And Through The Clouds, I See Love Shine
And through the clouds, I see love shine
About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again
》 Alexia Putellas x Reader
》 words count: 12.8k
》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity
Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.
This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack. A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.
The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.
Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.
The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head.
Almost.
Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it.
Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex.
The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit.
The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.
The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.
Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.
“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.
Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.
“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”
“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”
“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”
As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away.
Ricardo means well, you know that.
He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.
“I’m want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”
“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.
You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.
It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.
“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”
“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”
His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.
They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.
He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.
Apparently, he feels brave enough.
“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”
~
You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle.
That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper.
Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.
You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.
The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals.
Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.
However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.
The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.
Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.
They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.
“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.
“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”
You meet Alba that same night.
She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.
Flirting is a universal language, though.
If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.
Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.
“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”
It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.
Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.
A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.
Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.
You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating.
“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo.
It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.
“Yeah, sorry, just tired”
“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”
“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.
The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations.
Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.
“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.
It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.
“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”
“¡Ay, claro!”
“I hate you”
“I had no idea Alba is your type”
You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.
To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type.
Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another.
The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others.
Maybe you do have a type.
~
It’s not a date, you both agree on that.
She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.
But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.
It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.
You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.
~
“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”
If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity.
The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far.
“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.
“Creo que sí”
You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.
The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.
Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets.
It’s mostly his fault.
The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.
“¿Estás bien?
“Cabrón is a nice word”
“It’s not”
“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.
Your final destination is just a few steps away.
It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.
It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.
“It was a good relationship”
He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.
“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”
“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.
“It can”
“Guapa, mira–”
“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”
As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.
Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.
You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”
“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”
“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”
“We are, tonta!”
Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise.
It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.
And short-lived.
“We don’t know each well”
“You already said that”
He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.
“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”
“Don’t get soft on my right now”
“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”
~
“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”
“I miss you so much, Elena”
Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan.
It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.
Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.
But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.
Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.
“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.
“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.
“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”
“And you ask why I am in different country?”
The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.
“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”
“I’m still alive”
“Barely”, she mutters.
Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics.
When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view.
To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things.
And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud.
You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.
That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.
“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”
“Happens when in Spain”
“You’re allowed to have fun!”
“I have plenty, thank you very much”
A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.
If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.
When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.
“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”
“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”
“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”
“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”
“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”
Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.
“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.
This time you say it out loud, and she cries.
~
The guys are planning something.
By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.
Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.
They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.
“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.
You only need one.
“No te entiendo”
“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”
“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it.
Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?
“We were thinking–”
“I’m scared when you guys think”
“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”
“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.
“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.
“What if they lose?”
“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.
“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”
“We pay for it all”
It’s nice.
It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club.
Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.
“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”
When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.
Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.
You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike.
Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.
“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.
They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers.
You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.
You meet Alexia that same night.
Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.
You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth.
They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.
You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.
“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”
“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.
If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.
“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”
The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.
A desire to make her laugh again.
And that is what you do all night.
The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.
When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.
When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow.
When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.
You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.
~
The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.
An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way.
The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.
You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.
It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.
You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.
Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.
Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.
“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.
“Do you?”
She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”
“No way!”
The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.
She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.
Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.
“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.
“What?”
“A sports person”
“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”
Her smile dims slightly.
For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.
“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”
“What if I’m a Madridista?”
That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.
A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”
Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.
You’re definitely not going to complain.
The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.
“What if I’m not joking?”
“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying.
Did they just raid the whole shop?
“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”
“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.
“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”
As simple as that.
You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.
Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.
It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.
Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.
A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”
Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.
You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”
“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”
“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”
The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.
~
Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.
The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.
Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on.
Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.
Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.
Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.
Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?
He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.
Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.
Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.
You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.
Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves.
Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them.
If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.
That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you.
~
When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.
Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.
They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.
The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.
It goes well.
Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.
That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed.
“Good one?”
You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.
The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces.
Sports people are scary.
“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline.
She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.
The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.
The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film.
That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.
Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.
~
Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.
With a return ticket in hand.
It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.
Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason.
You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct.
The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal.
“You grow up so much”
And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.
“I didn’t miss you at all”
“I can see you holding back tears”
“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.
“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”
The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo.
It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.
Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.
“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.
“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”
“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”
The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.
At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.
Now you almost call it home.
The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.
“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.
“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”
“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”
Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.
She decides to take the highest road.
“Are you dying?”
“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”
The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.
You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you.
Then, she speaks up.
“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”
“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”
“It is, indeed, a tragedy”
“He hasn’t even proposed yet”
“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.
The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”
He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.
“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”
The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.
What a mistake.
You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”
“That’s not–”
“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.
He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.
Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.
“Oh”
The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.
You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”
“You like someone”
“Elena, I swear–”
“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”
It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.
After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.
You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation.
That's not the point right now.
~
You break the promise made to Alba.
Kind of.
It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.
Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.
You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.
She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries.
The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.
It’s not a date.
But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.
It’s not a date, obviously.
But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.
“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.
It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.
You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.
~
You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.
They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this.
Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.
So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover.
The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.
You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.
The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen.
Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.
Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.
There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.
Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.
Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.
At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.
And those people are the loudest you ever met.
The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.
The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you.
“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”
The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.
“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”
“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”
Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.
“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”
“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”
“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”
“Fuck you”
“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief.
“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”
“Thank God!”
The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.
Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”
“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”
“You started this”, she points out, giggling.
Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now.
“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”
“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”
You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.
“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”
“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.
The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.
Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.
Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.
She’s seen it before.
There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.
But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.
The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.
As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.
There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.
There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.
There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.
~
Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.
You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite.
The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.
“You had fun?”
It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.
“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.
“I was waiting for you”
You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.
Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”
“What are you talking about–”
“You like Alexia”
It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.
There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.
You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands.
The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.
“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to.
“I know”
“That obvious?”
“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.
He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.
It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.
The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.
Turns out, you need it a lot.
“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”
“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”
“I’m not in love with Alexia”
“Yet”
He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.
“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat.
Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you.
Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it.
But being in love?
It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do.
It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed.
It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.
You want to fall in love with Alexia.
Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.
He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”
You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”
“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”
~
The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack.
Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over.
Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means.
The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.
Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”
You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.
Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight.
The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.
“She really want to take home that ball”
“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.
You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”
“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”
As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.
The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.
“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!”
“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”
“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”
You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.
Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.
The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.
Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.
Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.
“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face.
“Alba!”
“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”
The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.
“How long have you known?”, you ask.
“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”
“Nothing happened between us”
Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"
Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”
The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.
You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.
Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.
Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”
~
“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”
The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.
But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.
Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.
It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.
She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.
“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.
“Elena, I’m serious”
“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”
She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.
Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.
“Is she here too?”
“I don’t know what–”
“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance.
It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.
She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.
But Elena can be protective, and curious.
All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.
“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”
“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.
“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.
The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.
Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.
You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.
“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.
“Don’t believe a word she says”
The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink.
You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.
“She’s in the bathroom”
Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears.
“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.
As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.
She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now.
You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.
“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.
“For what?”
“You owe me a dance”
“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.
“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”
Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.
The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.
Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot.
You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.
Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.
It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.
It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.
“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.
“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”
The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”
“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”
“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”
The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses.
Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you.
“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”
“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.
“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.
“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”
“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.
Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”
“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.
“I thought you were messing with me”
The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.
Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.
She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.
Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.
Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic.
The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing.
Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.
It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous.
A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.
Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.
The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.
You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance.
It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.
Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.
There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”
“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.
“You dated my sister?”
“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”
“She said–”
“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”
“Are you interested like that?”
“Alexia, I just said–”
“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”
Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment.
Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.
A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.
And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.
So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.
The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.
~
The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together.
It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.
You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced.
Except, of course, for the kissing.
And there’s been a lot of that.
Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.
The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”
“It’s this stupid bird!”
“Still fighting with ser y estar?”
“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”
“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.
Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.
You do, however, learn some new words.
Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”
“I said nothing”
You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.
“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”
“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”
“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”
“After more than a year?”
“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”
Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.
You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.
“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”
“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”
“You’re learning Catalan?”
“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.
The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.
To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul.
Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.
She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.
But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.
The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of.
The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.
A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.
“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure.
“I know what that means”
A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.
Nothing but love.
The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again.
You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.
She knows.
~
On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.
Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.
Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.
It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you.
Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.
You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads.
“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries.
“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.
“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.
“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.
“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”
The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever.
It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.
So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee.
The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it.
This is your life, your love, your chosen family.
Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you.
A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.
“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”
Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.
Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow.
“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear.
Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future.
Together.
More Posts from Justareader7 and Others
this story isn’t even over yet and i already know i’ll be rereading it at soon as it ends 🔥🔥🔥🔥
You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines. What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.
You should’ve known this was coming. It was Barcelona, after all. And when one of the biggest clubs in the world holds a formal function there are cameras are everywhere capturing every moment. You and Alexia hadn’t exactly been hiding at the event, but you also hadn’t expected the club to be the first to push things into the spotlight. Because the next morning FC Barcelona’s official account posted a picture. A sleek, high-quality shot from the event. The one the Club President insisted on you both posing for.
Two of Barça’s best, on and off the pitch. 🔥🔵🔴 #ForçaBarça
Yeah. That alone was enough to set social media on fire. But then, the real storm hit. Because a few hours later unreleased photos from inside the private function started circulating online. And those. Those told a very different story. Less professional, they were gritty like someone was using a camera phone from 2012.
The Leaked Photos It was a mix of shots. Some just casual, like you and Alexia standing way too close at the bar. Others, more… suggestive. A photo of Alexia leaning in to whisper something in your ear.
Another of you both sharing a look across the room, her expression unreadable but intense. And the one that really sent the internet spiralling.
A shot taken from behind Alexia’s hand lingering just on the small of your back as you took the picture together. It wasn’t blatant. But it also wasn’t subtle. And the internet. The internet lost it.
By the time you woke up properly, your phone was flooded with messages. Your teammates had already started teasing you in the group chat.
Claudia: Soooooo… should we start preparing for the wedding? 👀💍
Marta: I’d like to formally request an invite, please.
Even your coach had thrown in a comment:
Coach: Try to keep the media circus down before the next game, yeah? 🤨
Then there was Alexia’s team. They weren’t exactly being quiet about it either.
Mapi: You two have zero chill.
Aitana: Couldn’t even keep it lowkey for ONE event? 😂
Before you even had time to process all of it, your club's press officer called. "So, uh… have you seen the pictures?" they asked, voice already exhausted.
"Yeah," you muttered, rubbing your temple. "Kinda hard to miss."
"The media's all over it. They’re gonna bring it up in the next press conference."
Great. Fantastic. You were barely ahead of Alexia in this game, and now? Now, the world was watching.
The world was waiting for a reaction. The media, your teammates, Alexia’s teammates, hell, even your coach was watching to see how you’d handle this.
But instead of playing into it you did nothing. No comments. No cryptic tweets. No liking or unliking posts. Just silence.
And that made things so much worse.
Your name was everywhere. Fans analysed every single leaked photo like they were solving a damn crime scene. Some were convinced you and Alexia had been secretly dating this entire time. Others thought this was the beginning of something.
Then, of course, there were the wild conspiracy theories:
"They’ve been together for MONTHS, just look at their body language!!"
"Y/N ignoring the rumors? That’s GUILT."
"Alexia is playing the long game. Just wait."
"They’re in love, they just don’t know it yet."
And your personal favorite—
"Y/N and Alexia are secretly MARRIED, WAKE UP SHEEPLE."
…Yeah. The internet was not handling this well.
The funniest part? Alexia was loving every second of it. She wasn’t fueling the fire directly, but she was being… bold. She liked one post. Just one.
A tweet that said: "Alexia Putellas and Y/N’s tension is something out of a rom-com."
And that sent things spiraling even more.
Your teammates were dying over it.
Liv: Yo, she’s TAUNTING you. 😂
Maya: She knows exactly what she’s doing.
And the worst part. She did.
You’d let things run wild long enough. The theories. The analysis. The insanity of it all. You weren’t about to hand anyone answers. But you also weren’t about to sit back and let Alexia have all the fun. So, after days of radio silence, you opened your phone. Typed out a single message. And hit post.
The Tweet That Sent the Internet Into Chaos
Everything isn’t always as it seems.
No context. No clarification. Just enough to throw gasoline onto the already raging fire.
And within minutes the meltdown began.
Social Media Explodes
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THIS???"
"Don’t be cryptic, just drop the wedding invite."
"EVERYTHING??? What part isn’t what it seems??? I NEED DETAILS."
"They’re either dating or gaslighting us and I don’t know which is worse."
"This saga is better than any Netflix show I’ve ever watched."
Even your teammates weren’t letting you off the hook.
Liv: Bro, you are a MENACE. 😂 Maya: You just woke up and chose CHAOS, huh? Coach: Just don’t let this end up as a distraction… or a PR nightmare. 😑
And then the moment you were waiting for. Alexia saw it. And she liked it. You smirked. You weren’t giving her the satisfaction of a direct challenge. No, this was a test. A chance to see if she’d take the bait. Because now, she had to decide what happened next.
You knew the media wouldn’t let this go. You knew it the second you hit post. And yet, seeing Alexia actually have to answer for it? That was something else entirely.
It was just supposed to be a normal post-match interview. Barcelona had just won comfortably, and Alexia had put on another masterclass. The journalists were running through the usual questions, her performance, the team’s form, the upcoming fixtures.
One reporter leaned into the microphone, a smirk already on their face. "Alexia, I have to ask… did you see Y/N’s recent tweet?"
The room stirred. Alexia, who had been answering with her usual calm, paused. She definitely saw this coming. "Which one?" she asked smoothly, already playing for time.
The journalist wasn’t backing down. "The one that said, ‘Everything isn’t always as it seems.’"
There was an immediate reaction from the room. A few chuckles. Some knowing glances. And Alexia did nothing for a moment. Just tilted her head, as if considering her answer. "I did see it." A smirk. Barely there. But it was there.
The journalist leaned forward. "And? Any thoughts on what Y/N meant by that?"
Alexia shrugged, feigning innocence. "I guess you’d have to ask Y/N."
The reporters ate it up. "So, you have no idea?"
A small pause. Then, the smirk deepened. "I didn’t say that."
Social Media Loses It
"SHE DIDN’T SAY THAT??? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???"
"Oh, she’s enjoying this."
"Alexia playing the media like a violin."
"THEY ARE TOYING WITH US."
"Someone lock them in a room together and don’t let them leave until we get answers."
And just like that the ball was back in your court. Alexia wasn’t denying anything. But she wasn’t confirming it either. She was waiting.
Your move.
You knew this was getting out of hand. The media wasn’t letting it go. The internet was in shambles. And now, the club was stepping in. Your phone buzzed with a message from the team’s PR director.
We need to talk.
Yeah. You definitely saw this coming.
The next morning, you were called into a very official sit-down at the training facility.
On one side of the table, the club’s PR team and your coach. On the other. You. Your coach looked… amused. But the PR director not so much.
"You do realise this is all anyone is talking about, right?"
You fought the urge to smirk. "I might’ve noticed."
The PR director sighed. "Look, we’re not here to tell you how to live your life. But we do need you to be aware of how this is playing out publicly."
"Which is…?"
"A complete and utter media circus."
Your coach finally spoke up, leaning back in their chair. "We’re not saying stop" she glanced at the PR director, who sighed again. "Okay, maybe PR is saying stop. But at least tone it down."
"It’s all just banter," you argued.
"That’s the problem," the PR director shot back. "It’s getting bigger than just banter. We have sponsors, media obligations, and, oh yeah actual basketball games to focus on."
Fair point. Still, you couldn’t help yourself. "Has Alexia gotten the same talk?"
Your coach chuckled. "Oh, I guarantee it." Good to know you weren’t alone in this.
You left the meeting with a clear message:
Cool it.
Did that mean stopping entirely? No chance. But maybe it was time to be a little more calculated about your next move. And something told you Alexia was thinking the exact same thing.
There was no way this public game you were playing was over. Far from it.
For the first time in weeks, you said nothing.
No cryptic tweets. No subtle likes. No bait for the internet to feast on. And Alexia?
She did the same. The silence was deafening. Fans were losing their minds.
"NO POSTS? NO INTERACTIONS? THEY’RE PLAYING A DANGEROUS GAME."
"They really got in trouble huh 💀."
"I hate this. I need my daily dose of chaos."
"This is the worst punishment possible. TALK TO EACH OTHER."
Your teammates kept stealing glances at you during training. Maya finally caved.
"So… are you just gonna ignore her forever?"
You just smirked. "Who said I was ignoring her?"
You had to be calculated now. The club wanted you to cool it, not stop entirely. Fine.
You could do subtle. That night, you posted a completely normal picture.
Just you at the training facility, ball in hand, captioned:
"Locked in. Eyes on the prize."
No mention of Alexia. No obvious bait.
But… you might have chosen the angle where the tiny number 11 on your shorts was clearly visible.
And of course, the internet noticed.
"Not even subtle. Just straight-up taunting at this point."
"THE 11. DON’T THINK WE DIDN’T SEE IT."
"This is the kind of petty I respect."
Alexia didn’t comment. Didn’t like it. But you knew she saw it. Now, it was just a matter of seeing if she’d take the bait.
You thought maybe she’d stay quiet. Maybe she’d play it safe.
Yeah.
No.
Alexia never played it safe.
And you realized that when you checked your phone after practice to see her latest post.
A picture. From your game. She was courtside, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face.
Everything isn’t as it seems, right?
Oh, she was bold. Your teammates lost it.
"Ohhh, she’s coming for you." "You gonna let her get away with that?" "I can feel the club’s PR team crying right now."
You just shook your head, grinning. This wasn’t over. Not even close.
You weren’t surprised Alexia made a move.
You were surprised at how bold she was about it. The picture. The caption. The very intentional dig at your own words. It was calculated. It was challenging. And worst of all? It was working.
The Internet Goes Wild (Again)
"SHE DID NOT JUST THROW HER OWN WORDS BACK AT HER."
"Oh, this is a straight-up declaration of war."
"PR teams everywhere are sweating."
"This is no longer flirting. This is a full-blown chess match."
"They’re both SO ANNOYINGLY SMUG AND I LOVE IT."
Your teammates had plenty to say too.
"I thought you were supposed to be the one keeping her on her toes." "She flipped the script, huh?" "Bro. You have to respond."
“Thought you were warned to cool it”
You weren’t about to let her win that easily.
But you also weren’t about to react the way she expected.
You didn’t like posts. Didn’t comment. Didn’t even acknowledge it. You just went about your day, letting the tension simmer. You cooled it. And sure enough that night, your phone lit up.
Alexia: No thoughts on my post?
Oh, she was impatient. You smirked, typing out a response.
You: I thought you’d let your game do the talking?
A few dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then, finally
Alexia: Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d finally stop running.
Your heartbeat jumped. Okay. So this was where she was taking it. Now the question was did you let her win? Or did you push her further?
It was supposed to be a routine media day for Barcelona. Alexia was there, giving her usual composed answers talking about the team, the season, the next match. And then, of course, a journalist decided to stir the pot.
"Alexia, you’ve been quite active on social media lately. Particularly when it comes to a certain basketball star… any comment on that?"
There was a ripple of laughter in the room. Everyone knew what they were really asking. Alexia didn’t shy away. She just smirked. "I don’t know. I think you should ask her why she’s so quiet lately."
The room buzzed. Oh, she was calling you out. And when the journalist pressed "So, are you saying Y/N is avoiding you?"
Alexia leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "I’m just saying, she usually has a lot to say. Interesting that she doesn’t now."
That clip was everywhere within minutes.
"SHE CALLED HER OUT ON LIVE TV."
"This isn’t even subtle anymore."
"Y/N, GET UP AND RESPOND."
"Oh, she’s SICK of waiting."
"They better not let this slide."
Your teammates were already throwing hella looks your way in training.
"You’re not actually gonna ignore that, right?" "Damn, she’s got you cornered." "You started this. Now finish it."
“Just be careful with PR on your back yeah?”
And yeah. They weren’t wrong. Alexia had just put you in check.
Now, you had a choice.
You didn’t waste time.
The moment Alexia’s press conference clip started blowing up, you marched straight to the club’s PR office, barely knocking before stepping inside.
The PR director barely looked surprised. If anything, they seemed tired.
"I was expecting this," they sighed, gesturing for you to sit.
You didn’t.
"So," you started, crossing your arms. "You told me to cool it. But clearly, Alexia didn’t get the same message."
The PR director exhaled. "She did."
You narrowed your eyes. "Really? Because it doesn’t look like it."
They leaned forward, hands clasped. "She’s been spoken to multiple times. She just… isn’t listening."
That threw you off slightly. Alexia was just outright ignoring them? "But I have to listen?" you challenged.
The PR director didn’t even hesitate. "Yes."
Your frustration spiked. "Why? Because I’m new? Because I play basketball and not football? I’ve brought in viewership, ticket sales, engagement—"
"And that’s exactly why we need to manage this properly," they cut in. "You’ve been great for the club, Y/N. But this…this is getting too big. If Alexia wants to ignore requests, that’s on her. But you? You need to be smarter. Alexia doesn’t fall under me, you do. You’re my concern and responsibility”
It felt like a slap in the face. "So I play by the rules while she gets to do whatever she wants? And i look the fool online?”
"I’m not saying it’s fair. I’m saying it’s how it is.”
You clenched your jaw. "Understood."
You turned on your heels and walked out before you said something you really couldn’t take back. “I’m sure she’ll stop whatever you two are doing soon” he called after you. But if they thought this was over? They had another thing coming. You could ignore requests just as boldly.
If the PR team thought Alexia was going to back down, they clearly didn’t know her at all.
Because instead of cooling it like they wanted, she started baiting you harder.
It started small.
A picture of her working out, casually wearing a basketball jersey—not yours, but close enough that the internet noticed.
"She’s not even being slick anymore."
"She WANTS her to react."
"Alexia, blink twice if you’re being forced to behave."
Then, during an interview, she was asked about the viral press conference moment.
"Did you get an answer from Y/N after calling her out?"
And Alexia, with the cockiest smirk, just shrugged. "Not yet. But she’ll come back online soon.”
The reporter laughed. "Sounds confident."
Alexia leaned back in her seat. "I usually am."
That clip exploded online. And your teammates they were having way too much fun with it.
"Damn, she’s locked in." "At this point, just let her win." "Is she really gonna leave her hanging?"
Enough was enough. Alexia clearly wasn’t going to stop until she got a reaction out of you. And you’d now had a very formal email from the basketball PR team. So, instead of giving the internet another viral moment, you went straight to the source.
You opened your messages and typed:
You: Are you done?
She replied almost instantly.
Alexia: Oh, look who finally decided to say something.
You exhaled, already knowing she was enjoying this way too much.
You: You’re not exactly being subtle.
Alexia: Subtlety is overrated.
You could practically see the smirk through the screen.
You: Our PR team is on my ass, by the way. You can keep ignoring yours, but I don’t get that luxury.
Alexia: They told me to stop too. I just chose not to listen.
You: I’ve heard. Must be nice to get away with everything.
There was a longer pause this time.
Alexia: I don’t get away with everything. Just the things I really want.
You stared at the message. Because there was no mistaking what she was saying. Or rather, who she was saying it about. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. What now? Did you shut this down? Call her out? Play into it? Alexia had made her move. Now, it was your turn. Yet again.
You leaned back against the couch, staring at Alexia’s last message. She wanted a reaction. She wanted to push you into playing her game. But you weren’t about to make this easy for her. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard before you finally typed:
You: That so? And what happens when you don’t get what you want?
She didn’t even hesitate.
Alexia: Hasn’t happened yet.
You smirked. Cocky as ever.
You: Maybe it’s about time it does.
This time, there was a pause. You could feel her thinking.
Alexia: Interesting choice. Let’s see how long you last.
You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. She was infuriating
You: You talk a big game, but all I see is you hiding behind social media.
That got an immediate response.
Alexia: Hiding?
You: A smirk at my game? A comment here and there? You’re playing it safe, Alexia. But I don’t think you actually have it in you to do more than that.
This time, the pause was longer.
Alexia: Challenge accepted.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. Oh? You had no idea what she had planned. But something told you? You were about to find out. And soon.
In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.
Part 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.
You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines. What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.
🏀
The lights inside Palau Blaugrana burst in brilliant hues as you step onto the gleaming hardwood court for the very first time wearing the iconic Barcelona jersey. The atmosphere vibrates with energy—an almost tangible electricity that courses through the air, mixing with the bright hues of blaugrana garlands worn by passionate fans. The rhythmic beating of drums resonates like a heartbeat echoing off every wall, while the mingled aromas of polished wood, mingled with perspiration and adrenaline, transport you to a realm where dreams and determination meet. Your new teammates clap you on the back with murmurs of encouragement that mesh with the pulsing rhythm, yet your focus remains crystal clear.
Number 11.
Boldly stitched across your jersey like a silent manifesto, this number has been inseparable from you for as long as you have danced with the game. It signifies much more than a mere digit—it carries the weight of countless hours of practice, of triumphs and stumbles alike. That steady emblem grounds you as you glance into the sea of faces, absorbing every moment. And then, amidst the roaring crowd, you see her.
Alexia Putellas.
Seated courtside with an air of relaxed authority, she crosses her legs gracefully and rests her arms lightly across her lap. A mischievous half-smirk tugs at her lips, hinting at stories untold. Even if you weren’t a devout follower of the sport, her presence is legendary—a symbol of Barcelona, of dominance, and, by extension, of the emblematic number 11 itself. In a fleeting, electrifying moment, your eyes lock with hers, and though she swiftly turns away, the impression is indelible. In that subtle flicker of amusement on her face, it seems as if she already understands the impact of your presence.
Focus. It’s just a game.
Yet, it isn’t simply a game. It is your grand debut, your moment to prove that you belong in this exclusive circle, to earn your place in this storied club and in this vibrant city. Moments earlier, you had been all smiles, trading jokes with teammates as your image flickered onto the giant screen—your arrival marked by every eye in the arena. Rumor had it that Barcelona had splurged to make you the highest-paid woman’s basketball player in the world, enticing you from your hometown team all the way from England. There was an undeniable buzz surrounding you—a magnetic force drawing every gaze. The weight of their expectations did not weigh you down; rather, if pressure was present, you welcomed it and transformed it into fuel.
Though many whispered about your stature—standing a mere five foot nine inches—it only served to make your exploits on the court all the more remarkable, as every move defied the conventional limits.
And then, the whistle slices through the symphony of excitement, and in that instant, everything else blurs into insignificance. The opening minutes become a whirlwind of fast breaks and razor-sharp passes; the sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor punctuates the relentless pursuit of victory. When the ball lands in your hands, a calm, instinctual resolve takes over. You surge toward the hoop, a graceful blur as you spin past a defender, and then release an almost effortless jumper—a testament to your honed skill.
The crowd erupts in a tidal wave of cheers.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of Alexia leaning forward, her gaze intently tracking every nuance of your movement. Her lips part just slightly, as if momentarily captivated by the poetry of the game.
The contest intensifies into a ballet of tight defenses, aggressive maneuvers, and a relentless battle for every point. You are utterly absorbed, dropping three-pointers with surgical precision, orchestrating assists that shimmer with brilliance, and proving over and again why Barcelona had so ardently sought you out. Yet, amid the flurry of action, your gaze repeatedly drifts toward the sidelines, drawn by the unmistakable presence of Alexia. In those rare glimpses, a subtle tilt of her head, a perfectly raised brow, or an approving nod after a particularly elegant play speaks volumes.
Then arrives the defining moment—a high-tension climax. The score hung in a delicate balance as the final seconds tick away. The ball, as if by fate, finds its way to you at the top of the key. You draw a slow, steady breath, feeling every heartbeat echoing in your ears. Rising as if suspended in time, you release the ball and watch in silent awe as it arches gracefully through the air, spinning in a perfect trajectory before whispering cleanly through the net.
Game.
In that instant, the arena becomes an ocean of sound; cheers cascade over you, and your teammates swarm in a jubilant embrace, their hands slapping your back in a celebratory symphony. Yet, in the midst of the euphoria, your eyes search relentlessly for one singular figure. There, standing amid the explosion of festivity, is Alexia, clapping with measured enthusiasm and that tantalizing smirk still etched on her face. Her expression is enigmatic—a canvas of emotions too intricate to decode, yet charged with intensity.
As the crowd’s roaring applause continues to swell, Barcelona officials step confidently onto the court to honor your debut. A microphone is passed to the team captain, whose brief but rousing speech extols your arrival, your skills, and warmly welcomes you into the heart of the club. Your teammates whirl you into a jubilant huddle, and the atmosphere ascends to a fever pitch. Cameras flash in rapid succession, capturing every triumphant detail as your jersey, emblazoned with the proud number 11, is hoisted high for all to see.
Then she appears.
Alexia Putellas, standing just off to the side with her jacket’s pockets casually imbued with confidence, steps forward as if drawn by inevitability. The distance between you dissolves in the wake of her quiet assurance, mirroring the ease with which the official introductions had been made. In that charged moment, the game itself—with its adrenaline, its roaring crowd, and the embrace of your teammates celebrating your first monumental performance in a Barça jersey—fades into a vivid, unforgettable memory.
Throughout the night, you had caught glimpses of her presence: the way her eyes followed your every move, the subtle lean forward whenever you readied your shot. And then, with calm clarity, she spoke.
“Felicidades,” she intoned smoothly, her voice low yet piercing through the clamor of the arena. “Buen debut.”
Though not every word in Spanish was crystal clear, the tone of her greeting sent a shimmering thrill straight through your chest. “Gracias,” you responded, locking eyes with hers in silent conversation. There was an ineffable quality in her gaze—a mix of challenge and admiration—that left you momentarily breathless. Then, with a playful lilt, she added, “El 11 te queda bien... por ahora.” (11 suits you... for now.)
Without a moment’s hesitation, you quipped back, “I make it look better, though.” Her knowing smirk lingered as she turned to walk away, leaving a trail of mystery and promise in her wake. A quiet laugh escaped you as you shook your head, forever etched with the memory of that final look, a spark that hinted at many more encounters yet to come.
The locker room buzzes with the euphoric aftermath of victory—a symphony of congratulatory shouts and laughter that ricochets off the walls. Your teammates surround you, their faces illuminated with genuine admiration, yet you find yourself replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her words echoing in your mind like a melody that refuses to fade.
"Champagne for the game-winner!" someone calls out, and suddenly a bottle appears, its cork popping with a satisfying thunk that sends foamy bubbles cascading over eager hands. The cold liquid kisses your fingertips as a plastic cup is pressed into your palm.
"To our new número once," your captain toasts in a thick Catalan accent, raising her cup high. "Who plays like she's been wearing blaugrana her whole life!"
Your phone already overflowed with notifications—family, friends, and former teammates all witnessing your Barcelona baptism from afar. But their words blurred together as your mind kept replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her enigmatic smile lingering in your thoughts like a melody that refuses to fade.
You take a slow sip, savoring the bubbles that dance across your tongue, watching your teammates' animated faces as they relive the game's highlights. The locker room's fluorescent lights cast everyone in a warm glow that matches the heat of victory still pulsing through your veins.
"That last shot," Claudia says, your point guard with hands like magic, "I knew it was going in before it left your fingers." She mimics your shooting form with exaggerated flourish.
"Pure instinct," you reply with a shrug that belies the thousands of hours spent perfecting that very motion.
As the celebration continues, your phone buzzes again in your locker. This notification is different—an Instagram follow request that makes your heart skip Alexia Putellas. Your finger hovers over the screen for a moment before you reciprocate, trying and failing to suppress a smile.
Later that night, the team drags you to a celebration at a dimly lit restaurant tucked away in the Gothic Quarter. Ancient stone walls curve around intimate tables, while flickering candles cast dancing shadows across plates of steaming paella and bottles of rich Rioja. Your teammates switch effortlessly between Catalan, Spanish, and English, their laughter a universal language that wraps around you like a warm embrace.
"To think we stole you from London," Claudia teases, refilling your wine glass. "Their loss, our treasure."
"The English never know what they have until it's wearing Barcelona colors," adds Marta, the team's veteran center, her eyes crinkling with mischief.
You're about to respond when your phone illuminates with a notification. Alexia Putellas commented on your post of you mid air the ball flying through the air on its way to score the winning basket
Nice shot tonight.🏀🔥
Three simple words that send a current through your body. You stare at the message, fingers hovering over the screen, suddenly aware of your heartbeat in your ears. The restaurant's ambient noise fades to a distant hum.
"Earth to superstar," Claudia waves her hand in front of your face. "Who's got you smiling like that? Your English boyfriend missing you already?"
You lock your phone quickly. "No boyfriend," you reply, taking a deliberate sip of wine. "Just congratulations."
"From someone special?" Marta raises an eyebrow knowingly.
You shrug noncommittally, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you. You set the phone down, trying to focus on the conversation flowing around you.
The flirting starts subtly.
You reply, Didn’t know you were a basketball fan.
Alexia’s response comes quickly. I wasn’t. Until now.
A smirk tugs at your lips. She’s smooth, you’ll give her that. The conversation flows easily after that—teasing comments about your shooting percentage, her claiming she could school you in a game of one-on-one, you laughing at her confidence. It escalates when she sends a picture of her boots, captioned: Think I could pull off sneakers instead?
You reply with a simple: Doubtful.
A minute later, she sends a selfie, clad in a Barcelona basketball hoodie that’s clearly not hers, lips pursed in mock offense. Better?
Your pulse quickens. I stand corrected.
The back-and-forth continues over the next few days. Playful jabs, inside jokes, the occasional late-night message that lingers on read for a little too long before one of you responds. There’s something unspoken beneath it all, an undeniable tension that neither of you address outright, but it’s there, simmering between every message.
As you scroll through your phone the next day, it’s obvious she’s not done playing. That moment? It hasn’t left your head since. Barcelona as a city, as a community has welcomed you with open arms, and your name is already making the rounds in sports headlines. But nothing compares to the moment Alexia Putellas personally congratulated you after the match, her voice low and smooth as she spoke in her native tongue. You didn’t understand every word, but you understood her the way her eyes lingered, the slight smirk pulling at her lips.
And now, the communication continues.
Alexia comments under a post from FC Barcelona’s official account, featuring a photo of you mid-game.
@alexiaputellas: El 11 te queda bien… por ahora. (The 11 looks good on you… for now.)
A challenge. A tease. You don’t hesitate to respond this time.
@yourusername: I make it look better, though. 😏
Your notifications explode after your writing exchange mimicking the private one face to face the night previous. Fans flood the replies with speculation, excitement, and over-the-top theories. Some are just here for the banter; others are fully convinced something is brewing between you two. Fans speculating, debating, and fuelling the growing tension between you both. The chemistry isn’t just a private moment on the court anymore, it’s playing out in front of thousands.
You post a photo from the gym drenched in sweat, muscles tense, mid-shot, pure focus in your eyes. The caption reads:
Working on my shot, but some things just come naturally.
Minutes later, Alexia replies
@alexiaputellas: Like? 🤭
You laugh, shaking your head before firing back.
@yourusername: Like winning. Maybe I should teach you how.
More likes, more replies, more eyes on you two. It’s not just fans noticing. Your teammates tease you in the locker room, nudging you with knowing looks. Even club officials seem amused.
Then, later that night, Alexia ups the ante. You’re scrolling when you see a notification; she’s tagged you in her Instagram story. It’s a clip from your first game shared from an official Barcelona page, you nailing a three-pointer, followed by a close-up of her reaction court side, lips parted, brows slightly raised. The caption?
Maybe I should learn from you after all…🤔
Your chest tightens, heat rushing to your face. She’s playing with fire. And you’re more than ready to match her. You reply in her DMs.
You: Careful, Alexia. Keep watching me like that, and people will start talking.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly like she was expecting you to respond.
Alexia: Let them.
And just like that, the game changes. You don’t respond to Alexia’s last message.
Let them.
Two words, yet they sit in your mind long after you put your phone down. She’s pushing now, playing with the line between teasing and something else. And you? You’re more than willing to push back.
The next morning, training is business as usual, but your teammates are already buzzing about your little social media exchange. Whispers and knowing glances are exchanged before anyone even says a word to you.
"You and La Reina getting close?" one of them finally asks, nudging you with an elbow as you stretch. Their tone is teasing, but there's genuine curiosity behind it.
Another teammate chimes in before you can respond, grinning. "That little back-and-forth last night.. looked pretty flirty to me."
You roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose as you switch positions. "You lot need a hobby," you mutter, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrays you.
They laugh, clearly not convinced. "C'mon, you’re not even denying it!" someone calls out, and a few others chuckle in agreement.
You shake your head and focus on your warm-up, refusing to give them anything more. Let them speculate. Like the rest of the world. It harmless. Playful. It would fizzle. You were sure of it.
Still, when you check your phone post-practice, you see a DM from Alexia waiting for you.
Alexia: No comeback? I was expecting more from you.
You grin before typing back.
You: Didn’t think you needed me to spell it out. You’re already watching me closely enough it seems.
You send it and lock your phone, refusing to check for a response right away. Let her sit with it for a while. Later that evening, you’re at home, scrolling through Instagram when another notification appears.
@alexiaputellas liked your post.
The post in question? A new picture from training today focused, intense, a caption that reads:
One of us has to be the best female 11 in Barcelona. Might as well be me.
Something you know would bait Alexia in, you knew she couldn’t resist to comment. Not only has Alexia liked it, but she’s also commented.
@alexiaputellas: Bold statement. Hope you can back it up.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you type:
@yourusername: I can and have, yet to see you do so
@alexiaputellas: You’ll see soon enough. Might have to invite you to a game personally.
You huffed a quiet laugh, staring at your screen. She’s bold today. It didn’t take long for your mentions to explode. Fans caught on immediately, flooding the comments with theories, reactions, and over-the-top ship names.
After a moment of thought, you tapped out a reply.
@yourusername: Got a ticket for me La Reina? 👀
@alexiaputellas: Front row or nothing. See you there. 😏
The internet lost it.
Your teammates lost it.
And you?
You just grinned, because for the first time, you felt in control. Now, it was just a matter of seeing how far she’d go. The comments explode. Fans are already losing their minds over the not-so-subtle invitation.
@yourusername: I’ll be there. Front row.
Your stomach does a slow, lazy flip. It’s a challenge. A promise. And for the first time since arriving in Barcelona, you’re not just thinking about basketball anymore. You're thinking about her. Your phone is practically vibrating from the attention. Your last comment—"I’ll be there. Front row."—has sent fans into a frenzy. The replies are a mix of shock, speculation, and sheer amusement.
-Did she just confirm she’s into Alexia?! -This is some next-level flirting. -Forget football, forget basketball, I’m here for this storyline.
"You are such a menace.” You heard soon as your bag dropped in your spot and your back sit felt the cool wood beneath it as you took a seat.
You glanced up from your phone to see your teammate, Jordan, shaking her head at you from across the locker room.
"What?" you asked, feigning innocence.
Camila snorted. "Oh, don’t act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing." She held up her phone, showing your exchange with Alexia on her screen. "This? This is elite-level flirting.”
A couple of your other teammates leaned in. "I give it two weeks before you two are spotted together."
"Two weeks? Please. By next week, she’ll be showing up to our games."
You just smirked. "That’s assuming she can handle the heat.” Another said
Jordan rolled her eyes. "You realise this means you have to go now, right? You can’t just flirt with the most famous footballer in Spain and then not show up."
You stretched your legs out, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll see how I feel."
Jordan shook her head. "You’re enjoying this way too much.” You didn’t even try to deny it.
"Let me get this straight," your coach said announcing her presence in the corner, arms crossed, a barely-contained smirk on her face. "You’re flirting with the most famous footballer in Spain… publicly?"
You rolled your eyes. "I wouldn’t say flirting—"
"Really?" The whole team cut in, in unison, Marta holding up their phone as evidence. "Because to me, ‘Front row or nothing. See you there.’ sounds a lot like flirting."
You had nothing to say to that.
Your coach just shook her head. "I’ve seen players distracted by a lot of things, but this might be my favourite."
Your teammates snickered from across the gym.
"She’s already in her head," Claudia teased. "We might as well start planning a double sports wedding."
"Oh, shut up," you muttered.
Your coach laughed. "Look, as long as you don’t start missing shots because of her, I don’t care what you do. But…" She paused, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Just know that if she shows up to one of our games, I’m putting her in a jersey and making her run drills."
You grinned. "I’ll let her know."
🏀
Before I explore this idea more, would anyone actually want to read it?
dumb and dumber: babysitting | blue stars
pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader
summary: against her better judgement, olga leaves you and azulita to babysit valerie
notes: in estrella’s pov this time!!
“Okay, now remember that Val needs to be in bed by 7:00. 7:30 at the latest. Sometimes, just sometimes we go on to 8:00, but only if she’s had a nap, and you have to make sure she’s had the nap first, don’t just assume. And no, rubbing her eyes isn’t enough, she has to actually close them, because she fake-naps sometimes. She’s sneaky like that.”
You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, Valerie tucked between your knees and currently trying to fit her entire fist into her mouth. Across from you, Azulita’s letting the baby stack squishy blocks on her head. Neither of you are listening. Not even a little bit.
Olga’s pacing back and forth behind you with the binder. The sacred, terrifying, overly annotated Baby Binder of Doom. Color-coded tabs. Page protectors. Laminated bedtime routine chart. You swear it has footnotes.
“She gets her bottle at 6:30, but not too hot! Shake it and test it first, on your wrist, not your tongue, because that’s not sanitary. Bath starts at 6:45, but only if she didn’t eat too slow. If she eats too slow, you can adjust the bath to 6:50, but no later than 7:05 or the whole schedule gets thrown off. I swear to God, if you throw off the schedule—”
Valerie lets out a shriek of joy as Azulita sticks out her tongue and pretends to sneeze. You grin and toss a stuffed giraffe at Azulita’s face. It bounces off and hits Val in the arm. She’s delighted. She kicks your thigh and drools in victory.
“She needs the bunny,” Olga continues, flipping a page like she’s briefing you for combat. “The bunny, not the bear, not the raccoon, not that weird dog Estrella got her from that random shop in Portugal. She needs the bunny or she won’t sleep. If the bunny is missing, I swear—”
“Uh-huh,” you mumble, offering Valerie a crinkly octopus. She throws it at Azulita’s head.
“Storytime must be one book. No more. She will manipulate you. Don’t fall for the pouty face. That’s how we ended up reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear six times in a row last week. We all suffered.”
“Totally,” Azulita says, balancing a plush cow on her forehead. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”
Olga doesn’t even pause. “No TV before bed. She only has 30 minutes left of screen time anyway. No fruit after six. And don’t let her near the remote. She knows how to change the channel now and she keeps turning on Spanish soap operas and mimicking the crying.”
You clap once. “Iconic.”
Then comes The Silence. You glance up. Olga is no longer talking. She is staring.
You and Azulita both look up slowly, like maybe if you don’t move too fast she won’t attack. She’s standing there, binder to her chest, face pure exasperation. She looks like a woman who is desperately trying not to scream.
That’s when Alexia walks down the stairs. She looks stunning, hair done, blazer over a fitted shirt, matching slacks. If Olga looks like she’s on the verge of a breakdown, Alexia looks like she wants the breakdown to happen so she can laugh at it.
“Everything alright?” Alexia asks, sauntering up behind the couch.
Olga doesn’t answer. She just continues to glare at the two of you. You start sweating. Azulita stops breathing. Valerie throws a block and says, “Taaa!”
Alexia leans forward, taps the back of both your heads like she’s knocking on a door. “Hey. Idiots. Pay attention.”
“Hey,” you say with offense. “I am a professional athlete.”
“You drooled on her sock ten minutes ago.”
You scowl.
Olga takes a deep breath. She sets the binder down with a finality that shakes you to your core. Then, she steps around the couch, stands over you, and says in a tone you’ve never heard before:
“Listen to me very closely. I am ten months postpartum. I have not left my baby alone for more than two hours since she was born. And tonight— tonight I am trusting you two, Dumb and freaking Dumber, to take care of the child I carried for nine months and pushed out of my vagina.”
You flinch. Azulita flinches. Valerie freezes mid-foot chew.
“You are all I have,” Olga says. “And if anything, and I mean anything, happens to my child, you will not be able to hide. I will find you. I will ruin you. You will wish for death. And then, after you wish for death, I will hit you with the binder.”
You nod. Azulita nods. You nod again. You can feel sweat sliding down your back. Your mouth is dry. Val blinks up at Olga and goes, “Ma?”
Then Olga brightens like none of that just happened. “Okay!” she chirps. “Love you girls.”
She kisses you on the forehead. Azulita too. Then Val.
Alexia’s dying. You can see it. She’s holding in laughter with her whole body. She kisses each of you like it’s a funeral, whispering “Good luck,” in your ear like you’re about to go to war. Then the door closes behind them.
You and Azulita just sit there in complete silence.
“…Did she say vagina?” Azulita whispers.
“Yup,” you reply, staring into the void. “She did.”
Valerie, unfazed, claps her hands and lets out a fart noise with her mouth.
You sigh. “Alright. Let’s not die tonight.”
Azulita picks up the bunny and nods solemnly. “For Val.”
You’re lying on the carpet, half-propped up by a pillow you stole from the couch, scrolling through the comments of the live chat with one hand while trying to pick a decent filter with the other. Azulita’s sitting cross-legged beside you, hair in a messy bun, hoodie halfway on, vibing hard as Lil Baby blasts in the background. You can’t lie, Valerie has taste. Kid’s been bouncing in her little baby bouncer for a solid ten minutes like she’s at a festival.
“She’s got rhythm,” Azulita notes, nodding with pride as Val bounces up and down on beat, plastic keys in one fist, sock in the other.
“She got it from me,” you say without missing a beat.
“She got it from her mother’s.”
“Semantics.”
The comments are coming in fast:
"Why are y'all babysitting?? Where is Olga??"
"Alexia left two teenagers with a baby I'm scared."
"IS THAT LIL BABY IN THE BACKGROUND."
"Please show Valerie dancing again I'm begging."
You ignore the comment asking to show Valerie, but take a peek at her, bouncing away like she’s been possessed by the spirit of the beat, drool flying, hair in her eyes, sock now hanging from her mouth like a cigar.
“She’s busy,” you narrate. “She’s got moves. Don’t worry about her.”
And then, mid-bounce, mid-glory, tragedy strikes. Her toy falls. There’s a two-second pause. You make the fatal mistake of thinking she’ll let it go. And then, WAILING.
“OH MY GOD,” you flinch so hard your phone nearly flies out of your hand. The chat immediately blows up.
“LMAOOOOO”
“HELP HER????”
“THE SCREAM??????”
Azulita launches up like she’s on a mission in a spy movie. “I GOT HER,” she shouts, diving for the bouncer.
You remain frozen on live like a deer in headlights, Val screaming bloody murder off camera while Azulita picks her up and starts doing the panicked baby rock. “Shhhh shhhh shhhh,” Azulita mutters. “We got the toy. It’s okay. Life is pain. Let it out.”
“Chat SOS,” you beg into the phone. “How do we get a baby to stop crying?”
"Did y'all feed her????"
"She hungry girl what time is it??"
"Why is Lil Baby still playing turn that OFF and give her a bottle."
"Y’all are literally the worst babysitters l've ever seen and I love it."
You glance at the clock. Your heart drops. “…It’s 6:30.”
Azulita gasps behind you. “FEED THE BABY.”
You end the live so fast. Phone down. Panic mode engaged. “Why didn’t you check the time?!” you shout, sprinting for the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you check the time?!” Azulita shouts back, still holding Valerie who is now actively trying to scream her way out of Azulita’s arms.
“I thought you were on top of it!”
“I’m on top of her! That’s enough!”
You yank the bottle out of the sterilizer and start pouring boiling water into it like your life depends on it. Which it might.
“Do you even know how to mix formula right?” Azulita accuses, hovering near your elbow like the world’s most chaotic nanny.
“Do you?” you shoot back. “I watched Olga do it once. That makes me basically qualified.”
“She was measuring things!”
“I measure with vibes.”
“That’s why I don’t trust you!”
You shake the bottle aggressively, cap it, and turn around to give it to Valerie, but Azulita steps back like you’re holding a weapon.
“Did you check the temperature?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
You glare. “She’s screaming!”
“She’ll scream harder if you give her lava.”
With the most dramatic eye roll in history, you tip the bottle and splash a few drops on your wrist. It’s fire. You scream like you’ve been shot in the arm.
Valerie goes completely silent. And then bursts into laughter. Like real, belly-deep baby giggles.
You stare at her in disbelief. “You enjoyed that?!”
“Iconic,” Azulita grins, rocking her gently. “She laughed at your pain. She’s one of us.”
You mumble something under your breath and start all over again, this time making sure the water is cooled, the formula is right, and no one ends up with second-degree burns. Finally, finally, you hand the bottle to Azulita and she slides it into Val’s tiny hands.
She drinks like she’s been stranded in a desert for days. Ten minutes later, she’s full, burped, and looking at you with those big, innocent eyes like she didn’t just try to rupture both your eardrums.
You and Azulita are collapsed on the couch in exhausted silence.
“…So, bath time?” you say weakly.
Azulita groans. “Binder says yes.”
You scoop up Val, who immediately tries to headbutt your chin, and take her to the bathroom. Setting her on the bath mat, you begin the struggle of undressing a baby who thinks everything is a game and nothing is real.
By the time she’s in the tub, the floor is a crime scene— clothes, toys, a lone sock, a giraffe for some reason.
Valerie, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.
She slaps the water like it insulted her. You are soaked within seconds. Azulita is trying to save her jeans. You’re trying to figure out how a rubber duck made its way into your hoodie.
“Why is she stronger in water?” you demand.
“She’s evolving,” Azulita whispers.
There are bubbles. There is chaos. You are playing with the little stacking cups and suddenly realize Valerie has abandoned her toys to splash the two of you mercilessly.
“She’s targeting us on purpose,” you say, blinking through water.
“She’s smart,” Azulita agrees, shielding her face with a frog toy.
Valerie grins. You’re both doomed. Soaked, exhausted, and humbled, you glance at the clock. It’s only 7:05.
You look at Azulita. “We follow the binder now.”
“Binder is law.”
Val slaps the water in approval. You salute and let the night continue.
Bedtime. It should be easy. That’s what you told yourself. You survived feeding. You survived bath time. You survived the Binder (capital B). Surely putting Valerie to bed is the victory lap. Spoiler: it’s not.
You’re standing in front of the dresser, holding a plain white onesie like it’s a gift from hell itself. “This is boring,” you declare. “She’s not a tax accountant. She’s a baby.”
“It’s soft,” Azulita argues, holding it up to your face. “Feel it. It’s got little clouds.”
“She deserves better.”
“She’s literally going to sleep.”
“She deserves better while she sleeps.”
And that’s how the two of you spend 12 full minutes rifling through her baby clothes like you’re styling her for New York Fashion Week. At one point Azulita tries to convince you to let her wear just a diaper and a cape “so she dreams she’s a superhero.” You tell her to shut up.
Eventually, you both gasp at the same time when you pull out a fuzzy cat onesie in Barcelona colors— dark blue and garnet, complete with little ears on the hood and a tail.
“Look at this masterpiece,” you whisper.
“She’s going to look like a tiny feline queen.” You high-five.
Valerie, for her part, squeals when you show her the onesie and kicks her feet. She knows style. You wrestle her into it with the grace of two people who clearly don’t know how baby limbs bend, and then immediately start a full-blown photo shoot like she’s Baby Beyoncé.
“You’re serving,” you tell her, snapping a photo.
“She is giving feline fashion excellence,” Azulita agrees, angling the light just right.
You post nothing because Olga would actually murder you if her baby ended up on your story without approval, but still, those pics are going in the archives. You send one to the youngsters group chat and Pina sends back seventeen heart emojis while Patri send an odd voice note of her making a cat sound.
Once the fashion show is over, you carry Val to her crib, carefully swaddled, looking like a sleepy little purring Culer. You sit down beside her and look at Azulita.
“Want to tell her a story?” you ask.
Azulita raises an eyebrow. “We don’t know any stories.”
“We make one up.”
“What kind?”
You think for a second. “The Three Little Pigs. But it’s us.”
She grins. “And the big bad wolf is Alexia.”
“Obviously.”
You lean over the crib dramatically, dropping your voice into a narrator tone. “Once upon a time, there were three little pigs. One was Estrella Pig— gorgeous, talented, the favorite.”
“Excuse me?” Azulita interrupts.
“Second was Azulita Pig—cranky, loud, and wore too much attitude.”
“You’re gonna catch hands.”
“And the third was Patri Pig, who was probably just chilling somewhere eating fruit.”
“Valid.”
“And then came the big bad wolf,” you growl, voice low. “ALEEEXIAAAA.”
Valerie is staring up at you both with eyes the size of dinner plates.
“She huffed!” Azulita says, getting into it. “And she puffed! And she told them to get up and go to training!”
“And the little pigs said NOOOO,” you wail dramatically.
Valerie blinks. You blink back. She blinks. Then she claps her hands.
You and Azulita beam. “She loved it!” you whisper.
“Maybe we should just read the Binder to her. It’s got chapters.”
You start flipping through the pages, trying to find the section on babies not sleeping, and find a line that says: If baby is struggling to fall asleep, try singing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ softly.
You and Azulita exchange a look. You try it.
“Rock-a-bye baaabyyy…”
“On the treeee tooooppp…”
Valerie screams like you just stepped on her dreams.
“ABORT,” Azulita yells, rocking the crib back and forth.
You panic and lift her out of the crib. “Okay okay okay! You hate lullabies! Noted!”
The three of you migrate to the couch like refugees of bedtime failure. You’re bouncing her gently. Azulita’s rubbing her back. Valerie is still sniffly and grumbling. You’re losing hope.
“Fuck it,” you mutter. “Alexa, play something.”
“Now playing: Not Like Us by Kendrick Lamar,” the Echo says.
You and Azulita freeze. But then… Valerie quiets. Like, completely. She blinks. Looks around and listens. Very intently.
You and Azulita exchange another look.
“Is this her song?” Azulita whispers.
“She’s unbothered. She’s vibing.”
By the second verse, her eyelids are drooping. Her grip on your hoodie loosens. By the third verse, she’s snuggled into your chest, breathing soft and even. You don’t dare move.
“Don’t move,” you whisper.
“I know,” Azulita says. “I think she booby trapped me with her foot.”
Eventually, you feel your eyes getting heavy too. The couch is warm. Valerie’s head is heavy on your shoulder. Azulita’s arm is pressed against yours. Kendrick is still going. You drift off.
When Alexia and Olga come home, it’s quiet. Too quiet for two teens and a baby in the house.
Alexia steps into the living room first, heels clicking softly. Her hand goes to her mouth when she sees the sight:
You, Azulita, and Valerie all passed out on the couch. The baby is still in her cat onesie, curled on your chest. Kendrick Lamar is playing Not Like Us on repeat.
Alexia is so amused. Olga comes in next, expecting disaster. When she sees you all asleep, her mouth opens.
“I don’t want to know,” she mutters.
Alexia shrugs. “They kept her alive. That’s all I asked for.”
Olga sighs, takes the fuzzy blanket off the back of the couch, and carefully drapes it over all three of you. She kisses Valerie’s forehead, then Azulita’s, then yours. Alexia does the same, grinning the whole time.
“Idiots,” Olga whispers fondly.
The lights are dimmed. The door to the hallway closes quietly.
And in the background, Kendrick keeps rapping softly into the night.
(I hate the fact that in english everything sounds drier. The translator takes away all the flavor)
○ alexia putellas x teen reader (reader has a name in this)
↳ warnings: no warnings.
pt. 1
A LITTLE HOT-HEADED
The Barça B dressing room had that unmistakable sound of every training session: the dull thud of boots hitting the floor, the rustle of jerseys being hastily changed, the constant murmur of overlapping conversations. Some players laughed, others debated plays, and a few simply changed in silence.
Maya was in the second category. The silent one.
Sitting on the wooden bench in front of her locker, she slowly untied the laces of her boots, letting the sound of the loosening leather fill her head instead of everything else. Her jaw was tight. Lately, it had been like that almost all the time.
Because things at home weren’t going well. Because she wasn’t sleeping well. Because she was sick of hearing the same thing over and over again.
"It’s just ridiculous," Nuria Gómez’s voice cut through the general noise, clear as day. "She hooked up with him for one night, and now she acts like he doesn’t exist. Not a glance, not a ‘how are you.’ Nothing."
Maya didn’t lift her head, but her fingers tightened around the leather of her boots.
She knew exactly who Nuria was talking about. She knew who all that venom was meant for every time she opened her damn mouth.
It was for Helena.
Helena Ferrer, who was at the other end of the locker room, her back turned, stuffing her things into her backpack with too much concentration. Maya knew that gesture. That one that said, I’m pretending not to hear, but every word is scraping against my skin.
And Nuria, of course, knew it too. She knew it and wouldn’t stop.
"I don’t know, I couldn’t live with a clear conscience after doing something like that," she went on, letting out a nasal laugh that turned Maya’s stomach. "Playing with someone and then acting like it never happened. That’s just being a shitty person."
Maya closed her eyes for a second.
Breathe. It’s not your problem.
But that was a lie. Because she heard it every single day. Because Helena never defended herself. And because Nuria wasn’t talking out of some sense of justice or wounded pride. She was talking out of spite.
Maya unclenched her jaw just to grit her teeth even harder.
"Don’t you ever get tired?"
She didn’t say it loudly. She didn’t yell. But the locker room wasn’t that big. And Maya never had to raise her voice to be heard.
The murmur of conversation died down. Not completely, but enough for her to feel several people paying attention. Nuria stilled for a moment. Then she turned toward her with a forced smile, the kind that barely covered the thinly veiled hostility underneath.
"Excuse me?"
Maya took her time straightening up and closing her locker before turning to look at her. Her gaze was calm, but there was something dangerous flickering in her eyes.
"I asked if you don’t get tired," she repeated, her voice low but clear. "Of saying the same shit every day."
Nuria narrowed her eyes, as if she couldn’t believe Maya was getting involved in this. "I didn’t know you had to approve my conversations now."
"I don’t care about your conversations," Maya replied, tilting her head slightly. "I care that you’ve been repeating the same thing for weeks, and honestly? It’s getting old."
Nuria let out a laugh, but there was no amusement in it.
"Right. Because defending Ferrer is your new favorite hobby, isn’t it?"
Maya felt Helena shift uncomfortably to her right, but she didn’t look at her.
"I don’t need to defend her. She didn’t do anything wrong."
"Oh, really? Nothing wrong?" Nuria crossed her arms, leaning forward slightly. "You’d be okay with someone using you for a one-night stand and then acting like you don’t exist? Just like that?"
There it was.
Maya sighed.
"This isn’t about what I would or wouldn’t do."
"Oh, it’s not?"
"No. This is about the fact that you keep bringing it up every chance you get, like you can’t let it go."
The locker room was almost completely silent now. Just the sound of a few bags zipping up, the distant echo of water running in the showers.
Nuria smiled without humor.
"I don’t know why you’re getting involved in this, Maya."
"Because it disgusts me." Maya didn’t blink. "It disgusts me to watch you walk around here, looking for her, waiting for an excuse to throw some snide remark her way. Like a damn dog."
Nuria’s face darkened, her hands clenching into fists.
"Eres una gilipollas."
"Y tú una resentida."
Silence.
Helena let out an almost imperceptible breath.
Maya ran a hand through her hair, not taking her eyes off Nuria.
"You hooked up. It didn’t work. Anyone else would move on. But you, Nuria…"
She took a step forward, just one, enough to lower her voice and make it sharper.
"You have to tear her down every single day because you can’t stand the fact that she used you for one night and never looked back."
The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating. Nuria’s face was flushed red, but she had no words.
Maya leaned in slightly, her gaze unwavering.
"And if it weren’t for the trouble I’d get into, I’d smash your head against the wall."
Helena let out a breath. Not a gasp, not a 'Maya, stop'. A fucking breath. Like those words had been the only real shield anyone had given her in weeks.
Nuria said nothing.
She couldn’t say anything.
The entire locker room had frozen. No one moved, no one dared to step in.
Maya waited. She gave Nuria the space to respond, to say whatever she wanted. But she didn’t. So Maya shrugged, slung her backpack over her shoulder with the same usual calm.
Then she turned, not bothering to look at anyone else, and walked toward the door.
She left unhurriedly.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And for the first time in a long time, the dressing room was left in complete silence.
🫛🫛🫛
The hallway smelled of liniment and damp grass, filled with that muffled echo of footsteps and murmurs that only lingered after training sessions—when the team was scattered between showers, massages, and unexpected meetings. Maya walked with her jaw clenched, hands shoved into the pockets of her hoodie, and the distinct feeling that this meeting wasn’t going to bring her anything good.
She wasn’t entirely sure why she had been called in. Or maybe she was. The incident with Nuria in the locker room had been too public for it not to reach the coach’s ears.
She stopped in front of the office door and took a deep breath. Counted to three. Knocked twice with her knuckles before pushing the door open without waiting for a response.
The coach was sitting behind his desk, arms crossed, with an expression that didn’t foreshadow anything good. But it was the person sitting to his right that made her frown for a second.
Alexia Putellas.
Maya controlled her reaction. Just the slightest raise of her eyebrows before her face settled back into its usual neutral expression. Don’t get paranoid. Maybe Alexia was just there for something unrelated, maybe they had just finished discussing something before she arrived. Or maybe—and she liked this possibility less—it was about her.
She closed the door calmly and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, as if she were anywhere else and not in an office about to get a lecture.
"If this is about what happened with Nuria the other day," she said before anyone could speak, "I was just following the message you always give us: ‘personal issues don’t mix with football.’"
Silence.
The coach frowned.
"Excuse me?"
Maya didn’t move. Something didn’t add up.
"I had no idea anything happened with Nuria," he continued, looking at her with more interest than she liked. "But now I do want to know."
Shit.
Maya rolled her eyes. In trouble for talking too much.
"It was nothing," she shrugged. "Stupid stuff. Dumb teenage drama, you know."
The coach held her gaze for a moment longer but didn’t press. He just ran a hand over his chin and got straight to the point.
"I called you in because of what happened with the Espanyol player."
Her body tensed instantly.
"Alexia told me what happened."
Maya clenched her jaw. And there it was. She knew it. Her mind went straight to the most obvious conclusion.
Great. Not only did I get a red card during the match, but now they think I was going to start a fight afterward.
She straightened up slightly, arms still crossed.
"Nothing happened," she said flatly. "I didn’t hit her, if that’s what you’re thinking."
Alexia lifted her gaze, looking at her with the same calm she had when analyzing the field before making a decisive pass.
"No one said you hit her."
Maya turned toward her.
"Oh no?" She tilted her head, skeptical. "Then what exactly did you tell the coach?"
Alexia remained relaxed, unbothered.
"I told him about the lack of control you showed during the match," she explained evenly. "About how the Espanyol player was provoking you the entire time and how you reacted."
A prick of discomfort settled in Maya’s chest. She didn’t like being analyzed like that.
"Oh, right. She provoked me, I reacted, and somehow I’m the bad guy."
"No one said you’re the bad guy," the coach interjected. "But you do have a problem."
Maya scoffed.
"My problem is that I don’t let people walk all over me?"
The coach narrowed his eyes, resting his elbows on the desk.
"Your problem is that you let yourself get taken out of the game over nothing."
Maya averted her gaze, biting her tongue to keep from saying the first thing that came to mind.
"Do you think you reacted the right way?" he pressed.
"If the referee isn’t going to do his job, someone has to."
The coach let out a long sigh, as if he were exhausted from having the same conversation over and over again.
"Maya…" He ran a hand down his face. "In football, there are provocations all the time. If every time someone messes with you, you respond with a foul like that, you’re going to get sent off in every match."
Before she could reply, Alexia spoke up.
"If you let them get you out of the game with provocations, you’re giving them exactly what they want."
That comment irritated her more than it should have.
"I didn’t let them take me out of the game. They took me out of the game." She paused. "Which is different."
"It’s not," Alexia countered, still infuriatingly calm. "Porque si cada vez que te tocan un poco los cojones, pierdes la cabeza, entonces te van a manejar como quieran." (Because if every time they push your buttons, you lose your head, then they can control you however they want)
Maya frowned.
She didn’t like how that sounded. Like she was some animal that could be controlled with a few cheap tricks. Like she didn’t have self-control.
But most of all, she didn’t like it because there was some truth to it.
The coach watched her patiently, waiting.
"Do you understand?"
Maya stayed quiet for a moment before answering, her tone clipped.
"Yes."
The coach nodded, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.
"I hope I don’t have to bring this up with you again."
Maya didn’t respond. She simply turned and left the office with the same calm as always, no rush, no sign of anything. But the moment the door shut behind her, she felt something strange in her chest. A part of her was still angry. Angry that they had treated her like she didn’t know what she was doing. But another part, one she preferred to ignore, knew that Alexia and the coach were right.
And that pissed her off even more.
🫛🫛🫛
The night air was cool, but Maya felt like she was burning under her skin. She walked with long, quick strides, her jaw clenched, her backpack slung over one shoulder. As if each step could help her leave behind the coach’s office, the damn conversation, and, most of all, that patient voice of Alexia Putellas repeating things she already knew but didn’t want to hear.
Football was about provocation, sure. Football was about keeping a cool head, too. Pero que no jodan. (But give me a break)
As she stepped past the club’s entrance, her eyes landed on the bus stop across the street. At this hour, the night buses took forever, and the last thing she wanted was to sit around doing nothing, letting her mind spiral over the same thoughts.
She took a deep breath and adjusted the strap of her backpack. Maybe she could walk to the next stop. Maybe that would get rid of this burning feeling in her chest.
Then, a car horn.
Maya frowned, irritated by the sudden noise, and turned her head, ready to ignore it. But she recognized the car before she could.
A black Audi. And behind the wheel, Alexia Putellas.
The passenger-side window lowered with a smooth hum, and Alexia’s voice, calm as always, cut through the night.
"Get in. I’ll take you."
Her first reaction was automatic: say no.
Because she didn’t like being told what to do. Because she still had her pride stuck in her throat after that conversation. And because, honestly, she wasn’t in the mood to spend more time with Alexia.
She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.
"I’m fine. I don’t need a ride."
Alexia didn’t react. She didn’t look surprised or impatient. She just tilted her head slightly and repeated,
"Maya."
Just her name. Said in that low, steady tone—not quite a command, but not a request either.
And Maya, for some damn reason, didn’t have the energy to keep refusing.
She huffed through her nose and muttered something unintelligible as she stepped toward the car. She pulled open the passenger door and dropped into the seat unceremoniously, shutting the door with more force than necessary.
She didn’t say thank you.
Alexia didn’t seem to expect it.
The engine purred quietly, the only sound in the car besides the distant murmur of nighttime traffic.
Maya stared out the window, arms crossed, her gaze lost in the city lights flashing past. The silence was so thick it was becoming uncomfortable. Suddenly, she was aware of her own breathing. Of every small movement. Of how unnervingly calm the car felt even if her head was hell.
She didn’t dare move a muscle, wondering if Alexia felt the awkwardness too—or if she was just immune to it.
Then, Alexia’s voice broke the silence.
"So, you like smashing heads against walls, huh?"
Maya blinked.
What?
Her first reaction was pure internal panic.
How the hell does she know?
Worse: Did she tell the coach?
She turned toward Alexia, her back suddenly tense.
"Who told you that?"
Alexia kept her eyes on the road, only shrugging slightly. "Vicky told me."
Maya exhaled, rolling her eyes.
Of course.
If there was anyone who knew everything that happened in Barça B, it was Vicky López. And if there was anyone she shared it with, it was Alexia. Ever since she started training with the first team, their relationship had become inseparable. Fans even called them “mother and daughter.”
Maya pressed her lips together, uncomfortable.
"I wasn’t actually going to do it. I just said it."
"Sure."
Alexia smiled slightly, not even looking at her, as if she didn’t believe her for a second.
Maya sighed and slumped further into the seat, annoyed. "Did you pick me up just to give me a lecture on anger management?"
"No," Alexia replied casually. "But if you want me to, I can."
Maya turned to her, half incredulous, half exasperated.
"I’ll pass."
A brief silence settled between them. But this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Maya noticed the atmosphere had shifted. Less tense. Less hostile. And though she didn’t want to admit it, Alexia’s attitude—calm, not pushing her, not lecturing her—was making her anger simmer down.
They reached her building a few minutes later. Alexia pulled up in front of the entrance without a word, simply letting the engine shut off smoothly.
Maya unbuckled her seatbelt and, without looking at her, muttered quickly, "Thanks for the ride." Like it physically hurt to say it.
Alexia didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was steady. "See you, Maya."
Maya gave a small nod and got out of the car without another word.
She closed the door with less force this time.
ok, damn 🥵🥵🥵
Double Exposure
sunmary: you want to go topless, alexia isn’t too pleased
warnings: mentions of smut, some vulgar language
a/n: okay a bit of context; rich!alexia inspired by that pic she posted looking hot all in black. reader was her sugar baby before things got serious and they fell in love. sugar baby = bad for image so reader was kept secret up until now. this is their honeymoon. *and breathe*
word count: 2.2k
-
“You’re not seriously going out there like that?”
Her words flat. Almost bored. Which is rich, coming from a woman who—barely ten minutes ago—was on her knees between your legs, growling into your cunt like it owed her rent and a written apology. Her voice now is the exact opposite of how it sounded then: cool, clipped, almost affronted. Like you’ve just told her you prefer supermarket olive oil. Like she doesn’t still have your taste on her mouth, drying into the fine creases of her lips, sunk into the seam where her teeth pressed down too hard on your inner thigh. Like her face wasn’t, moments ago, framed by your knees.
There’s a bruise on your hip in the exact shape of her thumb, planted like a signature. Another on the inside of your arm—darker, more controlled. Intentional. Just about composed, like something framed and hung under a spotlight. Your ribs ache faintly from where her elbows braced, sharp and functional, digging in as if she was preparing to split you apart. You haven’t seen your reflection yet, but you don’t need to. You already know what you must look like: mouth swollen and slightly parted, ribs flushed with heat, nipples still tight from her teeth and the blast of the air conditioning you forgot to turn off. Hair tangled, skin glistening at the hollows. The kind of wreckage that suggests not just sex, but possession.
You wonder what someone might assume if they saw you now. Not what, but who.
As in—Who did this to her?
As in—Who owns her like that?
The answer, of course, is already stepping barefoot onto the polished teak.
Her presence is enormous—not in volume, but in precision. In density. She radiates this sense of curation, of something not just expensive but worth owning. She moves like something honed to a point. She exists the way a Cartier Crash watch does: violently elegant, disturbing in its fluid asymmetry, confusing in its intention but undeniable in value. She is the kind of woman who doesn’t tell the time; she is the time. You once asked her for it, just to see what she’d do. She didn’t answer. Just turned your chin with her knuckle and kissed you hard enough to erase the question mid-sentence.
“I’m warm,” you say.
Which, in your shared language, means: Don’t tell me what to do.
Which also means: I want to see if you’ll still claim me in public after I deliberately ignore you.
Which, if you’re being honest, means: I’m still hungry. Even now. Even after that.
She says nothing.
You can feel her looking at you—feel her stare like fingers, counting every inch, every blemish, every trace she’s left behind. You wonder what part of you she starts with: the notched line of your spine, still red where her nails dug in; the subtle knot at the base of your shoulder from how she’d gripped it, too tight and too long; the soft under-curve of your breast now exposed to an entire sea that doesn’t give a single fuck. A sea that couldn’t care less whether you’re clothed, naked, adored or completely destroyed.
You imagine a lens somewhere. A long one. A telephoto. Some French man called Henri crouched in a small dinghy, cradling a Canon 1DX with a greasy finger and a questionable sense of ethics. You picture the headline already drafted in someone’s inbox: PUTELLAS’ MYSTERY WIFE BARES ALL OFF THE COAST OF CORSICA.
In all-caps, of course. They always use all-caps when a woman’s tits are involved.
You smile.
She walks over now, slow and certain. Picks up your discarded bikini top from the side of the lounger. Holds it between two fingers like it offends her on a structural level.
“This is literally a shoelace,” she says.
“It’s Prada.”
“It’s two triangles of fabric and the audacity of youth.”
You bought it impulsively the same day she signed the closing papers on the London penthouse, high off real estate and champagne, off her hand on your thigh beneath a linen tablecloth at Scott’s. She’d said it was too revealing, and you’d laughed directly in her face—mostly because she said it while unzipping your dress in the boutique changing room, knuckles grazing the lace you’d worn just for her. You still have the tag, folded neatly into your drawer next to a crumpled Agent Provocateur receipt and the Hermès tissue paper she tore through with zero ceremony. She, meanwhile, keeps everything. You once found an envelope in her office drawer marked in her small, upright script:
Apology Gifts – Receipts (Honeymoon Series).
Inside: three separate invoices from Van Cleef & Arpels. Two dated the same week.
“You’re topless,” she says this time. Not angry. Just too the point. Aware. Like she’s updating you on the weather.
Cloudless sky. Northeasterly breeze. Wife’s tits out.
You reach up, twist your hair into a loose knot. The strands stick slightly, damp with sea mist and the residue of her breath on your neck. Your breasts lift and settle with the motion. You can feel the weight of them shift, the sore prickle of friction where she pulled and twisted and nipped. Her eyes follow the movement, a twitch of hunger barely there in the corner of her mouth.
“I know,” you say, voice neutral. Sweet. Dangerous.
Alexia sighs. Her hand moves through her hair—shorter now, though just enough off to rifle her off split ends. There’s a dent pressed into her hairline from the fabric headband she still wears to play, out of habit more than need. You touch it sometimes in bed, when her back is to you, when her breathing’s heavy but not quite asleep. A thumb against the divot, like a priest touching his rosary.
Her wrists are bare. No jewellery today except for the platinum wedding band you places there twelve days ago, and the thin gold chain at her throat. It holds a Charles X medallion, antique, slightly tarnished. She claims it means nothing. But she wears it every time she signs a deal. Every time she fucks you after one. You’ve seen her in diamonds, emerald-cut and cruel. But nothing sits on her body like that coin.
“There could be press,” she says.
“There could be sharks,” you say. You don’t even look at her. “But that didn’t bother you when you fingered me in sea yesterday.”
You recline against the lounger, the one with the pale linen cover you never sit on dry. Your spine still stings—fibres rubbing into your back while she pinned you there, muttering things too filthy to be translated. The fabric beneath you now is cool, slightly damp from condensation or the aftermath of a very physical forty plus minutes. You cross one ankle over the other, toes flexing idly. The sun toasts your chest. You let it. You want it to tan the shape of her mouth across your breasts.
She doesn’t respond. Not immediately. You know that silence. It means she’s choosing her words, trying not to sound like her mother. Or worse—like the managers, the press officers, the people who shadowed her for years with clipboards and crisis management emails. Alexia never speaks by accident. It’s one of the things that drove you insane when you first met her—this polished, endless restraint. The way she could dress down a boardroom of men, then turn to you and call you mi amor in the same tone.
Like both were contracts. Like both were binding.
Now, she says: “You’re not used to being wanted by people who don’t actually like you.”
And there it is.
It lands like a dare. Like a diagnosis. Like she’s giving you something to chew on, not swallow.
“Is that what this is about?” you say, head tilting. “You think someone’s going to look at me and decide I’m… what? A threat?”
“I think someone’s going to look at you and decide I’m careless,” she says.
You freeze. Not outwardly. Just a beat in your breathing. That’s the thing about her—she never needs to shout. She just drops the knife and waits to see who bleeds first.
Her shadow breaks across your thighs like ink. The sun hits the length of her left leg, slicing down from hip to shin like it’s auditioning for something. She’s all lean geometry and sin. A shape so precise you’d believe it was machine-cut.
You think she might kiss you. You want her not to. Not yet.
She leans in instead, low enough that her voice barely has to travel.
“You’re covered in bruises,” she says, almost admiringly. “I fucked you stupid. You’re wearing nothing but saltwater and lip balm. And you’re sitting here like you’re not my wife, and I didn’t make you like this.”
You swallow. Your throat is dry, like it always gets after she’s done with you—used up and dusted out. Your body throbs in memory. Your cunt still pulses when you shift.
“You did make me like this,” you murmur. Soft. Sincere.
And somewhere in her expression—just for a second—you see it: that twitch of pride she tries not to show. The quiet, sinful satisfaction of ownership.
“Exactly.”
She reaches for your sunglasses—her sunglasses, black Celine with amber lenses and an arm smudged with your thumbprint—and lifts them off your face in one smooth, silent movement. Her fingers graze your cheek, knuckle to jawline, and it’s enough to short-circuit your thoughts. Your brain hums white for a moment. She’s close enough that her breath ghosts across your lips, and you can still smell yourself on her skin—rich, musky, heady, obscene.
She looks at you like she’s weighing options. Like she’s standing in front of a vitrine and trying to decide whether to sell you, pawn you, or buy you back again just to prove she could. There’s a flicker in her eyes, something almost amused. You get the sense she’d fuck you right here on the deck if she thought it would end the conversation.
“You forget this is a game,” she murmurs, voice low and even, like silk slipping through her teeth. “And the thing about games is, someone always plays dirtier than you.”
You blink slowly. Her breath smells like lime and sea salt, fresh and sharp. Her bottom lip is still slightly swollen—faintly bitten, faintly red, with a drying sheen of you along the corner. You imagine licking it off.
“Let them play,” you whisper.
And you mean it. You’re reckless with it. Bare, skin hot and mouth parted, knowing she could undo you again just by slipping her fingers into your bikini bottoms—or worse, pulling them down and walking away.
She smiles, but it’s sharp around the edges. Not cruel, just resigned. As if she already knows how this ends. As if she’s already read tomorrow’s headline and memorised the photo credit.
“You say that now,” she says. “Until they’re in your face asking how much I paid for you. How long you’ve had your tits done. Whether the bruises mean I hit you. Whether I own you or rent you.”
You flinch, but barely. Not from her—never from her. It’s not the words that land. It’s the image of someone else using them. Of a voice you don’t know, speaking in contempt and press passes. Of a cheap hotel room and a slideshow of your body from twenty different angles, taken without permission, captioned without truth.
“I can handle it,” you say, but your voice lacks the usual gloss.
“Can you?” she asks, soft as cashmere. “Because I don’t think you’ve had to yet.”
You want to argue. You want to say you’re not naive. That you’re not a doll or a trophy or some wife-shaped ornament she found at a charity gala and forgot to put down. But the sun is too warm and your skin still buzzes from where she held you down. Your cunt still aches in the best possible way. And deep down, you know she’s right.
You’ve lived wrapped in her world like a pearl in velvet. You’ve been sheltered in her storm—hidden inside her yeses, her private flights, her curated little ecosystem where nothing touches you unless she allows it.
“I like the sun,” you say.
It’s not a counterpoint. It’s not even an argument. Just a truth. You like the heat on your skin. You like being watched. You like the idea that someone, somewhere, might see what she’s done to you and ache with the knowledge that it wasn’t them.
She nods. Stands. Her shadow slips away like an expensive afterthought.
“I’ll talk to Marc,” she says. “Have him revoke the crew’s electronics permissions.”
And then she’s gone. Back into the cool interior, where everything is silent and beige and expensive and untouched. Where the floors don’t creak. Where the cameras can’t follow. Where her phone is probably already ringing and her assistant is already listening.
You stay.
The sea is stupidly blue. Aggressively blue. The kind of rich that makes you feel poor just looking at it. Your nipples are tight. Your skin smells like sweat and sex and suncream. Your pulse is low and steady, like a cat in a warm window. Your lips still taste faintly of her—salt and spit and something deeper.
You don’t know where the camera is. But you’re certain there is one.
You sit perfectly still. Posed. Cinematic. The image already forming in the lens:
Topless. Ruined. Glowing. Defiant.
The kind of wife who knows exactly what she’s risking.
And exactly how good it looks when she does.
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.
the fluff I need to get me through this day
Perfect II
Alexia Putellas x Toddler!Reader
Summary: You've gotten very stubborn
Alexia sits up on the physio's table, getting her ankle checked out.
Usually, she would be focused on her check up and trying to wheedle the physio with questions about her recovery time and her rehab regime.
This time though, she's watching you toddle around the room with a football that you try to kick determinedly into the little goal set up in the corner.
It's a proper football as well - one of the full sized ones Alexia and Patri were training with earlier and one that Alexia hadn't even realised you'd stolen.
"Y/n, mija," She says softly," Where is your ball?"
The ball you usually use is not this one. This one is much too big for a little toddler like you. Much too big because you can barely even control it, clumsily swinging your leg around as you try to get it towards the little goal in the corner.
"Is my ball!" You insist as you wildly kick again with your Bun-Bun fisted in your grip.
You barely connect with the ball and it goes bouncing off in a direction that you don't want it to go.
"In your bag," The physio murmurs, nodding his head over to where your tiny football sits just poking out of Alexia's bag.
It's small for an adult like Alexia but just big enough for a little girl like you and Alexia forces herself to her feet to go and fetch it.
"Mija, baby," She calls over to you," Why don't you come and play with your ball? It'll be easier."
"Hmm." You shake your head, bringing your toy up to your ear like the rabbit is telling you a big secret. "Bun-Bun say no."
"Well, Mami," Alexia says pointedly," Says yes. I would like you to play with your ball."
"No," You reply, firmly booting the big ball into the wall.
"Y/n, yes."
"Mami, no."
The physio chuckles to himself from his spot by the computer, typing up whatever he's noted about Alexia's ankle. "I don't miss that phase."
Alexia sighs, wiping a hand over her face for a moment before crouching down to your level with the ball. "Are you sure you don't want to play with your ball? It's lonely without you."
You fix Alexia a look that she swears she once saw on Alba's face years ago. "Is just a ball, Mami," You tell her," Doesn't have real feelings."
So, Alexia has to admit that you've got her there but it was worth at least a try.
"It'll be easier for you," She continues," And you can show off all your skills."
"Can do that with big ball." You toddle after the big ball again and finally manage to nudge it into the goal.
"Pick your fights," The physio laughs," They're stubborn at this age. You won't win."
He's right, of course, because Alexia is acutely aware of how stubborn you've gotten.
It's like you've learnt to walk and kind of how to talk and the stubbornness came hand in hand with it all.
It didn't help, of course, that your designated babysitter is Alexia's sister, who seems to delight in teaching you things that drives Alexia up the wall.
Even Eli had laughed about it once, the way you had seemingly picked up a bit of Alba's attitude just by hanging out with her for a few hours every week.
Alexia could only be glad that you seemed to take after her more than you take after Alba though as you stare determinedly at the big ball at your feet, once again rearing your leg bag and booting it across the room.
The force of your kick forces you off balance though and you plop onto the floor.
Alexia stifles a laugh at your look of pure confusion, like you can't understand why you've gone from standing to sitting so suddenly. She moves easily towards you, lifting you up and placing you on your feet again.
"Maybe not as strong," She says fondly, smoothing down your hair and adjusting your hair bow again," Remember, we want to control the ball, not lose possession."
She grabs the big ball, tucking it under her arm before she grabs the goal in one hand and your hand in the other.
She has to shorten her stride to make sure she doesn't leave you behind as you both head out to the pitch.
Technically, Alexia's day of training is over.
She's gone through her paces. She's had her check up with physio. She's gone to the gym. She's done her work on the field.
Her day is done.
You seem to think yours is just beginning and Alexia is all for encouraging you.
She sets your little goal down on the pitch along with your little ball and her big ball.
You reach for the big one but Alexia's quick feet keep it out of your grip.
You huff and she laughs a little.
"I'll show you what to do with my ball," She says," And you can do it with your ball."
"Want your ball!"
"It's my ball," Alexia explains patiently with a soft smile at the disgruntled look on your face," You have your ball. I have mine and we train together. Is that alright? If you do well, maybe we can both train with the team later. But you have to use your ball."
You huff and puff but pick up your ball.
Alexia grins.
"Now, we're going to practice staying on our feet after we shoot."
Okay so I was thinking of a blurb with Mapi and Ingrid where reader takes a nap everyday after training or a game but she’s forced to go to team bonding at Alexias place by Mapi and Ingrid and is grumpy since she can’t take her nap and everyone is like what’s up with her when they see the grumpy look on her face and Mapi’s just like ‘oh she didn’t take her nap’ so the whole time reader is falling asleep on the couch either on someone’s shoulder or lap but she can’t because of the noise and when everyone’s finally gone and it’s just them and Alexia she finally falls asleep on Ingrid’s lap
as someone who absolutely thrives off naps, this was felt team bonding II m.león & i.engen
you could have said it was partially your fault, and maybe you would have had the situation been any different. however today you were much less willing to accept any sort of blame, rather pointing the finger at anyone and everyone else.
it had started as you'd all come back into the change rooms after a particularly brutal training session, the sun glaring down on you the entire time had meant your normally tanned and sun kissed skin was mildly burnt and coated with a thin sheen of sweat.
the first session of the day hitting the gym wasn't as bad, the team partially sheltered from the sweltering heat of the barcelona sun. thursdays were always a double session given it was the middle of the week and friday was a rest day, so the second session was of course out on the pitch and it would have been understated to say you struggled.
you'd lived in spain now for nearly three years however born and raised in dreary drizzly england had meant it had been nothing short of a huge adjustment to get used to the change in lifestyle, weather and climate.
especially when it came to running around, training and playing matches on days that sometimes peaked well above thirty degrees, you were often grateful for the drop in temperature when blessed with late afternoon and early evening games.
growing up you'd never been someone who could sit still, always itching to be running around, keeping your hands busy or kicking some sort of sports ball. you'd played almost every sport you could growing up, both of your siblings the same.
you'd felt sorry for your mother, a single mum trying to wrangle three incredibly active kids and dash them from school to practice and home with three different schedules. you would always be grateful to her, and to your grandparents who basically drove you every afternoon to some sort of extra curricular.
football had been what had stuck through the ages, your sister sticking with tennis and your brother abandoning everything to pursue law, though he played a friendly five a side with his colleagues of a monday night.
however despite your insanely high energy levels, work ethic and stamina, all of that exerted force had meant you'd crashed hard and very rarely had a healthy or consistent sleep schedule throughout your youth.
this had meant some days the best rest you got was naps. wether it be a quick twenty minute power nap on the way from school to football or a three hour doze on the sofa of a sunday afternoon after you'd played, you became incredibly dependent on the brief moments of rest and bliss that came with them.
so skipping ahead to present days, that hadn't changed. despite your professional career meaning you should have a consistent, healthy and reliable sleeping pattern, the majority of your rest and recharge came from your naps.
despite consistent scalding from the training staff about the importance of a solid eight hour minimum rest, most nights you were lucky if you slept five to six hours, which of course everyone reminded was due to the frequent naps you took throughout the day.
however old habits die hard and it wasn't anything that you felt affected your playing ability, so who was it really harming? or at least that was the case, most days.
today was no exception, if anything after such a tiresome day of running about in the heat you were extra exhausted and looked forward to nothing more than returning home. the safe little haven you'd created with your girlfriends would greet you with its sun soaked little loveseat you'd often curl up in to get a quick thirty minute power nap in.
or the end of your ever so cozy L shaped couch where you'd stretch out for a longer doze, often with your head in ingrids lap as she read a book and mapi would play video games beside you, headphones on as to not disturb you, both your girlfriends well equipped to your routine.
early on in the relationship they'd of course tried their hand to coax you into a much more stable sleeping routine. but rapidly learning all it would lead to was a night of you tossing and turning and fidgeting in between them, the constant movement and small huffs of frustration in turn keeping them awake as well, they quickly gave up on that battle.
but back to the locker room you'd busied yourself quickly showering and changing, too busied with your head in the clouds to overhear the team making plans for a bonding night at alexia's house. tomorrow being a rest day meant it was perfect to do something tonight, and had you tuned in and overheard you might have had some more time to plan.
however buried deep in your own thoughts and quickly sinking further and further into your bodies screaming demands for a nap you'd zoned out entirely. you'd snapped back to it at a jingle of keys by your ear, glancing up to find mapi staring down at you with an amused smile.
you were quick to your feet, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder, waving your goodbyes as the three of you headed out of the building down to the carpark.
again you zoned out, head a fuzzy mess and skin still crawling from the thick humidity which plagued the air around you. had you been paying attention you might have overheard ingrid and frido or patri and pina behind you, all discussing who was needing to take what to alexia's.
mapi sliding into the drivers seat you kissed ingrids cheek in appreciation as she offered you the front, dumping your bags in the boot and settling into the warm leather you grimaced slightly but sighed, glad to at least finally be off your feet.
you smiled for a few photos as fans hung by the front gate, all keening to get pictures with their favourite players, though all three of you exhausted from the heat you kept it brief. finally on the road and heading home you joined into the initial conversation, though quickly found your eyes growing heavy.
"hey bebita no, we're almost home." mapi chuckled, hand moving to gently squeeze your thigh to stop you dozing off. both her and ingrid were more than capable of carrying your sleeping form inside as had been done plenty of times before, though exhausted from training if it was something that could be avoided then they would do their best to do so.
you busied yourself discussing training with the two of them, as well as the upcoming game against athletico on the weekend. your mother was coming to visit for a few days and you spent time going over what she wanted to do and see while she was here, the three of you grabbing your bags finally home.
in the elevator up to your shared apartment your struggle increased, eyes heavy once again as your head fell to mapi's shoulder, leaning a little more into her body making her smile and kiss the side of your head affectionately.
you heard her ask you something in spanish but half asleep you only hummed, agreeing to whatever she'd said as the doors opened on your floor. ingrid unlocking your front door you stumbled inside, scowling at the blonde haired spaniard beside you who'd stuck her foot out to trip you.
ingrid scolding her in norweigein you threw your bag at her and she chuckled, moving to put them away. you squatted down to fondly rub bagheera's head, picking him up and making a beeline for the sofa, your usual spot calling your name as you sighed grateful for the air con blasting around the apartment.
"siesta time handsome." you mumbled, collapsing tiredly onto the sofa and moving a cushion behind your head, bagheera curling up on your stomach. you sighed contendly, one hand stroking his warm fur as your eyes slammed shut and you started to drift off.
though your brief slumber was halted by something poking at your cheek. "go away!" you huffed, cracking one eye open to see mapi stretched out on the other end of the sofa, poking you with her toe as you shoved her legs away.
"what are you doing elskling?" once again you began to drift until a new voice spoke up, now opening both eyes you looked up to see a pair of green orbs looking down at you curiously.
"what does it look like i'm doing?" you mumbled back tiredly, flinching as the older girl pinched your leg for the comment. "takin a nap." you sighed, eyes closing again as you felt bagheera's weight move off of you, jumping to instead settle in between mapi's tattooed legs which still stretched along the sofa.
"why? we need to get ready to go to alexia's." at that your eyes shot wide open and a frown knitted deep into your eyebrows, pushing yourself up to rest on your elbows.
"why are we going to ale's?" you questioned, confused at the odd break in your usual post training routine. "see amor i told you she was not listening." mapi tutted, shaking her head at you as you shot her a tired glare.
"did you not hear anything we spoke about after training? or in the car? or in the elevator?" ingrid questioned, an annoyed frown settling into her features as she folded her arms and stared pointedly down at you. "no i did not. i'm tired and i need a nap." you grumbled, annoyance growing the longer you were forced to stay awake.
with that you rolled over onto your side, back showing to the tall norweigein who scoffed. "hey! wakey wakey." mapi's feet dug into your back as she cooed at you, shaking your body as you inhaled deeply.
a string of spanish curses dropping from your lips you turned and smacked her legs, a little harder than intended before getting to your feet, thumping off to the bedroom ignoring their calls after you.
"nope!" you groaned loudly as arms wrapped around your torso before you could throw back the covers and slip into bed. "i'm tired." you whined, head leaning back onto mapi's shoulder, pouting up at your girlfriend who smiled in amusement.
"too bad, we have team bonding cariño and we promised we'd go, all of us." mapi tilted your head back a little further, hand gently gripping your chin as she placed a somewhat apologetic kiss to your lips, thumb running over your bottom lip as she pulled away.
"i'm not going. suddenly im sick!" you fake coughed pushing away from her, feeling another pair of eyes burn into you as you flopped backwards onto the bed, covering your face with your hands.
"you are going. get up and changed!" you peeked through your fingers to see ingrid staring firmly down at you, mapi whisting knowingly and ducking out of the room not wanting to get involved.
"no." you replied just as firmly, face still buried in your hands. "you are twenty four stop acting like a child. get up, now." her tone shifted into one you knew all too well, and looking up the fire which simmered just behind her eyes you knew you had about two minutes to do as she asked or you'd pay for it later.
"can i nap for a half hour baby, please?" you switched approach, hands moving to fall at your sides as you looked up pleadingly, her features softening a little but her arms remained crossed.
"no kjære , we need to be there in an hour and it's a twenty minute drive."
at her words you groaned even louder than before, hauling your body up and storming off to the bathroom, making a point to slam the door after you. "pain in the ass every day." ingrid mumbled under her breath with a roll of her eyes.
"no amor you asked for that, you know how she gets when she's tired." mapi held her hands up in defense at the withering look shot at her, backing out of the room again mumbling under her breath in spanish, all too used to mediating between the two of you knowing just how stubborn you could both be when in disagreement over something.
"come on niña bonita, smile. stop being grumpy!" you shifted at mapi's words, the slightly taller girl hugging you from behind and kissing your cheek a few times.
"we'll stay for a few hours and then you can go home and sleep, okay?" ingrid spoke softly, running a hand through your hair as you sighed tiredly but nodded none the less as mapi pressed the buzzer. within seconds the door was opening and you winced at the sudden change of volume, most of the girls seemingly already having arrived.
"ay chica why do you look so down hm?" alexia smiled, bringing you into a hug as she closed the door, the older girl like a sister to you as you sighed and grumbled about being tired.
"you sleep more than a newborn amiga, how are you always so tired?" her body vibrated with laughed as she kissed your cheek teasingly and let you go. "she does not sleep, like a vampire!" patri teased pulling a face at you as pina joined in and you rolled your eyes pushing past them, ignoring their offended calls after you that you'd blanked their hug.
you made a beeline to collapse next to lucy, head immediately falling to your national teammates shoulder. "oh did the little baby not get its nap?" she cooed harshly pinching your cheeks, having known you for years she immediately recognized the signs of exhaustion present in your features.
"no!" you huffed, pushing her hands off as she grinned. "tough luck kid, hard life being an adult." she sighed, patting your cheek and moving so her arm stretched over the back of you and you could settle a little more into her side as mapi took the vacant seat next to you.
normally if you were curled into anyone elses sides both her and ingrid would be green with envy, but lucy having had a heavy hand in the three of you even getting together in the first place they knew she was just as fiercely protective of you as they were.
you felt your girlfriends tattooed hand rest on your leg, fingers tracing shapes absentmindedly on your thigh as she engaged in conversation with the team.
you remained quiet as an hour dragged by and alexia tried her best to organise a food delivery, struggling heavily to decipher orders as no one seemed to be able to answer her without speaking over the top of someone else.
you jolted up awake as alexia snapped, captain mode slipping in effortlessly as she shouted a loud and stern string of catalan, everyone pausing before quietly relaying their preferences one by one.
food ordered everyones focus switched to games, an assortment of different board and card games from all different nations littering the floor. you opted out of playing, shooting poor esmee a murderous look as she attempted to drag you to your feet to be her partner.
"england why are you so moody today?" you looked up to meet oshoala's amused grin as mapi stood from beside her to help alexia get the food delivery from downstairs, the warmth of her hand on your leg instantly missed.
"baby didn't get its nap!" you grunted as two bodies landed on top of you, patri wrangling you into a headlock as claudia sat on your chest, both girls poking and jabbing at you.
something not uncommon for the three of you, known to rough house around quite often given your close ages but today you were not in the mood. you swore and cursed at them in spanish, a few of the older girls in the room shooting you disapproving looks for your language as the games continued.
"i would leave her be unless you want to lose a finger patri, she is a biter." mapi warned with a suggestive grin, returning as most of the girls hurried to their feet at the promise of food. claudia gagged at the insinuation and punched you halfheartedly in the stomach, scurrying away as patri was quick to follow before you could retaliate.
"i want to go home." you huffed, sitting up and running a hand through your tousled hair, fixing your clothes with a glare over the spaniards shoulder at the culprits who were too busy stuffing their faces to care.
"well we aren't." mapi chuckled, hands on your knees as she leant down and moved in closer. "if you're a good girl bebita i promise to reward you when we do get home, in any way you want." the older girl murmured in your ear, teeth gently tugging on your earlobe leaving your cheeks flushed red.
"any way?" you clarified as the defender nodded with a smile. "but only if you behave and lighten up a little, we are here to bond with the team." your girlfriend warned as you nodded.
"otherwise i will just let ingrid have her way with you for the snappy comments earlier, and we both know she does not forget hermosa." mapi smiled knowingly as you sighed, your girlfriend leaning in and pecking your lips a few times until they curled into a smile.
speaking of, ingrid took lucys seat beside you, placing a plate of food in your lap as mapi disappeared to get her own, the rest of the girls settling themselves around the living room as chatter and laughter filled the air.
the taller girl smiled in surprise as you thanked her in norweigen, leaning up to kiss her softly before starting to eat. "don't need to be hand fed do we grumpy?" keira teased, gesturing for your girlfriend to feed you as you flipped her off, ingrid knocking your hand down as your english team mate grinned and took a seat on the floor beside aitana.
mapi settling in on your other side with her own food you tried to make more of an effort, not contributing much to conversation but actively listening. you grinned as you stole some of your girlfriends food, mapi flicking your ear affectionately before kissing your cheek, happy to see you were a little more engaged.
food finished and games back in commencement you found yourself still wedged between your girlfriends, your legs draped over mapi's lap as ingrid held you from behind, chin resting atop your head.
slowly as the night grew later the girls began to drop off, and as the chatter and laughter died down your exhaustion was quick to resurface, blinking drowsily as you tried to stay awake.
but eventually you could fight no more and sleep won, your body suddenly becoming a lot more heavy which didn't go unnoticed by your girlfriends. the last of your team mates leaving alexia returned to the living room to see ingrid hoist your dead asleep form into her lap properly, scoffing with an amused shake of her head.
alexia's girlfriend olga due home from work soon and you seemingly passed out cold your girlfriends agreed to stay and watch a movie, grateful both for your lack of complaining and that you were finally getting some much needed rest.
"you know we are going to get home and she will be wide awake again now, yes?" mapi sighed with a smile, moving your hair out of your face and leaning down to press a tender kiss to your forehead. "i'm counting on that." ingrid smiled though a little less sweetly as mapi caught on, knowing smirk curling into her lips as alexia shot to her feet hearing a knock at the door.
"well, i did promise her a reward." "you're too soft with her." "i am not, you are just too bossy." "neither of you seem to mind that." "you do not give us a choice amor." "is that so? well maybe i need to remind both of you-"
"too loud." you mumbled up tiredly, hands coming to rest over their mouths still half asleep, mapi pressing a kiss to your palm before they dropped limply back to your sides.
"well eskling, guess we'll see who is right when we get home then."
I couldn’t resist and just ordered the pink jersey for the upcoming festival season! 🩷
Need. 😍
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