have to stay down there.”

She turns her head, rests her chin on the blanket at your feet, looking up at you with that tired half-smile. “I’m good,” she says. “It’s kind of perfect, actually.”

You look down at her the way her hair falls, the light across her face, the contentment in her voice. “Even from down there?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, smile lingering. “Especially from down here.”

Teddy exhales dramatically like this whole conversation is deeply inconvenient and shifts just enough that there’s space now, as if to say here have some room and shut up.

Alexia opens one eye, clocking it. Then glances at you, you nod, like now's your chance.

She doesn’t hesitate, she slides in beside you, careful and quiet, folding into the blanket and fitting into that space like it’s been waiting for her.

You don’t say anything, neither does she, but her fingers find yours beneath the duvet.

⚽️

The lights are off now, save for the glow of the laptop balanced between you both on the duvet, you’d picked the film without overthinking something soft, something funny, something you’ve seen before but never get tired of. Alexia hadn’t asked questions. She just rested under the covers next to you, propped herself up on one elbow, and watched like it mattered.

She’s quieter than you expected. Still focused, but then ten minutes in a scene plays out that always makes you laugh, and this time, you don’t even hear your own chuckle. You hear hers. Soft at first almost cautious. Then she really laughs. Not loud, but from her chest. Her eyes scrunch slightly. Her hand comes up to her mouth like she’s not used to letting it out so freely.

You turn your head and you watch her it's not long until she notices. “What?” she asks, still smiling.

You shake your head gently, lips pulling at the corners. “You have a good laugh.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real deflection. “You didn’t warn me this was funny.”

“I said it was my comfort film. That should’ve told you everything.”

She giggles again at a throwaway line something no one ever laughs at but you and it makes you like her even more.

You’re not close enough to be tangled. Not with the bruises. Not yet, but her foot brushes yours under the blanket, neither of you moves it.

The film soon winds down with softer music, a slower pace characters finding their happy endings, screen fading to dusk-toned resolution. You’re half-watching, half-feeling the warmth of Alexia still beside you.

Her head’s slid a little lower on the pillow, elbow tucked under it, you can feel the heat of her arm through the duvet. You glance sideways, er eyes are still open. Barely. When the credits start to roll, she exhales a long, quiet breath like it had been caught in her chest the whole time. “That was good,” she murmurs, voice raspy with sleep.

You nod, turning the laptop screen slightly so the light doesn’t hit her face. “I’ve watched it a dozen times,” you whisper.

She glances at you through lashes. “You always watch it alone?”

You pause. “Mostly"

A slow smile creeps onto her lips. “Lucky me.”

You huff a laugh. “Lucky Teddy, really. He got the best side of the bed.”

Teddy, for his part, is completely unconscious snoring lightly the other side of Alexia, oblivious to anything other than his dreams.

Alexia shifts just slightly closer, enough that her arm brushes yours now, warm and gentle. She rests her head against the corner of your shoulder, careful not to jar your ribs.

“I could fall asleep like this,” she murmurs.

You whisper back without thinking, “Then do.”

And she does. Slowly her body softening into stillness, her breathing evening out, her hand brushing yours one last time before it goes still too.

You stay awake just a little longer then you shift your head to the pillow and sleep finally comes.

⚽️

The light is barely golden through the blinds, soft and angled across the floor. You blink awake slowly, the room still warm under the weight of night, the quiet so complete you almost forget where you are.

Until you feel her. Alexia is still there but closer.

One leg draped lightly over yours, face tucked into the pillow, your pillow, hair fanned messily behind her. Her hoodie has slipped upwards sometime in the night giving you a glimpse of her many tattoos. Her hand, still curled lightly near your side, is close enough that her fingers just barely brush the hem of your shirt.

She’s still asleep, but only just. You lie there watching her the rise and fall of her back, the faint crease between her eyebrows even in sleep, like she’s already starting to think her way into the day.

You shift slightly enough to ease your arm beneath your head. Your ribs ache, but less. Your face is still tender. But manageable.

She stirs, her foot twitches against yours beneath the blanket. Her brow smooths. And then, softly “Mmm… morning.” Her voice is thick with sleep, half-buried in the pillow, her accent always thicker of a morning,

You smile. “Morning.”

She doesn’t open her eyes yet. But her fingers slide just slightly toward yours under the blanket. Not holding. Just finding. “You sleep okay?” she murmurs.

“With a human-sized guard dog on my bed and you stealing half my pillow?” you whisper back. “Best night I’ve had in weeks.”

Her lips twitch into a sleepy smile. “Still sore?”

“Yeah. But I don’t care.”

She opens her eyes now and tilts her head just enough to look at you and in that morning light, with no makeup, no cameras, no expectations she’s never looked more real.

She blinks slowly. “I’ll make coffee.”

You whisper, “You really don’t have to.”

“I know. But I know you like coffee in a morning and if I ask you'll say no.” She’s already starting to move, careful not to jostle the bed. Teddy stirs, yawning like he’s done all the hard work.

Alexia leans over, presses the softest kiss to your hair, not your face, not your mouth just there, warm and simple.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

And you lie there, letting yourself breathe into the stillness as Teddy stands stretches and moves to reclaim his rightful spot next to you.

⚽️

You’re curled back on the sofa after breakfast, Teddy making up for the lack of bed time cuddles he was deprived of.

The painkillers are doing their job the dull ache behind your cheekbone has faded to something manageable and the silence feels earned.

Alexia comes down the hall, hair still damp from her shower, pulling a long sleeve down one arm, phone tucked under her chin. “...yes, I’ll text when I’m on the way,” she says softly in Spanish, and then clicks it closed.

You glance up lazily.

She looks over at you, a sly smile already forming. “Get dressed.”

You blink. “What?”

“Lunch.”

You hesitate, don’t even mean to, just long enough that she knows you’re about to resist. “I’m fine here.”

“You’ve been horizontal for almost two days.”

“I’ve been injured.”

“You scored four goals while injured. You can manage a salad.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not how medical rest works.”

She walks toward you, all effortless confidence now tugging her hair into a loose twist as she goes, eyes locked on yours. “It’s your city,” she says. “And I have to leave soon.”

That lands, you pause. Then sigh. “Fine. But I’m wearing a hoodie.”

Alexia shrugs. “I wasn’t expecting anything else" She crouches to grab your trainers from beside the door, holds them up with a smirk. “Want me to help you put them on, too? Or just carry you to the car?”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re very smug when you get your way.”

“And you’re cute when you pretend you didn’t want to say yes the whole time.”

You shake your head, smiling. Teddy hops off your lap as you push yourself upright with a groan.

She holds out a hand, you take it and just like that you’re on your feet.

⚽️

You haven’t changed much just swapped joggers for something slightly less 'bedridden', and pulled a clean hoodie over your still-tender ribs. You’re standing in the mirror now, fingers running lightly along the edge of the bandage on your cheek, trying not to wince when you touch the swelling.

Alexia’s in your bathroom, sleeves rolled up, tugging a brush through her hair with one hand and wiping mascara from under her eye with the other. The door’s cracked open, the mirror catching both your reflections at odd angles hers polished, yours getting there.

She leans around the frame. “You okay?”

You nod. “Just wondering if I look more like a footballer or a getaway driver.”

She grins. “Definitely the latter. But like... a charming one.”

You glance at her in the mirror. “You flirting with me again?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You want me to stop?”

You don’t answer just reach for your water bottle on the dresser, smile pressed into the curve of it.

A minute later, she steps out of the bathroom in her jacket simple, low-key, hair twisted into a loose bun, gold chain tucked just under her collar.

You stare for a second longer than you mean to. She catches it. Doesn’t call it out. Just smiles like maybe she needed the same moment of quiet admiration.

She walks over, tugging the hem of your hoodie straight, her fingers brushing against your side like she’s checking the bruises still haven’t won. “You good?”

“Getting there.”

Her eyes soften. “You ready?”

You take a breath deep, slow, steady. “Yeah.”

And when she grabs the keys off the hook and holds the door open for you like it’s already her place too, you follow without hesitation.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sun warming the steps as you both reach the car parked out front, you’re halfway there when you realise something’s off.

Alexia’s already heading for the driver’s side.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

She holds up your car keys, dangling them smugly from her index finger. “Driving.”

You stop. “No, you’re not.”

She looks at you, tilts her head slightly. “Yes, I am.”

“Alexia.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m not concussed.”

“You have a broken face.”

You fold your arms gently, because of the ribs and narrow your eyes. “I can drive with a broken face.”

“Not when I’m in the car.”

You scoff, taking a slow step forward. “It’s my car.”

She shrugs. “You let me stay in your flat, hijack your tea selection, and share your bed but driving your car is a step too far? I think the keys are a fair trade”

You blink, mouth twitching. “That’s not how this works.”

“I’m your medically appointed chauffeur.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

You’re trying not to laugh. “Have you even driven in Munich before?”

She lifts her chin, smirking. “It’s Europe. It’s fine.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“I’m exceptional at roundabouts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You know you can’t flirt your way into controlling my car.”

She grins and walks backward toward the driver’s side door. “No, but I can look this good while holding your keys and watch you fold.”

You stare at her hoodie, sneakers, hair pulled up like she’s not even trying and you hate how right she is.

You sigh. Dramatically. “I’m putting the seat back the second I get in.”

“You can try.”

She opens the driver’s side door with a flourish.

And you walk around the car muttering, “This is so humiliating.” But you’re smiling the whole way.

⚽️

The café is tucked onto a quiet side street ivy crawling the walls, chalkboard menu out front, the kind of place you always mean to revisit and rarely do.

You take the window table in the corner. Alexia claims the chair beside you not across. Beside. Her leg brushes yours as she crosses it, casual and completely on purpose.

She’s already stolen two of your fries before you’ve even touched your fork.

You look at her, unamused.

She smirks. “You’re a very generous host.”

You pluck a tomato off her plate in retaliation. “And you’re a menace.”

She shrugs. “I get that a lot.”

You shake your head and pop it in your mouth. “I bet you do.”

There’s a lightness to her here a kind of ease you hadn’t seen in her before. She leans back in her chair, elbow draped over the back of yours like she’s not going anywhere for a while.

“You know,” she says between sips of sparkling water, “you’re actually fun when you’re not grimacing in pain.”

You look at her, deadpan. “I’ll keep that in mind next time someone boots me in the face.”

She grins. “You were impressive, though.”

“Were?”

“Are.” She corrects herself so smoothly it’s like the word always belonged there.

You go quiet for a second, letting the moment settle. She watches you over the rim of her glass. There’s something almost uncharacteristically soft in her eyes now like she wants to say something, but also doesn’t want to ruin this exact second.

So instead, you both eat. You steal fries, she steals glances. You let her as the afternoon hums around you quiet voices from other tables, clinks of cutlery, the low sound of a playlist drifting through the café speakers. But it all feels muffled, like you’re sitting in a pocket of space that exists just for the two of you.

Alexia’s drink has condensation running slowly down the glass, her fingertips idly trailing through it. Every so often, she reaches across to steal another fry, but this time she doesn’t just grab it.

This time, she holds it up. You glance at her, one brow raised. “Really?”

She nods slowly, holding the fry closer. “Open.”

You huff. “Absolutely not.”

She tilts her head. “I drove.”

“Into a roundabout the wrong way.”

“I recovered quickly.”

You squint at her. She’s still holding the fry up, pinched between her fingers, her smile small but stubborn. So you lean forward bite it right out of her hand, eyes never leaving hers.

She blinks once. Smirks. And then, under the table, you feel her foot nudge against yours. Not a kick. Just… a press. Slow. Familiar.

“Careful,” you murmur as you chew. “Keep that up and I’ll start thinking you like me.”

She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “And what if I do?”

You don’t have a comeback for that. Not one that doesn’t involve kissing her at the table and you’re trying to be good. So instead, you finish chewing. Pick another tomato from her plate slow and deliberate and pop it in your mouth with a shrug. “That’s between you and my fries.”

Alexia laughs not her polite laugh, not the quiet one she gives during press conferences. The real one. Soft and unguarded. Like she’s surprised by how easy this is.

When she looks at you again, her gaze lingers, her hand finds yours on the table not a grab, not a hold. Just fingers tracing the edge of your wrist. Idly. Warm.

You glance down at the contact, then back at her, she doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. Just sits there, leg still pressed to yours, her fingers drawing slow circles into your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t pull away, you don’t want to and when she says, almost shy but not quite, “This is nice,” you nod once and reply just as simply

“It really is.”

⚽️

You’re leaning back slightly in your chair now, hand half-curled around your glass, watching as Alexia reads through the dessert menu like it’s a match preview.

Her brow furrows in mock seriousness. “You’re telling me you’ve never had the banana split here?”

You shake your head. “We usually don’t make it past mains. It’s a rare event when I don’t roll out of this place.”

She snorts. “You say that like you haven’t played a full ninety minutes with a busted rib.”

“That’s different. Dessert’s voluntary pain.”

She closes the menu with a decisive snap. “We’re sharing it.”

You arch a brow. “Are we?”

Her eyes flick to yours. “Unless you’re afraid of me stealing all the whipped cream.”

You lean in slightly. “That sounds like a challenge.”

It is and you both know it.

Ten minutes later, the sundae arrives in a glass dish that’s clearly made for two people who aren’t pretending they’ll share nicely. It’s ridiculous, stacked with three scoops, cream, sauce, half a banana sliced down the middle, and a cherry teetering at the top like a dare.

Alexia eyes it. “We should’ve ordered two.”

“We’re not animals,” you say, even as you reach for a spoon.

She takes the first bite, of course. You jab your spoon in and immediately miss the ice cream, nearly flicking sauce onto the table, she laughs, mouth full.

“Oh, wow,” you mutter. “This is going to end with me wearing this, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

She slides the dish slightly toward you, letting your spoons clink. You scoop a bit of strawberry, then nudge the cherry across the top toward her. She smiles, just barely. You trade jabs between bites accusing her of hoarding the chocolate sauce, her accusing you of 'clearly favouring vanilla.'

“You’re impossible,” you say, laughing softly, spoon clinking in the glass again.

“You like that about me.”

You glance at her and you do.

The dish is nearly empty when she finally rests her spoon on the edge and leans back with a sigh. “You’re going to have to roll me back to the car.”

You wipe a bit of cream from your lip and smirk. “Don’t look at me. You insisted.”

Alexia grins and then, with a surprising tenderness, she leans forward and gently wipes a streak of chocolate from your cheek her thumb brushing just near your bandage.

You freeze, just for a second, she doesn’t say anything, she just smiles at you like she’s still amazed you’re hanging out with her.

“You ready?” she asks, voice soft.

You nod once and as she stands, her hand finds yours again briefly. Firmly. This time, you let her hold it a little longer.

The drive is quiet in the best way. Windows cracked because now of course Alexia feels sick with the amount of chocolate sauce she apparently never ate. her playlist humming low through the speakers. One of her hands is on the wheel. The other occasionally reaches out adjusting the volume, brushing her fingers near yours on the centre console but never quite holding.

You don’t talk much. You don’t have to.

She pulls into the drop-off zone and shifts the car into park, already reaching for her bag in the back seat. You sit there for a second, looking at the terminal, then at her.

Then, dramatically, “So… how exactly am I supposed to get home? My medical chauffeur’s abandoning me.”

She turns, smirking, lips parted to reply but then pauses, there’s something just a little sad behind her grin. “I could cancel my flight,” she says, only half-joking.

You lift your brow. “Would that be for me or for Teddy?”

She leans across the console, presses a kiss gentle, sure, and lasting to the corner of your mouth. “Both.”

You try to play it cool. You fail.

She pulls back, her eyes warm. “You’ll text me when you get home?”

You nod. “And you’ll let me know when you land.”

She nods back. Then her hand lingers on yours, just a moment more and then she’s gone.

The door closes, you watch her walk into the terminal without looking back.

You sit in your car her scent still in the seat beside you and whisper to yourself, “Why would she not just kiss me?” You sigh open your car door to head to the drivers side.

You’re walking around the front of your car, your keys in hand, mind still replaying the soft goodbye. Her lips so close to yours. The brush of her hand before she turned away.

You open the driver’s side door grimacing slightly, already planning how to adjust the seat back to your exact angle when you hear footsteps.

Fast. Light on the pavement. You glance up and she’s there.

Alexia. Back. Not running, but moving with a kind of certainty you’ve never seen from her in public. She doesn’t say anything. Just closes the distance, shuts your car door closing the gap and kisses you.

Not gently. Not cautiously. Not like the first time. Like she means it.

One hand lost in your hair the other in your hoodie, pulling you in like she doesn’t care who sees. Her mouth finds yours with a kind of ache, like the second she stepped away she regretted it like everything she didn’t say at lunch, in the car, at the curb has gathered here, in this.

You drop your keys as her tongue pushes entry into your mouth, one of your hands fists into her jacket, the other finds her waist, as she kisses you like she’s afraid not to.

When she finally pulls back, breath catching, she keeps her forehead against yours. Eyes closed. Voice low. Almost shaky.

“I didn’t want to leave like that.”

You’re stunned heart racing, ribs tight, lips still parted. You barely whisper, “What was that?”

Her eyes open and for once, there’s no shield. No mask. “Great restraint on my part”

You stare at her this woman who came back just to be certain she presses one more kiss to the corner of your mouth slower this time, tender.

Then she steps back gives you her little smile and walks into the terminal again, she looks back this time that smile still there as yours only grew. As you dip into your car you exhale, "I need a cold shower" as you sort your seat out, you enter into an external monologue the old man stood at the curb seemingly looks concerned for your mental capacity that you're talking to yourself "Fuck me" you mutter, then laugh at yourself, "Wish she would. No Y/N. We made a promise to ourselves no more diving in too quickly. You put out far too easily, learn the lessons from your past discretions." You rest your head on the steering wheel after you groan, "This woman has me talking to myself, I need help"

341 notes View Post

justareader7

1 month ago

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

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justareader7

3 weeks ago

not me having watched them live for the first time on the worst day ever in Turin. i gotta go and watch them win... need it for my mental health (MAYBE NEXT YEAR)🔵🔴

caro reminiscing about the last 4 champions league finals in a row, including one "where she wanted to go home" 😤