Could You Write Leah X Alessia X Reader Where Less Getts A Yellow Card In A Match And Y/n Isn't Best

I feel like lovie can con Leah into anything so one day lovie ask for a dog and she goes up to Leah saying “mama you know how you said you would get me whatever I wanted well I want a puppy can you do it please mama” and Leah can’t say no to her so she comes home with a puppy one day 

WEAK SPOT | alessia russo x child!reader x leah williamson

grumpy masterlist

leah always prided herself on being strong-willed. she could command a defence, lead a team and hold her ground during tough and important matches.

but when it came to you? yeah, she was absolutely useless.

alessia had warned her, of course. "she's four, le. she knows exactly how to get what she wants from you. you have to learn to say no."

leah had just waved her off at the time, convinced she had things under control and that she knew exactly how to say no, like come on it's wasn't that hard after all it was only two letters long.

that was, until one lazy saturday afternoon, a rare break in the footballing calendar where there wasn't any matches but as ever while you and leah enjoyed a relaxing day, alessia was busy running errands she hadn't had time to do through the week.

you climbed into leah's lap, your esme the elephant under you arm as leah was busy reading on her phone. you beginning to play with the hem of her hoodie.

"mama," you started sweetly, looking up at leah with those big impossibly big blue eyes — that leah couldn't seem to say no to.

leah placed her phone down on her chest as she glanced down at you, already sensing danger, "yes, angel?"

"you know how you always say you want me to be happy?"

leah hesitated, unsure at where this was going to go, "uh.. yeah?"

you beamed, inching closer, "well, esme the elephant thinks a puppy would make me so happy." you said resting esme on leah's chest, as leah raised her eyebrows a smirk appearing on her lips.

"esme thinks this does she?"

"well, esme and me”

"can you do it, please. mama?" you pleaded, as you blinked up at her in a way that should have been illegal.

leah was done for.

—

two days later, leah was walking through the front door with a squirming golden retriever puppy in her arms. alessia who had been peacefully making tea in the kitchen, a smile appearing on her face as she heard the front door open and close behind her knowing exactly who it'd be.

expect that big smile quickly disappeared as she turned around and immediately freezing as her face dropped. alessia's eyes darting from leah to the wiggling ball of fluff in her arms, her mouth falling open.

"leah cathrine williamson." she groaned out loud setting her mug down with excruciating precision, "that better be a friends dog-"

leah's face gave it all away in a moment as she winced at her girlfriend's question, "so, okay, before you get mad—"

"before i get mad?" alessia let out a breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. "you're telling me you just— just walked into a shelter and adopted a dog on your way home from the shops?"

"well, technically i drove there.." leah trailed off. alessia's face less than impressed.

"leah."

leah sighed, shifting the puppy that was in her arms slightly, "listen, less. i tired to say no, i did i promise i really tried." leah began as she stuttered out her words, alessia following along her eyebrows perking ever other word.

"but she looked at me with those eyes and asked and well i admit it, i can't say no to her!" leah lifted the puppy slightly, "and i mean, look at him! that little face. i couldn't say no to that face either-"

alessia slightly amused that leah had finally admitted that she couldn't say no, but her unimpressed demeanour returning as she crossed her arms, "i can say no."

just then the puppy let out a tiny yawn, his ears flopping adorably as he nuzzled further into leah's hoodie, alessia's gaze faltered slightly, her lips twitching. 

leah smirked, "mhm, that's what i thought!"

before alessia could argue her case, your little voice squealed from down the hall, probably realising leah was finally home.

"mama, mama, you got him!"

you came running into the room, your socks slipping slightly on the wooden floor as you skidded to a stop in front of leah. your eyes wide with excitement as you reached up to gently cup the puppy's face.

"you got me the puppy!" you gasped, bouncing on your toes before throwing your little arms around leah's leg, "thank you, thank you, thank you!"

leah grinned, ruffling your hair slightly, "of course, angel."

alessia however, let out a dry laugh folding her arms, "she had and she's also bought herself some time to get some willpower lessons."

leah scoffed, feigning offence. "that's rude."

alessia raised an eyebrow, "is it cause at this rate, lovie could ask for a pony next week, and you'd be out the door before i even noticed."

leah opened her mouth to protest but you were already tugging on her hoodie again.

"mama, can we get a pony too?"

leah froze, opening her mouth to try and say the words but nothing was coming out from her lips.

alessia smirked, knowing she was right, "see?"

leah sighed, looking down at the puppy who licked her chin, "ok, okay, but admit it - he's adorable."

alessia sighed to, finally relenting. she crouched down scratching behind the puppy's ears, "yeah, yeah he's cute."

you clapped your hands excitedly, bouncing on your toes. "can we name him waffles?"

leah and alessia exchanged a look. leah smiled. "waffles it is!"

I feel sick

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

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

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

Hope you enjoy the chaotic last chapter!

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

Just hundreds of notifications from social media.

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

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

Your team group chat has exploded:

Claudia: OMG HAVE YOU SEEN THESE

Claudia: You went out with Alexia?

Maya: I KNEW IT 

Liv: Coach is gonna have an aneurysm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your silence is damning.

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

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

Liv wiggles her eyebrows. "Not an answer."

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. "Shut up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now spill—who started it?"

"I—" you start, but Liv cuts you off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That was too fast," Marta says smugly.

"You totally did," Claudia grins.

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

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

"NO WAY!" Maya shrieks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liv grins. "Did you stay the night?"

You hesitate.

Big mistake.

The locker room erupts all over again.

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

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

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

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

Your silence is damning.

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

"No," you groan, rubbing your temples.

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

The locker room erupts.

"NO. NO WAY."

“IN VIEW?!”

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

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

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

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

"You animal," Liv wheezes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wait."

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

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

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

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

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

Chaos.

"OH. MY. GOD!"

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

"You absolute menace!"

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

Marta is howling, actually having to sit down. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But apparently, the universe has other plans.

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

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

"Shit," you mutter under your breath.

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

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

Coach squints, stepping closer. "Really?"

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

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

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

Maya snorts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

"—you’re giving us details."

"Absolutely not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You groan. "I already told you—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Was it against the wall?" Claudia demands.

"Or was there, like, a couch or—"

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

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

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

The room goes silent, everyone hanging on your answer.

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

Another explosion of noise.

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

"YOU’RE ACTUALLY BLUSHING."

"PUTELLAS BROKE HER, GUYS."

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

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

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

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

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

Marta fans herself. "Continue."

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

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

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

Maya exhales sharply. "Shit."

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

Your silence says enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t even argue. Because, honestly?

Yeah. You might be.

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

Liv lifts her chin, “Who dat?”

You smiled raising your eyes, “Alexia”

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

“Ok” You groan, “Too much”

Alexia: Morning. We should talk. Coffee?

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

You: When and where?

Her response comes immediately.

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

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

You: I'll be there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not when something’s worth it."

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

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

Possible Sequel

obsessed 😍👀

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

Part 2: You meet again whilst on International Duty

Word Count: 9.6K

⚽️

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

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

Until it buzzes.

Ellie 🧤: What have you done to Alexia?

You blink. Frown. Sit up a little straighter.

You: What? Why? What have I done?

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

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

You stare at the screen.

Still holding her shirt in your lap.

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

You: Stop.

Ellie 🧤: No. I think she likes you. 😏

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

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

She packed yours.

Kept it.

Chose it.

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

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

⚽️

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

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

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

Until now.

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

alexiaputellas11 sent you a message.

You stare at it for a beat. Then tap.

The message is short.

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

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

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

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

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

You inhale through your nose, deep, slow.

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

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

Alexia: I know. So let’s settle it.

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

It’s you and her again.

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

And for the first time since the miss…

You’re itching for kickoff.

⚽️

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

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

You don’t notice the buzz.

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

Just a flick.

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

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

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

Beth raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Nope. Didn’t say Poppy.”

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

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

Your stomach flips. Just a little.

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

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

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

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

Beth gives you a look that says sure it is.

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

Beth leans closer. “Friendly how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You type back, careful and quiet.

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

A moment passes. Then the dots appear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia: Good. I want your best.

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

You’re trying to be subtle. Really.

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

And of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

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

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

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

Keira raises her brow. “That look.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Georgia’s getting louder.

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

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

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

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

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

You bump her knee under the table.

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

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

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

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

And Beth. Apparently.

⚽️

You’re the first one out.

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

Except, you’re not alone out here.

Spain’s already out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, innocent. Too innocent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beth leans in again, lower this time.

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

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

She groans. “So there was a look”

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

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

⚽️

You’re in the rhythm now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Don’t flatter her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m begging you.”

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

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

And she’s looking again.

⚽️

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

Kickoff is minutes away.

You’re locked in.

Hands flexing. Boots shifting weight. Eyes forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m focused,” you murmur back.

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

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

The players start to move. Boots echoing against concrete.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now comes the walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that electric opening burst, the game turns.

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

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

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

And you’re good. You show it.

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

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

The 29th minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2–1. Game on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

The scoreboard reads 88:17.

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

It’s 2–2.

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

But it’s not over. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Draw.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're still catching your breath.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when your breath actually catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia smirks. “Just the important ones.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another one for the collection, huh?”

Beth. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer her.

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

⚽️

It’s past midnight.

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

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

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

Then you check.

AlexiaPutellas11 sent you a message

You swipe it open.

Alexia: Still awake?

You stare at it for a moment. Then reply.

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

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

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

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

You pause. Then:

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia: You started it. You winked.

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

Then she sends another.

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

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

You type slowly.

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

Alexia: Only if you keep giving it to me.

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m ignoring it.”

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

Alexia arches an eyebrow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cata shrugs. “You’re trending.”

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

⚽️

You’re out early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to think. “I do.”

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

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

Alexia shrugs. “Preparing.”

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

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

You glance sideways. “That a compliment?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Millie shrugs. “Dunno.”

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

⚽️

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

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

You can’t stop watching her.

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

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

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

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

You don’t reply.

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

You sigh.

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

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

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

You swear she glances at the bench again.

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

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

Not from the sideline. With her.

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beth grins. “She’s watching you.”

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

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

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

⚽️

You’ve been flying.

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

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

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

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

Then everything stops.

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

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

Pain. Real pain.

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

The whistle blows. Everything stops. Wembley falls silent.

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

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

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

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

Not for the game. For you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you—”

“I’m taking the free kick.”

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

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

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

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

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

But this is your moment. Another Wembley moment.

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

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

Cata dives. Too late. The net ripples.

GOAL.

1–0.

Wembley erupts.

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

The bench clears. Coaches shouting. Crowd losing it.

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

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

She knew.

The pace slows. Just for a breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

The whistle blows.

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

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

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

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

And then you see Alexia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

You smirk.

You: What, jealous?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia: We did.

Another pause.

Alexia: And now we wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: You serious?

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

Then — another one.

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

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

You: I’d have you.

tutors from hell | something blue

pairings: barcelona femeni x teen!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she walked out.

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

“We’re dead,” Alexia whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about English?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Why do I have to—”

“Tell. Them.”

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

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

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

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

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

Dead silence. Someone dropped their resistance band.

“She’s gonna kill you!” Jana yelped.

“You’re doomed!” Ona added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“None taken,” Jana replied.

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

Frido stepped forward. “Math is mine.”

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

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

“You’re tutoring Azulita in science.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are now!”

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

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

“Trying to write an essay,” Alexia corrected.

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

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

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

“Teamwork,” Alexia said solemnly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You groaned dramatically. “This feels illegal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Actually?! What the hell, Frido!”

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

You rolled your eyes. “So do you!”

She smiled. “Fair.”

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

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

You squinted. “Uhh… 4x cubed?”

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

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

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

“Azulita,” she said sharply.

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

Fridolina narrowed her eyes. “Stand up.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if you sit, you sleep. Up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at her. “Fridolina.”

“March.”

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

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

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

You blinked.

She pointed to the floor. “Keep marching.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “The what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aitana stopped. “Azulita. Focus.”

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Because I’m American.”

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

You perked up. “Now we’re talking.”

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

“Ooh, okay. Superteam.”

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

You nodded slowly. “And Columbus?”

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

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

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

“Oh. Okay. Keep going.”

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

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

“YES! For the entire team!”

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

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

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

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

“I’m honored.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snapped your fingers. “Say less.”

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

Patri had been reluctant from the start.

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

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

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

To her credit, Patri tried to set the mood.

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

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

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

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

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

“Snap from what?” you asked innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” Patri said, eyes twitching.

“You forgot it.”

“I know.”

She fixed it.

Ona and Pina exchanged glances but said nothing.

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

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

Patri froze mid-marker stroke.

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

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

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

Patri gave you a look that could curdle milk.

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

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

“You’re so annoying,” Patri snapped.

“You love me.”

“I barely tolerate you.”

“You were the one who volunteered to help.”

“I was blackmailed!”

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

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

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

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

“I will throw you out of this room.”

“No, you won’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pina tossed you a second gummy worm in celebration.

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

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

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

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

Ingrid had come prepared.

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“It’s kind of the point.”

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

“Okay.”

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

“What’s Macbeth’s fatal flaw?”

“His name?”

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

“Being married to Macbeth?”

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

“A really bad laundry day?”

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

You hesitated. “…Not exactly.”

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

You shrugged. “I read the Wikipedia summary.”

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

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

Ingrid tapped her fingers, clearly thinking.

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

You sat up. “We what?”

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

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

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

You blinked. “Why are you yelling?”

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

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

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

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

“Then why am I holding this thing?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “Told you I was smart.”

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

“Fair point.”

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

The locker room felt like a pressure cooker.

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

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

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

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

Olga held up a large manila envelope.

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

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

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

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

“Yes!” half the locker room yelled.

She peeled the envelope open slowly. Too slowly.

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

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

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

Olga looked up and cleared her throat. “First subject… History. Grade: A.”

The room erupted. Someone screamed. Patri started shaking you.

“Math,” Olga continued, “B+. Science, A-. English…”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“…B.”

The cheers were deafening.

“A B in English?!” Ingrid hollered. “That’s my girl!”

“I’m a genius!” you screamed, even as Patri launched you into the air like a sack of flour.

“PUT HER DOWN!” Frido shouted, already grabbing at your ankles like you were a loose balloon.

“NEVER!” Patri roared, spinning you around.

Aitana burst into tears. “She was failing two weeks ago!”

“She was using Wikipedia as a source!” Ingrid yelled through laughter.

“She said Macbeth was about a haunted kitchen!” Ona cried.

You were red-faced and breathless as Patri finally dropped you onto the bench. Alexia clapped her hands loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“Okay, okay, we’re proud. We’re happy. But we also have a Clasico to win. Let’s focus up!”

Everyone grumbled and slowly began returning to their gear, re-tying boots, slipping into jackets. The energy was lighter now, buzzing with excitement and joy.

You looked over and saw Olga quietly stepping back toward the door, her visitor pass swinging on her lanyard, ready to head up to her seat in the stands. You rushed to her, catching her just before she disappeared out of sight.

You threw your arms around her without saying a word, squeezing her so tightly she made a soft “oof.”

She hugged you right back, warm and steady, hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“Thank you,” you whispered into her shoulder. “For caring. Not just about the grades. About… all of it.”

She leaned back and smiled at you with those familiar, gentle eyes, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“I will always care,” she said softly. “You’re my little sister. That means you get nagged and loved.”

You laughed a little, wiped your eyes.

“You’re still grounded if your next essay is late.”

“Olga!”

She winked and ducked out the door, leaving you standing in the hallway, grinning like a fool.

From behind you, Alexia called out, “Let’s go, genius! You’ve got a game to save.”

You turned, squared your shoulders, and jogged back into the locker room, head high, heart full, and for the first time in weeks, completely present.

gone 😔😔 but never 🚫🚫 forgotten 🕊️🕊️

I- I.. can’t 💔💔

🏀 Based after Eleven 🏀

Chapter 10

It started as playful online chemistry with someone unexpected-Alexia Putellas. Flirty banter turned into late-night texts before a heated moment on a club balcony shifted everything.

Now it was post game meet-ups, no-strings friends-with-benefits arrangement. They shared passion, comfort, and the grind of pro sports. But as the season went on, lines blurred.

It was supported to stay simple. These things never do however. Not in professional sports. The option to stay isn't always yours.

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, heart hammering like you were about to walk into a final except this time, there were no sneakers, no warm-up playlist, no team huddle. Just the quiet echo of your breath and the weight of a decision that felt bigger than a game.

This was it.

Your final contract meeting with Barcelona.

The gold medal from Paris still hung by the doorway where you’d left it, like a ghost of everything you’d just accomplished four trophies in one season. An unprecedented legacy. You’d done your part.

Now it was their turn.

You tried to steady your hands as you twisted your hair up, pulled on your jacket, smoothed down the front of your shirt. It wasn’t that you weren’t prepared, you were. You’d rehearsed what you’d say, you knew the numbers. Your agent had laid out every offer on the table, both from Barcelona and the ones calling from across the Atlantic.

The WNBA teams weren’t just interested.

They were ready.

Big contracts. Full campaigns. Franchise-level investments.

But that wasn’t the part tying your stomach in knots.

It was the what ifs that buzzed under your skin.

What if they didn’t value you enough? What if this was goodbye? What if walking away also meant walking away from... her?

You hadn’t talked to Alexia about it. Not really. That night in Paris had said everything and nothing all at once. The way she held you like you might disappear. The way you kissed her like you already had.

You’d made love like people who were too proud to admit they were scared of letting go.

Now, here you were zipping up your coat, smoothing trembling hands down your thighs, staring at yourself in the mirror and trying to believe that walking in there was just business.

But your heart didn’t understand contracts.

It only knew the city. The crest. The people. Her.

Your phone buzzed.

A message from Liv: “Whatever happens, you already won. Go get what you deserve.”

You took one last breath. Then picked up your keys. It was time to find out if Barcelona was willing to fight for you the way you’d fought for them.

You opened your apartment door to head to the contract meeting and almost walked right into her.

Alexia.

Still in her post-training hoodie, hair damp from a shower, flushed cheeks from training that had only ended an hour ago.

Your mouth opened. But she spoke, “I didn’t want to text it.”

You swallowed hard. “Text what?”

She reached up, gently brushing her fingers against your arm, then trailed them down until her hand found yours. “I don’t want you to go,” she said softly.

You stared at her, searching her face for any hint of hesitation. There wasn’t any.

“I know the last few weeks have been.. weird. Between us…I don’t know when it stopped being casual,” she added. “I just know that it did.” You let out a shaky breath. “But i’m in love with you. I love you Y/N please don’t go. Stay.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stood there in the soft hallway light, hand in hand, two athletes dressed in your respective team gear, looking at each other like the whole world had quieted just for this moment.

Alexia gave your hand a small squeeze. “Say something,” she said gently. 

“I can’t do this,” you said, “Alexia. I have a meeting,” stepping back, letting go of her hand like it burned.

Her brows knit. “A meeting?” Her voice sharpened. “That’s what you have to say? You’re just walking away?”

You rubbed your temples, already feeling the weight of everything pressing in, your future, your choice, her. “I’m not walking away. I’m going to get what I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about us?” she snapped. “You’re really going to pretend none of this means anything? That I don’t mean anything?”

You sighed. “Alexia, please. Don’t do this now.”

Her eyes glassed over, jaw tightening. “I didn’t plan to fall for you,” she said, voice low, shaky. “But I did. I love you. And I’m standing here, asking you to stay and you won’t even look at me.”

You turned your face away, your throat tightening. “You’re asking me to throw away something I’ve been fighting for since I was a kid.”

“I’m not asking you to throw it away!” she said, raising her voice. “I’m asking you to see me. To be honest about what this is what we are. You’re just running from it because it’s easier to focus on basketball than deal with your feelings.”

You flinched, then shook your head. “I don’t have the head space for this, Alexia. I don’t. You can’t drop all of this on me right before the biggest meeting of my career.”

“I had to,” she whispered. “Because if I didn’t, you’d leave and I’d never say it and forever wonder.”

Silence fell. The hallway buzzed with tension. Her words lingered in the air like smoke.

You stared at her, heart pounding, lips partedmbut nothing came out. Then you turned, grabbed your bag, and walked out your door.

Alexia didn’t follow. She just stood there in your apartment, alone, eyes locked on the space where you’d been.

—

You barely remember the drive to Alexia’s place just that your hands were clenched on the wheel the whole time and your chest hadn’t stopped burning since you left that boardroom. You weren’t calm. You weren’t even sure what you were going to say. All you knew was you had to say something.  

You pounded on her door like your heart was about to break through your ribs.

When it opened, you were met not just with Alexia but her whole world behind her. Her mother, seated on the couch. Her sister hovering near the kitchen. And a few of her teammates still in Barça tracksuits, frozen mid-conversation, eyes wide the second they saw you.

The room was thick with tension. They knew. They all knew what you’d done.  

Alexia stepped forward, face unreadable. She opened her mouth to speak. You didn’t let her. “No, don’t,” you snapped, voice cracking. “Don’t say anything right now. You don’t get to drop that on me and then just stand there like nothing happened.”

She blinked, taken aback, but you were already going, fuelled by adrenaline and emotion.

“You don’t get to tell me you love me as I’m walking out the door for the biggest meeting of my career,” you said, voice rising. “That wasn’t fair, Alexia. That was so unfair.”

You could feel every pair of eyes on you, but you didn’t care.

“You know what that moment meant to me. You know, I’ve been fighting for that chance my whole life, and you waited until right then to tell me how you feel?”

Alexia’s lips parted again, but you didn’t stop.

“You think I don’t feel things too? You think this is easy for me? You think walking away from you didn’t rip something out of me?” Your breath hitched. “But I would never ask you to pick me over your career. Never.” You took a step closer, your voice low and rough now. “So what would you do, huh? If it were the other way around? If I begged you to come with me, to give it all up? Would you?”

She tried to answer—but again, you shook your head, cutting her off.

“No. Don’t. Because that’s not the point. The point is you didn’t give me space to even think. You threw your heart at me like a grenade and expected me to catch it.”

Your hands were shaking now. Anger. Hurt. Love. Everything tangled in your throat.

“And I wasn’t ready for that,” your voice had yet to lower. “I still don’t know if I am.”

Silence fell, heavy and raw. You looked around the room at the faces pretending not to stare. Her mother, her sister, her teammates none of them said a word. But their expressions said everything. And finally, you looked at Alexia. Her eyes shimmered, jaw tight, but she still hadn’t said a word.

You swallowed hard. “It’s too much Alexia, I can’t handle this right now I have people constantly wanting a piece of me, wanting commitment, a signature on a contract, a comment, a fucking selfie, I don’t need you doing the same, you have no idea how much pressure I’m under to constantly make the right choice, I don’t need you asking me to make a choice to”

Then you turned and walked out, heart pounding in your ears, not sure where you were going just knowing you couldn’t stay.

—

You didn’t know how long you drove. Past streets that blurred together, red lights you barely registered, the same message from your agent popping up on your phone over and over “We need to know. Clock’s ticking.”

You ignored it.

Your chest felt like it had split open the second you walked out of that apartment.

Your voice still echoed in your own head. Alexia’s silence too.

You hadn’t even meant to say half of it, but it came out like a flood. Like it had been sitting there under your ribs, waiting.

You were terrified.

Terrified of choosing wrong. Of walking away from something real. Of staying and sacrificing what you’d worked for. Of leaving and never knowing could have been.

By the time you finally parked, the sun had sunk low enough to turn everything gold and soft. You didn’t even know where you were just that it was quiet. Just that you could breathe again.

You leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes. You didn’t text. Didn’t call. Didn’t answer when she did.

And you were tired. So instead of going back to Alexia, you went with Liv and Maya who had already booked a post-season escape to Greece, and insisted, loudly and dramatically, that you needed it more than anyone.

“Blue water. White buildings. No exes,” Maya had said, grinning as she shoved the ticket confirmation under your nose.

And you’d nodded, packed a bag, and gotten on the flight. Now you were on a boat.

Literally. Out in the Aegean Sea. The sun warm against your shoulders, the breeze tangling through your hair, your legs dangling over the edge of the deck. Maya was already mid-dive, cannonballing off the side with a scream, while Liv lounged in the sun with a drink in hand, sunglasses halfway down her nose as she watched you carefully.

“You haven’t checked your phone in two days,” she said.

You shrugged. “I didn't unpack it.”

She smiled faintly. “Proud of you.”

You looked out over the horizon, clear and endless and yours for once. No decisions. No pressure. No pretending that whatever was between you and Alexia didn’t always circle back to pain.

Just freedom.

“I didn’t want a goodbye,” you said suddenly, surprising even yourself. Liv didn’t press. You stared at the sea. “I just… didn’t want to sit in that silence again, knowing one of us was waiting for the other to say something they didn’t mean.”

Maya surfaced with a laugh, splashing water everywhere. “You two gonna cry or jump in already?”

You stood slowly, stretched, and smiled. “Jump.” And you did.

You dove in clean and headfirst, the water cold and bright and new. It wrapped around you like clarity, like release. Like something finally, finally just for you.

Alexia was somewhere far away, in another country, maybe still waiting. But right now you weren’t.

But back in Barcelona.

The warmth of summer had rolled in gently over the city, but for Alexia, it felt cold. The air in her apartment was still, heavy. The kind of quiet that doesn't come from peace but absence.

She sat curled in the corner of the sofa, knees tucked to her chest, wrapped in one of your hoodies one she had no right to still wear, but couldn't bring herself to fold away. Her phone buzzed on the table for the tenth time that hour. She didn’t look.

She already knew what it was. More news. More speculation. More you.

Every local sports channel had the same thing on repeat: updates about your contract, the mounting pressure on Barcelona to offer more, the leaked offers from WNBA teams huge numbers, huge interest, and the biggest story of all…

Your silence. No statement. No goodbye. No post-game recap. Just... gone.

And today they had photos. You, in Greece. Tanned. Laughing. On a boat. Your smile shining in the sun like the whole city hadn’t been holding its breath waiting for your next move.

Alexia couldn’t take it anymore. She shut off the TV and pressed her palms to her eyes. She tried not to cry. She really, really did.

But her mami had already sat down next to her, one look at her daughter’s face enough to see the heartbreak she was trying to hide “Mi niña,” her mother said gently, wrapping an arm around her. “What happened?”

Alexia shook her head, a tear sliding down her cheek. “I really thought she’d stay.” Her voice cracked so softly it broke her mother’s heart. “I really thought… even after everything… even after how messy we were, I thought she’d fight to stay.”

“She still might,” her mother offered.

Alexia shook her head. “She’s gone. She didn’t even tell me. Didn’t say goodbye. She just left.”

Her mother rubbed small circles on her back. “Maybe she couldn’t say it. Maybe she didn't say goodbye because she couldn't, not to you. Maybe it was too painful"

Alexia stared at her lap, blinking through tears. Paris had felt like a turning point. That kiss beneath the Eiffel Tower, the way you had smiled at her like it meant something again. The way you'd touched her face like you didn’t want to forget it.

And then that night, in the hotel. It hadn’t been sex. It hadn't been a hook up, it meant something. Something neither of you had dared speak aloud.

Alexia wiped at her face with the sleeve of your hoodie, breathing in the fading scent of you. “I think I let her go,” she whispered.

Her mother kissed the side of her head. “Or maybe you were just never sure if you were allowed to ask her to stay and when you did, it was too late.”

And that broke her all over again.

--

The sea stretched wide and endless around you, nothing but deep blue and gold sun. The yacht bobbed gently on the Aegean, anchored just off the coast of a quiet cove, the perfect post-season escape. Salt clung to your skin, your hair still damp from the ocean. Everything smelled like sunscreen, grilled food, and freedom.

You were lying on a cushioned lounger at the back of the boat, a pair of sunglasses shielding your eyes as you listened to the hum of Maya and Liv chatting somewhere behind you soft, lazy voices full of peace.

No pressure. No crowds. No one expecting you to be anything more than tired and sun-kissed. It had been a few days now. Since Paris. Since the final. Since her. And no one had brought it up. Not Alexia. Not the kiss. Not that night in her hotel room where everything between you slowed down for the first time.

Where it hadn’t just been sex. Where it felt like goodbye, even though neither of you said the words.

You’d touched her like you were memorising her. She’d held you like she didn’t want to let go. But morning came, and you both let it speak the things you couldn’t.

The ache from that night still sat quietly in your chest familiar, patient. Waiting. But now, the two people who knew you best were giving you the most obvious kind of grace.

They weren’t asking. Not about the contract. Not about Barcelona. Not about whether you were staying… or going.

You sat up slowly, pulling your sunglasses to rest on your head.

Maya was stretched out under the shade with a book on her stomach, eyes closed. Liv was dangling her feet off the side of the yacht, sipping from a cold drink, gaze somewhere far off on the horizon.

“Neither of you are gonna ask me?” you said softly.

They both looked up, brows raised, like you’d just interrupted a very chill dream. “Ask you what?” Maya replied, already knowing.

Liv shrugged, lips pulling into a gentle smile. “When you’re ready to talk about it… you’ll talk.”

Your throat tightened just slightly at the calm in their voices, the way they didn’t push. You nodded, quietly grateful. “Thanks.”

Maya lifted her glass toward you. “Whether it’s Barcelona or not, you’ll land where you’re meant to.”

Liv grinned. “And we’ll still make fun of your shitty decision making either way.”

You laughed, the knot in your chest loosening for the first time in days.

The future was still uncertain. But your people they weren’t going anywhere. And for now, under the sun, on the sea, with everything suspended in this warm, golden pause, that was enough.

-

The sun was melting into the Aegean Sea, painting the sky in soft strokes of orange and lavender as the yacht gently rocked beneath you. The air was warm with salt and quiet, the kind of peace that only came once the noise of winning had settled and the champagne had finally run dry.

You sat with Maya and Liv around a small table on the deck, barefoot, drinks in hand, a soft breeze tugging at the hem of your linen shirt. Laughter had faded into comfortable silence, a half-finished dinner of grilled seafood and pasta still on your plates. Someone had queued a mellow playlist. You’d almost forgotten the world existed beyond this floating slice of stillness.

Until Liv ever the instigator patience wearing thin-set her glass down and asked softly, “So. Are you going?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked out at the endless blue horizon, the world you'd just conquered behind you… and the one waiting ahead still uncertain. “I don’t know,” you said finally. “I thought I would. I mean, I still might.”

Maya leaned forward, chin on her fist. “But?”

You sighed, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “Alexia.” The name came out before you could soften it.

Liv gave you a look. Not smug. Not surprised. Just knowing.

You continued. “She’s probably, I don’t know… thirty percent of what’s making me hesitate.”

Maya raised her brows. “That’s not a small percentage.”

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “It’s not just her. I love the team. The club. The city. The fans. And… I’m not that far from home here. From my family. I get to see them. They’ve been part of this whole journey. I feel rooted in Barcelona.”

Liv’s voice was quiet. “But?”

You let out a slow breath. “But the WNBA… on paper, it’s perfect. The dream, right? The best league in the world. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I’ve trained for.”

“But it’s far,” Maya added gently. “Really far.”

You nodded. “Eight hours, sometimes more depending which team I pick. But it's not just distance. It's a different kind of pressure. A different kind of spotlight. I know I’d grow there. I know it’d challenge me. And I know I'd do well and thrive and my game would translate. But I don’t know if I’d be happy.” You looked up at both of them, eyes raw, vulnerable. “And I don’t know if that’s selfish or smart.”

Liv smiled softly. “It’s human.”

You stared back out at the water, heart heavy in the kind of way that had nothing to do with doubt, and everything to do with choice. “You know what’s funny?” you said after a moment, voice barely above the waves. “Winning everything this year… it didn’t make the decision easier. It made it harder.”

Because now you had everything. And you had to decide if you were ready to walk away from it. From the dream. Or from the life you never expected to build but had come to love.

And somewhere in between it all, was her, the goodbye you still hadn’t said.

“So,” Maya said, swirling her wine before leveling her eyes at you. “When do you have to make a decision?”

You pushed your fork through the last piece of feta, exhaling slowly before answering. “Three weeks.”

Liv glanced up, her expression sobering. “That’s it?”

You nodded, setting your fork down. “The club’s given me their final offer. No more meetings. No more back and forth. Just ‘Here’s what we’re offering. Take it or leave it.’”

Maya leaned back in her seat, eyebrows raised. “Damn. That’s… kinda cold.”

You shrugged. “They said they need to start planning for what the team looks like post-me. If I go.”

There was a brief silence. Not heavy just thoughtful.

Liv set her glass down. “And what does it look like for you if you stay?”

That was the question.

You leaned back, stretching your legs out, gaze flicking toward the water where the last light of the day danced across the surface. “Comfort. Familiarity. A team I helped build. A city I know.”

“And Alexia,” Maya added quietly.

You didn’t look at her. “Yeah.”

“But?” Liv asked, gently.

You glanced between them, then spoke honestly. “But… I’d be choosing less. Because no matter how much I love playing there, it’s not the best offer on the table, not even close.”

Maya nodded slowly. “So you’d be staying for the badge.”

You met her eyes. “I’d be staying for the people.”

That was the truth. But there was something else beneath it. That night in Paris with Alexia the kiss, the way she looked at you, the way she held you later in that quiet hotel room, like it was something more than just touch, like she knew what you both weren’t saying…

It had felt like goodbye. Neither of you had said it. But you both felt it.

Maybe that was why you hadn’t made your decision yet. Because staying meant more uncertainty. But leaving meant finally letting her go.

Liv reached out and squeezed your hand across the table. “Whatever you choose,” she said softly, “just don’t choose out of guilt. Or fear. Choose what gives you peace.”

"I would hate for you to stay for Alexia and you end up resenting her, because thats so much worse"

And under the Greek stars, with the water lapping gently against the hull, you finally admitted. You weren’t sure peace existed on either side. You knew it was time. “I have to tell you both something.”

Liv immediately looked over. Maya popped another grape in her mouth, then paused. “This sounds ominous,” Maya said slowly.

You nodded once, the heat suddenly sticking to your skin differently. “It is.”

They both waited, the air shifting, the sea breeze no longer enough to cool the tension rising in your chest. “It was before my last meeting with Barcelona,” you started, voice even but heavy. “Alexia turned up at my place just as I was leaving. We hadn’t really spoken after Paris… not properly.”

Maya straightened. Liv’s brows drew together.

You looked out over the water, then back at them. “She told me she was in love with me.” Silence. Neither of them moved. You let the words settle, your throat tightening as you finished, “And I walked out.”

Liv blinked, stunned. “You what?”

“I couldn't deal with it,” you said quickly. “She said it completely serious and I just… couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process. Not with everything else. So I left.”

Maya let out a slow breath. “Did you talk to her after?”

You shook your head, jaw tight. “Yeah. I went to her place her mum sister and some friends were there and just went crazy on her basically said she was unfair for telling me she loved me and walked away. I haven’t seen her since. Haven’t called. She hasn’t, either.”

Liv sat up now too, arms resting on her knees. “So she said she loved you. And you ghosted her?”

You winced. “I know how that sounds.”

“It sounds like you’re both idiots,” Maya said, though her voice was more gentle than annoyed.

“She asked me to stay to,” you added quietly. “To stay in Barcelona. With her. And I was hours from making the decision and it just… it overwhelmed me. It felt like pressure. Like she waited too long, and then expected me to just drop everything because she finally figured it out.”

Liv was quiet for a long beat. Then she said softly, “And now?”

You looked down at your hands, then up at them again. “I don’t know.”

You thought about her every single day. The last kiss. The way her voice broke when she said it. The feeling in your chest that morning, like something beautiful was being left behind... intentionally.

“She meant it,” you whispered. “I know she did. But I didn’t know if it was love or just fear of losing me.”

Maya nodded slowly, the sun dancing in her curls. “And now you might lose her anyway.”

“Yeah,” you exhaled. “I think I already did. I could see how broken she was when I left.”

And this time, neither of them said anything, because some heartbreaks didn’t need commentary. Just space. And silence.

--

The lights in the Palau Blaugrana blazed brighter than ever gold and purple flooding every seat, the court transformed into a stage, the banners of all four trophies draped across the rafters like proof of a dream most teams wouldn’t even dare to speak aloud.

You’d won everything. League. Cup. SuperCup. Continental Final.

The crowd was standing. Cheering. Chanting your name over and over, echoing around the arena where it all began. Where you’d bled, rehabbed, led, and lifted more than just trophies you’d carried a team into history.

And yet…

You were crying. Not small tears. Not discreet.

You were standing centre court, your medals around your neck, your hair still damp from champagne, and your shoulders were shaking. Your eyes were already rimmed red, your cheeks streaked with tears as the club played a montage of the season above the court. Every big shot. Every buzzer beater. Every celebration. Every injury. Every comeback. You. Always you.

You tried to smile through it, tried to wave to the crowd like everything was fine but your bottom lip was trembling and your hands weren’t steady.

Maya had an arm wrapped around your waist, her forehead pressed briefly to your shoulder. Liv wiped her own eyes beside you, sniffling with zero shame.

And the rest of your teammates were struggling. Because seeing you like this, the heartbeat of the team, the one who always held it together was breaking them.

Your coach saw it too.

She crossed the court calmly but with urgency, gently pulling you into a hug right there in front of everyone. One arm wrapped firm around your shoulders, the other cupping the back of your neck as you sank into her.

She whispered something only you could hear. “Whatever happens next, this will always be yours. You gave this city this.”

You nodded into her shoulder, the tears not stopping but becoming quieter. It wasn’t just the emotion of winning. It was the ache of knowing this was probably the end. Your last time in this arena as one of them.

And no matter how many cheers came, how many lights flashed, how many people screamed your name…

It wouldn’t change the fact that the goodbye you hadn’t said yet was already being felt.

The arena was still roaring when someone handed you the mic.

You hesitated. Your hand curled around the black metal, fingers trembling. You stared at it like it might burn you, because speaking meant naming something you’d spent months trying not to.

You looked out at the crowd, at the faces you’d come to know and love. Fans wearing your jersey. Staff who’d treated your ankle like sacred ground. Your teammates still clutching each other on the sidelines.

And then you looked up.

The banners. All four. Hanging there like crown jewels.

You cleared your throat and brought the mic to your lips. Your voice cracked before you even started.

“I’m not great at this,” you began, your laugh watery, brushing at your cheek with the back of your hand. “Talking. Especially when it matters. Especially when it’s this close to… everything.”

The crowd quieted, sensing what you were about to say, but no one moved. No one even breathed.

“This season… I don’t even know how to describe it. We made history. Not just as a team, but as people. We fought through injuries, setbacks, pressure, expectations so heavy they could’ve crushed us. But we didn’t break. We rose.”

You paused, exhaling slowly. You looked at Maya. At Liv. Your coach. Each of them anchoring you in their own way.

“There’s no version of this story without all of you. No version of this success without every single person who showed up every day, even when it was hard. Who stayed when things were uncertain. Who played through pain. Who showed up for each other when we didn’t know how to ask.”

The crowd started clapping again soft at first, then swelling.

You swallowed. Your voice gentled. “And this is the end for me here… this is the last time I wear this jersey, then I just want to say. Gracias!”

Your eyes were glassy again, but your voice didn’t falter now.

“For believing in me when I didn’t even believe in myself. For letting me lead you. For letting me grow here. For letting me leave this court not just as a player, but as a part of this club’s history.”

You looked down for a moment, overwhelmed by the roar rising again. Then back up, straight into the heart of the crowd.

“No matter where I go next, this” you turned, gesturing to the court, the lights, your teammates, "this will always be home. You made me feel like I belonged.”

A pause. A breath.

“And that’s something I’ll carry with me, always. I wish there was a different ending to this story but it's the one I have to accept. Te amo con todo mi corazón, adiós.”

You lowered the mic slowly, letting the words settle, letting the emotion swell.

The arena exploded. Standing ovation. Chants. Cheers. Tears.

And in the chaos, as your teammates pulled you into a hug, the staff and coaches surrounded you like a living, breathing embrace.

The press release went out just after sunrise.

Short. Gracious. Carefully worded by your agent, signed off by both parties, and accompanied by one photo your last walk through the tunnel, back turned, trainers slung over your shoulder.

You didn’t read the headlines. You didn’t need to. You already knew what they’d say.

“Barcelona’s Star Departs.” “Historic Season Ends in Goodbye.” “WNBA Wins the Battle.”

None of them would write about what it really meant. Not the missed calls. Not the silence after the fight. Not the ache in your chest when you handed back your training gear and walked past the football facility door without popping your head in.

You thought you might cry when the flight lifted off. But you didn’t. You stared out the window, the city shrinking beneath you, the crest pressed into your hoodie like it still belonged to you. Willing the plane to England for the post season break to hurry up and land you just wanted a hug from your mum.

You didn’t cry then. Not when you went to yours parents as you thought.

It was when you sat on the floor in your bedroom, and pulled out your phone.

A single message.

From her.

Just a photo.

Of your hoodie.

And underneath, just one line:

“You forgot your jacket.” How it all started.

You didn’t respond. Not because you didn’t want to. But because the words wouldn’t come. You pressed the phone to your chest and sat there in the quiet of your cries for a long time, letting the silence say what neither of you could.

And somewhere, across an ocean, maybe she was doing the same. Because love doesn’t always end with fireworks. Sometimes it ends with a story that doesn't get the happy ending. And a photo you’ll never delete.

it gets better, and better ✨

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.

So when you woke up the next morning, stretched, and instinctively reached for your phone she had already made her next move.

Alexia had posted on Instagram. Not a story. Not just a casual like. A full post. And the second you saw it, your stomach dropped. It was a photo from your game. Taken from court-side. A clean, professional shot of you mid-air, finishing a layup. And her caption?

Didn’t see me there, huh? 😏

You froze. Because holy shit. She really did that. You scrolled to the comments. Of course, people were losing their minds.

Comment: OH SHE’S CALLING YOU OUTTTT LMAOOOO

Comment: Alexia woke up and chose violence. Comment: You really thought you could ignore HER? Rookie mistake. Maya: Burying yourself deeper and deeper, I love this for you. Liv: You gotta respond. There’s no way you let her get away with this.

Your pulse pounded. You could ignore a lot of things. But this? No chance. You weren’t going to let her have the last word. So you went straight to your own Instagram story. And posted a response. A different angle of the same shot Alexia had posted, this time, taken from behind, where your jersey number 11 was clearly visible.

Enjoying the view?

No tags. No direct mention of her name. But everyone knew exactly who it was for. The second you posted it, your phone exploded.

Maya: OH MY GOD. Liv: Noooo you’re actually insane for this.

Your coach: Why is half the media room talking about this? Should I be concerned?

And then a new notification popped up.

Alexia: Very much so.

Your stomach flipped.

Tonight was a vibrant celebration of the remarkable beginning to the season for Barcelona women's basketball. The atmosphere was alive with the sounds of clinking glasses and hearty laughter echoing through the venue. Well-dressed guests, a mix of influential figures and renowned personalities from Barcelona, mingled gracefully, their conversations weaving a tapestry of excitement and admiration. The air was charged with a sense of triumph and camaraderie, as the city's elite gathered to honor the team's outstanding achievements.

Maya nudged you gently, her eyes wide with a mix of excitement and trepidation. "Uh… we’ve got company," she murmured, barely containing her disbelief. You turned to look, and there she was—Alexia Putellas. She stood confidently on the other side of the expansive function room, her arms crossed casually over her chest, watching you with a knowing smirk that seemed to hold a thousand secrets. Her presence was magnetic, drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. She wasn't alone, either. A few of her Barcelona teammates flanked her, their posture relaxed yet exuding the unmistakable aura of elite athletes. You should have anticipated their attendance; it was only natural they’d be invited and feel obliged to make an appearance at such an event.

Liv took your hand oblivious, “I need the toilet, come with me” Your eyes widened ever so slightly that would take you directly past Alexia, you looked over your shoulder to your team mates all amused and none stepping forward to offer any help. You’d fought fire with fire many times with Alexia, now you were coming face to face and you were on your own. The confidence you had behind your phone screen dissipating the nearer you got with every step.

As if guided by some strange destiny, your shoulder unexpectedly collided with Alexia's. She turned to face you, and the reassuring squeeze Liv gave your hand propelled you into that realm of sassy confidence you usually only felt online. “My bad,” you said, pausing momentarily, “didn’t see you there.”

Alexia’s lips curled into a playful grin. “Thought I’d make it a bit more challenging for you to overlook me this time.”

You were not going to give her the satisfaction. Not after all this. Not after the social media games, the press conference questions, the showing up at your game like she owned the place. No. You were going to act completely unbothered. Like her presence meant nothing. Like her smirk didn’t make your skin heat. Like you didn’t feel her watching you every time you moved.

And at first? It worked. You stayed locked in, making polite small talk, laughing at unfunny jokes, ignoring the way your teammates kept giggling like this was the most entertaining thing they’d ever witnessed. But Alexia? Alexia Putellas? She wasn’t going to let you win that easily.

She Gets Bold. It started small. Little things. A comment here. A lingering look there. You moved by. “Nice outfit” Alexia called from her position on a stool surrounded by her teammates, just loud enough for everyone to hear. You ignored it.Because that was the game. She pushed. You didn’t react. She wanted to see how far she could go before you cracked and damn it, you weren’t going to give her that. But then she went for the kill.

You were leaning on the polished wooden bar, waiting patiently for your turn to be served. The murmur of conversations and clinking glasses surrounded you, but it was her voice that pierced through your solitude. “Do you always play that hard when someone’s watching?” she asked, her tone playful and teasing, referring to the impressive performance you had delivered at the game she attended.

You swallowed hard, a mixture of surprise and amusement swirling within you, yet you kept your eyes forward, steadfastly refusing to turn toward her. "I always play that hard," you replied, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance.

"Mhm." Her voice dripped with a teasing smirk that you could almost see. "Good to know."

And that’s when it happened. That’s when you finally let the walls crumble. You turned your gaze slowly to meet hers, and there she was, closer than you had anticipated. Her arms were crossed confidently over her chest, that infuriating yet captivating smirk still etched on her lips, as if she had all the time in the world to wait for your reaction.

Pushing yourself up from the bar, you turned fully to face her. She remained rooted to the spot, unfazed by your scrutiny.

"Why are you here, Alexia?" you asked, your voice carrying a mixture of curiosity and exasperation.

"Told you," she replied with a casual shrug. "Didn’t want you to miss me again."

You exhaled sharply, a frustrated puff of air escaping your lips. "You’re impossible."

"And you like it." Her words hung in the air, thick and charged with an electric tension. Around you, your teammates were watching with keen interest, while your coach let out a resigned sigh, knowing that your focus should have been on charming the bigwigs, not engaging with Barcelona’s leading female football star. Yet Alexia, as always, was winning this unspoken game. Again.

You took a breath, you smiled. Not the tight, forced kind. Not the annoyed, I’m trying to keep my cool kind. No. A slow, deliberate, challenging kind. And that? That made Alexia’s smirk falter. Just for a second.

You stepped closer, just enough to make her feel the heat of the moment. "You think I want this?" you asked, tilting your head.

Alexia’s confidence flickered, just barely. "I think—" she started, but you cut her off.

"I think you came over here because you wanted to see how far you could push me."

A small, amused scoff left her lips. "And?"

"And now you’re realising you might not be ready for what happens when I start pushing back."

Her jaw tensed. You saw it, the shift, the way she wasn’t in control anymore.

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "So tell me, Alexia… are you?" She swallowed. And for the first time since this entire game started, she had no response. You could feel it. The shift. The way Alexia’s confidence flickered just enough for you to see the crack. She wasn’t expecting this. Wasn’t expecting you to push back. And that? That was your in. "Tell me, Alexia… are you?"

Her jaw tensed. A brief hesitation. It was subtle—so subtle that anyone else might’ve missed it. But you didn’t. You knew the signs. She was thinking. Calculating. Trying to decide her next move.

So you made it for her. "No Comeback?" you murmured, tilting your head. "I was expecting more from you." you succeeded in using her own written words against her and it felt good

Her lips parted slightly, as if she had something to say but you stepped back. Cool. Collected. In control.

You turned "See you around, Alexia." And walked away. You didn’t look back. You refused to. But you could feel her watching you. Your teammates definitely did.

"Holy shit," Maya whispered. "You just flipped the entire game on her."

"That was so unfair," someone else muttered, grinning.

"She came here to mess with you, and now she’s the one caught off guard."

You just smirked. Because they were right. You’d flipped the script. And now? Now it was her turn to react. You felt her eyes on you as you made your way across the room, each step measured and unhurried. The thrill of having finally unsettled Alexia Putellas—Barcelona's golden girl, La Reina herself—coursed through your veins like liquid fire. You'd finally managed to crack that infuriating composure of hers, and the victory felt sweeter than any buzzer-beater. Your teammates clustered around you like excited birds, their whispers a flurry of amazement and speculation.

"Did you see her face?" Claudia hissed, barely containing her glee. "I've never seen Alexia Putellas speechless. Ever."

"You literally walked away from her mid-conversation," Jordan added, shaking her head in disbelief. "Nobody does that."

You maintained your composure, though inside, your heart raced with a strange cocktail of triumph and anticipation. "It's just a game," you said with a casual shrug that belied the electricity still coursing through your veins.

"A game you're winning," Marta observed, glancing over your shoulder. "And one she's not used to losing."

"You realize she's not going to let this go, right? You just challenged the most competitive woman in Barcelona."

"Good," you replied, your voice low and steady. "I'm counting on it." You downed your drink, holding it in your mouth before swallowing, you sure needed it.

You refused to look back, refused to give her the satisfaction. Instead, you accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a deliberate sip, letting the bubbles dance on your tongue. The party continued around you—executives laughing too loudly at each other's jokes, photographers circling like sharks, capturing Barcelona's elite in their natural habitat.

For twenty minutes, you maintained your distance, engaging in conversation with sponsors and club officials, smiling for photos, being the perfect representative of Barcelona basketball. But always, always, you felt her presence like a magnetic field, disrupting your focus just enough to keep you aware.

Your phone vibrated in your clutch.

A text message from 

Alexia: Running away so soon?

Your lips curved into a small smile. So predictable. You slipped your phone back into your bag without responding. Let her wait.

Another ten minutes passed before you felt a presence at your elbow. You turned, expecting another teammate, but instead found yourself face to face with one of Alexia's football teammates and good friend—Mapi Leon, the defender with eyes that missed nothing.

"She sent you to do her dirty work?" you asked, not bothering to hide your amusement.

Mapi laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "Actually, I came to collect you at request. The president wants a photo with both Barcelona teams number 11's. PR opportunity." She gestured toward where the club president stood chatting with photographers and Alexia.

"Of course he does," you murmured, but followed Mapi across the room.

Alexia's eyes found yours immediately, that familiar half-smirk playing at her lips, though something had shifted. There was a new awareness there, a respect that hadn't been present before. As you approached, she straightened slightly from where she'd been leaning against a high table.

"There she is," the president beamed, gesturing for you to join the group. "Our basketball star! Come, come—we want a photo of our number elevens together."

Of course they did.

You moved to stand beside Alexia, the space between you charged with unspoken tension as photographers positioned themselves, their cameras poised to capture what was quickly becoming Barcelona's most compelling narrative. Standing beside Alexia, you could feel the subtle shift in her energy—she wasn't completely recovered from your earlier departure, but her composure had returned, wrapped around her like armor.

"You surprised me," she murmured, her voice pitched low enough that only you could hear it over the ambient noise of the party. Her gaze remained fixed forward, her smile perfectly calibrated for the cameras.

"That was the point," you replied just as quietly, your own media smile firmly in place.

The club president beamed, oblivious to the undercurrent between you. "Our number elevens! The faces of Barcelona excellence!" he proclaimed, gesturing expansively. "Closer together, please—show the unity of our club! Barcelona's queens of eleven," he announced proudly, gesturing to the photographer. "Two sports, one number, one club. Perfect symbolism!"

"Quite the narrative they're building," Alexia murmured, her voice just low enough for only you to hear. Her perfume drifted toward you something expensive and subtle, with notes of sandalwood and vanilla.

"Good for publicity," you responded coolly, lips barely moving as you maintained your smile for the camera.

The photographer directed you to move closer together. "Shoulders touching, please. Show the unity!"

With deliberate slowness, Alexia shifted toward you, her arm brushing against your back her hand finding a resting place on the exposed skin of the small of your back. The contact sent an electric current rippling across your skin. You refused to react, keeping your expression neutral despite the way your pulse quickened.

"Smile!" the photographer called.

You did, brilliantly and professionally. Alexia did the same, though you caught the slight tension in her jaw.

"Wonderful!" the president exclaimed. "Now, perhaps a toast to our champions?"

Champagne flutes appeared, and the moment stretched into minutes of carefully choreographed PR. Through it all, Alexia remained close, her presence a constant challenge to your composure. When the official photos were complete and the group began to disperse, she leaned in once more.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Alexia finally said, turning slightly to face you.

You met her gaze steadily. "I've survived worse."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Like walking away from conversations?"

"Like having my personal space invaded by football players who can't handle being ignored," you countered, keeping your voice light despite the challenge in your words.

Alexia tilted her head, studying you with newfound interest. "You're different than I expected."

"How so?"

"More..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Defiant."

You couldn't help the small smile that formed. "Disappointed?"

"Intrigued," she corrected, her eyes never leaving yours. "Most people don't push back."

"I'm not most people."

"Clearly." She took a deliberate sip of her champagne, her eyes still fixed on you

"You think walking away from me changes anything?" she spoke, her breath warm against your ear.

You turned slightly to meet her gaze directly, close enough to notice the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. "I think it changed everything," you replied. "Your move, La Reina."

Before she could respond, your coach called you over to meet an important sponsor. You stepped away, but not before catching the flash of something in Alexia's eyes—determination, perhaps, or frustration. Or something else entirely.

The evening continued its elegant march toward conclusion. You circulated dutifully, charm on full display as you discussed the season's prospects with investors and posed for selfies with admirers. All the while, you remained acutely aware of Alexia's movements around the room, tracking her without seeming to.

As the party began to wind down, you slipped away to the balcony for a moment of quiet. The Barcelona night spread before you, the city lights twinkling like fallen stars against the darkness. The cool evening air was a welcome relief after the heated atmosphere inside.

"Hiding?” The voice startled you, though you'd half-expected it. Alexia stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light from inside. She stepped forward, the soft glow of the outdoor lighting revealing her features—sharp, intelligent eyes and that ever-present hint of a smile playing at her lips.

You didn't turn fully, just angled your head slightly in acknowledgment, maintaining your position at the balcony's edge. The city lights of Barcelona stretched before you like a constellation of earthbound stars.

"Getting some air," you corrected, your voice steady despite the quickening of your pulse. "There's only so much small talk one can endure."

Alexia moved beside you, her forearms resting on the railing, mirroring your stance. The space between you felt charged, alive with possibility. "And yet you excel at it," she observed. "I watched you charm every sponsor in that room."

You allowed yourself a small smile.

"Part of the job i usually despise”

"Is that what this is?" you asked, gesturing vaguely between you. "Part of the job?"

The question hung in the air, weighted with meaning. She took her time answering, letting the night sounds of Barcelona fill the silence—distant traffic, music from a nearby restaurant, the gentle rustle of wind through potted palms.

"This?" she finally said, turning to face her fully. "No. This is something else entirely."

Your eyes met hers, searching. "And what exactly is 'this'?"

"I don't know yet," she admitted, surprising herself with her honesty. "But I'm curious to find out." A slow smile spread across Alexia's face not the practiced, media-ready smile she wore for cameras, but something more genuine, almost vulnerable.

"So am I."

The confession shifted the air between you, transforming the playful antagonism into something deeper, more complex. For a moment, neither of you spoke, content to exist in this new understanding.

"You know," Alexia finally said, breaking the silence, "when I first saw you play, I was impressed. Not just by your skill, though that was evident, but by your confidence. The way you owned that court like you'd been playing on it your whole life."

"I've never lacked confidence," you replied.

"No," she agreed, her voice softening. "It's one of the things we have in common."

You turned slightly, studying her profile against the backdrop of the night sky. "What else do we have in common, Alexia?"

She considered this, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the balcony railing. "We both understand what it means to carry a number with history. To wear it not just as a jersey designation, but as an identity."

You nodded, recognizing the truth in her words. Number 11 wasn't just digits on fabric—it was a legacy, a promise, a statement of intent.

"And we both," she continued, her voice dropping lower, "enjoy a challenge."

The air between you seemed to thicken with unspoken possibilities. You were acutely aware of her proximity, of the subtle scent of her perfume mingling with the night air.

"Is that what I am to you?" you asked, your voice steadier than you felt. "A challenge?"

Alexia turned fully toward you, the city lights casting half her face in shadow, the other half illuminated in a soft glow that accentuated every perfect angle. Her eyes held yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "At first," she admitted, the honesty in her voice disarming. "When I saw how quickly everyone took to you—the new star, Barcelona's basketball sensation... I was curious. Then our little social media game started, and yes, it became a challenge." She paused, her fingers drumming lightly against the railing. "But now..."

"Now?" you prompted when she didn't continue.

"Now I'm not sure what this is," she confessed, gesturing between you. "Except that I find myself thinking about you more than I should. And that..." She hesitated, vulnerability flashing across her features. "That hasn't happened to me in a long time."

The admission hung in the air between you, weightier than all the playful banter that had preceded it. Your heart stuttered in your chest, thrown by this glimpse of the woman beneath the legend. "I thought La Reina never showed her cards," you said softly, a gentle tease to mask how deeply her words had affected you.

Alexia's laugh was quiet, almost self-deprecating. "Perhaps that's another thing we have in common, we both know when to change the game."

The moment stretched between you, taut with possibility. The sounds of the party inside seemed distant, muffled by the intensity of this shared moment. You were aware of everything the slight breeze ruffling her hair, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the warmth of her hand now covering yours.

"You know everyone's watching us," you murmured, nodding slightly toward the glass doors where curious eyes occasionally flicked in your direction.

"Let them," Alexia replied, echoing her earlier message with a confidence that made your pulse race. "I'm more interested in what happens next."

Before you could respond, the balcony door opened, flooding the space with light and sound. Your team captain appeared, her expression apologetic.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, not looking sorry at all, "but the coach is gathering everyone for a picture before we leave."

You nodded, reluctantly shifting away from Alexia, the spell broken but not forgotten. As you moved toward the door, Alexia caught your wrist, her touch gentle but insistent "I'd like to see you again," she said, her voice low and certain. "Away from all this." She gestured vaguely toward the party inside.

The warmth of her fingers against your skin sent a current of electricity up your arm. You met her gaze steadily, allowing yourself a small smile. "Are you asking me on a date, Alexia Putellas?"

Her answering smile was slow and deliberate, confidence returning to replace the brief vulnerability she'd shown. "Yes. I am."

"Bold of you to assume I'd say yes," you replied, though the teasing lilt in your voice betrayed your interest.

Alexia's eyes sparkled with amusement. "You haven't said no."

Your captain cleared her throat pointedly from the doorway. "Coach is waiting," she reminded you, though her expression suggested she was enjoying the scene unfolding before her.

"We'll continue this conversation," Alexia said, releasing your wrist with a gentle squeeze.

"Will we?" you asked, unable to resist one final challenge.

"Definitely," she replied with such certainty that your breath caught. "After all, I need to show you that Barcelona has more to offer than just basketball courts."

With that promise hanging between you, you followed your captain back inside, feeling Alexia's gaze on you like a physical touch. The final toast passed in a blur of raised glasses and enthusiastic cheers, your mind still on the balcony, still caught in the gravity of Alexia's confession.

Your captain cleared her throat pointedly from the doorway.You turned back to her, aware of your captain's curious gaze still lingering at the doorway. "The team is waiting," you spoke in acknowledgment, though you made no move to pull away from Alexia's gaze.

As you followed your captain back inside, you could feel Alexia's gaze on your back, burning like a physical touch. The air around you seemed charged with electricity, alive with possibility.

"So," your captain whispered once you were out of earshot, "care to explain what that was about?"

You shrugged, affecting nonchalance despite the way your heart continued to race. "Just getting to know a fellow Barcelona athlete."

Your captain snorted. "Right. And I'm just casually friends with Lionel Messi."

You couldn't help but laugh at that, the tension of the moment dissipating slightly. "It's complicated."

"Clearly," she replied dryly. "Just... be careful. Alexia Putellas isn't just anyone. When she steps onto a field, or apparently, onto a balcony with you the whole world watches."

You nodded, knowing she was right. This wasn't just about two athletes flirting anymore. This was about two number 11s from Barcelona's premier teams, two women whose every move was scrutinized by fans and media alike. Whatever was happening between you and Alexia had implications that extended far beyond personal interest.

And yet, as you rejoined your team for the final toast of the evening, your eyes inevitably sought her out across the room. She stood with her teammates, glass raised, but her attention was fixed on you. When your gazes locked, she offered the smallest of smiles, private, genuine, a promise of what was to come.

YES!!! Love it 🩵

now a culer | something blue

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: school is still… rough, so alexia finds a solution

warnings: school fight

notes: i am genuinely loving writing for azulita

Don’t get it wrong. you didn’t hate Barcelona. It was a beautiful city, full of life, history, and football. The architecture was stunning, the beaches were nice, and the food, objectively, was good. But nothing— nothing could ever compare to LA.

LA had everything for you. Your friends, your school, your culture. You knew every street, every corner store, every mural that decorated the sides of buildings. The people in your neighborhood weren’t just strangers, you knew them, and they knew you. You had history with them. Mr. García, who owned the corner store, always had something for you when you stopped by, chips, a drink, a free snack, as long as you swept up the front of his store. Mrs. Alvarez, the seamstress down the block, had been patching up your old clothes for years because you couldn’t afford new ones. The local grocery store let you stock the juice shelves in exchange for a small bag of groceries. The paletero man that always made sure your favorite paleta was in stock People took care of each other in your LA. It was unspoken, but it was understood.

Barcelona had its own community, its own culture, its own way of life. But it wasn’t yours. It didn’t have your people. It didn’t have the same music blasting from car windows, the smell of carne asada grilling on the sidewalk, or the summer block parties that lasted until sunrise where you danced bachata til your feet hurt. It didn’t have the sound of Spanish and English blending together in a way that felt like home. It wasn’t the streets you grew up on. It wasn’t the familiar faces who had watched you grow. It wasn’t the city that had shaped you. It wasn’t home.

And the culture shock? It hit hard.

The Spanish spoken in Barcelona wasn’t even the same as what you grew up with. You could understand it, sure, but sometimes, the slang threw you off completely. The food was different, too—no more corner taco stands or elote vendors pushing carts down the street. No more bodegas where you could grab a pack of Hot Cheetos and a can of Arizona for a dollar fifty. And the people? They didn’t move like LA people did. Back home, you walked with a purpose, always aware of your surroundings. Here, people strolled leisurely down the sidewalk like they had nowhere to be, like they had never had to be in a rush a day in their lives.

But the biggest difference? The way you carried yourself. In LA, you had to be on guard. Always. You had to be sharp, ready, because life had never given you the luxury of relaxing. You were always prepared for something to go wrong, because it always did. Here, though, everything was so… safe. People left their doors unlocked. Kids walked home alone at night. You saw people with their phones out, not even looking over their shoulders. It made you uneasy. You didn’t know how to exist in a place where you weren’t constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Olga just could not get it. She didn’t get why you always seemed tense, why you jumped at sudden noises, why you always had to sit facing the door whenever you went out to eat. She didn’t get why you never let yourself fully relax, why you kept waiting for something to go wrong. She didn’t understand because she had never had to live like that.

And then there was the biggest adjustment of all: actually living with Olga.

For years, she had been a figure in your life. A presence. Someone who popped in and out, who you called and texted, who sent you money when you needed it. But you had never lived together. You had never had to share space. And now, suddenly, she was supposed to be responsible for you.

And it was a disaster.

You weren’t used to having anyone tell you what to do. You had been living on your own for months, doing whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. So, naturally, you didn’t see a problem with leaving your stuff wherever you felt like it.

Your shoes? Kicked off in the middle of the living room. Your jacket? Draped over the back of a chair. Your gym bag? Somewhere. (You’d find it eventually.) Olga, however, was losing her mind.

“Do you not see the mess you’re making?” she snapped one afternoon, hands on her hips as she glared at the chaos you had left in the living room.

You barely spared her a glance from where you were sprawled on the couch. “I’ll clean it up later.”

“Later when? Next week?”

You shrugged.

And the music. You had always blasted your music at ungodly hours, back when there was no one around to complain. So, why would you stop now? Except now, you had Olga banging on your door at two in the morning, looking absolutely murderous.

“Are you serious right now?” she hissed, shoving open the door. “Turn that down!”

“It’s not that loud.”

“IT IS!”

And then, of course, there was the hoodie situation.

Olga owned nice hoodies. You had noticed this immediately. You had also decided, just as quickly, that they were now yours. You never asked— you just took them. Which made Olga’s blood boil.

“Where is my hoodie?” she demanded one day, hands on her hips.

You pulled the sleeves of said hoodie over your hands, looking at her blankly. “What hoodie?”

“That hoodie! The one you’re wearing!”

“Oh. This? Thought it was mine.”

“It’s not!”

Alexia just watched it all unfold with an amused smile. She had no intention of stepping in. In fact, it would only make it worse. The best thing for her to do was to let the two of you argue then drop you off at school.

You flex and extend your fingers as you stare down at your raw knuckles, the skin cracked, bruised, and stinging with every slight movement. Your hands tremble slightly, and not just from the pain. You sit on a bench outside the principal’s office, your legs bouncing restlessly, teeth clenched, chest tight. You’re trying to breathe, trying to calm down, but the fire inside you is still burning too hot. Why do you keep losing it like this?

You wrack your brain for answers, frustrated and ashamed. You didn’t come here to be the angry kid. You didn’t come to Spain to fight. But everything felt wrong. Your body was tense from the moment you stepped off the plane a few weeks ago. Everything’s been off.

You hate how different the Spanish sounds. Everyone speaks fast, sharp, clipped, nothing like the Spanish you grew up with back home. Your classmates either don’t understand you or mock your accent. Teachers correct you like you’re stupid. You’re constantly trying to translate everything in your head, to blend in, but all it does is make you feel more alone. You squeeze your hands into fists again. The pain grounds you, just for a second.

The door creaks open, and your head jerks up. Olga steps out of the office, her jaw clenched, eyes blazing. Alexia follows behind, calm as ever, but her gaze flicks to you quickly, assessing. She says nothing.

Olga doesn’t waste time. “In the car,” she snaps, voice low and furious. “Now.”

You don’t argue. You stand silently, walking past them both with your head down. It’s déjà vu, the second time in a month. You can feel her eyes on the back of your head, and you’re already bracing for it.

And sure enough, as soon as the car doors close, Olga turns on you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she explodes. “Do you even care about staying here? Do you want to get kicked out of every school in the city?”

You stare out the window, jaw tight, refusing to say anything.

“I’m trying, okay?” she continues. “I’m trying to make this work. I’m trying to give you a good life here. But you’re making it impossible!”

“He was talking about you,” you mutter suddenly.

“What?”

You finally turn, meeting her eyes. “The guy I hit. He was saying disgusting stuff about you. I told him to stop. He didn’t. So I made him.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Nobody disrespects my sister,” you say simply.

Olga exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose as her anger starts to crumble.

“I… okay,” she says softly. “Okay. But Azul, this can’t keep happening.”

You don’t respond. The car ride home is quiet, tense.

Once you pull into the driveway, Olga tries again. “Can we talk more about—”

“I’m miserable here,” you cut in, still staring ahead. “I can’t keep up with the Spanish, people make fun of how I talk, I have no friends, and there’s no girls’ football team for me to play with. I feel stupid all the time. I feel… wrong.”

It hangs heavy between you. You blink back the sting in your eyes, suddenly too tired to fight.

Alexia, who’s been watching from the driver seat, finally speaks up. “I’m taking her to the pitch.”

Olga hesitates but nods. “Go. Just— be careful.”

The second Alexia nods toward the passenger seat, you perk up.

The Barcelona training grounds are quiet, bathed in the soft amber glow of the setting sun. You’re in your element the second you step onto the pitch, your body relaxing as you lace up your cleats. You and Alexia stretch in silence before falling into a one-on-one. The rhythm is familiar, the tension in your chest starts to melt away.

She’s good, obviously, but you manage to dust her with a ridiculous feint and spin move that has her stumbling, arms flailing as you laugh and tuck the ball into the net.

“Not bad,” she says, grinning as she shakes her head.

“You’re getting old,” you tease, jogging backward toward the penalty spot.

“Oh, please.”

Now she’s in goal, sleeves rolled up, expression focused as you line up your shots. One by one, you fire them in. She saves a few, but not all. The pop of the ball hitting the back of the net fills the air.

As you take a breather between kicks, you speak again. “I feel out of place at school. Like I don’t belong. It’s not just the language… it’s everything. I don’t talk like them. I don’t think like them. And there’s no football team. No girls to play with. I feel like I’m wasting my time.”

Alexia watches you carefully from the goal, nodding. “That’s not fair. School’s supposed to be a place that supports you.”

“It’s not,” you mutter. “I don’t even want to go anymore.”

Alexia stands up, brushing her hands on her thighs. “Don’t worry about that part.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just keep playing. We’ll figure the rest out.”

You take your last penalty kick, driving it hard into the top corner. The sound is clean, crisp, perfect. You grin.

Unbeknownst to you, two figures sit higher in the bleachers: Joan Laporta and Pere Romeu. They’ve been watching in silence, tracking your every move.

“She’s raw,” Pere murmurs. “Rough around the edges. But you can’t teach instinct like that.”

“She plays like she’s been fighting her whole life,” Laporta adds. “Because she has.”

“Alexia says she’s a winger, no?” Pere asks.

“Could be more than that, if someone gives her the right support.”

They keep watching as you and Alexia walk off the pitch together, sweaty and smiling, shoulders bumping. You don’t know it yet, but everything is about to change.

Back in the locker room, you clean up side by side, tying your hair back and trading casual banter. Your body aches, but your mind is calm for the first time in days.

The sound of your alarm blaring through your room was what, unfortunately, ripped you from sleep. You groaned, rolling over and slapping your hand against the snooze button with more force than necessary. Your eyes were crusty, your body stiff, and for a moment, you considered staying in bed and faking a stomachache. But you knew Olga would never fall for it.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on your face, and slowly made your way down the hallway toward the kitchen. Your hoodie was hanging half off your shoulder, socks mismatched, and your curls were a disaster. Typical school morning. You already dreaded the day.

What greeted you in the kitchen, though, made you pause. Alexia was standing by the counter, humming softly to herself as she tossed fruit into a blender. She was dressed, calm, and already looked like she had been awake for hours. There were slices of toast on a plate, eggs still steaming, and fresh juice already poured. You blinked slowly at the surreal domesticity of it all.

“Morning, ’Lexia,” you mumbled, rubbing at your eyes as you crossed the kitchen. “Have you seen my backpack? I swear I left it by the couch.”

Alexia didn’t even turn around at first. You heard the whir of the blender as she held the top down, blending with ease. When it finally stopped, she looked over her shoulder at you and that’s when you saw it. The smirk.

“You don’t need it today, nena,” she said coolly, pouring the smoothie into a cup. “You’re coming with me.”

You squinted at her. “Huh?”

She just handed you the smoothie. “Drink this. Get dressed.”

You stared at her like she had grown two heads. “Wait, what do you mean I don’t need it? I have school.”

“No, you don’t,” she said simply. “Not today.”

“Okay… am I in trouble again?”

She snorted and shook her head. “Just get dressed.”

The cryptic vibes were off the charts, but you went upstairs anyway, tugging on some joggers and a fresh hoodie, brushing your teeth quickly before grabbing your sneakers. When you came back down, Alexia was already at the door, keys in hand, sunglasses on like some undercover spy. The whole thing was sketchy—and a little exciting.

In the car, you peppered her with questions.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because it’s a surprise.”

“Is it good or bad?”

“That depends.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “You sound like Olga.”

“She learned it from me.”

You pouted, leaning your head against the window as you watched the city blur past. The sun was barely up, streets still quiet. Your nerves were growing by the minute.

When the car finally pulled up to the FC Barcelona training facility, your brows furrowed.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, genuinely confused now. “Am I in trouble for playing here the other day?”

Alexia just gave you a tight-lipped smile and stepped out of the car. “Come on.”

You followed her slowly, legs stiff, anxiety kicking up. It was one thing to kick the ball around with Alexia when the place was empty— it was another thing entirely to walk through the main building in broad daylight. Your eyes darted around as you passed by trainers, staff members, and a couple of players you recognized. No one stopped you, though. Everyone just nodded at Alexia and let her through.

Finally, she led you to a quiet room off one of the main hallways. It looked like an office, kind of. You hesitated at the door, but Alexia gently nudged you forward.

Inside sat a man you recognized from TV—Pere Romeu. He stood when you entered, smiling warmly, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk.

“Buenos días,” he said kindly. “Alexia told me you go by Azulita”

You nodded slowly, heart pounding.

He motioned for you to sit. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

You looked from him to Alexia, then back again. “Um… okay?”

He chuckled. “Relax. You’re not in trouble. Quite the opposite, actually.”

You sat stiffly in the chair, hands fidgeting in your lap. Alexia took the seat beside you, legs crossed casually.

“So,” Pere said, folding his hands. “The other day, Joan Laporta and I were here late, handling some administrative business. On our way out, we noticed someone playing on the pitch. You. With Alexia.”

Your mouth went dry.

“We watched for a while,” he continued. “And what we saw was raw talent. Instinct, drive, creativity, all of it. You play like it’s the one place you feel safe. And when we see a player like that… we pay attention.”

You blinked. “Wait… you were watching?”

He nodded. “Yes. And we’d like to offer you a place here. Not just training— on the senior team.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

“We’ll handle all of your schooling through La Masia’s internal academic program. You won’t need to return to your current school unless you want to. You’ll train, you’ll play, and you’ll study here with people who understand what it means to be an athlete. You’ll be surrounded by others like you. And more importantly, you’ll belong.”

You couldn’t speak. Your brain had stopped processing words somewhere around senior team.

“I know it’s a lot,” Pere added. “But we believe in you. And we want to help you grow not just as a player, but as a person. So… what’s your decision?”

He leaned back in his chair, patient, while your heart thundered in your chest. Alexia turned to you with a soft smile.

And all you could do was sit there, wide-eyed, the weight of everything hanging in the air.

not me having watched them live for the first time on the worst day ever in Turin. i gotta go and watch them win... need it for my mental health (MAYBE NEXT YEAR)🔵🔴

caro reminiscing about the last 4 champions league finals in a row, including one "where she wanted to go home" 😤

source: esport3 on instagram

göteburg 2020-21: raise the cup for the first time

turin 2021-22: the worst. i wanted to go home

eindhoven 2022-23: the first goal because i knew that we would win it

bilbao: 2023-24: irene's stop with her head on the crossbar because yes, it is our day and we will win.