New Beginnings | Something Blue
new beginnings | something blue
pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader
summary: your whole life is uprooted after one fall
warnings: deadbeat and neglectful parents, arguments
notes: new series!! i am actually very excited for this one so hope y’all like it. also this is a longer one!!
You pant as the stadium lights blaze down on you, illuminating the slick, rain-soaked pitch. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but you don’t stop moving— you can’t.
The air is thick with the scent of wet grass and sweat, and the roar of the student section vibrates through your chest, deafening, chaotic. You hear the distant pounding of the drumline, the frantic voices of your coach and teammates shouting instructions, but it all blurs together. White noise.
The scoreboard looms above, flashing 1-1, with the clock winding down. Your heart hammers against your ribs. If the streak ends here, you will never forgive yourself.
A messy clearance sends the ball bouncing, fast, unpredictable, through the center of the pitch. It ricochets off a defender’s shin and lands in your path, a gift wrapped in chaos.
For a split second, everything slows. The world shrinks to you, the ball, and the goal. You barely think. You don’t have time to. Instinct takes over.
With one touch, you push it forward, just enough to create space. A defender lunges in, too late. You see the keeper off their line—hesitating, shifting their weight, waiting for a pass that isn’t coming.
You pull back your leg and strike. The ball rockets off your foot, slicing through the air like a missile. You know it’s good the moment you hit it. The sound— that perfect, crisp contact rings in your ears.
The crowd collectively gasps. It climbs, spinning, curving then dipping, impossibly fast. The keeper scrambles, their hands stretching, but it’s a second too late.
The net ripples and for a second, there’s nothing. Silence. A breath held by thousands.
The stadium erupts. Your name is swallowed by the cheers, by the stomping of feet, by the chaos of bodies surging toward you. Your teammates crash into you, arms around your shoulders, voices wild in your ears. Someone grabs your face, shaking you, yelling words you can’t even process.
The scoreboard flashes 2-1. The final whistle blows. You did it. The streak lives as does your pride.
After the game, the celebration carries into the locker room, shouting, laughter, the slamming of lockers, the sharp scent of sweat and victory. You let yourself bask in it, let yourself feel it. The thrill, the relief, the high of it all.
By the time you step outside, your friends are waiting for you, still buzzing with excitement.
“That was insane!”
“Goal of the season, easy.”
“You’re a legend.”
They throw their arms around you, ruffling your damp hair, laughing, their eyes alight with pride. You try to brush it off, but their energy is contagious.
For a moment, everything is good. Eventually, one by one, they leave, disappearing into the night. The celebration fades. The stadium empties. The high starts to wear off.
And like always, you do what you’ve done after every game.
You take a slow walk along the stands, scanning the seats. Searching. Hoping.
The lights above hum, buzzing faintly in the quiet. The student section is empty now, just rows of vacant bleachers, puddles reflecting the glow of the floodlights. Your gaze drifts over every seat, your breath shallow. Maybe this time.
But the stands are empty. No familiar faces. No one waiting for you. Just like always.
You exhale, pressing your lips together. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You won. That should be enough. But the ache in your chest says otherwise.
The sun is dipping lower in the sky, staining the clouds gold and pink as practice stretches into the evening. The scrimmage has turned playful, full of taunts and laughter, the kind of session where the intensity is still there but the pressure isn’t crushing. It’s just fun… until it isn’t.
You’re dribbling down the pitch, slipping past defenders with ease, the ball glued to your foot. Someone shouts your name in warning, but it’s too late. A tackle comes in hard, way too aggressive for practice. There’s no time to react, no time to brace yourself.
You go down, and the impact rattles through your body, but the second you hit the ground, you know something is wrong. Pain explodes up your arm, sharp and immediate, radiating from your wrist.
You don’t scream, but you let out a harsh, shaky breath, cradling your wrist to your chest as you try to push yourself up only to be met with a wave of nausea as pain tears through your arm again.
“Shit, Azulita—”
“Is she okay?”
“Someone get the trainer!”
Voices swarm around you, overlapping, frantic. The player who tackled you hovers nearby, looking guilty as hell.
Your coach is there in an instant, crouching beside you. “Where’s the pain?”
You try to shrug it off, but even moving your shoulder makes your wrist throb. “Wrist.” Your voice comes out strained.
Someone helps you up carefully, supporting your arm as they guide you toward the sideline. The trainer takes one look and mutters, “We need to get her to the hospital.”
“No,” you fiercely shake your head, “No hospital please.”
“Ríos do not give me that bull today.” Your coach says in rebuttal. “You are going to the hospital. That is that. Am I clear?”
Your eyes start to water but the tears never fall. “Yes, Coach.”
The ride to the hospital is a blur of pain, muted voices, and the occasional bump in the road that makes you wince. Your teammates on the phone try to keep the mood light, cracking jokes, promising to cover your cast in the ugliest drawings possible.
But underneath it all, a weight is pressing down on you.
Hospitals mean paperwork. Paperwork means parents.
You barely process the check-in, the way the nurses poke and prod at your wrist, asking questions, nodding at your answers until suddenly, everything halts.
“Alright,” one of the nurses says, flipping through the forms, “we just need to get a hold of your parents for consent.”
Your stomach drops. They dial the number you gave them. You already know what’s coming. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Voicemail.
Frowning, the nurse glances up. “Do you have another guardian? A relative we can contact?”
You shake your head, quickly, instinctively, throat tight.
She tries again. Nothing.
“Sweetheart,” she says, softer now, “we can’t give you anything for the pain, and we can’t proceed until we get parental consent.”
The room closes in. Your teammates shift awkwardly, not sure what to say. The nurses murmur to each other. You stare at the floor, fingers tightening around the hem of your jersey, afraid to move, afraid to speak.
You could lie. Say they’re out of town. Say their phones died. Say something, anything. But the truth is pressing against your ribs, clawing up your throat. You don’t know where your parents are.
The minutes stretch long. Nurses come and go, but you refuse to meet their eyes, refuse to say anything. If they figure it out, if they realize you don’t have anyone, what happens next?
Then, a new nurse kneels beside you. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand answers. She just speaks, voice steady, familiar in a way you can’t place at first.
“You remind me of my little sister,” she says casually, watching you carefully.
You glance at her. The way she talks, the tone, the firmness, the care, it reminds you of Olga. Your throat tightens.
You don’t mean to say it. You don’t even realize the words are leaving your mouth until they’re already out, quiet and unsteady. “I haven’t seen or heard from my parents in months.”
The air shifts. The nurse straightens. Someone steps out of the room. The mood changes instantly. Your heart pounds. You shouldn’t have said anything. Now, everything is about to spiral.
Olga groaned as the sharp buzzing of her phone cut through the quiet of the bedroom. She shifted slightly, trying to ignore it, but the vibration continued, insistent.
Alexia, half-asleep, only tightened her arms around Olga’s waist, murmuring something incoherent against her shoulder.
Olga exhaled, debating ignoring the call altogether, but something about it felt urgent. Carefully, she pried Alexia’s arm away just enough to reach for the phone on the nightstand, squinting at the unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.
Her stomach twisted. Calls in the middle of the night were never good.
Reluctantly, she swiped to answer. “Hello?”
A brief pause. Then, a voice, calm, professional, but carrying a weight that immediately set Olga on edge.
“Is this Olga Ríos?”
“Yes.” She sat up slightly, rubbing at her face. “Who is this?”
“My name is Linda Perez, and I’m a social worker with Los Angeles County.”
Olga frowned, now fully awake. “Okay… what is this about?”
There was another pause, this one heavier.
“It’s about your sister.”
Olga went still.
“She suffered an injury earlier this evening during soccer practice at Willow Canyon Academy. She was taken to the hospital, but they were unable to reach either of her parents for consent to treat her injury. After further investigation, it became clear that your sister has been living without proper parental supervision for several months now.”
Olga’s breath caught in her throat. “Wait—what?”
The social worker continued, voice measured, but Olga could hear the underlying concern. “From what we’ve gathered, neither her father nor mother have been home for quite some time. Their numbers are disconnected or going straight to voicemail. She has no legal guardian available to authorize medical care or provide support.”
Olga felt like the room was tilting. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to process. “You’re telling me she’s been on her own?”
“Yes,” Linda confirmed. “And given the circumstances, her parents are now considered unfit. Without an immediate guardian stepping in, she will be placed into the system as a ward of the state.”
Olga’s stomach dropped. “She’s just a kid,” she said, voice tight, gripping the phone harder. “You can’t—”
“That’s why we’re calling you.” Linda’s tone softened. “You are her closest living relative. If you are willing, you can assume temporary guardianship. However, this is a serious commitment. You would need to take responsibility for her well-being, provide a stable home, and ensure she receives proper care.”
Olga didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll take her.”
Alexia, now sitting up beside her, stiffened at the urgency in her voice. Olga barely noticed, too focused on the conversation.
“Are you sure?” Linda asked. “This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”
“She’s my sister.” Olga was already kicking the sheets off, reaching for the nearest hoodie. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”
“Understood.” Linda hesitated. “Before you go— her injury. It’s her wrist. The doctors believe it’s sprained, possibly fractured. She needs surgery, but without parental consent, they can’t proceed.”
Olga clenched her jaw. “I give consent. Do whatever she needs.”
“I’ll let them know.”
The call ended, but Olga was already moving.
She threw open the closet, yanking out clothes, stuffing them into a suitcase with no real sense of order. Her hands were shaking. How did this happen? How did she not know?
Alexia grabbed her wrist, stopping her frantic movements. “Olga.”
“I should’ve known.” Olga shook her head, running a hand down her face. “She never said anything. I talked to her. I checked in. She never once told me she was—” Her voice caught.
Alexia squeezed her wrist. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have,” Olga snapped, then immediately winced at her own tone. She inhaled sharply. “She’s just a kid, Ale. She’s been alone for months. No parents, no one looking after her and I didn’t know. I should have known! Our dad has always been like this.”
Guilt burned in her chest. She thought back to every conversation, every time she’d asked, How are you? and got a casual, I’m fine in response.
Alexia’s grip on her tightened. “You are a good sister,” she said firmly. “You care. You’re doing the right thing now.”
Olga exhaled shakily, nodding. Alexia let go, only to start folding the clothes Olga had thrown into the suitcase.
“I’ll help you pack,” Alexia said.
Olga blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I’m coming.”
“You don’t—”
Alexia shot her a look. “Olga.”
Olga swallowed. The tension in her shoulders loosened slightly.
“Okay,” she murmured.
Alexia nodded, zipping up her own bag. “Then let’s go get your sister.”
The last time you saw Olga in person, you were twelve years old. She had come to visit for a month, and for the first time, you felt like you had a real family member, someone who truly cared, someone who loved you. You clung to every moment, every second of that summer, storing them away like treasures, hoping they would last.
Now, sitting in your social worker’s office, your leg bounces a mile a minute. Your fingers dig into the sleeves of your hoodie as you try to steady yourself, but your mind is racing. What if this doesn’t work out? What if she doesn’t want you? What if she sees you now and regrets coming?
The door swings open and Olga barely hesitates before crossing the room in quick strides. The moment she reaches you, her arms wrap around you tightly, pulling you in like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. You tense for half a second then melt into the embrace.
She smells the same, like citrus and something faintly floral. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face into her shoulder, and for the first time in months, you feel something close to safe.
She pulls back, hands still gripping your shoulders, and really looks at you. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes you in.
“You’re so—” Her voice catches, and she shakes her head. “Dios, has crecido tanto.” (God, you have grown so much.)
And you have. You’re nearly the same height as her now— maybe even taller. Your hair is longer, the tips dyed blonde. There are more piercings in your ears, and a small gold hoop gleams from your nose. Olga swallows hard. Her eyes are glassy, but she blinks quickly, shaking off the emotion.
Behind her, Alexia is speaking in low tones with your social worker, nodding as she listens. The woman slides a stack of paperwork across the desk, and Alexia flips through it, occasionally handing something to Olga to sign. It all feels so surreal.
Before you know it, you’re walking out of the office, bags in hand, stepping into the cool evening air. Alexia unlocks the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, while you and Olga settle in the back.
The drive is quiet.
You stare out the window, arms crossed, fingers tapping against your knee. The weight of everything sits heavy in your chest. Olga is here. You’re leaving your home, your LA. It’s happening so fast, and you don’t know how to process it.
Olga shifts beside you, then clears her throat.
“So…” she starts, trying to keep her tone light. “How’s school?”
“Fine.”
“Any favorite classes?”
A shrug. “Spanish.”
She exhales through her nose, tilting her head slightly. “Okay… uh, football? Are you still playing with Legends?”
You nod, still staring out the window. “Well, not anymore.”
Olga rubs her hands against her jeans, glancing at Alexia in the rearview mirror. Alexia gives her a small look that says, Give her time.
But patience has never been Olga’s strong suit. “Zulita,” she tries again. “I know this is a lot, but—“
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
It comes out sharp. Too sharp. You see Olga’s jaw tighten slightly.
“You needed someone to come,” she says, voice edged with frustration.
“I was doing fine.”
“Fine?” Olga scoffs. “Zulita, you were in the hospital alone. You had no one looking after you.”
“I was handling it.”
“No, you weren’t!” Her voice rises slightly, exasperation creeping in. “You’re fifteen! You shouldn’t have to handle it!”
The words hit something raw inside you. The frustration, the helplessness, the months of being on your own, of convincing yourself you were fine—it all bubbles up too fast.
“Well, I did!” you snap. “Because I didn’t have a choice! Because no one else was there!”
The car goes silent. Olga stares at you, her expression shifting from anger to something softer. Something sad. And then, she remembers.
She remembers the way you used to be as a kid— how you would lash out when things got too overwhelming, how your emotions always felt too big for your body, how you would snap and yell because it was the only way you knew how to feel heard.
She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice quieter. “I didn’t mean to yell.”
You glare out the window, arms still crossed, but the anger is already fading into something closer to exhaustion.
You shift uncomfortably. “…Yeah. Me too.”
She huffs a small laugh, shaking her head. “You’re still so hot-headed, Zulita.”
You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, lips twitching just slightly. “Takes one to know one.”
Olga snorts, nudging your knee with hers.
Alexia just smiles from the front seat, shaking her head as she drives.
Spain doesn’t feel like home. You only vaguely remember it— small flashes from the two times your dad brought you to visit Olga. The streets, the language, the way the air smelled different. But those were just trips. You were always going back to LA. Now, you’re here. Permanently. And you hate it.
The Spanish is different. The people are different. The food is different. Everything is different.
Your emotions are a tangled mess, a constant weight in your chest that you can’t shake. You don’t know how to deal with it, don’t know how to explain it, and the one thing that’s always helped, football, has been ripped away from you. You haven’t played since you landed a week ago.
Olga is smothering you. She means well, but it’s too much. She hovers, questions everything, watches your every move like you’re some fragile thing that might shatter at any second.
Alexia is different. She gives you space. She doesn’t treat you like a kid. She sees you not just some troubled teenager Olga suddenly has to take care of, but a person trying to survive in a world that doesn’t feel like theirs. She doesn’t push, just waits.
But none of that stops everything from boiling over.
You never meant to revert to your old ways. The one good thing about Spain was the fact that you had a chance at a fresh start.
But, as you’re sitting at lunch, music blasting in your headphones, trying to block everything out. Trying to breathe, you see it.
A younger kid, probably first-year, backed against a wall, shoulders hunched, eyes darting around like a trapped animal. A taller guy standing in front of him, sneering, shoving his shoulder. Words are exchanged, but you can’t hear them.
What you can see is the way the younger boy’s hands shake, the way he flinches when the older one steps closer.
And suddenly, your body moves before your brain does.
You’re up. Across the cafeteria. Pulling the guy away from the kid.
“What the fuck is your problem?” you snap.
The older guy sneers at you. “Who the hell are you, weirdo?”
You don’t think. You react. Shoving. Yelling. Someone grabs your arm, but you shake them off. A fist swings, and suddenly, you’re in it.
Then there are teachers. Hands pulling you back. Your heart pounding.
Before you even register what happened, you’re sitting in the principal’s office, hands balled into fists, jaw locked.
The secretary dials a number. You hear them say Olga’s name.
You shut your eyes and brace yourself. The car ride home is brutal.
“What the hell were you thinking? Do you know how serious this is? You just got here, and you’re already getting into fights? You’re lucky they didn’t expel you! Dios mío, do you know how hard it was to convince them not to suspend you? This is a top school, Azulita!”
You don’t answer. You stare out the window, jaw clenched, fingers digging into your uniform. You take a deep breath and bite your tongue.
Alexia is quiet for the most part, watching you through the rearview mirror.
Then she asks, voice calm, “Did they provoke you?”
You glance at her, hesitating. “…Yeah.”
“Were they hurting someone?”
Your throat tightens, but you nod.
Alexia hums but doesn’t say anything else.
Olga, on the other hand, is still going. Your breaths get more labored, “Olga. Please drop it for now.”
When you pull into the driveway, you don’t wait. You’re out of the car before it fully stops, slamming the door behind you and stalking inside.
Olga moves to follow, but Alexia stops her with a hand on her arm.
“Let her breathe,” she says.
Olga exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “She can’t just go around hitting people, Alexia!”
“I know,” Alexia says evenly. “But from what the principal said, and what she just said, she wasn’t fighting for no reason. She was standing up for someone.”
Olga’s shoulders drop slightly.
Alexia gives her a look. “You know better than anyone how she is. She doesn’t just get angry— she reacts. She’s been through a lot. You have to meet her halfway.”
Olga presses her lips together, sighing. “…Yeah. You’re right.”
She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and heads upstairs to your room.
She knocks. No response.
She knocks again. “Zulita, can we talk?” Silence. Something feels wrong.
She pushes the door open to be met with an empty bed. The window is open. Your phone is on the nightstand. Panic slams into her chest.
“Alexia!”
Alexia calms her down—barely.
“We’ll find her,” she promises, already dialing a number.
The call connects.
“Lucy,” Alexia says, straight to the point. “We need your help.”
It takes a few hours, but they find you. A park, thirty minutes away. A small, empty field. You’re there, by yourself, shooting goal after goal. You don’t even turn when they approach.
Alexia watches as you line up another shot, striking the ball perfectly into the top corner. It’s instinct. You don’t even think, don’t hesitate. Your body just knows what to do.
She and Lucy exchange a look.
Alexia steps forward. “You scared Olga half to death, you know.”
You exhale, resting your hands on your hips. “I needed to clear my head.”
“So you left your phone and ran off?”
“I didn’t think you’d care,” you mumble.
Alexia frowns. “Of course we care.”
You sigh, rolling the ball under your foot. “I just—everything is too much. It’s too different. Spain is different.”
Alexia doesn’t push. She just listens. You stand there, staring at the ball as you line up your next shot, feeling the weight of everything that’s been building up inside you. The silence between you and Alexia stretches, and for the first time, you feel like you can let it out. Let her see the truth of how hard this has been for you. The truth of what you’ve been holding in for so long.
“I’m not used to this,” you say, your voice low but steady, breaking the silence. “It’s… it’s hard, you know? Everything back home just… made sense.”
Alexia’s eyes are focused on you, not speaking, just letting you continue.
You exhale deeply, trying to find the right words. “Back in LA, everything was… routine. It wasn’t easy, but it was my life. You know? I didn’t need to think about it. The corner store, Mr. García, that old man who ran it—he gave me free snacks if I swept the floors for him.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to hold back the emotion that threatens to spill. “He wasn’t rich, wasn’t some big store owner or anything. He was just an old man who liked to help out kids like me. And I did what I had to do. I didn’t complain about it because it meant I got to eat something I didn’t have to pay for. And I felt good doing it. Like, that was a part of me.”
Alexia’s eyes soften as she listens, and you shift uncomfortably, but keep going.
“There was also Mrs. Alvarez, the seamstress who lived down the block. She used to fix my clothes when they tore or when I just couldn’t afford new ones. She’d take the time to patch them up, make them look good as new. And she’d always say, ‘I’ve got your back, mija.’ Even when I couldn’t pay her. She’d make me new stuff too, just out of kindness.”
You pause, feeling the lump in your throat grow.
“And the grocery store? They’d let me stock the juice shelves for an hour or two, and in exchange, they’d give me a bag of groceries. It was the only way I could get some food most times. I mean, I didn’t care, you know? I was just a kid, trying to make it through. But I was making it.”
You stop and look down at the ball, trying to steady your breathing. “Everything back home was like that. A hustle, yeah, but a hustle I understood. It wasn’t perfect, but it made sense. People helped each other out, and you helped them back. I knew how to survive.”
You look at Alexia now, feeling the weight of your confession. “I got a scholarship, you know? A football scholarship to the best program in LA. And it wasn’t handed to me. I worked my ass off to get there. I had to claw my way in, beat out all the other kids who had better coaches, better gear, better everything. But I fought for it. I did it alone. No one helped me get there. It was just me, and I… I made it.”
You can feel the emotion building, the frustration, the anger, the sadness, all of it hitting you at once. “And now, I’m here. And I don’t know how to make it make sense. I don’t know how to fit in. Spain is nothing like LA. The Spanish is different. The people are different. And I feel like I’m… just lost. Like I don’t belong here.”
Alexia doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer advice or try to fix things. She just nods, listening, letting you spill everything.
“I didn’t know how to handle that. I didn’t know how to adjust. And yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but…” You clench your jaw, fighting the tears that are threatening to come. “It’s hard to start over. I didn’t think I’d have to do this again.”
Alexia stays silent for a long moment, letting you talk through everything. Then, when you’re done, she finally speaks.
“You’re right,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling, Zulita. I’ve been in Barcelona my whole life, so this—what you’re going through—this isn’t something I understand. But I can understand that it’s hard.”
You nod, your chest heavy. “I don’t want to be ungrateful. I know this is an opportunity. But it just feels like I’m starting over in a place that isn’t mine. A place that isn’t home.”
Alexia smiles softly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to figure it out all at once. You’re allowed to feel frustrated, to miss home. You’re allowed to take time to adjust.”
You look up at her, feeling a little lighter, a little more seen. “Thanks,” you say quietly.
Alexia’s gaze softens as she watches you, clearly understanding. “But there’s something you need to do. You need to talk to Olga about this. It’s the first step in the right direction, okay?”
You’re quiet for a moment, considering it. You know she’s right, but it still feels hard. Still feels like you’re betraying everything you built back in LA. But Alexia’s words make sense.
And when you finally nod, Alexia adds, “Talking to her is the first step, but we’ll get through this together. All of us. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”
You take a breath and look back at the goal, focusing on the ball again. The frustration, the anger, the confusion—it’s still there, simmering. But for the first time since you got to Spain, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can start figuring this out.
Maybe you can make this work, too. You sigh, staring down at the ball. “…She treats me like a kid.”
“She treats you like someone she loves,” Alexia corrects gently.
You chew on your lip, kicking the ball toward the goal again. It soars into the net.
Alexia and Lucy exchange another look.
Alexia smirks. “We’re gonna have to get you on a team soon.”
More Posts from Justareader7 and Others
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.
And through the clouds, I see love shine
About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again
》 Alexia Putellas x Reader
》 words count: 12.8k
》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity
Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.
This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack. A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.
The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.
Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.
The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head.
Almost.
Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it.
Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex.
The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit.
The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.
The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.
Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.
“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.
Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.
“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”
“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”
“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”
As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away.
Ricardo means well, you know that.
He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.
“I’m want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”
“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.
You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.
It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.
“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”
“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”
His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.
They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.
He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.
Apparently, he feels brave enough.
“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”
~
You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle.
That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper.
Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.
You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.
The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals.
Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.
However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.
The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.
Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.
They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.
“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.
“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”
You meet Alba that same night.
She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.
Flirting is a universal language, though.
If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.
Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.
“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”
It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.
Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.
A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.
Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.
You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating.
“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo.
It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.
“Yeah, sorry, just tired”
“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”
“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.
The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations.
Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.
“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.
It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.
“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”
“¡Ay, claro!”
“I hate you”
“I had no idea Alba is your type”
You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.
To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type.
Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another.
The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others.
Maybe you do have a type.
~
It’s not a date, you both agree on that.
She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.
But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.
It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.
You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.
~
“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”
If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity.
The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far.
“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.
“Creo que sí”
You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.
The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.
Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets.
It’s mostly his fault.
The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.
“¿Estás bien?
“Cabrón is a nice word”
“It’s not”
“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.
Your final destination is just a few steps away.
It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.
It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.
“It was a good relationship”
He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.
“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”
“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.
“It can”
“Guapa, mira–”
“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”
As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.
Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.
You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”
“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”
“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”
“We are, tonta!”
Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise.
It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.
And short-lived.
“We don’t know each well”
“You already said that”
He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.
“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”
“Don’t get soft on my right now”
“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”
~
“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”
“I miss you so much, Elena”
Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan.
It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.
Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.
But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.
Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.
“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.
“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.
“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”
“And you ask why I am in different country?”
The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.
“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”
“I’m still alive”
“Barely”, she mutters.
Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics.
When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view.
To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things.
And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud.
You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.
That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.
“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”
“Happens when in Spain”
“You’re allowed to have fun!”
“I have plenty, thank you very much”
A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.
If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.
When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.
“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”
“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”
“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”
“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”
“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”
Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.
“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.
This time you say it out loud, and she cries.
~
The guys are planning something.
By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.
Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.
They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.
“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.
You only need one.
“No te entiendo”
“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”
“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it.
Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?
“We were thinking–”
“I’m scared when you guys think”
“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”
“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.
“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.
“What if they lose?”
“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.
“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”
“We pay for it all”
It’s nice.
It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club.
Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.
“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”
When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.
Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.
You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike.
Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.
“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.
They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers.
You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.
You meet Alexia that same night.
Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.
You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth.
They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.
You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.
“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”
“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.
If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.
“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”
The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.
A desire to make her laugh again.
And that is what you do all night.
The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.
When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.
When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow.
When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.
You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.
~
The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.
An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way.
The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.
You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.
It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.
You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.
Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.
Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.
“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.
“Do you?”
She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”
“No way!”
The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.
She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.
Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.
“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.
“What?”
“A sports person”
“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”
Her smile dims slightly.
For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.
“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”
“What if I’m a Madridista?”
That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.
A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”
Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.
You’re definitely not going to complain.
The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.
“What if I’m not joking?”
“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying.
Did they just raid the whole shop?
“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”
“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.
“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”
As simple as that.
You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.
Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.
It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.
Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.
A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”
Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.
You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”
“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”
“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”
The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.
~
Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.
The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.
Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on.
Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.
Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.
Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.
Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?
He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.
Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.
Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.
You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.
Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves.
Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them.
If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.
That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you.
~
When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.
Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.
They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.
The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.
It goes well.
Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.
That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed.
“Good one?”
You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.
The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces.
Sports people are scary.
“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline.
She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.
The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.
The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film.
That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.
Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.
~
Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.
With a return ticket in hand.
It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.
Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason.
You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct.
The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal.
“You grow up so much”
And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.
“I didn’t miss you at all”
“I can see you holding back tears”
“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.
“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”
The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo.
It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.
Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.
“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.
“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”
“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”
The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.
At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.
Now you almost call it home.
The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.
“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.
“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”
“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”
Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.
She decides to take the highest road.
“Are you dying?”
“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”
The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.
You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you.
Then, she speaks up.
“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”
“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”
“It is, indeed, a tragedy”
“He hasn’t even proposed yet”
“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.
The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”
He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.
“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”
The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.
What a mistake.
You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”
“That’s not–”
“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.
He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.
Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.
“Oh”
The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.
You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”
“You like someone”
“Elena, I swear–”
“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”
It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.
After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.
You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation.
That's not the point right now.
~
You break the promise made to Alba.
Kind of.
It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.
Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.
You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.
She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries.
The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.
It’s not a date.
But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.
It’s not a date, obviously.
But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.
“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.
It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.
You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.
~
You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.
They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this.
Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.
So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover.
The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.
You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.
The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen.
Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.
Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.
There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.
Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.
Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.
At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.
And those people are the loudest you ever met.
The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.
The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you.
“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”
The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.
“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”
“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”
Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.
“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”
“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”
“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”
“Fuck you”
“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief.
“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”
“Thank God!”
The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.
Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”
“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”
“You started this”, she points out, giggling.
Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now.
“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”
“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”
You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.
“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”
“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.
The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.
Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.
Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.
She’s seen it before.
There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.
But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.
The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.
As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.
There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.
There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.
There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.
~
Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.
You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite.
The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.
“You had fun?”
It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.
“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.
“I was waiting for you”
You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.
Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”
“What are you talking about–”
“You like Alexia”
It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.
There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.
You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands.
The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.
“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to.
“I know”
“That obvious?”
“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.
He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.
It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.
The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.
Turns out, you need it a lot.
“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”
“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”
“I’m not in love with Alexia”
“Yet”
He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.
“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat.
Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you.
Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it.
But being in love?
It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do.
It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed.
It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.
You want to fall in love with Alexia.
Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.
He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”
You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”
“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”
~
The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack.
Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over.
Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means.
The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.
Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”
You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.
Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight.
The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.
“She really want to take home that ball”
“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.
You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”
“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”
As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.
The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.
“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!”
“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”
“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”
You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.
Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.
The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.
Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.
Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.
“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face.
“Alba!”
“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”
The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.
“How long have you known?”, you ask.
“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”
“Nothing happened between us”
Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"
Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”
The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.
You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.
Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.
Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”
~
“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”
The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.
But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.
Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.
It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.
She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.
“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.
“Elena, I’m serious”
“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”
She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.
Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.
“Is she here too?”
“I don’t know what–”
“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance.
It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.
She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.
But Elena can be protective, and curious.
All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.
“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”
“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.
“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.
The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.
Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.
You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.
“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.
“Don’t believe a word she says”
The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink.
You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.
“She’s in the bathroom”
Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears.
“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.
As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.
She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now.
You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.
“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.
“For what?”
“You owe me a dance”
“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.
“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”
Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.
The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.
Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot.
You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.
Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.
It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.
It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.
“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.
“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”
The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”
“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”
“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”
The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses.
Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you.
“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”
“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.
“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.
“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”
“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.
Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”
“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.
“I thought you were messing with me”
The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.
Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.
She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.
Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.
Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic.
The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing.
Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.
It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous.
A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.
Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.
The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.
You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance.
It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.
Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.
There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”
“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.
“You dated my sister?”
“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”
“She said–”
“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”
“Are you interested like that?”
“Alexia, I just said–”
“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”
Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment.
Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.
A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.
And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.
So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.
The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.
~
The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together.
It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.
You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced.
Except, of course, for the kissing.
And there’s been a lot of that.
Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.
The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”
“It’s this stupid bird!”
“Still fighting with ser y estar?”
“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”
“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.
Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.
You do, however, learn some new words.
Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”
“I said nothing”
You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.
“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”
“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”
“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”
“After more than a year?”
“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”
Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.
You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.
“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”
“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”
“You’re learning Catalan?”
“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.
The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.
To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul.
Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.
She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.
But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.
The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of.
The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.
A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.
“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure.
“I know what that means”
A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.
Nothing but love.
The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again.
You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.
She knows.
~
On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.
Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.
Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.
It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you.
Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.
You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads.
“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries.
“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.
“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.
“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.
“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”
The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever.
It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.
So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee.
The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it.
This is your life, your love, your chosen family.
Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you.
A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.
“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”
Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.
Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow.
“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear.
Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future.
Together.
Bonmatellas moment at the end 😁
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMBwUREJy/
look how quickly she went over to check on aitana. always paying attention to what's happening 🥹
❤️
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 7 Other Parts
Word Count: 10K
It’s cold in the treatment room. Not freezing just sharp, clinical. The air smells like antiseptic and gauze, the hum of the fluorescent lights loud in the silence. No players. No noise. Just the slow rhythm of your breath, jagged and uneven, and the quiet shuffle of a medic preparing saline and bandages.
You’re half-seated on the treatment table, kit stripped down to your sports bra, skin blooming with bruises one across your ribs, one already formed beneath your cheekbone, angry and swollen.
The pain is sharper now that you’re still, no more adrenaline to cover it. The physio works in silence for the first few minutes. Gloves on, gentle hands, a cold compress wrapped around your ribs. Gauze pressed gently to your face.
“Breathe through your nose,” she murmurs when you flinch. “Slowly. You’re alright.” You do. You try. It hurts. She dabs the blood away. “We’ll get the doc to check for a fracture. You’ve taken quite the walk and by the swelling and bruise it wouldn't surprise me if somethings broke”
You don’t answer. You’re staring at the wall the blankness of it. The stark light of a mounted screen still looping the broadcast. It’s on mute, but you catch it:
Your fourth goal, then the replay, your head to the ball, the defender’s boot. The fall.
You turn away, the medic catches it, “Want me to switch it off?”
You shake your head. “No.”
It stays on, not because you want to see it, but because it happened and you're still here. You close your eyes for a moment just to breathe. The room buzzes around you, distant, unreal and then your phone buzzes from the counter.
You don’t look, not yet, because you know who it is and you need one more breath before you’re ready to see her name on that screen.
The doctor finishes the last stitch with practiced hands, her voice low and even as she snips the thread at your cheek. “You’re lucky,” she says, not unkindly. “Could’ve been worse.”
You’re reclined slightly on the treatment table now, eyes half-closed, one hand curled around a half-empty water bottle, the other limp in your lap.
They’ve cleaned you up mostly, your cheek still stings, numbed but tight beneath the fresh white bandage. The split skin near your eye stitched neatly, though the swelling’s already giving you a half-closed squint.
Your nose is broken but other than cleaning it up you're told there's not much else they can do, the dull ache pressing from the inside out makes you feel sick.
And your ribs bruised, not broken, but burn whenever you breathe too deeply.
“She’ll need imaging when we get back to club,” the doctor says to the medic at her side. “Hairline fracture of the zygomatic bone. Stable. Broken nose minor. Clean break. No concussion. Somehow." She says that last part with a note of disbelief.
You manage a whisper. “Just stubborn.”
She gives you a look. “You don’t say.”
There’s a pause.
Then, “I'll sure you’ll be sidelined for a few weeks. Minimal contact. You’ll be back for the end of the season for sure, but… not next week. Not the one after that.”
You nod, slow and stiff, it’s not a surprise, you felt it when you went down, you knew something cracked, but now it’s real.
She hands you a mirror, you hesitate, then lift it. Your reflection is… brutal. Your cheekbone is swollen, the stitches red and raw, your nose is taped, skin yellowing around the bridge from where the blood’s settled, your mouth is split at the corner.
You stare for a moment. Then lower it without flinching.
The doctor finishes making notes. “The pain meds should kick in soon,” she says gently. “Someone’ll check in before we leave”
You nod slowly as you move to sit on the edge of the bed, "Can you pass me that coat?" You reach your hand out
Ajan furrows his brows at you, "Why?"
"I've got no shirt on and I need some air, I want to watch the last 10 minutes"
"Y/N I don't think that's a good idea"
You slid off the bed, "I'll just get it myself"
Ajan sighed at your stubbornness turning to grab the coat, "Fine, but you're sitting next to me, I'm keeping my eye on you"
You nod sliding the coat on, he sees you fiddling to zip it before doing it for you at your pathetic attempt, "My head spins when I look down" you mutter
"Are you sure she doesn't have a concussion?"
The physio nodded, "We did the test twice, she passed both times"
⚽️
You step out of the tunnel slowly, coat wrapped tight around your shoulders, a medic still at your side even though you insisted you were fine. You’re not in boots now just sliders and bandages and the dull, echoing ache of every muscle in your body reminding you what you’ve just gone through.
The crowd doesn’t notice at first why would they? You’re not subbing on. You’re not doing anything but sitting down.
The ones who know are the ones who watched you take every hit and still make magic, they see you.
Beth lifts her head from the bench and gets to her feet to come to you as you're stood in the technical box Sarina chatting to you about your injuries, you let Beth tuck under your arm as her arms come around you.
Georgia clocks you next as she's subbed off, you give them a small nod. That’s all you’ve got right now.
You sink slowly onto the bench beside Georgia, Beth claiming the chair the other side and pull your coat tighter. The air hits your cheek and it burns, but you don’t flinch.
You’re not here to be comfortable, you’re here to finish it, and across the pitch a few figures in red shift. Mapi says something and nudges her, Jana leans forward, nodding, Patri straight up points.
And then Alexia looks up, follows the line of Patri's hand and finds you her expression shifts. Not fast. Not big. The worry is still there threaded through her jaw, her brow, but her shoulders soften.
You turn your attention back to the pitch, but the heat you feel down your spine, that’s her. Still watching.
You’re sat low on the bench, legs stretched slightly out in front of you.
The stadium is buzzing, full of that final-minute energy the game is already won, 4–1, the result never in question anymore. England’s pressing, but it’s clean now. Calm.
And then you hear it, a cheer rises not for a goal, not for a tackle, it spreads, louder, rowdier and familiar.
You frown slightly, then glance up at the screen above the far end of the pitch. It’s you, big as anything, sitting quiet watching.
Not doing much of anything at all but the crowd roar.
And then the chant starts, from one pocket of fans, rippling into another, until it takes over,
“YN’s on fire, your defence is terrified!”
You blink then laugh low, stunned as the camera lingers on your face, you go a little shy. You shake your head, ducking it slightly, lips pressed together in an embarrassed but charmed smile. One hand lifts to your cheek without thinking the good one like you’re trying to cover your face, but the camera catches the smile anyway.
And behind the noise, you steal one more glance across the pitch to the opposite stand, where red hoodies still sit Alexia is smiling, soft and proud and looking a little relieved.
You drop your gaze to your knees, smiling quietly to yourself and whisper, barely under your breath “…idiots.” But you don’t stop smiling.
⚽️
The whistle blows, the home crowd erupts, you’re already on your feet. Stiff. Slow. Pain flaring in your ribs with each shift of weight but you walk.
Wrapped in your coat, face still swollen, you step off the bench and onto the pitch, boots traded for sliders, gait uneven but steady. Determined.
Your teammates notice instantly.
Beth rushes over, throws a careful arm around your shoulders mindful of the bandage on your face. “You stubborn legend,” she says, beaming.
Georgia’s next, clapping your back a little too hard you wince, and she grimaces. “Sorry, sorry, forgot you’re held together with tape now.”
Leah appears too, hugging you gently from the side. “Still got the best chant of the night.”
You wave her off, blushing slightly. “Don’t start.”
They’re all here now surrounding you, checking, smiling. And you nod through it all, repeating the same three words, over and over:
“I’m fine. Just sore."
The lap begins slow, informal, arms waving to the crowd, you follow them around the pitch, keeping to the back coat zipped up to your throat, moving slow, ribs tight.
You pass the section where you know she’s standing, you don’t look at first, just wave to the crowd behind there section. Finally you glance sideways, Alexia is leaning forward on the barrier, her hands gripping the edge, her expression tight and concerned.
Her eyes meet yours, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just gives you a look, one you know is asking if you're ok, you don’t stop, you just nod once.
Because just behind the barrier, a familiar voice yells your name.
Your little brothers bouncing with joy, you jog over, face lighting up properly now for the first time since you left the tunnel. “You coming?” you ask, they nod, wide-eyed.
Your dad lifted the younger one over the rail while the older clambers down with help from security. He checked on you as the boys were excitedly waiting on the pitch for you, "I'm ok I promise, just a couple stitches"
"Sure? They sending you home?"
"I don't know maybe, I'm not concussed so no real reason to not play the next game if I can keep the swelling down"
"Y/N"
You laugh gently, "I'm a big girl dad I'm fine" you walk backwards, "When have I ever quit?" you holler back with a smile
"Never that's the problem!" Your dad couldn't help the smile he had shaking his head, you had that cheeky grin on your face you'd had since you were a kid as you started shimming to the music playing, "Fuck off" he jerked his thumb laughing gently at you, "Go celebrate baller"
You laugh walking away, clapping the fans and it made for a cute scene your little brothers excitedly jogging beside you to keep up, watching your every step and mimicking you clapping the fans.
⚽️
The locker room is warm. Still buzzing in low waves, not loud now the kind of comedown that only happens when everyone knows they’ve done their job.
You’re seated near the back, kit stripped away, a hoodie zipped halfway up, ribs still aching under the band of compression and bandages.
Beth sits cross-legged near you, a banana in one hand, talking to Lucy about something you’re not fully tuned into.
You’re still… elsewhere, then the door creaks open and Sarina steps in calm as ever, arms crossed lightly.
“Hey,” she says softly, voice aimed at you but measured for the room. “You’ve got someone waiting.”
You frown. “My dad?”
She shakes her head. Her lips twitch not quite a smile, but something close. “No,” she says, gentler now. “Visitor.”
You already know. You push up slowly stiff, sore and Sarina leans in slightly, voice low now, just for you.
“She said she didn't want to disturb you, but she looked pretty worried.”
You nod once. Grab your jacket. You don’t need to fix your hair. You don’t need to clean up. You just need to go.
It’s quieter outside. Just the occasional echo of footsteps from staff, the hum of faraway press chatter. The night air filters in from the side exit, cooler now.
And there she is.
Her back to you. Hands in her coat pockets. Her hair tied loosely, a few strands falling as she turns at the sound of the door. You walk toward her slowly, stiff-legged, jaw still aching.
She meets you halfway.
“I’m okay,” you say before she can even ask.
Alexia’s eyes flick to the gauze on your cheek, the swelling, your wince as you shift your weight. “You’re not,” she says quietly.
You huff a dry breath. “Not dead, though.”
That earns you the smallest eye roll. “I wanted to check before we left,” she murmurs, voice low. “I didn’t want to leave… without seeing you.”
You nod slow, grateful. “I’m glad you did.”
For a second, neither of you speaks. Then very gently she lifts her hand, doesn’t touch your face, not with how bruised it is. Just tugs at your zip. “You still scored.”
You smile barely. “Is that your version of flirting?”
She laughs softly. “No."
You nod again, for the first time since you left the pitch you breathe without pain not because it doesn’t hurt.
But because she’s here and she’s not rushing off, "Are they sending you home?"
You nod with a swallow, "Yeah, I leave soon"
"I'm coming with you" Her eyes don’t shift. She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t soften the words. “I’m coming with you.”
You blink. Your mouth opens, then closes, something caught in your throat that has nothing to do with the pain in your ribs. You try again, “No you’re not.”
Alexia takes a step closer. Just one. Enough for the heat of her coat to brush yours, her hand still light at your zip. “I am.”
“Alexia,” you say, quieter now. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
You shake your head. “You’ve got camp. Whatever plan Montse’s come up with since you can't play your games.”
“I’ve already told them.”
That stops you. Your brows lift, a flicker of disbelief slipping into your voice. “Told them what?”
“That I’m leaving. I won't gain anything staying and playing games against the under 21's”
You let out a half-laugh, part incredulous, part exhausted. “You cleared that with Montse?”
She shrugs. “Told her, I wasn’t asking.”
You blink slowly. “You’re serious.”
Alexia’s gaze softens just a touch, but the weight in it doesn’t waver “You need someone. You just won’t say it.”
Your chest pulls tight. Not from the bruises. Not this time. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”
“I don’t,” she says.
You look at her really look, at the line between her brows where worry’s lived since the moment you hit the grass. At the way her fingers curl around the edge of your coat now, like she’s ready to tug you forward or hold you up. Maybe both. You glance down at her hand, then up your voice is almost a whisper, “I’m won't be much fun”
She exhales, a tiny smile catching the edge of her mouth. “I’m not coming for fun.”
You laugh softly. Tired. Real. “Okay,” you murmur finally. “Okay.”
Her shoulders ease and she nods once, "I'll.. text you when I land"
⚽️
You're home, in your bed under the duvet where you and Teddy are curled beneath it.
He's asleep, his head tucked under your arm, occasionally twitching a paw in a dream. You haven't moved in over an hour since you got into bed, not really. Just breathing through it. Letting the dull pulse in your face and ribs remind you, it wasn’t a dream.
You're home and you’re hurting. Your phone’s within reach on the bedside table, screen dim, the battery hanging on at 8%. You know you should plug it in but you can't will yourself to move.
A knock comes on your door one, then two, then stillness, you blink slowly. Teddy stirs. You don’t move. Can’t.
Instead, you unlock your phone, open Instagram, find her name.
alexiaputellas, then tap out one sentence,
Was that you?
Seconds later, the typing bubble returns.
Sí
Your throat tightens, your ribs protest as you shift onto your side, blinking against the light, against the tears stinging tired eyes.
You type again fast, thumbs aching, every motion pulling at the bruises.
There’s a key under the plant pot.
You drop the phone, fingers shaking just a little as you rest your hand on Teddy’s back.
A few moments pass, then the click of the door, quiet footsteps as Teddy lifts his head, ears perked.
Alexia appeared standing in your bedroom doorway, coat still on, overnight bag on her shoulder, eyes searching the room until they land on you.
Teddy is excitedly in front of Alexia instantly, whining his bum moving in time with his extatic tale, "Hola cachorro" Alexia was smiling and her giggling was the warmest sound you'd ever heard when she crouched and was getting a barrage of Teddy kisses. "Me has extrañado? Si si Se"
You smile as Teddy bounds back on the bed barking at you before looking to Alexia, "Is your friend back?" you ruffle his head and he got even more excited as she walks over slowly.
“Hi,” she whispers.
You nod, a small smile tugging at one corner of your sore mouth, "You look tired?"
Alexia drops her bag, gently peels off her coat, and without hesitation she sits on the edge of your bed. "Didn't get much sleep, tried to sleep on the plane but everyone was too loud"
Her hand finds yours on the covers, seemingly by accident as she leans back on one hand to see you better, "I lay down before making the bed up in the other room, so... um, join us"
That’s all she needed to lie down beside you not touching, just with you her presence folding into the stillness of your room like she belongs there.
You smile when Teddy put his paw onto Alexia's shoulder as he was sharing your pillow yet again as you were spooning him, Alexia looked at him and smiled, she rolled to her side to scratch his chest, "Do you need anything?" she asked moving her eyes to yours, you could do with a drink but you shook your head seeing how tired her eyes were.
⚽️
You’re not sure how long you’ve been out, but it's still dark. There’s no sound except the slow inhale-exhale rhythm of the dog curled now at the foot of the bed and the faint creak of floorboards shifting as the apartment cools.
Your eyes blink open slowly lashes sticky, face heavy, that familiar ache blooming beneath the surface again.
As you shift your head gingerly, ribs reminding you who’s boss you see her asleep.
She’s still lying beside you, one arm bent under the pillow, the other resting close to yours on top of the duvet. Her face is turned toward you, relaxed, the softest hint of breath pushing a strand of hair against her cheek.
She doesn’t move, not when you shift, not when Teddy lifts his head, tail thumping lazily against the sheets.
You lie there a minute longer, just watching her, no pressure, no noise. Just the quiet confirmation that she meant it when she was coming.
Her bag's still on the floor, her coat draped over the back of your dressing table chair, and her presence real and heavy in the best way anchors something in you that had been floating loose.
You lift your hand, slowly, carefully, not to wake her, just to let your fingers brush hers, the contact is enough to make her shift slightly eyes fluttering, not quite open, her fingers tightening around yours on instinct, not thought.
She exhales, settles again, still asleep. You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the dark pain free, knowing when you wake up again she’ll be here.
⚽️
You wake to warmth, Alexia’s still curled beside you, one leg slightly tangled with the edge of the duvet, hair mussed from sleep, the faintest crease on her cheek from the pillow.
Her hand’s still resting loosely against yours, and she’s closer than before like somewhere in the night, you both drifted that way without thinking.
She stirs as you blink your eyes open, a soft inhale, a shift of weight. “Mmm…” Her voice, thick with sleep. “You awake?”
You hum softly in reply. “Sort of.”
She cracks one eye open, then blinks it shut again. “You look slightly more beaten than before.”
You smirk, lips barely moving. “And you look like you slept through an earthquake.”
Alexia huffs a tired laugh. “I did. You’re snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You do.”
"Its probably the broken nose"
You smiled, "Of course it is"
You try to argue, but the ache in your jaw reminds you otherwise, so you settle for a slow, stubborn exhale instead.
She shifts up onto one elbow, hair falling messily into her face. Her eyes scan you quiet, observant, a little guarded. “How’s your head?”
“Sore,” you admit.
“Face?”
“Still attached.”
She leans down slightly, her fingers grazing just beside the edge of your bandage, light as breath. “You’re still beautiful,” she murmurs.
You shut your eyes, only for a second, that word from her said like it doesn’t cost anything, like it’s just simply that simply true.
Teddy ever the scene-stealer picks that moment to stand with a dramatic shake, tail thumping your leg.
Alexia glances over her shoulder. “Right,” she says, stretching. “I’ll take him for a walk.”
You blink. “You don’t have to—”
She cuts you off gently. “I know. I want to. You need a minute.”
You look at her hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, sleep still in her voice and something in your chest tugs. “You sure he won’t walk you?”
She smiles. “Let him try.”
You laugh under your breath, then wince slightly, hand to your ribs.
“I’ll be back soon.”
Then she’s up, scooping Teddy’s lead off the hook near the door, already in motion.
You lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, heartbeat settling into something you haven’t felt in a while. Looked after.
⚽️
Teddy’s lead is looped around her wrist, his nose already glued to the pavement like he’s on a mission. His tail sways, ears perked, the soft click of his nails the only sound on the otherwise quiet residential street.
Alexia walks beside him slowly, hands in her pockets, head down beneath the hood of her borrowed sweatshirt yours, in fact. She only noticed once they were already outside. It smells like you.
She lets him lead the way, pausing every few steps as he investigates lamp posts and hedges like they hold state secrets. She doesn’t rush him. She doesn’t check her phone. She just lets it happen. He knows his walk off by heart. He'd lead the way.
She watches the way he moves alert, curious, slightly dramatic when he sniffs something he really likes. He’s got a little bounce in his step. A lot like you.
At the end of the block, he stops to sneeze three times in a row and then looks up at her like he expects applause.
Alexia crouches, brushes his fur behind one ear, and murmurs, “You’re silly." He wags his tail harder.
She pulls out her phone, snaps a blurry photo of him mid-wiggle, then types quickly:
[Image Attached] He’s already tried to fight a bird. Thought you'd want to know.
She doesn’t send it right away, she just stares at the screen for a second then tucks it away.
She walks a bit farther quiet residential corners, warm brick buildings, the occasional bike humming past. The city feels soft this time of morning, a little blurred around the edges, like it’s waiting for people to wake up.
Just as they reach the small park at the end of the street, she pauses. The wind’s gentle here, birds call, Teddy tugs toward the grass. Alexia sits on a bench, still in your hoodie, watching him sniff a bush with intense dedication.
And for a moment, just a moment, she lets herself relax completely.
No camera. No captain's armband. No decisions to make. Just your dog, and your street, and the echo of your sleepy voice in her head as you tried to argue you don’t snore. She smiles to herself.
She pulls out her phone again, opens your chat, and sends the photo.
A minute later, three dots appear. And even here, on a bench in a city that isn’t hers, she already feels like she’s safe here, with you.
Back in your apartment meanwhile, you’re still in bed.
Pillows behind your back now, blanket pooled around your hips, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands. You’ve managed to brush your teeth and wipe the sleep from your eyes, but that’s as far as you’ve made it.
Your phone buzzes. You open it, thumb slow over the screen, and there it is. A blurry photo of Teddy, tail mid-wag, fur flying, eyes wild like he’s chasing an imaginary rival probably a bird, if you know him at all.
Your lips twitch into something crooked and warm, even with the bruising.
Her message is short. You type. Pause. Then type again.
Good. Someone’s got to protect you out there. That hoodie looks better on you, by the way. Don’t stretch it.
You hover.
Then — one more thing.
Will you be mad if I've not got up when you get back?.
You hit send and not thirty seconds later you hear keys.
The lock turns. A soft click, then the door opens and Teddy barks once, triumphant.
She’s back. The door clicks shut behind her and Teddy trots ahead proudly, tail high like he just saved the world.
You hear Alexia before you see her, her soft laugh carrying from the hall as she drops her keys into the bowl, kicks off her shoes.
“Still in bed?” she calls.
You smile to yourself. “I’ve moved. I’m just… horizontal.”
She steps into your room, one eyebrow lifted. You expect a joke, but her gaze sweeps over you instead the blanket around your shoulders, the tired crease in your brow, your phone still in hand from the message you just sent.
Then she holds out her hands. “Come on. Up.”
You hesitate not from pain this time. Just from the way she’s looking at you. Steady. Amused. So soft it makes your chest ache. You shift forward, wincing a little, and take her hands. She braces her weight, pulls you gently until your feet hit the floor.
Your ribs protest but it’s manageable. What’s not manageable is the fact She doesn’t step back and now, you’re right there.
Close. Chest to chest. You meet her eyes. Neither of you says anything. Not a word. Then she leans in slowly.
Her hands slide from yours to your waist one resting carefully against your bandaged ribs, the other curling at your lower back.
And she kisses you. Softly. But with intention. No adrenaline. No tension. Just warmth. Breath. The kind of kiss you remember after because it felt like everything inside you quieted at once.
You kiss her back. Careful, but completely. When she pulls back, she stays close nose brushing yours, her lips still almost touching yours. After the kiss after the stillness, the closeness she eases back just enough to rest her hands at your hips, her eyes flicking over you once more.
“Come on,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you out of the room. I’ll make a cup of tea.”
You groan softly. “A cup of tea from a Spaniard, this feels like punishment.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re dramatic.”
Still, she helps.
One arm steady at your back, you shuffle together down the hallway, slow and careful. Teddy trails behind, the occasional quiet pawstep on the hardwood his only contribution.
She helps you down onto the sofa fluffing the cushion behind you, tucking a blanket over your lap without asking.
“Sit. Don’t move,” she says, gently bossy.
You watch her move around your kitchen like she’s been there for years barefoot now, sleeves pushed up. She opens the right cupboard on the first try. Fills the kettle. Pulls out mugs. Chooses the exact tea you always reach for when you’re sore by pure fluke. You lean your head back and let yourself watch.
It’s quiet. Just the whistle of the kettle. The shuffle of her feet. The soft clink of the spoon. And then she’s back, she hands you your mug, fingers brushing yours, warm and slow before sinking into the other end of the sofa, her body angled toward you, her knees folded.
You both sit in silence for a while. Your ankle rests lightly against her thigh beneath the blanket. Her fingers absently trace the rim of her mug. Outside, the day unfolds. Somewhere else, the world turns, but here, in your small living room, in the glow of mid-morning sun you sit with Alexia content.
Your eyes are on the mug in your lap, your body angled toward her, blanket still curled around your legs. Alexia sits opposite, one hand lazily stroking Teddy’s fur where he’s curled against her thigh.
She glances at you gently, her voice low. “Has your club been in touch?”
You pause. Just a second too long. Then shake your head.
Her brow furrows. “Nothing?”
You lean your head against the back of the sofa, eyes tracking the line of sunlight on the floor. “They’ll know the injury report,” you say. “Our team doctor’s already sent it through. They’ll have everything.”
“That’s not what I asked,” she says quietly.
You glance at her, she’s not accusing. Not prying. Just… confused. You sigh, “They’re not exactly rushing to check in.”
She sets her mug down. Slowly. “Why?”
You hesitate not because you’re unsure, but because you’ve been holding it in too long. “I’m not on the best terms with my coach right now,” you admit. “Haven’t been for a while.” Her expression doesn’t change still patient, still listening so you go on. “There’s tension. About my minutes. About where I’m played. About... a lot of things.” You pause, then add, “And this?” You gesture lightly toward your face, your side, your entire battered self. “Probably won’t help.”
Alexia’s gaze softens, her fingers stilling on Teddy’s fur. “You think they’ll hold it against you?”
You shrug. “I think they’ll see it as confirmation.”
“Of what?”
You glance away. “That I’m not worth the risk.”
There’s silence, then her voice steady and certain spoke, “They’re wrong.” She shifts closer. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t press. Just says, “If you need to say it out loud, I’ll sit here all day.”
And you nod once, because you know she means it.
⚽️
You’re still on the sofa, legs under a blanket, hoodie sleeves half-covering your hands. Teddy’s asleep with his nose tucked against your foot. Across the room behind you, Alexia is at the kitchen counter, focused, pouring hot water into mugs.
Your phone buzzes.
Georgia Stanway 💥 — FaceTime Incoming
You answer, already bracing for chaos. The screen jolts to life with Georgia’s face filling it way too close.
“Oi,” she grins. “You look like someone swung a frying pan at you.”
You smile, tired but amused. “That’s pretty much what happened.”
Voices pile in behind her. You spot Beth first, leaning into frame, then Leah, Keira all hovering, half-shoved together in some random lounge back at England camp.
Beth waves, smile gentle. “Hey, you okay?”
“Getting there.”
Georgia flips the camera around “We just wanted to check in. And also confirm you’re still alive.”
Keira’s voice follows, quieter. “And still... you, under all that bruising.”
Leah tilts her head, studying your bandage. “That’s definitely a fracture, yeah?”
“Yeah. Cheekbone. And the nose.”
Beth grimaces. “Still fit though.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks?”
Before anyone can ask anything else, a voice floats in from the kitchen, “Do you want sugar in this or not?”
Their faces shift. Every single one of them, Leah eyebrows shoot up and blinks, just once, Georgia’s mouth opens… and then closes, Beth straightens.
You hesitate. Then glance at the camera. “It’s… Alexia.”
Beth is the first to speak, quieter. “As in... Putellas?”
You nod, and the energy changes. It’s not tense. Just… softer, respectful.
Keira smiles gently. “Didn’t realise she was staying with you.”
You shrug. “She showed up last night. Brought tea. Took Teddy out.”
“She’s still there now?” Georgia asks.
You glance off-camera as Alexia reappears, setting a mug down beside you, her hand brushing yours briefly, before heading back to the kitchen "Yeah"
Leah's the first to lean back slightly from the screen, her smile still there, but calmer now. “Well,” she says, glancing off-camera like she’s suddenly remembered she has an actual job to do. “Guess we’ll let you rest up, then.”
Beth hums. “Yeah. Don’t want to interrupt your little… tea ceremony.”
You snort softly. “You literally FaceTimed me out of nowhere.”
Georgia grins, but she’s softer too. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t curled up in bed with no one looking after you.”
You lean your head on your hand with a smile, “I’m fine. Got someone now who keeps making me actually take my pain meds, so that’s new.”
“Growth,” Keira says with a smirk.
Georgia leans in one last time. “Message if you need anything. And I mean anything. I can be at the airport in an hour.”
You smile, genuinely now. A little cracked at the edge from the bruising, but it reaches your eyes. “Thanks, girls. Seriously.”
Beth nods once. “Love you, you idiot.”
You whisper it back. “Love you too.”
Keira blows a kiss. Leah waves and then the screen goes dark.
You’re still staring at the phone when you hear the quiet sound of a mug being placed on the table in front of you. Alexia’s returned. She doesn’t say anything just eases down beside you again on the sofa, one leg folded beneath her, her body angled toward yours.
You look over at her. “They just wanted to know I wasn’t alone.”
Alexia nods, eyes soft. “And now they know.”
You don’t have to say it but you do anyway. “Thanks for being here.”
Her thumb brushes over your knuckles once. “Where else would I be?”
⚽️
Alexia moves through your kitchen like it’s familiar now, she doesn’t ask where things are she somehow just knows.
A pan warms on the stove, low sizzle starting. The smell of garlic fills the space, you’re sat at the table nearby, wrapped in your hoodie, elbows on the wood, mug in both hands.
Teddy at your feet, completely useless now that he was fed, he was having to his post feed nap. You’re not saying much and neither is she, but it’s comfortable as usual.
Now and then you glance over. Watch her stirring something in the pan, pausing to taste it. She catches you once raises an eyebrow, smirking a little. “Si?”
You shake your head, smile low. “Nothing.”
She slides a dish in front of you a few minutes later pasta, simple, warm. Exactly what you didn’t realise you needed.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know,” she says, settling into the chair next to you. “I wanted to.”
You both eat slowly, between bites, the only sound is the quiet clink of forks, a bit of low music from your speaker. You don’t talk about football or your injury, instead, she tells you a story about Alba’s dog stealing someone’s flip-flop and hiding it in the garden for a week. You laugh actually laugh and it surprises you, you press a hand gently to your ribs, wincing and grinning at the same time.
She watches you through it all, grinning herself, clearly happy that she could make you laugh quite that hard.
When the food’s done, you both sit there for a while longer, Alexia shifts first not to move away, but to slide her chair slightly closer. She rests her arm across the back of yours, fingers brushing the fabric of your hoodie.
“You tired?” she asks softly.
You nod. “A little.”
“Go lie down. I’ll clean up.”
You look at her the curve of her jaw the calm behind her eyes and you nod again. “Okay.”
⚽️
You’re in bed by the time she finishes rinsing the dishes Teddy fully stretched out beside you, head resting like royalty atop the second pillow clearly unbothered, clearly home.
You hear her approach, footsteps soft on the hallway, and then she’s there in your doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, hair tied back, eyes already tired but warm when they find yours.
“You decent?” she teases.
You nod. “Teddy says it’s fine.”
She laughs and steps in, the moment she reaches the bed, though, she stops, because Teddy does not move. Not a shift. Not even a twitch. He’s laid claim to the whole left side of the bed, tucked neatly between you and the edge like he’s guarding it.
Alexia blinks. Looks at you. Then at him. “Seriously?”
You try to keep a straight face. “He’s very particular.”
She raises a brow. “He’s two feet tall.”
You shrug, clearly helpless. Teddy stretches, audibly, Alexia sighs, then grins. A proper, full smile that crinkles at the edges, without another word, she walks around the bed and lies down horizontally across the foot of it, feet dangling off one side, arms folded beneath her head.
“This is fine,” she mutters, like she’s in a hostage negotiation. “Really. Comfortable. Don't mind me Teddy, lucky you're cute”
You laugh soft, real and tilt your head to look at her. “You can push him.”
“I’m not getting into a fight with your dog.”
“You’d win.”
“I wouldn’t. He’s got your loyalty.”
You smile, and after a beat, you say quietly, “You don’t have to stay down there.”
She turns her head, rests her chin on the blanket at your feet, looking up at you with that tired half-smile. “I’m good,” she says. “It’s kind of perfect, actually.”
You look down at her the way her hair falls, the light across her face, the contentment in her voice. “Even from down there?”
She closes her eyes for a moment, smile lingering. “Especially from down here.”
Teddy exhales dramatically like this whole conversation is deeply inconvenient and shifts just enough that there’s space now, as if to say here have some room and shut up.
Alexia opens one eye, clocking it. Then glances at you, you nod, like now's your chance.
She doesn’t hesitate, she slides in beside you, careful and quiet, folding into the blanket and fitting into that space like it’s been waiting for her.
You don’t say anything, neither does she, but her fingers find yours beneath the duvet.
⚽️
The lights are off now, save for the glow of the laptop balanced between you both on the duvet, you’d picked the film without overthinking something soft, something funny, something you’ve seen before but never get tired of. Alexia hadn’t asked questions. She just rested under the covers next to you, propped herself up on one elbow, and watched like it mattered.
She’s quieter than you expected. Still focused, but then ten minutes in a scene plays out that always makes you laugh, and this time, you don’t even hear your own chuckle. You hear hers. Soft at first almost cautious. Then she really laughs. Not loud, but from her chest. Her eyes scrunch slightly. Her hand comes up to her mouth like she’s not used to letting it out so freely.
You turn your head and you watch her it's not long until she notices. “What?” she asks, still smiling.
You shake your head gently, lips pulling at the corners. “You have a good laugh.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real deflection. “You didn’t warn me this was funny.”
“I said it was my comfort film. That should’ve told you everything.”
She giggles again at a throwaway line something no one ever laughs at but you and it makes you like her even more.
You’re not close enough to be tangled. Not with the bruises. Not yet, but her foot brushes yours under the blanket, neither of you moves it.
The film soon winds down with softer music, a slower pace characters finding their happy endings, screen fading to dusk-toned resolution. You’re half-watching, half-feeling the warmth of Alexia still beside you.
Her head’s slid a little lower on the pillow, elbow tucked under it, you can feel the heat of her arm through the duvet. You glance sideways, er eyes are still open. Barely. When the credits start to roll, she exhales a long, quiet breath like it had been caught in her chest the whole time. “That was good,” she murmurs, voice raspy with sleep.
You nod, turning the laptop screen slightly so the light doesn’t hit her face. “I’ve watched it a dozen times,” you whisper.
She glances at you through lashes. “You always watch it alone?”
You pause. “Mostly"
A slow smile creeps onto her lips. “Lucky me.”
You huff a laugh. “Lucky Teddy, really. He got the best side of the bed.”
Teddy, for his part, is completely unconscious snoring lightly the other side of Alexia, oblivious to anything other than his dreams.
Alexia shifts just slightly closer, enough that her arm brushes yours now, warm and gentle. She rests her head against the corner of your shoulder, careful not to jar your ribs.
“I could fall asleep like this,” she murmurs.
You whisper back without thinking, “Then do.”
And she does. Slowly her body softening into stillness, her breathing evening out, her hand brushing yours one last time before it goes still too.
You stay awake just a little longer then you shift your head to the pillow and sleep finally comes.
⚽️
The light is barely golden through the blinds, soft and angled across the floor. You blink awake slowly, the room still warm under the weight of night, the quiet so complete you almost forget where you are.
Until you feel her. Alexia is still there but closer.
One leg draped lightly over yours, face tucked into the pillow, your pillow, hair fanned messily behind her. Her hoodie has slipped upwards sometime in the night giving you a glimpse of her many tattoos. Her hand, still curled lightly near your side, is close enough that her fingers just barely brush the hem of your shirt.
She’s still asleep, but only just. You lie there watching her the rise and fall of her back, the faint crease between her eyebrows even in sleep, like she’s already starting to think her way into the day.
You shift slightly enough to ease your arm beneath your head. Your ribs ache, but less. Your face is still tender. But manageable.
She stirs, her foot twitches against yours beneath the blanket. Her brow smooths. And then, softly “Mmm… morning.” Her voice is thick with sleep, half-buried in the pillow, her accent always thicker of a morning,
You smile. “Morning.”
She doesn’t open her eyes yet. But her fingers slide just slightly toward yours under the blanket. Not holding. Just finding. “You sleep okay?” she murmurs.
“With a human-sized guard dog on my bed and you stealing half my pillow?” you whisper back. “Best night I’ve had in weeks.”
Her lips twitch into a sleepy smile. “Still sore?”
“Yeah. But I don’t care.”
She opens her eyes now and tilts her head just enough to look at you and in that morning light, with no makeup, no cameras, no expectations she’s never looked more real.
She blinks slowly. “I’ll make coffee.”
You whisper, “You really don’t have to.”
“I know. But I know you like coffee in a morning and if I ask you'll say no.” She’s already starting to move, careful not to jostle the bed. Teddy stirs, yawning like he’s done all the hard work.
Alexia leans over, presses the softest kiss to your hair, not your face, not your mouth just there, warm and simple.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
And you lie there, letting yourself breathe into the stillness as Teddy stands stretches and moves to reclaim his rightful spot next to you.
⚽️
You’re curled back on the sofa after breakfast, Teddy making up for the lack of bed time cuddles he was deprived of.
The painkillers are doing their job the dull ache behind your cheekbone has faded to something manageable and the silence feels earned.
Alexia comes down the hall, hair still damp from her shower, pulling a long sleeve down one arm, phone tucked under her chin. “...yes, I’ll text when I’m on the way,” she says softly in Spanish, and then clicks it closed.
You glance up lazily.
She looks over at you, a sly smile already forming. “Get dressed.”
You blink. “What?”
“Lunch.”
You hesitate, don’t even mean to, just long enough that she knows you’re about to resist. “I’m fine here.”
“You’ve been horizontal for almost two days.”
“I’ve been injured.”
“You scored four goals while injured. You can manage a salad.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not how medical rest works.”
She walks toward you, all effortless confidence now tugging her hair into a loose twist as she goes, eyes locked on yours. “It’s your city,” she says. “And I have to leave soon.”
That lands, you pause. Then sigh. “Fine. But I’m wearing a hoodie.”
Alexia shrugs. “I wasn’t expecting anything else" She crouches to grab your trainers from beside the door, holds them up with a smirk. “Want me to help you put them on, too? Or just carry you to the car?”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re very smug when you get your way.”
“And you’re cute when you pretend you didn’t want to say yes the whole time.”
You shake your head, smiling. Teddy hops off your lap as you push yourself upright with a groan.
She holds out a hand, you take it and just like that you’re on your feet.
⚽️
You haven’t changed much just swapped joggers for something slightly less 'bedridden', and pulled a clean hoodie over your still-tender ribs. You’re standing in the mirror now, fingers running lightly along the edge of the bandage on your cheek, trying not to wince when you touch the swelling.
Alexia’s in your bathroom, sleeves rolled up, tugging a brush through her hair with one hand and wiping mascara from under her eye with the other. The door’s cracked open, the mirror catching both your reflections at odd angles hers polished, yours getting there.
She leans around the frame. “You okay?”
You nod. “Just wondering if I look more like a footballer or a getaway driver.”
She grins. “Definitely the latter. But like... a charming one.”
You glance at her in the mirror. “You flirting with me again?”
She raises an eyebrow. “You want me to stop?”
You don’t answer just reach for your water bottle on the dresser, smile pressed into the curve of it.
A minute later, she steps out of the bathroom in her jacket simple, low-key, hair twisted into a loose bun, gold chain tucked just under her collar.
You stare for a second longer than you mean to. She catches it. Doesn’t call it out. Just smiles like maybe she needed the same moment of quiet admiration.
She walks over, tugging the hem of your hoodie straight, her fingers brushing against your side like she’s checking the bruises still haven’t won. “You good?”
“Getting there.”
Her eyes soften. “You ready?”
You take a breath deep, slow, steady. “Yeah.”
And when she grabs the keys off the hook and holds the door open for you like it’s already her place too, you follow without hesitation.
The door clicks shut behind you, the sun warming the steps as you both reach the car parked out front, you’re halfway there when you realise something’s off.
Alexia’s already heading for the driver’s side.
You blink. “What are you doing?”
She holds up your car keys, dangling them smugly from her index finger. “Driving.”
You stop. “No, you’re not.”
She looks at you, tilts her head slightly. “Yes, I am.”
“Alexia.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m not concussed.”
“You have a broken face.”
You fold your arms gently, because of the ribs and narrow your eyes. “I can drive with a broken face.”
“Not when I’m in the car.”
You scoff, taking a slow step forward. “It’s my car.”
She shrugs. “You let me stay in your flat, hijack your tea selection, and share your bed but driving your car is a step too far? I think the keys are a fair trade”
You blink, mouth twitching. “That’s not how this works.”
“I’m your medically appointed chauffeur.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
You’re trying not to laugh. “Have you even driven in Munich before?”
She lifts her chin, smirking. “It’s Europe. It’s fine.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“I’m exceptional at roundabouts.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You know you can’t flirt your way into controlling my car.”
She grins and walks backward toward the driver’s side door. “No, but I can look this good while holding your keys and watch you fold.”
You stare at her hoodie, sneakers, hair pulled up like she’s not even trying and you hate how right she is.
You sigh. Dramatically. “I’m putting the seat back the second I get in.”
“You can try.”
She opens the driver’s side door with a flourish.
And you walk around the car muttering, “This is so humiliating.” But you’re smiling the whole way.
⚽️
The café is tucked onto a quiet side street ivy crawling the walls, chalkboard menu out front, the kind of place you always mean to revisit and rarely do.
You take the window table in the corner. Alexia claims the chair beside you not across. Beside. Her leg brushes yours as she crosses it, casual and completely on purpose.
She’s already stolen two of your fries before you’ve even touched your fork.
You look at her, unamused.
She smirks. “You’re a very generous host.”
You pluck a tomato off her plate in retaliation. “And you’re a menace.”
She shrugs. “I get that a lot.”
You shake your head and pop it in your mouth. “I bet you do.”
There’s a lightness to her here a kind of ease you hadn’t seen in her before. She leans back in her chair, elbow draped over the back of yours like she’s not going anywhere for a while.
“You know,” she says between sips of sparkling water, “you’re actually fun when you’re not grimacing in pain.”
You look at her, deadpan. “I’ll keep that in mind next time someone boots me in the face.”
She grins. “You were impressive, though.”
“Were?”
“Are.” She corrects herself so smoothly it’s like the word always belonged there.
You go quiet for a second, letting the moment settle. She watches you over the rim of her glass. There’s something almost uncharacteristically soft in her eyes now like she wants to say something, but also doesn’t want to ruin this exact second.
So instead, you both eat. You steal fries, she steals glances. You let her as the afternoon hums around you quiet voices from other tables, clinks of cutlery, the low sound of a playlist drifting through the café speakers. But it all feels muffled, like you’re sitting in a pocket of space that exists just for the two of you.
Alexia’s drink has condensation running slowly down the glass, her fingertips idly trailing through it. Every so often, she reaches across to steal another fry, but this time she doesn’t just grab it.
This time, she holds it up. You glance at her, one brow raised. “Really?”
She nods slowly, holding the fry closer. “Open.”
You huff. “Absolutely not.”
She tilts her head. “I drove.”
“Into a roundabout the wrong way.”
“I recovered quickly.”
You squint at her. She’s still holding the fry up, pinched between her fingers, her smile small but stubborn. So you lean forward bite it right out of her hand, eyes never leaving hers.
She blinks once. Smirks. And then, under the table, you feel her foot nudge against yours. Not a kick. Just… a press. Slow. Familiar.
“Careful,” you murmur as you chew. “Keep that up and I’ll start thinking you like me.”
She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “And what if I do?”
You don’t have a comeback for that. Not one that doesn’t involve kissing her at the table and you’re trying to be good. So instead, you finish chewing. Pick another tomato from her plate slow and deliberate and pop it in your mouth with a shrug. “That’s between you and my fries.”
Alexia laughs not her polite laugh, not the quiet one she gives during press conferences. The real one. Soft and unguarded. Like she’s surprised by how easy this is.
When she looks at you again, her gaze lingers, her hand finds yours on the table not a grab, not a hold. Just fingers tracing the edge of your wrist. Idly. Warm.
You glance down at the contact, then back at her, she doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. Just sits there, leg still pressed to yours, her fingers drawing slow circles into your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You don’t pull away, you don’t want to and when she says, almost shy but not quite, “This is nice,” you nod once and reply just as simply
“It really is.”
⚽️
You’re leaning back slightly in your chair now, hand half-curled around your glass, watching as Alexia reads through the dessert menu like it’s a match preview.
Her brow furrows in mock seriousness. “You’re telling me you’ve never had the banana split here?”
You shake your head. “We usually don’t make it past mains. It’s a rare event when I don’t roll out of this place.”
She snorts. “You say that like you haven’t played a full ninety minutes with a busted rib.”
“That’s different. Dessert’s voluntary pain.”
She closes the menu with a decisive snap. “We’re sharing it.”
You arch a brow. “Are we?”
Her eyes flick to yours. “Unless you’re afraid of me stealing all the whipped cream.”
You lean in slightly. “That sounds like a challenge.”
It is and you both know it.
Ten minutes later, the sundae arrives in a glass dish that’s clearly made for two people who aren’t pretending they’ll share nicely. It’s ridiculous, stacked with three scoops, cream, sauce, half a banana sliced down the middle, and a cherry teetering at the top like a dare.
Alexia eyes it. “We should’ve ordered two.”
“We’re not animals,” you say, even as you reach for a spoon.
She takes the first bite, of course. You jab your spoon in and immediately miss the ice cream, nearly flicking sauce onto the table, she laughs, mouth full.
“Oh, wow,” you mutter. “This is going to end with me wearing this, isn’t it?”
“Probably.”
She slides the dish slightly toward you, letting your spoons clink. You scoop a bit of strawberry, then nudge the cherry across the top toward her. She smiles, just barely. You trade jabs between bites accusing her of hoarding the chocolate sauce, her accusing you of 'clearly favouring vanilla.'
“You’re impossible,” you say, laughing softly, spoon clinking in the glass again.
“You like that about me.”
You glance at her and you do.
The dish is nearly empty when she finally rests her spoon on the edge and leans back with a sigh. “You’re going to have to roll me back to the car.”
You wipe a bit of cream from your lip and smirk. “Don’t look at me. You insisted.”
Alexia grins and then, with a surprising tenderness, she leans forward and gently wipes a streak of chocolate from your cheek her thumb brushing just near your bandage.
You freeze, just for a second, she doesn’t say anything, she just smiles at you like she’s still amazed you’re hanging out with her.
“You ready?” she asks, voice soft.
You nod once and as she stands, her hand finds yours again briefly. Firmly. This time, you let her hold it a little longer.
The drive is quiet in the best way. Windows cracked because now of course Alexia feels sick with the amount of chocolate sauce she apparently never ate. her playlist humming low through the speakers. One of her hands is on the wheel. The other occasionally reaches out adjusting the volume, brushing her fingers near yours on the centre console but never quite holding.
You don’t talk much. You don’t have to.
She pulls into the drop-off zone and shifts the car into park, already reaching for her bag in the back seat. You sit there for a second, looking at the terminal, then at her.
Then, dramatically, “So… how exactly am I supposed to get home? My medical chauffeur’s abandoning me.”
She turns, smirking, lips parted to reply but then pauses, there’s something just a little sad behind her grin. “I could cancel my flight,” she says, only half-joking.
You lift your brow. “Would that be for me or for Teddy?”
She leans across the console, presses a kiss gentle, sure, and lasting to the corner of your mouth. “Both.”
You try to play it cool. You fail.
She pulls back, her eyes warm. “You’ll text me when you get home?”
You nod. “And you’ll let me know when you land.”
She nods back. Then her hand lingers on yours, just a moment more and then she’s gone.
The door closes, you watch her walk into the terminal without looking back.
You sit in your car her scent still in the seat beside you and whisper to yourself, “Why would she not just kiss me?” You sigh open your car door to head to the drivers side.
You’re walking around the front of your car, your keys in hand, mind still replaying the soft goodbye. Her lips so close to yours. The brush of her hand before she turned away.
You open the driver’s side door grimacing slightly, already planning how to adjust the seat back to your exact angle when you hear footsteps.
Fast. Light on the pavement. You glance up and she’s there.
Alexia. Back. Not running, but moving with a kind of certainty you’ve never seen from her in public. She doesn’t say anything. Just closes the distance, shuts your car door closing the gap and kisses you.
Not gently. Not cautiously. Not like the first time. Like she means it.
One hand lost in your hair the other in your hoodie, pulling you in like she doesn’t care who sees. Her mouth finds yours with a kind of ache, like the second she stepped away she regretted it like everything she didn’t say at lunch, in the car, at the curb has gathered here, in this.
You drop your keys as her tongue pushes entry into your mouth, one of your hands fists into her jacket, the other finds her waist, as she kisses you like she’s afraid not to.
When she finally pulls back, breath catching, she keeps her forehead against yours. Eyes closed. Voice low. Almost shaky.
“I didn’t want to leave like that.”
You’re stunned heart racing, ribs tight, lips still parted. You barely whisper, “What was that?”
Her eyes open and for once, there’s no shield. No mask. “Great restraint on my part”
You stare at her this woman who came back just to be certain she presses one more kiss to the corner of your mouth slower this time, tender.
Then she steps back gives you her little smile and walks into the terminal again, she looks back this time that smile still there as yours only grew. As you dip into your car you exhale, "I need a cold shower" as you sort your seat out, you enter into an external monologue the old man stood at the curb seemingly looks concerned for your mental capacity that you're talking to yourself "Fuck me" you mutter, then laugh at yourself, "Wish she would. No Y/N. We made a promise to ourselves no more diving in too quickly. You put out far too easily, learn the lessons from your past discretions." You rest your head on the steering wheel after you groan, "This woman has me talking to myself, I need help"
actress reader and alexia please 🥺
that’s why you’re getting dw!
just putting some finishing touches on it
she's not wroooong 😂 also ✨LESBIANS✨
LMAO Christen 😂
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.
A/N: Secret relationship fic requested by a lovely anon. This fic is inspired by Notting Hill, one of my favorite movies. The beginning is pretty similar to the movie, but later on I pretty much make it my own. Keep in mind that Alexia is like 200x more famous in this fic. Hope you enjoy!
Just a Girl (Alexia Putellas x Reader)
Of course, you’ve seen her play and have always thought she was, well, incredible — but despite living in the same city, she’s a million miles from the small world you live in.
Carrer de la Riera Baixa is home to secondhand stores passed down from generation to generation, independent record stores with selections long forgotten, and a bar only sought out by those with something to forget. Tucked in between is your bookstore. Unlike the other stores, there is no storefront or windows to peak through. The only clue of what is sold is engraved on a plate, nailed to the door.
Llibres Rars FOR THOSE WHO SEEK THE PAST
Riera Baixa is gritty but honest, and most importantly, all you have ever known. From your apartment building, it takes exactly 80 steps to reach the shop. It’s a path you can take with your eyes closed if necessary.
And from this path you have not strayed.
Even when your girlfriend of five years asked you to take a detour and build a life together in a new city. The words ‘new’ and ‘different’ sparked feelings in you that greatly contrasted her own. Whereas she felt excitement, you felt fear. All you’ve ever known is Riera Baixa and all you’ve ever looked forward to are those 80 steps. You tried to explain this to her but your words were simply not enough. So, she packed her bags and sought out a new adventure. The morning after she left, you walked those 80 steps again, but it felt like you were walking for miles.
The pain of her leaving subsided with time, but she left a void in your heart you thought would be impossible for anything or anyone to ever fill — or so you thought.
On Saturdays something special happens on Riera Baixa street. The metal doors slide open and the stores spill out onto the streets for residents and tourists alike. The strum of an acoustic guitar fills the air, a beautiful melody mixed with the sound of excited chatter and intense bargains taking place.
Inside the bookshop, you’re hunched over the front desk, staring at numbers on a page that bring you no satisfaction. Your sole employee and close friend, Anna, stands by your side, her hand resting on your shoulder.
“A major sales push and all we have to show for it is 233 euros in profits,” you look at Anna, your voice, defeated.
“I think you need some coffee. You know, to ease the pain a little.”
You let out a deep sigh, “make it a café con leche and a chocolate croissant, please.”
With one small, comforting squeeze on your shoulder, Anna walks out of the bookshop in search of the only thing that can bring you a little bit of happiness.
You remain focused on the page, hoping that if you stare at it long enough the numbers will transform. The bookshop has never been the most profitable business on Riera Baixa street, seemingly always hanging by a thin thread— a very thin thread. And yet, it has remained a staple of the market, making just enough to survive year after year.
The little bell attached to the door rings out in the quiet, taking you out of your thoughts. You glance up casually, expecting to see just another customer with an unfamiliar face.
It’s like the air is sucked out of the room.
Despite the black cap and sunglasses, there’s no mistaking her. No matter where you are in the city, you see her. Her face is plastered on every newspaper, her name a constant sound on the radio, the city walls decorated with murals of her.
It’s Alexia Putellas, the greatest football player in the world, the pride and joy of Barcelona — here — in your store. She is the inspiration of many and the example of hard work and dedication. But also, the most heavenly, generous, beautiful woman on earth.
“Need some help?” you ask, the words almost getting stuck in your throat.
Alexia glances up from the book held gingerly in her hands, “No, thank you. Just looking around.”
“Ok.”
You feign interest in the scattered pieces of paper on the desk, flipping through the pages with no purpose.
From the corner of your eye, you can see Alexia wander from shelf to shelf, fingertips brushing against the spine of the books that intrigue her. Something does indeed catch her eye because she stops and picks out a book from the shelf. It’s a book you instantly recognize, even from a distance.
“Good choice, but uh, just a little bit depressing” you dare to say, hoping she won’t mind the interruption too much.
Alexia makes no effort to look in your direction, her attention on the cover of the book. “What’s it about?” she asks.
“Oh — well, long story short, all the main character knows is tragedy so to protect herself, she doesn’t let anyone get close. She thinks she’ll just inevitably lose them.”
“I see.” Alexia appears to give the novel some more thought but, in the end, decides to heed your warning and returns the book to its proper place.
Alexia continues her search — for what, you do not know. But whatever it is, you want to help her find it.
Eventually she plucks out another book, but this time doesn’t bother to look at the cover. Instead, she brings it up to your view, “and this one?”
“That one has too many men with insufferable egos.”
Alexia hides her smile behind the book, “not my thing,” she says, and puts it right back.
You lose sight of her when she wanders to the back of the shop, daring to explore the mess of books stacked up from floor to ceiling. Very rarely do customers visit that section and that only makes her far more intriguing.
After a few minutes, Alexia returns to the front of the shop with a book held delicately in her hands. “I think I found the one,” she says, resting the book on the desk.
Taking a peek at the cover, a smile tugs on your lips. “It’s one of my favorites, actually.”
Alexia tilts her head slightly to the side, removing her sunglasses and finally allowing you to see her eyes.
You wonder if she can tell your heart skipped a beat or two.
“If it’s your favorite, why do you have it all the way in the back?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” you pause for a moment to think, “I guess some novels are best stumbled upon y’know… found at just the right moment by the right person.”
“Am I the right person?”
“Definitely.”
Alexia looks at you with a slight smile and just like that, whatever worries you had before she walked in are no more. When you complete the transaction and hand her the bag, her fingers brush against your own for a brief, but electrifying second.
“Have a good day,” she says, bringing up the sunglasses to cover her eyes once again, much to your disappointment.
“Yeah… you too,” is all you can say, but the voice in your head is begging for her to stay.
Alexia opens the door to leave but hesitates, “I didn’t catch your name,” she says.
“Oh, it’s Y/N,” you manage to say, for a brief second forgetting your own name.
Alexia silently mouths your name and offers you a smile that warms your entire body. With that, she steps out onto the street and disappears from your view.
Once again, a quiet takes over the shop. You’re left in a daze, having to pinch yourself to prove that it was all real— that she was real.
Anna returns just a few minutes later with two cups in her hand and a flustered look on her face. “Café con leche as ordered,” she says, shuffling the papers out of the way and resting the hot, steaming cup of coffee on the front desk.
“You won’t believe who was just here,” you say, still in a state of disbelief.
“Alexia Putellas?”
You take a step back, shocked that she was able to guess so quickly. “Yes! Wait, did you see her when she walked out?”
Anna appears to be just as surprised as you, “hold on, I was right? That was a total guess, oh my god!” she exclaims, looking back at the door, hoping Alexia would just walk right back in. “But no, I saw her on the front page of a newspaper when I was at the pastry shop. That’s why she was my first guess.”
“It was a damn good guess.” You reach for the cup but go still when you realize something is missing, “no chocolate croissants today?”
“Oh shit!” she taps her forehead with her palm, “the new girl, Emma, was flirting with me again, and well, you know how I get,” she says, her cheeks red with a blush.
You let out a little snort, shaking your head. “Perfectly reasonable explanation,” you say, “I’ll go get it. I think some fresh air will do me good.”
Just as you’re about to step out onto the street, Anna calls out to you. “Wait! You mind getting me an orange juice? I meant to get one but-“
You give her a knowing look, “you looked into Emma’s beautiful eyes and forgot?”
“Yep!”
It’s usually a short walk to the pastry shop, but on Saturdays it takes a little longer with the crowd that gathers in search of antiques and other goods.
Emma smiles when you walk in and asks you about Anna to which you reply, “back at the shop, a flustered mess.”
While Emma works on your order, you can’t help but glance at the newspapers on display. Alexia’s face is on the cover of about half of them, and the headlines all attack her in one way or the other.
Alexia Putellas A Shell of Her Former Self, reads one of the headlines.
Another cover has Alexia crying on the pitch, her hands over her face and with the headline, Will Putellas Miss Again?
Ever since Alexia missed a penalty in last years Champions League final penalty shootout, the press have developed an obsession for attacking her. Only a few months prior to the final they were singing her praises, but as it turns out, highlighting her misfortunes brings in a whole lot more money and attention.
With a cup of orange juice, chocolate croissant, and some napkins in your hands, you swing out of the pastry shop with very little care. You’re about to turn a corner when you bump into-
“Alexia!” a rising panic in your voice.
“Shh!” she looks around to see if anybody heard, orange juice dripping from her shirt down onto the street.
“I’m so sorry! Here, let me help.” Without much of a thought, you attempt to pat dry her shirt but get a little too near to her breasts for someone Alexia just met.
“What are you doing?!”
You jump back, flustered, and so utterly embarrassed. “Sorry… again. Um, listen I live just right over there, please, you could get cleaned up and be good to go. I’d hate to ruin your day,” you pause, letting out an awkward chuckle, “If I haven’t already.”
The sunglasses shield her eyes, but you don’t need to see them to tell she’s annoyed. “Fine. But what do you mean, just right over there?”
You point in the direction of your apartment, “literally right over there, it's the one with the red curtains.”
Alexia looks down at her shirt, soaked and stained with orange juice. With a sigh, she nods and accepts your offer. __
Your apartment is an extension of the bookstore. Books everywhere and on everything; some closed, and some left open to your favorite passages.
“Something tells me you like to read,” she says, a hint of teasing in her words.
You give her a nervous smile, “just a little.”
Alexia takes off her sunglasses and places them on the nearest table alongside her bags. “It’s a good thing I decided to buy this top after all,” she says, taking out a black crop top, “Bathroom?”
“Right over there,” you reply, pointing to the bathroom door at the end of the hallway.
With Alexia out of sight, you take in a deep breath in hopes it will calm your nerves but it’s hard to ignore the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Saturdays are usually pretty eventful, but this is something else entirely. It’s not the fact that’s she’s incredibly famous that has you feeling like this. While it’s true that there’s no lack of beautiful women in Barcelona, none have ever made your heart explode in your chest and your soul stand still in awe with just one look.
Alexia steps out of the bathroom and there goes your heart again, picking up its pace. The top rides up her stomach just enough for you to see the carved rigids of her abs, and tight enough for you tell she’s not wearing a bra.
It’s so incredibly obvious that you’re staring, but the sparkle in her eyes hints that she doesn’t mind.
“Cup of coffee before you go?” you ask, forcing yourself to maintain eye-contact.
“No, thank you.”
“Tea?”
Alexia tugs on her bottom lip for a moment then shakes her head, “no.”
“How about a croissant? Best in all of Barcelona.”
Her lips twitch in an effort to fight her smile, “really, no.”
“Will I always get a no from you?”
There’s a pause.
“No,” she says and gives you a look that means something, but you just don’t know what.
“I should go,” she says, “I want to say thank you for all your help, but you are the one that spilled orange juice all over me so…”
You look down at your feet, trying to muster up a little bit of courage, “Before you go… I realize I might never get another chance to tell you this, considering I’ve done nothing but make a fool of myself today but,” you meet her eyes, “you’ll forget all about me the second you step out of that door, but… I fear you’ll never leave my mind.”
She smiles, and you realize that’s all you’ll get in return.
“Right, well…,” you guide her towards the front door, “it was nice to meet you, Alexia.”
With a nod, she steps out of the apartment and you close the door behind her. Leaning against it, you tap your forehead again, and again on the door in embarrassment. “That literally couldn’t have gone worse,” you say with a heavy sigh.
You turn away from the door but suddenly, you hear a knock. You expect it to be Anna, tracking you down since you never made it back to the shop. But when you open the door, you see Alexia.
“Hi,” she says, “Sorry, I forgot my bags.”
You look back and see her bags still on the table where she left them, “oh, right. I’ll get them for you.”
When you return to the door with her bags in your hand, you notice Alexia has taken two steps inside the apartment. You go to hand her the bags but surprisingly, she doesn’t make a move a muscle to take them from you.
You’re confused, but in her eyes, you only see certainty.
That’s when she kisses you, without any warning but without haste, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her. It’s a gentle kiss, without passion but with a tenderness that has you feeling like you’re floating in the clouds.
Alexia pulls away and it takes a few seconds for you to open your eyes. You have so many questions, but it seems you’ve lost the ability to speak. In silence, Alexia reaches for the bags still in your hands and with one last look, walks out once again.
This time, however, she leaves you with a little hope in your heart that one day, maybe she’ll return.
___________________
“So let me get this straight,” Anna says, pacing back and forth on the balcony of your apartment, “five-time Balon D’or winner, Alexia Putellas, kissed you?”
“That is correct.” You don’t blame Anna for having trouble believing your encounter with Alexia. Hell, it’s hard for you to believe and you lived it.
“And she just walked out? Didn’t say anything, just kissed you and went on her merry way?”
That part of it all was also difficult for you to wrap your head around. “Kissed me and walked right out,” you reply, looking down at everyone going about their lives on Riera Baixa street, “I swear I’ve never been so confused in my life.”
Anna plops down on the chair next to you and lifts her legs up to rest on the railing, “No wonder you were acting so weird when you got back to the shop. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t pass out — God knows I would have.”
“Well, I stood there like an idiot for like fifteen minutes after she left so… close enough.”
The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, just trying to make sense out of something that makes absolutely no sense at all. The memory of the kiss is permanently engraved in your memory. No matter what you do to try and distract yourself from it, it’s impossible to not relive it in your mind.
“So what are you gonna do now?” Anna finally asks.
All you can do is shrug, “what can I do?” You’ve been asking yourself that very same question and have yet to come up with an answer. “She’s famous, Annie, it’s not like I can track her down or something. Let’s say I do somehow manage to get in contact with her, would she even want to talk to me? I mean, yes, she did kiss me but she also just walked out and left me standing there. I honestly don’t kno—”
“Oh my god!” Anna jumps out of the chair with her phone in her hands.
Her sudden outburst startles you, “what!?”
Anna starts gesturing wildly at the phone, “Alexia just followed the bookshop on Instagram!”
You jump out of your chair, just like Anna, and take the phone from her hands.
Alexia Putellas has followed you
“This is huge,” Anna says, peering over your shoulder at the screen, “not only for your love life but for the store too.”
Business is the last thing on your mind. The realization that Alexia hasn’t forgotten all about you has your head spinning, so much so that you need to sit back down. You’re staring at the notification with your heart ready to explode out of your chest, but then you get another one and this time, it’s a message.
Alexia: sorry couldn’t find you by your name 🙄 Alexia: it’s a little late notice but we have a game tomorrow. Can you make it? Alexia: I want to see you again
Each message sends you further into a state of panic, your hands trembling. All of the sudden everything feels really real. Your kiss with Alexia felt so surreal that you could almost trick yourself into believing it was all a figment of your imagination. But now, reality has smacked you right across the face and you’re terrified.
“You ok? You’re white as a ghost,” Anna says, reaching for your trembling hands.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” you say to her, feeling a pressure in your chest, “she’s Alexia Putellas, Anna. She’s all people talk about in this city and everyone wants to know everything about her. Remember her last relationship?”
Anna nods, a slight grimace on her face. “Yeah, the press wouldn’t leave them alone. I’ll admit, it was all a little extreme.”
Just the idea of being followed around everywhere you go by strangers with flashing cameras has you paralyzed with fear. You’re a creature of habit, finding comfort in routine and happiness in an ordinary life. Alexia’s life is anything but ordinary and you fear you’ll sink rather than float in her presence.
“I can’t do this,” you say, giving the phone back to Anna and running your fingers through your hair feeling overwhelmed. “We’re from two different worlds.”
Anna knows you better than anyone else and was there by your side, helping you pick up the broken pieces of your heart. Like you, she lives in her own little world on Riera Baixa street and has never desired a change of scenery or change of pace.
“Are you going to reply?” Anna asks you, softly.
You take a shuddering breath, your eyes starting to tear up. “It’s better that I don’t. Besides, she’ll forget all about me soon enough,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh, wiping away the single tear running down your cheek.
Anna gives your hand a little squeeze. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” she says, but knows better than to push the subject.
___________________
It’s the end of yet another slow day at the bookstore which only makes it all that more difficult to keep your mind off Alexia. Anytime the bell rings announcing a new customer your heart drops at the small possibility of it being her. But it’s never her and as much as you hate to admit it, you feel disappointed each time.
The bell rings and you look up to find a man with a rather bored look on his face.
“Welcome,” you greet him, “can I help you?”
The man stops a few feet away from you and looks around slowly, “do you have any travel books?”
“Uh,” you look around the store, the answer very clear to you, “no, sorry, we only sell novels.”
The man doesn’t seem satisfied by your answer. “Rick Stevens?”
You try to recall the name of the author, but nothing comes to mind. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with his work. Do you know the name of the novel?”
“Best of Europe Guidebook.”
Fighting the urge to scream, you give the man a tight smile. “That’s a travel book. We only sell novels, sir.”
“What about Fodor’s Essential Europe?”
You take a glance at the clock and breathe a sigh of relief when you see its almost closing time. “Nope, don’t have that either,” you say, stepping away from the counter and towards the door, “unfortunately it’s time for us to close. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you find what you need.”
The man takes an unbearably long time to walk out of the door and you try to hide your eagerness when you close the door behind him.
“Why is Anna never here to deal with the weird customers,” you mumble to yourself.
Shrugging off the annoyance, you start to pack up your belongings to head on home.
But once again, the bell rings and that same annoyance starts to creep up again, “We don’t sell travel books,” you say without even bothering to turn back and see who walked in.
“That’s good to know,” says a very familiar voice.
Your body goes still, a chill running down your spine. It’s the very same voice that’s been haunting your dreams for days. With your eyes closed, you take one deep breath before turning around and finally facing her.
“Alexia.”
Same as the first time she walked in, a black cap and sunglasses conceal her identity. When she takes off her sunglasses, a part of you wishes she would have kept them on. Her eyes pierce through you, making you feel weak in the knees.
“You left me on read,” Alexia says, taking a step closer to you.
“I did,” you say, taking a step back.
“Why?” She says, now a little bit closer.
You go to take another step but feel your back against the bookshelf. “I just don’t belong in your world, that’s all.” You want to be firm with your words, but your voice falters.
Now within arm’s reach, Alexia shakes her head. “You don’t know my world,” she says.
When you don’t answer, she closes the little bit of distance remaining between your two bodies. Your skin ignites when she brushes a finger along your cheek, your eyes flutter as you instinctively lean into her touch.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” her voice is quiet, almost a whisper against your ear. Alexia slides her hands down to your hips, her grip firm but gentle: making it clear she has no intention of letting you go.
Your pulse beats loudly in your ears, her scent invading your lungs and clouding your mind. Nothing good can came of this, you know it, and yet you’re incapable of pushing her away. Your eyes flick down to her lips, just for a quick second, but it’s all the confirmation Alexia needs.
She bows her head down warily, watching your reaction, almost as she’s scared you’re going to run away any second. She tests you by brushing her lips against yours, a jolt of electricity running between you. Her tongue runs across your bottom lip and you can’t take it anymore.
“Kiss me.”
And Alexia doesn’t hesitate. The kiss starts slow — deep but hesitant. Your hands trembling lightly as you reach up to cup her cheeks. Eventually, the whole world disappears and all you’re left with is the feeling of her lips.
___________________
You give in to temptation and agree to keep seeing Alexia in secret. After every game, she finds her way to your apartment, sneaking away from the press that wait for her outside of Camp Nou. The only one who knows of your relationship is Anna and you’ve sworn her to secrecy.
It turns out that what exists between the two of you is far deeper than just a physical attraction. More than just lust. There is a certain kind of comfort and peace you feel when she holds you in her arms. You’re certain Alexia feels the same way as you see the way her shoulders relax when she steps inside your apartment, and the sadness in her eyes when she has to sneak away in the morning.
You’ve also picked up on the ease with which Alexia has settled into your apartment. Her favorite Barça sweatshirt has found a home in the top left drawer of your dresser. Her toothbrush now keeps yours company in the bathroom. And every morning, without fail, she asks you to stop by the pastry shop for a coffee and chocolate croissants that, according to Alexia, are indeed the best in all of Barcelona.
Having been given a few days off to rest, you have the rare privilege of spending all day together. So, of course, the two of you decide to waste an entire day in bed.
There’s a full-length mirror in the corner of your bedroom. In its reflection, you see two bodies tangled up in messy white sheets, legs intertwined, Alexia’s fingers lightly grazing against your bare back. Goosebumps form on your skin and you don’t know if it’s from her touch or the cool breeze that’s coming through the balcony sliding door.
You turn around to face Alexia. Her hair is tousled; a small smile on her face, thoughts hidden behind her eyes.
“Everything ok?” you ask softly, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.
Alexia supports her head with her hand, looking at you with tenderness. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time,” she says, “I haven’t felt like myself in a long time.”
Little by little, Alexia has clued you in on her life as a professional athlete and all the pros and cons that come with it. At first it was a dream come true to be recognized as the best, but through the years, that title has become more of a burden than anything else.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
The media demands Alexia to secure the Champions League trophy in order to be deemed worthy of yet another Ballon D’or. They demand a player who can show up in important games: a player who can make that crucial penalty in a final. All her previous accomplishments be damned. All they remember is that penalty.
“You know I forgot my bags on purpose,” she says, tugging on the sheets draped over your body.
“What do you mean?”
Alexia let’s out a little chuckle at the memory that’s replying in her mind, “the day we first met” she says, “remember, you were rambling about how you would never forget me...”
You tug the sheets up to hide your face, a warmth on your cheeks.
“I thought it was so cute,” she says, sneaking her hand underneath the sheets to rest on your stomach, “I knew I had to get the bags before leaving but I decided to leave them behind.”
You peer out from under the sheets, “how come?”
“I wanted an excuse to come back and see you. I thought I’d let a few days go by but I don’t know, I wanted to kiss you so bad and just I couldn’t wait.”
Her confession comes to a surprise as you have always believed you made a complete, total fool of yourself that day.
“Hm, well I do have that effect on people,” you tease.
Alexia rolls her eyes and throws the sheet over the two of you. Underneath the covers, you share lingering kisses, giggles, and promises of forever.
___________________
You watched it happen live from the bookstore.
The game was tied and there was no sign of either team conceding a goal in the final minutes. But with only three minutes left in the game, Aitana was fouled inside the box and the referee immediately blew her whistle.
Penalty.
You were certain Alexia would be the one to take it and for that reason, you were on edge. Despite putting on a great performance all game, if Alexia missed the penalty, that’s all people would talk about. You knew that and most importantly, so did Alexia.
Everyone at the stadium, including you all the way at the bookstore, held their breath. You watched Alexia very carefully as she stood there, staring down the goalkeeper. What you saw sparked in you concern. There was an undeniable confidence in her posture, but in her eyes, you noticed something else entirely.
Your hands covered your face, but through the gaps, you watched the ball fly up and over the crossbar.
Alexia missed the penalty and the first leg of the champions league semifinal ended in a draw. While not the worst result, you had no doubt the media would attack her mercilessly for failing to secure the win.
Which is why you’re waiting for her at the bookshop, like you always do after a game— no matter the result. Right now, your number one priority is being there for her and to silence all the negative thoughts that are undoubtedly running through her mind.
Every tick of the clock feels like an eternity but the door does eventually open. The second Alexia’s eyes lock on you, her lips start to quiver. “I missed,” she manages to say before covering her mouth with her hands, shoulders shaking as she fights the sobs building in her chest.
You run and take her in your arms. “Oh, baby…” you say, tears welling up in your own eyes.
Alexia hugs you so fiercely, as if afraid you’ll disappear. All the disappointment, frustration, and pain rush out of her as she sobs in your arms. All you can do is stroke her back, whisper words of affection in her ear, and simply hold her in hopes that will be enough to ease a little of her pain.
But it’s hard to fight the pain when it shows up at the front door.
Strangers with flashing cameras overwhelm the entrance of the bookshop, shouting and begging for a glimpse of Alexia.
Hearing the disturbance outside, Alexia looks up from your shoulder with tear-stained cheeks. “Mierda,” she mumbles, “I rushed to get here and they must have followed me.”
Fear begins to creep on you but you try your best to hide it from her. This is exactly what you feared: your world being invaded by the press. Now that they know you and Alexia have some sort of connection, they won’t stop until they get to the bottom of it. In just one night, your little world is not so little anymore.
“It’s ok,” you assure her, running your fingers through her hair. “But we can’t stay here all night. When you’re ready, we’ll walk out and make a run for the apartment.”
Alexia, not wanting to face the press in her current state, takes a few minutes to gather her composure. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and takes a few good, deep breaths. It’s a ritual you imagine she’s had to do on more than one occasion, and it makes you hate those who are waiting outside with even more of a passion.
Hand in hand, you share one last look before walking out of the bookshop.
Nothing could have prepared you for this. All at once they all scream their questions at you and Alexia, forcing their cameras and microphones directly in front of your faces. They take no mercy despite your obvious fear and discomfort. The only one who notices is Alexia, who tightens her grip on your hand and forces her way through the crowd of reporters.
“Alexia is this your girlfriend!?” asks one of the reporters, following closely.
You put your head down, trying your best to hide your face from the cameras. Your silence does nothing to deter their never-ending onslaught of questions. All their voices mix into one, but your ears manage to catch some of the questions thrown at Alexia, and each one makes you rage more than the last.
“Do you deserve to win the Balon D’or!?”
“Why are you still taking the penalties!?”
“Alexia, how does it feel to let the team down again!?”
Little by little, the two of you manage to navigate through the crowded Riera Baixa street and make it to the front door of your apartment building. With a hand on your back, Alexia helps you get inside first as the reporters grow more and more aggressive. With force, Alexia closes the door behind her.
You can still hear their muffled voices coming from outside, but with the reporters now out of sight, you allow yourself to let out a sigh of relief. Feeling overwhelmed, you lean your back against the wall and slide down to the floor. Alexia kneels next to you and wraps her arms around you. It seems like it’s now her turn to comfort you.
“I’m so sorry, mi amor,” she whispers, softly kissing your temple, “it won’t always be like this, I promise.” Alexia tries her best to comfort you with her words, but you fear nothing will relieve the pressure you feel in your chest.
By some miracle, Alexia manages to fall asleep despite everything that happened, but you suspect it might have something to do with playing a full 90 minutes of intense professional football. You on the other hand, are still awake. The thoughts running through your mind make it difficult for you to find rest. That, and all the reporters still camped outside your front door. Some have given up and left, but others seem to be more persistent.
Glancing at Alexia, you feel a tug in your heart. The time you have spent together has been nothing but magical. Her presence in your life has reintroduced love and hope to a heart that feared it would never feel those things again. But, despite making you the happiest you’ve been in a very, very long time, you fear she might have also introduced you to something you never sought to experience.
Fame.
___________________
You haven’t been able to step a foot inside the bookshop in days. Every time you dare to step out of your apartment, reporters jump out of their hiding spots and hound you with questions about Alexia, and about your relationship with her.
Even though you have not spoken a single word to them, the press somehow managed to find out everything about you. Alexia has warned you not to go on social media for a little while, at least until everything calms down a little. You should have listened to her because it would have saved you a lot of stress and discomfort.
There are hundreds of articles written about you, diving deep into your personal and professional life. Some are even dedicated to comparing you to all of Alexia’s ex-girlfriends to see where you rank next to them. The article that affected you the most was the one that exposed your long-term relationship with your ex, and questioned if you ended it in pursuit of Alexia and her fame.
So many lies written about you and you feel powerless to them all.
You’re at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket with a newspaper in your hands when Alexia walks in. Interested in what you’re reading, she makes her way to you and sighs when she reads the headline.
All You Need to Know about Alexia Putellas’s New Love
“I told you to not read these things,” she says, taking the newspaper from your hands and throwing it to the side.
You don’t put up much of a fight since you already read the article a hundred times. “I know, baby, but I can’t help it,” you argue, “one day nobody knows my name and the next they know everything about me.”
Alexia sits down at the seat next to you and reaches for your hand, “I understand, mi amor” she says, her thumb caressing your knuckles. “But I promise things will get better. They’ll get bored eventually and move on to the next thing. We just need to give it a little time.”
Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you have to suppress the little bit of frustration you feel at her words. You want to go outside and point at all the reporters still there and ask her if things will truly, ever get better. But you don’t. You don’t because you know Alexia is not to blamed for any of this as she is just as much of a victim as you are.
“How was training,” you ask, trying to shift your focus to literally anything else.
Alexia lets go of your hand and runs her fingers through her hair in frustration. “Horrendous,” she says.
After her penalty miss, Alexia has been all over the place. She has no trouble falling asleep but has struggled to sleep through the night. You’ve lost count of how many times she wakes up through the night, gasping for air, her hand on her beating heart.
Every night in her dreams, Alexia steps up to take an important penalty and she misses. Every time.
“Jona tells me I’m playing with too many voices in my head,” she says, “that I should stop listening to what the media is saying about me and just play my game.”
“Kind of like how you tell me to stop reading these articles,” you counter, glancing at the newspaper Alexia threw to the side, “but we both know it’s easier said than done.”
Realizing that the both of you needed to take some time and relax, you asked Alexia to join you for a bath and she agreed without much convincing needed. When all the voices get too loud and the words printed on the pages hurt a little too much, the two of you find in each other arms a peace and quiet you so desperately need.
In the bathtub, Alexia is lying back, using your chest as a pillow. Lulled by the warmth of the water and the comfort of each other’s bodies, neither of you have said much.
“One day it will be just you and me,” she says softly, breaking the silence, “no reporters following us around, no more articles. Just you and me.”
You tighten your hold on her just a little bit and lean down to leave a kiss on her shoulder. “One day,” you reply, but your words are not said with the same amount of confidence.
Alexia gives you no indication that she picked up on the uncertainty in your voice, but she also doesn’t say anything else.
___________________
“I think it’s safe for me to go out.”
Alexia joins you by the window and takes a peek. When she doesn’t see any reporters, she smiles. “Chocolate croissants?”
“Coming right up,” you say, a little surprised to actually hear some excitement in your voice.
For the first time in what seems like forever, you dare to step out onto Riera Baixa street. The reporters camped outside your apartment appear to have taken a break and therefore, have allowed you to try and go back to your normal life. Things are different, however. Before you walked the street with no care in the world, now, you have to walk with caution and always be on the alert.
When you walk inside the pastry shop, however, you’re reminded that your life is anything but normal. Emma is working today and you hear her voice call out to you, but you can’t make our her words though the white noise and the muffled sound of your heart beating rapidly in your chest.
Your trembling hands reach for the newspaper and you read the headline to yourself.
“Dating a Football Player is Good for Business.”
The article goes into depth about the bookstore and its financials. How they managed to get this information, you don’t know. The article reveals that the bookshop barely makes a profit and clearly implies that you’re using Alexia to bring attention to the store. Their evidence? The insane number of followers the store has gotten since your relationship with Alexia was made public.
Crumbling the newspaper in your hands, you walk out of the pastry shop without even bothering to pay for it. While there are no reporters around, the familiar faces of Riera Baixa all give you a second glance and some don’t bother to lower their voices as they gossip.
“Maybe that girlfriend of hers will visit our shop and get us some attention,” someone says and it takes everything in you not to turn around and give them a piece of your mind.
The first thing Alexia notices when you walk inside is that there are no chocolate croissants in your hands. Then the newspaper and the look on your face. “What happened?” she asks, concern in her voice.
Without a word, you drop the crumbled newspaper on the kitchen table and then walk to the sofa, where you sit down with your knees tucked close to your chest.
Just like you, Alexia sees red when she reads the article. Instead of crumbling the newspaper, she shreds it to pieces with her hands.
Alexia joins you on the sofa, her hand reaches out to comfort you but you pull back from her touch. It breaks your heart to do so, but you’re just not sure you can keep going on living like this. No longer do you feel safe in your home. The street that you have grown up in and have dedicated your life to, no longer seems to welcome you. Everything you once held dear has turned its back on you.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you say, feeling that familiar lump forming in the back of your throat. “This is all too much for me, Ale,” Your words are directed at her, but you don’t have the strength to look her in the eye. “You make me so happy; you really do. But I can’t take another day of lies being written about me. Tired of not being able to work… of not being able to live.”
Alexia tries to reach out to you again but hesitates, “baby, please, look at me.”
The look in her eyes shatters your heart into a million little pieces. Alexia knows you have reached your breaking point and that means she’s on the verge of losing you — if she hasn’t lost you already.
“What they said about you is horrible, but mi amor, I know the truth. We know the truth and that’s all that matters.”
You shake your head slowly, “but it’s not enough.”
Alexia leans back, visibly hurt by your words. The realization that she has indeed lost you washes over her, and you force yourself to look away once again. Alexia doesn’t say anything else and gets up to walk to your bedroom.
From the sofa, you hear her open the drawers and pack up her belongings. You fight the tears for as long as you can, but it’s a fight you never had a chance at winning.
Her footsteps draw closer and then stop in front of you. Still, you can’t look her in the eyes.
“You pushed me away once and I came back for you,” she says, “if you let me walk out this door, don’t expect me to come back again.”
When you don’t say anything in return, she looks down and nods. “If you focus on the media and their lies, you’ll never see the truth. And the truth is that at the end of the day,” she sighs, her voice soft, “I’m just a girl, standing in front of another girl, asking you to love her. That’s all.”
With that said, Alexia slings the duffel bag over her shoulder and makes her way to the front door. She doesn’t open it right away, like she’s hoping you’ll stop her.
But you don’t.
You let her walk out of your life.
___________________
“Do you think I made the right decision?”
Anna takes a moment to think, having just been told about your breakup with Alexia. “Um, well,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “yeah… I mean, all the reporters and all that ugly stuff written about you, it had to stop, right?”
You nod your head, relieved your friend understands why you had to make such a difficult and heartbreaking decision. “It was never going to end,” you say with a sigh, finding a little happiness again in restocking the shelves with the new books that arrived while you were locked away in your apartment.
Anna hums in agreement, but you fail to notice the hint of doubt in her eyes. Behind your back, she pulls out her phone and sends a quick text to someone.
A little while later the bell announces a new visitor, and you don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The smell of coffee and of fresh baked pastries are big hints, but it’s the goofy smile on Anna’s face that confirms your suspicions.
Anna’s crush, Emma, walks to the desk with coffee and a bag with croissants in her hands. “I was told there was an emergency,” she says, a teasing smile on her lips.
You appreciate their effort to make you feel better, but they just doesn’t know that chocolate croissants will forever remind you of Alexia.
“Our girl is feeling a little down, that’s all,” Anna says, walking over to Emma and giving her a quick peck on the cheek.
Emma gives you a little pout, “did something happen?” she asks with genuine concern.
Taking a deep breath, you walk towards the counter and take the cup of coffee in your hand, feeling the warmth radiating from the cup. “I ended things with Alexia,” you tell her, taking a sip of the coffee.
Anna and Emma exchange a look, a conversation taking place between them with just their eyes.
“Bad breakup?” Emma asks but seems to immediately regret it, “sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”
“No, it’s alright,” you tell her, leaning against the very same bookshelf Alexia kissed you against that night. “I just told her I couldn’t take it anymore. You know, all the attention that comes with being with her.”
“How did she react?” Emma asks.
Your chest rises and falls with a deep sigh, “she packed her bag with what she had in my apartment and left.”
You’re about to take another sip when you remember what Alexia said before leaving, “she wanted me to know that if I just focused on the reporters and all that craziness, that I would fail to see that she was just a girl, standing in front of another girl… asking me to love her.”
Anna stops mid-bite into her croissant and looks at you with her eyes wide open, “You didn’t tell me that part.”
You look back and forth between Anna and Emma and quickly, very quickly, realize you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life.
“I fucked up, didn’t I?” you ask despite already knowing the answer.
They nod in unison.
With your coffee back on the desk, you start to pace the room with your hair in your hands. “How could I have been so stupid!?”
Once again, you allowed your fear of change to control your life. For so long you’ve lied to yourself, thinking that letting your ex walk away was ultimately for the best. But at the end of the day, all she wanted was a change of scenery. There was no doubt in her mind that the love you shared would flourish anywhere. And yet, you pushed her away. You tricked yourself into believing you were the victim but really, you were the one to break her heart. And now, you have made the same mistake with Alexia.
While you’re lost in your thoughts, Anna and Emma have their faces buried in their phones.
“Chicas, what do I do!?” you ask them, fearing that you just might be too late.
“We’re checking Twitter,” Anna says, scrolling through the app with a serious determination.
Emma looks up from the phone, “the team bus hasn’t left yet for the airport,” she announces, “it’s a little dramatic and will bring you more attention than you probably want, but I think desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“I don’t care about causing a scene,” you tell her, surprised by how confident you sound, “I’ll deal with the cameras. I just want her back.”
Anna and Emma both nod and spring to action.
“I’ll get the keys. Em, take her to the car,” Anna says, running to the backroom to get the car keys.
The three of you jump in Anna’s car with only one goal in mind: get to Alexia before it’s too late. It’s important you get to her before she leaves because one, you need to apologize for pushing her away. And two, you need to calm the thoughts that are more than likely driving her crazy.
“Buckle in everyone, today feels like a great day to lose my license,” Anna says, shifting the car in gear.
The car screeches out into the street and the engine revs as it speeds away. Maneuvering through the streets of Barcelona, your body gets thrown to the side with every turn Anna takes. You’re a little concerned at the speed, but you don’t dare to ask to her slow down.
The car comes to a halt in front of a red light and Anna taps the steering wheel in frustration. “come on… come on…” she says to herself.
As soon as the light turns green, Anna slams her foot on the pedal leaving clouds of rubber dust behind. She earns herself a few honks from the nearby drivers and when you glance back, a few middle fingers too.
In the back of the car, you’re lost in thought trying to figure out what you’re going to say to Alexia when you see her. So lost in thought that you failed to spot the familiar Bluagrana colors in the distance, moving further and further away from you by the second.
“There it is!” Emma screams out, pointing at the bus.
Staring at all the traffic up ahead, Anna grips the steering wheel and takes in a deep breath, “my time to shine.”
Emma glances back at you with a little fear in her eyes and there’s no doubt she sees the same in yours.
Anna expertly weaves the car in and out of the chocked line of traffic. A few cars swerve out of the way when they see Anna coming up behind them, earning her more honks and a few more offensive gestures. Miraculously, Anna manages to come up right up alongside the bus and repeatedly taps the horn to get the drivers attention. When the bus doesn’t slow down, Anna accelerates in an attempt to get in front of it.
“Anna, please remember that’s a bus full of professional athletes,” Emma warns her.
Anna nods, determined, “I got this.”
The bus driver, finally realizing there’s a maniac driving next to them, starts to slow down a little bit. This gives Anna the opportunity to pass the bus and get in front of it. The car starts slowing down and the bus driver has no choice but to also slow down and come to a stop.
“It’s go time, Y/N! Go get your girl,” Emma says, looking back at you and giving you two thumbs up.
You want to throw up. You’re not sure if it’s because of the nerves or because of Anna’s driving, but there’s a concerning feeling in the pit of you stomach. But, you know there’s no time to lose so push it out of your mind.
“Thank you, Annie,” you lean into the driver’s seat and give her a kiss on the cheek, “you’re the best!”
Just about you’re close the car door behind you, you hear Anna say, “and they say lesbians can’t drive.”
With the team bus stopped in the middle of a busy street, it’s no surprise a crowd has started to gather around it.
“Alexia!” you scream out, hoping she’ll hear you from the inside. If your face hadn’t been plastered all over the news these past few weeks, people would assume you’re a lunatic fan chasing after Alexia.
Instead, you’re just a girl fighting to win back the love of her life.
“Alexia! It’s me!”
You start to make your way around the bus, hoping you’ll see her sitting by one of the windows. Unfortunately, the glass is so tinted that you can barely see inside.
The sound of the bus door opening gets your attention, and you turn around to see Alexia peeking outside.
“Ale!” you say, running to her.
Alexia looks around, confused. “What’s going on?” she asks, “what are you doing here?” and you can hear the unmistakable hurt in her voice.
“I’m here for you.”
Now that you’re both standing outside, people have started to take out their cameras to capture the moment. You can see them from the corner of your eye, but you pay them no mind. You only have eyes for Alexia.
“Baby, I’m so, so sorry,” you plead, reaching for her hands but she keeps them tucked to her side, “I made a huge mistake. I was so scared, and I acted like a huge idiot. The day you walked into the bookshop; you changed my life. For so long I’ve been so afraid of change. I’ve resisted it like you wouldn’t believe. But I’m done being afraid, mi amor.”
You reach for her hand again and this time, she allows you to.
“I’ll take it all to be with you, the good and the bad. Let them write whatever they want, I don’t care,” you take a step closer, your other hand reaching up to caress her cheek, “you were right, baby, you were so right. All that matters is that we know the truth, that you know the truth,” you pause, a small smile tugging on your lips, “and the truth is that I’m so deeply and madly in love with you.”
Alexia looks around, seeing more and more people with phones in their hands all directly pointed at you. And yet, you don’t seem to care at all. There’s no doubt this little scene will be all over the news, but again, you don’t care.
“Are you sure you want all of this to be your life?” she asks, giving you one last chance to back out.
You nod without hesitation, “As long as you’re in it.”
Alexia looks deeply into your eyes, trying to find even a hint of doubt but she sees none. Out in the middle of the street, with the entire world watching, the two of you stand there. No words. No movement. No sound but a million words being said through locked eyes.
Alexia reaches up for your face with both hands and brings your lips to hers with urgency. She kisses you in front of everyone, as if though you are the only two people in the world and that’s exactly how it feels. It’s a kiss that takes your breath away and makes your heart soar.
Dazed, you open your eyes when Alexia reluctantly releases you. All around you, people clap and whistle.
“I hate to interrupt you two lovebirds,” a voice calls out, and you look behind Alexia to see her manager, Jona, outside the bus, “but we have a plane to catch.”
Alexia nods back at him but you have a feeling that if it were up to her, she wouldn’t be going anywhere.
You take her face in her your hands, “listen to me, Putellas,” a serious tone in your voice, “you are the best football player in the world, do you hear me? We all make mistakes but you should never let them define you. Those penalties mean nothing, Ale. Ballon D’or or no Ballon D’ D’or, it will not tarnish your legacy. So, I want you to walk out onto that pitch with your head held high, and kick some ass.”
Your words seem to resonate deeply with her because she pulls her shoulders back and nods her head with a new, fierce determination in her eyes.
“And you’ll be here when I come back?” she asks.
“No matter what.”
___________________
With Anna and Emma by your side, you watched Alexia take the free kick that guaranteed Barça’s spot in the final. While they jumped up and down in each other’s arms, your eyes remained glued to the screen. Alexia celebrated the goal with so much passion, unleashing all the frustration and anger that has plagued her for so long. But, as her teammates started to return to their positions, Alexia pointed at one of the cameras and formed a heart with her hands. A message for you.
Barça went on to win the final and you got to watch the love of your life, and the captain of the greatest football club in all of Europe, lift the Champions League trophy.
After the spectacle they witnessed when you proclaimed your love for Alexia to the entire world, reporters follow the two of you everywhere you go. While it certainly has not been easy to get used to, you find comfort in Alexia’s touch. When she senses you’re feeling overwhelmed, she whispers, I love you, in your ear and reminds you of what is really important.
Like now, you’re sitting in a limousine about to walk your first ever red carpet. Alexia is by your side, confident, with no hint of nerves on her features.
“You ready, mi amor?” she asks, her face illuminated by the flashing cameras that wait for her outside.
“I’m ready.”
The door opens and the fans explode in a roar when they get their first good look at Alexia. Winning the Champions League final only cemented her as the best football player in the world, and the entire world stands at attention in her presence.
Alexia leads you to the red carpet, not once ever letting go of your hand. You stand together, side by side, posing for pictures you know will be plastered on every newspaper and spread all over social media. And yet, you feel no fear or discomfort. All that matters to you is that light in Alexia’s eyes, and how it has continued to shine bright with you by her side.
“I’m happy you’re here,” she whispers in your ear, causing a blush to creep up on your cheeks.
“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
When they call her name and announce her as the winner of the Ballon d'Or, you watch as the most prominent members of the football world all rise in her honor. The spotlight shines on her ethereal beauty and it makes your heart skip a beat. You fall in love with her all over again.
Right as she’s finishing up her speech, she looks down at where you are sitting and smiles at you with love in her eyes. “I love you,” she mouths, and blows a kiss in your direction.
A kiss you reach up to catch, and hold very dearly close to your heart.
I feel sick
-
universallyalpacakid liked this · 1 week ago -
artemisqueen liked this · 2 weeks ago -
theyluvmemor liked this · 2 weeks ago -
mathieu65 liked this · 2 weeks ago -
xxarora103 liked this · 2 weeks ago -
ausenal-0 liked this · 2 weeks ago -
nahyeh1234 liked this · 3 weeks ago -
sleepychelseafan liked this · 3 weeks ago -
waveworn-rover liked this · 3 weeks ago -
sweetbanditbasketballfestiv-blog liked this · 3 weeks ago -
wosostories liked this · 3 weeks ago -
gamedestroyer22 liked this · 3 weeks ago -
coooralinet liked this · 3 weeks ago -
superdupercoolfairydust18293030 liked this · 3 weeks ago -
womenftbl liked this · 4 weeks ago -
fireandblood-3 liked this · 4 weeks ago
-
serein15 liked this · 1 month ago -
edhardychick liked this · 1 month ago -
jordans-20 liked this · 1 month ago -
coxlong liked this · 1 month ago -
mgmoore liked this · 1 month ago -
marvelloversincebirth liked this · 1 month ago -
soccerlover06 reblogged this · 1 month ago -
soccerlover06 liked this · 1 month ago
-
greendolfin25 liked this · 1 month ago
-
czarcssm44 liked this · 1 month ago -
itsnotlight liked this · 1 month ago -
blakelopez liked this · 1 month ago
-
misse-kity liked this · 1 month ago -
abigailgggg liked this · 1 month ago -
tardis05 liked this · 1 month ago
-
violetxblue25 liked this · 1 month ago -
loveyourlifelol liked this · 1 month ago -
wolfiierm liked this · 1 month ago -
reyaaxwell liked this · 1 month ago
-
skeet-yeet1307 liked this · 1 month ago -
briannarob liked this · 1 month ago -
pollewolle liked this · 1 month ago -
aykay04 liked this · 1 month ago -
isyally liked this · 1 month ago -
andreamontblanc liked this · 1 month ago -
kimanih liked this · 1 month ago
-
greantii liked this · 1 month ago
-
ellimaccp23 liked this · 1 month ago -
angelmishie01 reblogged this · 1 month ago -
angelmishie01 liked this · 1 month ago
-
mangopassionfruit liked this · 1 month ago
-
marta41 liked this · 1 month ago
-
isabellamj reblogged this · 1 month ago
