If This Doesn't End With A Contract Renewal.. I Might Just Delete The App 👀

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roses

you want to make your first sant jordi together perfect for her.

“Ale?” You called out, hearing a hum from the vague direction of the lounge. 

You'd just arrived at her place, reluctantly waking up in separate apartments on a free Sunday in early April since Alexia had a family thing the night before, and you spent the evening at Ingrid’s with a few friends. Individually, both of you had a good time, but it wasn’t without a grumble from you at having to walk up alone. You slept better with Alexia beside you, somehow she helped with your sleeping problems better than anything else you had tried. Whether that be because she’s a naturally calm person and that seeps into you, putting you at ease, or having her there worked as a distraction since you always fall asleep drowning in each other’s arms or with her fingertips running up and down your back soothingly.

The night before, however, you didn’t sleep too well. Your mind wouldn’t shut off at all. But, it allowed you to do some thinking. And the next morning, you walked into her apartment with a plan of action.

She was, what would seem uncharacteristic to others but not to you at all, sprawled out on her sofa, all long limbs in an oversized navy Nike tracksuit. The girl was like a sloth sometimes, a description of her she didn’t appreciate, yet one you loved to tease her with. As you rounded the corner from the hallway, she dropped her phone against her chest and glanced up at you with a warm smile. The sight of her so happy to see you never got old.

“Bon dia.” She uttered with a content sigh, moving an arm behind her head as she watched you take off your jacket and slide your shoes off. Then, you headed over to her, and her smile got wider as she braced herself for you to lay on top of her. You didn’t, to her disappointment. You sat by her feet, a determined look on her face. “What’s up with you?”

“I need you to tell me everything I need to know about Sant Jordi.”

Well, that, the brunette wasn’t expecting.

“Why?” She asked curiously, sitting up a little to lean back on her hands, her eyebrows pressed down into a confused scowl. All she wanted was a hug, but here she was having to give a history lesson.

“Because you said it’s your favourite holiday. So I need you to tell me all about it, so that I can make plans for us.”

Your words offered her a hug instead; her heart fluttered in her chest at the demand from you. It was incredibly sentimental to her, so much so she felt her cheeks heat up the tiniest bit.

“You want to make plans for it?” Alexia wondered, eyebrows now raised with a hopeful smile on her face that she tried to disguise.

“Of course I do. It’s your favourite.” You repeated, replying to her question like the answer was obvious. Because of course you wanted to make her favourite day of the year live up to her standards, and more.

“Okay.” Alexia blinked as she looked at the seriousness on your face, trying to process what was happening. There were butterflies in her stomach, like she was a teenager after their first kiss. But no, it was just you, and your limitless thoughtfulness and compassion. It only made her love you more, made her more excited for the holiday to come, because it was her first with you and that was good enough for her without all the added extras you seemed set on adding. “Well, what do you want to know?” 

You pulled your phone out, opened up your notes, pressing on the already half-written page from your impromptu research the night before, and looked back up at her.

“Everything, Alexia.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at your response. Not at your dedication, because she found that outrageously endearing, but at how deadset on this you were. How deadset you were on making her feel loved, and that was something she treasured more than you could ever know.

“Only if you actually give me a hug first. Maybe a kiss too for extra motivation if I have to tell you everything.”

You rolled your eyes at her, though fell for it regardless. You dropped your phone and watched as she shuffled closer, visible excitement on her face as if she hadn’t kissed you a hundred times before. She sat up properly and held your face with her hands on the side of your head, leaning in so fast you almost clashed heads, but that was the last thing on your mind the moment her lips landed on yours. They were soft, like always, soft and familiar, and the way they moved against yours had you wondering why on earth you’d delayed the moment when you arrived. 

Until your thoughts trailed off from her and back to the task at hand.

“So,” You started as you pulled away from her mouth with a wet smack. Your phone was back in your hand and you were straight back to business before she’d even registered that you had broken it off. “Tell me about it.”

Her hands were still cradling your face, eyes on yours as she caught her breath back. You looked down at her, eyebrow raised as you waited for her to compose herself again. After she inhaled another deep breath, she searched your eyes to check for any ounce of doubt or sarcasm as she took a moment to realise… just how much it meant to her that you were offering this.

“You’re really serious about this?” She murmured a moment later, a sheepish expression on her face. 

“Yes. I am. It’s our first together, I want to get it right.” You admitted quietly, a slightly embarrassed red tinge to your cheeks as she beamed at you, her thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. She leaned in again, a gentler kiss this time, one that conveyed her adoration rather than any other meaning.

“That means so much to me.” She whispered against your lips when she pulled away. A soft smile formed on your face at her words, because they alone were worth it and you hadn’t even done anything yet. That was exactly why you were doing it.

“Can only do it if you tell me.” You teased, turning your head to kiss her palm.

Alexia chuckled gently, shifting to sit back against the sofa and wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you into her a little. You turned slightly so that your back was to her shoulder and her hand slipped down to your chest, your own reaching up to link with hers and resting there. With a warmth in her chest, finally having you where she wanted you and a topic at hand where its future with you both excited her immeasurably, she was wholly content.

“I don’t even know where to start with it.” 

How could she explain it to you? The day spoke for itself. She hadn’t ever explained it to anyone before because it’d always just been there in her life, woven into April and she’d never known anything different. Now though, she had you, who hadn’t even heard of it until one movie night early on in your friendship where she rambled about it for twenty minutes straight when you asked if she liked Valentine’s Day. She had scoffed, to your confusion, before giving a hundred-and-one reasons why Sant Jordi was far superior due to the deep-rooted culture and everything else about it that fascinated her still, even after thirty years of it. Maybe you would have better knowledge of it, had you actually paid attention to what she was saying rather than how she looked. 

It wasn’t a holiday, exactly, more like the heartbeat of her city. A day where love drifted in the wind, swirling in the air, like oxygen, which it almost was. Nobody could survive without love and that’s what the day was about, always had been, since that time with the dragon and the rose that sprouted after. Since then, no matter what a person was going through, a simple rose was enough to put a smile on anyone’s face. Because a Sant Jordi rose wasn’t simple, it was more than just a tradition. It was love with roots, dating back centuries and sure to last for yet more to come. Giving a rose to you and receiving one from you on this day, to Alexia, meant that you had both chosen to love each other and wanted to tell so in the language of the place that meant everything to her. As she was explaining, she felt herself become giddy with excitement. It was hard to put it into words when all that was on her mind was you and roses and books and dragons and-

“You’re trailing off, Ale. Stay on topic.”

Right.

The brunette wholeheartedly believed there was never a more beautiful day in Barcelona than on Sant Jordi. There was a particular way the city softened then. Streets transformed from fast-moving busyness to slow streams of people stopping in their step, not out of obligation but from wonder. From actually pausing their life, taking a breath, and appreciating things they missed in daily life. Love, community, humanity. Something shifted in everybody during the holiday. Strangers smiled easily, weightless from their usual burdens, desperate to share the serenity they felt with others. Vendors with hundreds of the most gorgeous roses you could find handed them out willingly to everyone with the same care reserved for their loved ones, because that’s just what the day made you do. It was good, whilst also unfairly rare to have a reason to give beauty just for the sake of it. 

Deep down, maybe that’s why most people loved it. It was an excuse to share the pure sides of humankind in a world that lacked it so much.

And the way people showed these things was with the roses, yes, but books too. Alexia recalled her mother saying something to her when she was younger, where she had asked why it was books and roses, and her answer was ‘one for the mind, one for the heart.’ That memory came racing back to her, bringing a reminiscing smile to her face, before echoing it to you too. There was the legend of the knight and the dragon, of blood turned into rose, of course, but there was the celebration of two authors too, Cervantes and Shakespeare. So while the rose speaks of love, the book speaks of connection. To give one is just as precious as receiving one. It’s a gift of thought and attention, where someone has listened to another and decided on something that will resonate with them, whether it’s a topic about what they long for, what they fear, what they want to learn, or what they treasure. It’s sacred, in a way that’s different to the rose, but just as meaningful. 

The day was solely dedicated to care, to language, culture, and love. All the things that were most important to Alexia. She thought about it often in the weeks leading up to it, and apparently so did you. That gave her even more reasons, added to the already infinite list, of why you were her person.

“Wow.” You breathed out in awe when she finished, thumbs paused over your phone screen because you hadn’t quite expected her to go so in depth. She opened up to you about it, completely and honestly. You might be the worst person ever if you didn’t make it the best day of her life. 

“Yeah.” Alexia hummed, her ramble having caught herself off guard. But, sharing her adoration for the day with someone new, where she had to explain all the reasons she enjoyed it which she hadn’t really done out-loud before, simply reignited her love for it and made it stronger. “Was that… too much at once?”

You put your phone down, it being the last thing on your mind then, then turned around to face her. The midfielder seemed a bit shy, embarrassed even, and you had to change that.

“No. Never too much. You explained it a million times better than I thought you would. Thank you for sharing all that with me.” You told her, eyes wide and sincere as she met your gaze. She let out a small relieved sigh, before her lips widened into an admiring smile. 

“I can’t wait to spend it with you.” You gave a cheesy grin at her adorable comment, then got straight down to business.

“Who do you want to spend the day with?” You questioned, waiting for her answer expectantly as she frowned at you.

“You, obviously.” The midfielder answered.

“Okay, but I mean, don’t you want to see your family too? Some friends maybe? You don’t want to have lunch with Alba and your mother, dinner with your close friends, that kind of thing?” 

“No. Just you.” 

Oh. That took you by surprise a bit. You were flattered by her, and you couldn’t exactly hide it either with the way you blushed a moment or two after she spoke. She noticed and smirked at you, proud of her charm.

“Well, I still think we should visit Alba and Eli anyway, give them some roses.” You compromised, feeling a tad guilty for snatching your girlfriend away from her family.

“Sure.” Alexia shrugged. “As long as I get the whole day with you.”

“You will.” You mumbled under her piercing attention, her eyes unmoving from your face. “And where do you want to go together? What would you like us to do?”

It was then that she looked away. How could she say what she wanted to say without extinguishing your excitement?

“Let me take the lead on that. I know you want to surprise me, and you still can, but I want to show you to some of my favourite places, okay? I know all the good spots and I want to show you why I love them. I'd really like to share them with you.” You seemed to deflate at that, her wishes going against the rough plan you had for how this conversation would go, as well as Sant Jordi itself.

“But I want to surprise you, Ale.” You said dejectedly, which only made her smile. She leaned forward and kissed your cheek, hoping to cheer you up back into your good mood.

“I know, and I’ll let you. But I want to give you a good day too. Let me organise where we go, what we see, and you can do anything else you would like. Fifty-fifty.” She suggested, watching your reaction as you took a minute to think. After a moment or two, your eyes narrowed skeptically at her.

“Sixty-forty.” You bartered, which she laughed at. Nevertheless, she agreed.

“Fine.” 

Once that had been decided, she wrapped her arms back around you and pulled you into her. She nestled her head into your neck and dotted kisses up and down it, before settling comfortably on the couch with you in her hold as she smiled into your skin, with daydreams of the two of you on Sant Jordi clouding her mind.

—

Then the day arrived, finally. It felt like you’d waited an age for it. 

You were up as the sun rose, Alexia still away with the fairies in bed, and moving around the apartment as you checked your preparations for the millionth time. There was email after email on your phone, confirming your various orders of roses and their deliveries. Yellow ones for Ingrid, since she was your best friend and it felt wrong not to acknowledge how much you loved her on a day like today. Then some more for Jana and Aitana, who had helped you in planning and with where to get the best roses one could find in Barcelona, as well as their meaning. You felt endlessly grateful for everyone in your life, you’d give roses to them all if you could. 

However, your main focus was the sleeping form in your bedroom, whom you were about to make breakfast in bed for. On the menu for her, a smoked salmon omlette with traditional Catalan toasted bread, and a coffee. Simple, but her favourite for a day-off. Except it was her favourite when… she made it. It wasn’t exactly your specialty, but you were going to give it a try, considering you wanted to surprise her. 

And it worked, it didn’t come out half bad, and just as you’d served it up onto a breakfast tray for her with a coffee from the ridiculously fancy espresso machine she didn’t need (and took you months to learn just how to turn it on), the door rang with the most important delivery for the day. Her roses. Perfect timing for you to pick one out, wrap a Senyera ribbon around it, and put it on the tray with her breakfast. 

She was still out for the count when you walked back in, on her side with an arm outstretched where you would lay, something that brought a smile to your face as you put the tray on her bedside table. You sat on the edge of the bed and gently nudged her shoulder, causing her to stir.

“Bon dia, Ale.” You whispered, hearing her usual grumble at being woken up before she naturally woke up. “Wake up, you’ve slept long enough.”

“Wow.” She huffed groggily, rolling onto her back and rubbing her face tiredly. As she did so, you leaned over and grabbed the rose, presenting it to her as she opened her eyes. Her grumpy expression faded instantly, replaced by one of shy gratitude as she reached out to take it. “Thank you, amor.” 

“Feliç Sant Jordi.” 

Sitting up properly, Alexia met you halfway as you leaned in with a hand on her thigh to steady yourself. A kiss full of tenderness, brimming excitement for the day ahead, was the best way to start her day. Even better? It was followed by breakfast cooked with care and a coffee brewed to perfection (you couldn’t take credit for that, it was the machine) that hit the spot for her. It was only early morning, and it was already her favourite one she’d celebrated so far.

“Happy first Sant Jordi.” Alexia grinned sleepily, gazing at you with an admiration like it was your first day on earth. “You did a good job with the rose, it’s beautiful.”

“I had some help.” You admitted sheepishly, to which she shrugged it off. 

“Don’t care. Still your brain behind it.” She murmured, leaning back in again to steal another kiss from you. “I love you. Love everything about you. Happier than ever with you.”

“Shut up, eat your food.” You blushed, cheeks burning as she smirked at you before reaching for her coffee. “I love you too.”

“I can’t wait for you to see the city later.” Her eyes had a look of childlike wonder in them as she thought of what waited for you both outside the walls of your apartment. Before that, she had some bigger priorities she needed to deal with. She swallowed her mouthful of coffee before addressing you with a desperate question. “Did you leave time fo-”

“Yes, I left time for us to spend in bed after breakfast. Hurry up and eat, then we’ll have longer.” 

The girl was nothing without lazy mornings in bed, wrapped up in each other. Neither were you.

—

A couple hours later, after time together in the peace of the bedroom and a quick trip to her mother’s, the pair of you were wandering the streets, hand in hand and taking in the relaxed nature of everyone that you passed. There was this mutual contentment which possessed each person that celebrated the holiday, something that you loved being around. You hadn’t even made it to the main parts Alexia wanted to take you to.

She looked different. More relaxed than you’d seen her. She was calm, fully in the moment, everything loud in her life far away from her mind. Not a second went by without a smile on her face, whether it be one that stretched across her cheeks or one that was simply an upwards quirk of her lip. You adored seeing her so happy, seeing how much she loved the day.

At first, the city didn’t seem too different. There were red petals scattered every few steps on the tiled ground, some fresh and some bruised, and there was something poetic about that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The sun had decided to come out too, only adding to the atmosphere around. But apart from that, everything seemed normal. Just the early stirrings of Barna waking up.

Until you got closer and closer to the very heart of the city, where you turned one corner, and the streets became something else entirely. It was a slow unravelling of everything the day embodied; each person had a rose and a wheat sprig with an unbridled smile on their face, there was stall after stall as you stepped foot onto Passeig de Gràcia, tin buckets filled with bouquet after bouquet of flows, wooden tables creaking under the weight of the countless books stacked on them. It was unlike anything you had ever seen.

Barcelona truly did look like something out of a fairytale, just like your girlfriend had rambled about.

“This is the best place to be.” Alexia murmured into your ear as you paused to take in everything that was happening ahead of you.

And like every time she’d declared something before, she really wasn’t wrong.

Despite the crowds, you didn’t feel overwhelmed, because every single individual was sharing the same passion, celebrating the same traditions, holding their love to a higher importance. It was addictive, you wished everyday was like it. You would be more than happy, consider yourself lucky even, to live in this city for the rest of your life.

You moved slowly through the street, another ripple in the current of people fascinated like you were. The scent of roses was strong, how could it not be with how many hundreds there were in every square meter, with the metallic echo of scissors cutting stems each time a fresh flower was bought for someone that was treasured by their company. Honestly, that might have been your favourite thing about it, like Alexia had said; the love was so easily shared, each person so deeply valued, it didn’t matter that you were all strangers because it didn’t feel like it there. With the contagion of love in the area, you felt bonded to everyone that passed by you. It was a weird phenomenon to feel such a way, but you didn’t question it. No one questioned it. That’s just what Sant Jordi was, that was its pride.

Alexia had given you a rose after breakfast, having hid a bouquet for you out on her balcony. Even if you had expected it, it still did something to your heart as she handed it over to you. However, neither of you had exchanged books yet. You had a plan you kept to yourself, and so did Alexia. Yours was the first that came to fruition. 

One of her favourite authors had a stall that day where they were selling a new book Alexia had spoken about a number of times in the last few weeks. You had to, shamelessly, stalk her Amazon account to make sure she hadn’t pre-ordered it for herself. Fortunately, she didn’t, and the days since it was released ticked by without it suddenly making an appearance in her travel bag or on her coffee table. So when you saw the stall in question, the book standing out to you instantly on the table, you stopped the pair of you in place and turned to her with a beaming grin.

“Stay here.” You told her randomly, before rounding the corner and disappearing from her view. 

She frowned, a little suspicious, but did as you said regardless. As she waited, she saw a stall for fresh churros with chocolate off in the distance, mouth already watering as she thought of them. Anyway, just as you’d demanded, she stayed where she was until you came back, twiddling with the rose she’d tucked into the pocket of her jacket over her chest whilst she took in the surroundings. All that crossed her mind was that this truly felt like home. It grounded her, a reminder of where she came from and what she was representing on the global stage that football was. And she was proud to do that, indescribably so.

“Close your eyes, hold your hands out.” You appeared in front of her again, hands behind your back as you waited for her to follow through on your instructions. Once she had done as you said, you placed the book into her hands, the seller having even gone one step further and tying a red ribbon around the item too. “Open.”

The brunette looked down at the gift and let out a tiny gasp, glancing back up at you in slight disbelief. There was something about not only being heard and seen by people in her life, but having someone actually do something with all they learnt that landed inside her with a quiet kind of significance. 

“Mi amor.” She exhaled a shaky breath, a downturned smile on her face at the surprise. “Thank you. This is… thank you. You’re amazing.”

She drew you in for a tight embrace, there, in the middle of the avenue, where you couldn’t fend off the pleased grin that grew as a result of her reaction. Maybe she had wanted to buy it for herself which, to some, might have made it less of a surprise, but not to her. Things like this struck a chord within her, triggered that sentimental part of her that couldn’t ever really get over the fact people adore her so much they’d do something this thoughtful. 

“I had to muddle through the limited Catalan I know to get it but… luckily I know how to say that I need a gift for my hot g-” 

“Alright, you ruined it.” Alexia tutted, cutting you off with her words and a kiss that silenced your teasing pretty quickly. “You keep beating me to things, I need to step up my game.”

“God, you really have to turn everything into a competition.” You scoffed, to which she grinned and took hold of your hand again to start leading you both down the avenue.

“Of course. And I’m going to win myself back a goal by buying you the best churros you can find, right now.” 

Suddenly, the most sickeningly sweet scent you’d ever experienced invaded your senses and you had to hold in a groan at the deliciousness of it as she slotted you both into the queue. Churros had fastly become one of your favourite treats, but not something you indulged in often since, obviously, you were a footballer and they weren’t exactly the most nutritious things in the world. When else was a better time to share some with your girlfriend than on Sant Jordi? 

“You’re saying churros are better than your book?” You feigned a dejected expression and tone, feeling a tiny bit guilty at the panic on her face, but not when she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and grazed her lips against your temple.

“Never.” She reassured you, rolling her eyes when she heard you giggle. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Very lucky, it turned out, because she wasn’t lying when she said they were the best churros. For a little while longer, you walked along the avenue, your hand on her upper arm which held the cardboard tray, each of you picking from it every so often and laughing when some of the chocolate dripped down Alexia’s chin. You swiped it away with your thumb before letting her lick it off, not even ashamed about being that couple in public. You were in your own bubble, basking in the company and the devotion that thrived between you. It was quickly turning out to be one of your favourite days with her, maybe even ever in your life.

Shortly before you left Passeig de Gràcia, Alexia brought you to the place everybody wanted to see on Sant Jordi – Casa Batlló. It was front and center of the holiday, the photo that marked every headline in the news, and rightly so. Beautiful didn’t begin to cover it. 

“Worth letting me plan the day, no?” Alexia joked quietly, standing behind you as you gazed up at the building. Her hands were low on your waist, thumbs stroking up and down. As the day ticked by, it got seemingly harder and harder for her to control her devotion, it was just overflowing from her.

“This place is amazing.” You stated in awe; the longer you looked at it, the more details you spotted. From that building alone, with so much history embedded into its architecture, was enough reason to love Sant Jordi. “I never knew all this about Barcelona and Catalunya when I joined.”

“Now you have me to show you. Every year, for the rest of our lives.” She spoke soothingly, the words meant for you and you only. This woman.

“Somebody is really in their feels today, huh.” 

You were joking about it, but the whole day it’d set you alight. Never had being in a relationship felt so right to you. You were certain that you hadn’t known love before her, and she was really taking advantage of the holiday to show exactly how she felt towards you. God only knows you were feeling the same about her.

“What better day to do it? I love you. Let me love on you.” She replied, raw, vulnerable, honest. Her openness was one of the things you adored most about her, she never shied away from saying exactly what was on her mind. 

“Never said you couldn’t.” 

With her hands that sat on your hips, she span you around to face her, drawing you in closer just a bit. Her gaze was intense, communicating things that you didn’t want to share with anyone else, wanting to keep it between the two of you. 

“Your book.” She said out of nowhere, dragging you out of your thoughts and back to the present. One hand slipped away, reaching behind her back and presenting a small book, small enough to fit in her jeans pocket. You scanned over it, not quite sure what it was. “It’s a poetry book in Catalan. A lot of my favourites, some that are really important to me. Some that I’ve shared with you before and some that I haven’t yet because they feel too special to speak aloud, too sacred to translate. I wanted you to read it because it’s everything I’ve never said. But it’s always been for you, about you. And, I don’t know, maybe you’ll read the things in there and… think of me.” 

You didn’t answer, not right away. You stared at her, then the book, and back to her. The object turned from something light, like a feather in your hands, to something heavy with a pulse. This was the closest she could get to giving you her heart.

No part of you could quite comprehend how esteemed and dear this gift was. Whether the crowds were dying down or you were just honed in on the book and your girlfriend, but it was like the world around you knew not to intrude on such a moment. Nothing ceased to exist outside this pocket of time where you stood, with the woman you love, in the city that raised her, and a piece of her soul in your possession. 

One deep breath, then two, before you blinked and a tear fell. You didn’t wipe it away. She did.

“I don’t know what to say, Ale.” You whispered as if afraid that a decibel higher would steal the memory away from you. “This is everything to me.”

You couldn’t believe she had chosen you to share this part of her with. 

“You’re everything to me. That’s what I wanted to show you.” Came her response, in a soft, dulcet tone. Her knuckle wiped away another tear. “Don’t cry outside of Casa Batlló, that is so guiri of you.” 

Her humour broke through your astonishment and caused you to burst out into tearful laughter, the brunette joining you instantly. You tucked the book against your chest, coincidentally right over your heart without even thinking, before rushing forward to get a hug from her. She accepted it immediately, leaning her forehead against your temple, her heart rate higher than ever from the nerves she felt at giving you her book. In that silence, punctuated periodically by your sniffles of disbelief, she held you. Like she always did. 

—

It was a miracle that the pair of you made it to the dinner you’d booked later that evening. You with your emotions and Alexia with her lack of restraint at keeping her hands to herself. 

You did make it, though, of which you were glad for. Not only because you were hungry after a day of walking and a few too many tears, but also because the restaurant you’d booked a table at was difficult enough to find a reservation for, nevermind on Sant Jordi too. It was one of Alexia’s favourites and yours too, a surefire way to cap off the day successfully. 

Neither of you could stand being away from each other for a second; had anyone been with you for the duration of the day, it would have been sickening for them to see. But you just didn’t care. You sat in the same side of the booth at dinner, either with hands linked, a hand on the other’s thigh, or knees touching as you used your cutlery, like a couple that hadn’t seen in each other a year, not one that had spent the last twelve hours constantly in each other’s company. Dinner was perfect, the company even better, and the aftermath back at home just to top it all off.

Together, you ended the night with a bath. A cliche, rom-com type setting, with low light and candles and glasses of champagne seated next to each other on the ledge of it. You had your back against her chest, her legs caging yours, with her arm around your waist. In her hand, the book you’d given her. In yours, the poems in her mother tongue you were slowly making your way through with a little help here and there. 

You wanted the day to last forever. 

Instead, midnight was drawing near, the water was cooling, and yawns kept sounding from the pair of you as you read your books. Eventually, you heard the gentle sound of Alexia closing her book echo through the bathroom, before she carefully dropped it to the tiled floor. Both her arms came to wrap around your torso then, her head ducking down to scatter kisses across your shoulder, back, neck, any bit of skin she could comfortably reach. Then, in a low, coarse, tired voice-

“Best Sant Jordi ever.” 

Tia Alexia And Her Mascot

Alexia Putellas x Mila

The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of Alexia Putellas’ breathing and the occasional clang of weights hitting the floor. She was deep into her training session, pushing herself to be in the best shape possible. The Champions League quarterfinal second leg was coming up, and nothing mattered more than being ready. Her focus was razor-sharp, her expression serious, and her mind locked in.

That was, until she heard the unmistakable sound of tiny feet running across the gym floor.

Alexia barely had time to put the weights down before a small, dark-haired blur skidded to a stop a few feet away from her.

Mila.

With her messy hair, rosy cheeks, and an ever-present twinkle in her eyes, Mila was a walking ball of energy. She had likely spent the entire morning running around, climbing on things she shouldn’t, and making her mothers chase after her.

But right now, something was different. Instead of launching herself at Alexia like she usually did, Mila hesitated. She fiddled with her fingers, glancing at the ground, looking almost… unsure.

Alexia wiped the sweat off her face with a towel, then sat down on the bench. She narrowed her eyes slightly, studying the little girl in front of her.

“Mila?” she called softly.

No response.

Alexia’s brows furrowed, concern creeping in. Mila was rarely ever quiet, let alone hesitant around her.

“Come here, pequena,” Alexia said, patting her lap.

Finally, Mila took small steps toward her, her usual confidence replaced by shyness. She climbed onto Alexia’s lap, wrapping her arms around her neck in a tight hug before pulling back slightly.

“Tia… I have a question,” Mila mumbled.

Alexia smirked, tilting her head. “A question? That sounds serious.”

Mila nodded solemnly.

“Okay,” Alexia said, gently brushing a few strands of hair from Mila’s face. “Ask away.”

Mila took a deep breath, playing with the hem of Alexia’s training shirt. “This week is the semifinals.”

Alexia chuckled. “Oh really? I had no idea.”

Mila giggled, but her nervousness quickly returned. She hesitated for a moment, then finally said, “I want to be your mascot.”

For the first time in a long time, Alexia was truly caught off guard. She blinked, her usual intensity softening into pure surprise.

She had thought about this before, of course. She had watched Mila walk out onto the pitch as a mascot for her moms, for Caroline, for Esmee, Frido, and Kika. And while Alexia had secretly dreamed of having Mila by her side one day, she never wanted to pressure her. She had been waiting—waiting for Mila to come to her.

And now, here she was, asking all on her own.

A slow, wide smile spread across Alexia’s face. Without hesitation, she stood up, lifting Mila into her arms effortlessly.

“You want to be my mascot?” she asked, her voice filled with warmth.

Mila nodded eagerly. “Yes!”

Alexia let out a joyful laugh and tossed Mila up into the air, catching her as the little girl giggled uncontrollably. “Of course, you can!” she said, pressing a loud kiss to Mila’s cheek.

Then, still holding her niece, Alexia turned toward the other players in the gym. “MILA IS GOING TO BE MY MASCOT!” she announced proudly.

Her teammates laughed, some clapping, others shaking their heads in amusement. It was rare to see Alexia like this—so open, so unguarded. But with Mila, she was always like this. Always soft. Always full of love.

---

The tunnel was filled with tension, the anticipation of the match pressing down on everyone. Barcelona was minutes away from stepping onto the pitch, and the entire team was locked in.

But Alexia?

She was looking down at Mila.

Dressed in a tiny Putellas jersey, her dark hair neatly braided, Mila was practically vibrating with excitement. Her small hand was wrapped around Alexia’s, gripping tightly.

Alexia crouched down, her serious expression melting into something gentler. “Are you ready?” she asked.

Mila beamed. “Of course!”

Alexia smirked. “You think we’re going to win?”

Mila gasped, placing her hands on her hips. “Obviously! You have to score a goal for me, though.”

Alexia chuckled, shaking her head in amusement. “I’ll do my best.”

Before she could say anything else, the signal came. It was time to walk out.

Alexia took Mila’s hand again, squeezing it gently as they stepped forward. The moment they emerged from the tunnel, the stadium erupted into cheers, but all Alexia could focus on was the small figure beside her.

This—walking out with Mila, her niece, her little partner in crime—was one of the proudest moments of her life.

She could feel the cameras capturing the moment, but she didn’t care about that. All that mattered was that Mila was there, standing tall, looking up at her with nothing but admiration and love.

As the anthem played, Mila stood in front of Alexia, glancing back at her every few seconds. When it ended, she spun around and opened her arms wide.

Alexia crouched down again, embracing her tightly.

“Good luck, Tia,” Mila whispered.

Alexia kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, mi nina.”

Mila was led off to the bench, where she sat with some of her other honorary aunts.

---

The final whistle blew. Barcelona had won.

Alexia was shaking hands with the opposing players, still catching her breath, when she heard it.

“TIA!”

She turned just in time to see Mila sprinting toward her at full speed.

Alexia barely had time to react before the little girl launched herself at her. Without hesitation, Alexia caught her, lifting her effortlessly into her arms.

“You did it!” Mila cheered. “You scored!”

Alexia grinned, pressing another kiss to Mila’s cheek. “Of course, I did.” She tapped Mila’s nose. “You gave me good luck.”

Together, they made their way around the stadium, applauding the fans. Mila never left Alexia’s side, her little arms wrapped around Alexia’s neck, her head resting on her shoulder.

For Alexia, victories were always special.

But this one?

This one, with Mila by her side?

This one was perfect.

🥰🥰🥰

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 11 Other Parts

Word Count: 7k

The kitchen is filled with soft afternoon light, filtering lazily through the open window. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of music playing from the speaker on the counter and the soft clatter of you rummaging through cabinets.

You're barefoot, hair scraped up haphazardly, a t-shirt that's definitely not yours slouching off one shoulder as you pull ingredients out for lunch. Simple. Easy. Normal.

Or it would be, if not for the way Alexia hovers, not in the obvious way. She's subtle about it, or at least, she thinks she is. Leaning against the counter just a little too close. Reaching around you for the salt when she doesn’t need to. The brush of her fingers against the small of your back as she passes, feather-light but deliberate.

It's different now, there’s no more careful distance, no more pretending it’s platonic.

She's more tactile. Casual, but not. Her hand lingers at your waist when you’re slicing vegetables, her arm grazes yours as she leans in to taste whatever you’re cooking even though you know she doesn’t really care how it tastes right now.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye as she shamelessly dips a finger into the sauce, popping it into her mouth with an exaggerated “Mmm.”

“You’re annoying,” you murmur, bumping her hip with yours.

“I’m charming,” she corrects, eyes glinting, but her hand slides to rest at your lower back again, thumb stroking slow, unconscious circles through the thin fabric of your shirt.

It sends a quiet thrill through you, you try, really try, to focus on the pan in front of you. “You’re distracting.”

“That’s not a no,” she murmurs, voice lower now, closer, her breath warm near your ear.

You shoot her a look, but there’s no bite behind it. Not when her fingers are still tracing soft, aimless patterns against your back. Not when her body is pressed just shy of touching yours, her presence curling around you like heat.

Alexia, of course, acts like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you didn’t have your hands all over her just this morning. Like you haven’t both crossed a line that neither of you are pretending to care about anymore.

When you plate up the food and move to set it on the table, she catches your wrist, not enough to stop you just enough to make you look at her.

Her thumb brushes once, twice, over the inside of your wrist. “Thanks for lunch,” she says, soft, but there’s weight to it, not just for the food, for everything.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t need to, the smile you give her says enough, as you both sit to eat, her foot nudges yours under the table. Light. Thoughtless. Like it belongs there.

⚽️

Later in the day, the house fills up again with voices, with footsteps, with the unmistakable sound of a three year old on a mission.

Mateo arrives like a tiny whirlwind, his little arms overloaded with toys mismatched, colourful, spilling out of a too-small backpack he insists on carrying himself.

“I brought everything,” he declares proudly, dropping the bag with a dramatic huff in the middle of Alexia’s living room. “Because Coco said we’d play.”

You can’t help but laugh, crouching down to his level as you watch him unzip the bag with the seriousness of a man about to negotiate a world cup final.

“You came prepared, huh?” you tease, ruffling his hair. “What’s in there? The whole toy store?”

He beams. “Almost. Mami said I could pick my best ones.”

Irene just shakes her head, fond but exasperated, as she and her wife settle onto the sofa with Alexia, slipping into easy conversation.

Mateo proudly pulls out a small army of action figures, you notice the subtle shift in his posture his eyes darting toward the hallway, his little shoulders pulling in. Following his gaze, it doesn’t take you long to spot why, Teddy.

The picture of chill, Teddy is padding over with his usual friendly curiosity, tongue lolling lazily out, tail giving a slow, lazy wag, but to Mateo, it’s a different story.

The toys suddenly don’t seem that interesting, he edges subtly closer to you, almost hiding behind your leg, his hand curling into your shorts.

You soften instantly. “Hey, buddy,” you say gently, crouching down again to his level. “That’s Teddy. He looks big, huh?”

Mateo nods, wide-eyed, his little fingers gripping you a bit tighter. You glance at Teddy, who, bless him, must sense the nerves, he stops a good distance away, sitting down with that perfectly patient doggy expression, ears perked, head tilted, tail giving a slow, reassuring thump on the floor.

“Teddy’s the biggest softie you’ll ever meet,” you explain. “Loves belly rubs more than anything. He’s basically a giant pillow that breathes.”

Mateo’s brows furrow, suspicious, but curious.

“You know what?” you add, lowering your voice like it’s a secret. “He’s actually a little scared of new people too, but when he sees someone is kind, he relaxes. Like magic.”

That gets you a thoughtful look, you extend your hand toward Teddy, giving him the signal to stay put, and gesture to Mateo.

“Wanna give it a try? You don’t have to touch him. You can just say hi from here.”

Mateo hesitates, eyes flicking from you to Teddy and back again, but then he puffs out his tiny chest, brave, determined and waves his hand in a quick, jerky motion, “Hi, Teddy.”

Teddy’s tail wags a little faster, Mateo glances at you, and you grin. “See? He likes you already.”

Little by little, Mateo inches closer, dropping into a cautious crouch, his toys temporarily forgotten. He watches as Teddy stays perfectly still, gaze soft, waiting for Mateo to set the pace, and then tiny fingers reach out. Just the tips, barely grazing Teddy’s fur. Teddy, in true golden retriever fashion, responds with a slow, happy thump of his tail and a lazy lean forward, until Mateo’s fingers are buried in the soft fur behind his ears.

A giggle bursts out of Mateo before he can stop it. “Soft,” he says, amazed.

You glance up to see Alexia watching from the sofa, her mouth tugged into a smile that’s softer than you’re used to seeing. Something warm settles in your chest. “Look at you, already making best friends,” you murmur, giving Mateo’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

He looks up at you, beaming. “I like him” And with that, the toys come back into play, Teddy now firmly accepted as part of the gang.

⚽️

Alexia’s footsteps echo lightly down the hallway as she returns from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel, brow furrowed at the sound of absolute chaos coming from the living room.

Laughter. Full-bodied, uncontrollable Mateo’s tiny giggles bubbling over, joined by yours loud, can’t-catch-your-breath laughter and somewhere beneath that, Irene and her wife are laughing too, the quiet, helpless kind of giggles that come when you're around others laughing you can’t help but get dragged under.

Alexia rounds the corner, towel still in hand, brows raised. “What is going on?” she asks, voice amused, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

You’re on the floor, half-sitting, half-toppled over, clutching your stomach, tears in your eyes, barely able to breathe. Mateo is sprawled next to you, red-faced from laughing so hard, wheezing out little gasps between his peals of giggles.

You can't explain, you just begin waving a hand in the air like you’re physically batting away your own laughter, you gasp some air before the laughter continues.

Mateo nods vigorously, hair flopping into his eyes, absolutely useless with how hard he’s still laughing. He tries to explain, gets out one garbled word “Rawr” before dissolving again into helpless giggles, flopping dramatically against your side like it’s too much.

Alexia’s eyes flick from him to you, then to Irene and her wife who are both just as amused as Alexia, giggling into their hands, seeing how happy this stranger made their son.

“Oh my god,” Alexia mutters, exasperated but smiling now, shaking her head as she leans against the doorway, watching the ridiculousness unfold. “I leave the room for two minutes…”

You’re wiping at your eyes now, breathless, the laughter finally starting to taper off into little aftershocks. You manage to look up at her, face flushed, grin wide.

“Mateo’s got jokes,” you say, voice still shaky from laughing. “And sound effects. Very realistic.”

Mateo immediately presses a finger to his lips, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Secret joke,” he whispers loudly. “Only for Coco.”

Alexia just watches you, and even as she rolls her eyes, her lips curve into that soft, almost fond smile that’s becoming dangerously familiar now. “You’re encouraging him,” she accuses, though there’s no heat behind it.

“Absolutely,” you reply shamelessly, giving Mateo a high five that sets him off into another giggle fit.

Alexia shakes her head, but her eyes linger on you a moment longer and there’s something in her gaze that says more than she’ll say out loud right now.

"Do you need a hand with dinner Ale?" Irene's wife smiled, it didn't take much persuasion before Irene and her wife were in the kitchen helping.

You’re on the living room floor, legs crossed, as Mateo lines up his little army of toys with all the focus of a general preparing for battle. He’s explaining the intricacies of some very serious dinosaur alliance when you catch the sound of hushed voices drifting in from the kitchen.

Irene’s voice is unmistakable. Light. Probing. “So… how long are we pretending this is just ‘friendly’ hospitality, Ale?”

There’s a pause. The clink of dishes. The soft scrape of a knife against a chopping board. Alexia’s reply comes slower, careful. “What do you mean?”

Irene’s wife snorts. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been hovering around like a golden retriever yourself today. I thought Teddy was the dog, not you.”

Mateo tugs at your sleeve, oblivious, asking if you thought the big dinosaur or the little one is faster, but your brain is only half here. Your ears are firmly in the kitchen.

“I’m being a good host,” Alexia says, far too innocent, but you can hear the smile in her voice. “I'm being a good friend, she's in town because of her situation with Bayern I trying to make it better, and why would she pay for a hotel when I have so much room here. I'm just helping my friend out. Is that a crime now?”

“You don’t get flustered when other houseguests walk into the room,” Irene points out, dry as ever. “Or touch your back. Or breathe the same air.”

There’s a brief beat of silence. You can imagine Alexia’s expression, that carefully schooled face, the little purse of her lips when she’s caught out but refuses to admit it. “I like her,” she says finally. Quiet, but sure.

Mateo’s still chattering away, showing you how to properly play with an action figure dinosaur, but your attention flickers again when Irene’s wife softly adds, “Good, because she’s good for you, Ale. You’re different with her.”

“I know,” Alexia admits, and there’s something so unguarded in her voice now it nearly floors you.

Mateo climbs into your lap mid-battle, tilting his head up at you with a grin. “Coco, you’re not listening,” he scolds, tapping your cheek with his little finger. “You have to focus.”

You smile down at him, ruffling his hair. “Sorry, boss. I’m back. Let’s save the world.” But as you dive back into his toy universe, the knowledge hums quietly beneath your skin.

“Okay, Ale. Serious question,” she says, tone deceptively light. “Why are you being so secretive? You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“I’m not being secretive,” Alexia mutters, too defensive to be convincing.

“You are,” Irene’s wife chimes in, “But it’s cute. In a frustrating, emotionally repressed way.”

Alexia exhales, setting down the knife, her hands braced against the counter. There’s a moment where she looks down, gathering herself, and then she shrugs casual, but her voice is quieter when she speaks, “I was waiting to see if I could really trust her.”

That stops you. You’re still, so still, even as Mateo launches his toys into some epic battle beside you. Irene’s smile softens, but she doesn’t let her off the hook. “Because…?”

Alexia’s fingers drum lightly on the counter. “Because she’s heard things. Things I’ve told her. Things I haven’t told many people. Things she could’ve easily… leaked. Or twisted.” She pauses, glancing up for a breath before dropping her gaze again. “But she didn’t. She hasn’t.”

There’s a vulnerability in her tone now, barely concealed, like this truth costs her something to say aloud.

“I think she likes me for me,” she admits, voice small. “Not for the name. Not for what comes along with it.”

Your chest twists. A tangle of emotions wraps tight inside you. Annoyance, sharp and immediate because she tested you, she dangled trust like something you had to earn.

Pride, fierce and undeniable because you had passed, whether she’s outright said it or not, but mostly sadness. That heavy ache for her. For the history packed into those words. For the wrong people she’s trusted before, the scars she’s clearly still carrying.

“I get it,” Irene says softly, after a beat. “But you know you don’t always have to keep it from your friends, right?”

As you quietly gather Mateo’s toys into a little pile, pretending you aren’t listening, you feel her words settle in your chest, heavy and real.

⚽️

The clink of cutlery and soft murmur of conversation fills the dining room. It’s an easy atmosphere, laughter lingering from earlier, wine being slowly sipped. You’re sitting next to Alexia, who’s close enough now that her thigh brushes yours under the table, subtle but deliberate.

Then Lucia, with that curious tilt of her head, casually drops it into conversation like it’s just another side dish. “So… what actually happened with your coach? You two seemed close. But now,” she shrugs lightly, “it’s quite obviously tense.”

The table quiets just a fraction. Not awkward but attentive. Alexia’s fork stills. You consider brushing it off, a joke, an evasive answer, but the truth feels easier now, maybe because of what you overheard earlier. “I slept with her daughter,” you say simply, stabbing a piece of roasted pepper. “And then I left in the middle of the night.”

Lucia’s brows lift, but she doesn’t look surprised. Irene huffs a quiet laugh into her glass. “It wasn’t… casual, at least not for me. I thought we were. I don’t know. Starting something I guess.” You glance down at your plate, jaw working for a second before you continue, you told other people a lie, to save face mainly. It's never nice to think someone doesn't like you for genuine reasons. “But when she was asleep, her phone lit up. Group chat.” You let that sink in. “She’d texted them. Bragging. That she’d ‘ticked me off the list.’ Her words, not mine.”

Alexia’s head turns sharply towards you, her lips parting slightly, but she says nothing.

“I couldn’t stay after that. Not even until morning. Felt like a bloody idiot.” You pop the bite of pepper in your mouth, chewing as if the bitterness wasn’t lingering elsewhere.

Irene exhales slowly. “That’s rough.”

You shrug like it’s no big deal, even though you know it was. Still is, sometimes. “I guess I needed to learn that lesson once, right?” You flash a smile, light but not quite reaching your eyes. “Not everyone wants you for the right reasons.”

The words hang there. You don’t need to look to know Alexia’s gaze is on you. Lucia nods, but her eyes are softer now. “Still, that says more about her than it does about you.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table. You feel Alexia’s hand brush yours again under the table, this time her pinky hooking around yours for a second longer than necessary. It’s small but it’s loud in its own way.

⚽️

Later in the evening, while the grown-ups are back to clearing dishes and sharing stories over a bottle of wine, Mateo’s settled himself beside you on the living room rug again. He’s got two plastic dinosaurs in each hand, giving you a very serious rundown of which one would win in a fight, a T-Rex or a Spinosaurus.

“Spinosaurus is bigger,” he insists, eyes wide. “But T-Rex has stronger teeth.”

You nod sagely. “You know, my dad would love this debate.”

Mateo’s head snaps up so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash. “Why? Does he like dinosaurs too?”

You grin, leaning back on your hands. “He doesn’t just like them. He’s a paleontologist. That’s his job. Studying dinosaurs. Digging up fossils.”

Mateo’s mouth falls open. A tiny, perfect what?! hanging in the air.

“No way.” He squints at you, like you might be pulling his leg. “That’s a real job?”

You chuckle. “It is. He travels all over to dig sites. Has a massive collection of bones at home. Real ones. Not toys.”

Mateo looks absolutely floored. He drops his dinosaurs into your lap, completely betrayed by his plastic versions now. “That’s so cool,” he breathes, eyes wide as dinner plates. “Does he have a T-Rex?”

“Not a full one,” you say, playing along, “but he worked on a dig in Montana where they found parts of one. Big teeth. He showed me when I was little.”

Mateo’s bouncing now, practically vibrating with excitement. “That’s the coolest dad job ever. Way cooler than my Mama's spreadsheets.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, ruffling his hair. “Don’t tell her you said that.”

He leans in conspiratorially. “I won’t if you show me a real dinosaur bone one day.”

“Deal.”

From across the room, you catch Alexia watching you, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. There’s something soft in her gaze, a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Do you want anything boss man? I'm just going to get a drink?"

"I'm ok coco"

You head into the kitchen, reaching for a glass of water more out of habit than thirst. That’s when Alexia’s suddenly there, moving in beside you like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything. “Hey,” she says softly, voice pitched for just the two of you.

You glance sideways, and she’s close, too close for this to be casual. Leaning against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, arms loosely folded, but her gaze sharp and thoughtful.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she admits, cutting straight to it. “About your coach’s daughter. The text you saw.”

You shrug, trying for nonchalant, but it lands closer to guarded. “Old story now.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But it explains a lot.”

You glance at her, brows ticking up. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

A corner of her mouth lifts, but there’s no teasing in it. Just that same softness from earlier. “Like why you look at people sideways when they get too nice. Why you act like you’re always waiting for the punchline.”

You go still, the truth of her words striking deep.

“And why trust isn’t something you give easy,” she finishes, voice low.

You huff a breath, looking down at your glass, swirling it like you’ve got something important in there. “Yeah, well. Can’t all have the pick of everyone, can we?”

It’s sharper than you mean. A defense mechanism. But Alexia doesn’t flinch. “No,” she agrees quietly. “But we both know what it feels like when people want you for the wrong reasons.”

That pulls your gaze back to her and you see it, see her, not the superstar, not the badge. Just a woman who’s been burned, same as you. “I heard what you said to Irene,” you admit, voice soft now. “About testing me. About needing to be sure.”

A flicker of guilt crosses her face, but she holds your gaze. “I’m not proud of that,” she says. “But I needed to know if you were here for me. Or for…” she gestures vaguely, “everything else.”

“And now?” you ask, more curious than confrontational.

Alexia’s lips press together, thoughtful, before she steps just a fraction closer. “Now I think you’re the most patient person I’ve met,” she murmurs. “And I’m starting to feel like the idiot for not making a move sooner.”

Your breath catches, heart hammering louder than it should. “I told you,” you say quietly, “patience is a virtue.”

Her smile turns warmer. “You’re too good at this game.”

“Not a game, Alexia.” You let that sit between you.

⚽️

The house is quiet again. The dishes are done, Mateo’s toys tucked back into his backpack, and Irene and Lucia have said their goodbyes with warm hugs and knowing looks after Mateo charmed his way into a sleepover. It was obviously pre-planned on his part, he took the initiative to pack some PJ's.

You and Alexia are on the couch now lights low, some random episode playing but neither of you are watching it. Your legs are stretched out, your socked foot lightly brushing her bare shin. The casual closeness is anything but casual now.

She glances at you during a quiet part of the episode. You feel her eyes before you see them. Your gaze flicks over and meets hers and this time, nothing hesitates.

She leans in slowly, deliberately, her hand brushing your jaw, and then she kisses you. Soft. Sure. The kind of kiss that isn’t about fireworks. Your lips part for her just slightly, and the kiss deepens by a breath, a slow press of mouths that says everything the two of you haven’t. You chase her for half a second when she pulls back.

Her eyes stay closed for a moment longer, like she’s memorising the way this feels. And when they open, she’s smiling quiet and real.

Small footsteps patter down the hall. You both freeze, instinctively pulling apart just in time for Mateo to round the corner in his pyjamas, clutching a small stuffed dinosaur.

His eyes find you instantly, then flick to Alexia, his little brows furrow.

“You were kissing her,” he announces accusingly, pointing a stubby finger at Alexia.

Alexia’s eyes go wide. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

Mateo stomps forward, tiny and determined, clutching the dinosaur like a weapon of moral judgment. “She’s my friend,” he tells Alexia, firm and scandalised. “You’re not allowed to kiss her.”

Alexia’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She looks at you for help.

“Mateo,” you say, still trying to catch your laughter before it comes out, “you kissed me on the cheek six times earlier and told me we were the best of friends”

“That’s different!” he says with all the righteous fury of a three year old. “We had a deal!”

Alexia clears her throat, trying very hard not to laugh. “I didn’t realise I was in competition with a dinosaur prince.”

“You are!” he shouts dramatically, and flops down onto the couch between you, arms crossed, glaring at Alexia using all his might to try and move her over on the sofa.

You lean down, whispering, “He might be harder to win over than Irene.”

Alexia mutters, “Apparently.”

Mateo squints up at her. “I’m watching you.”

Alexia grins now, accepting the challenge. “I’m very scary.”

He doesn’t look convinced. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen her look more amused. The three of you sit in silence for a second, the episode still playing in the background. Mateo yawns dramatically.

“You can stay,” he tells her finally, like a king issuing a decree. “But no more kissing.”

You and Alexia share a look over the top of his head her eyes warm, yours laughing.

“No more kissing,” you promise, lips twitching.

"I make no such promises" you can't help the giggle that escapes when Mateo turns his head to Alexia and she seems to recoil at the look she was getting.

⚽️

Mateo had fallen asleep squarely in the middle of the sofa sprawled between you and Alexia like a pint sized buffer, one hand still clutching his stuffed dinosaur and the other loosely resting against your leg. His soft snores had been the final cue that it was time to carry him up to one of the guest rooms.

You scoop him up carefully, his head lolling against your shoulder, and carry him through the hallway with slow, quiet steps. Alexia watches you go with a little smile playing at her mouth, one of those soft ones, the kind you pretend not to notice but feel anyway.

Once upstairs, you tuck him under the blanket, he stirs a little, mumbling something in Spanish in sleep-heavy, but then, just as you start to ease away, his eyes flutter open, small and round and glassy with sleep.

“Do you really like Auntie Ale?” he asks quietly, voice small in the hush of the dim room.

You blink, heart tugged. Then smile gently. “Yeah, Mateo. I like her very much.”

He nods slowly, as if this confirms something important, and snuggles deeper into the pillow. “Can she come tuck me in too?”

You brush your hand through his hair. “I’ll go get her.”

You step back into the hallway and pad downstairs, Alexia is still in the living room, one leg tucked up under her, turning the TV off, she looks up as you enter.

“He asked for you,” you say softly.

Alexia arches a brow. “Is he okay?”

You nod. “He just wants you to come tuck him in.”

Alexia chuckles, standing heading back up the stairs. You head back up after grabbing your phone but, something makes you pause in the hallway by the door, just outside Mateo’s claimed room, drawn by the soft murmur of their voices.

“Are you comfy now?” Alexia asks gently, her voice like velvet in the quiet.

“Uh-huh.” A pause, then, Mateo says very seriously, “You can make her your girlfriend now.”

Alexia is clearly caught off-guard. “What?”

Mateo yawns. “Coco. You can make her your girlfriend.”

Alexia’s voice is light, but there’s something breathless underneath it. “Why do you say that, Mateo?”

He shifts under the covers, half-asleep but earnest. “Because she passed my tests,” he mumbles. “She’s nice and she played with me and she made you smile a lot.” Another pause. You can almost hear Alexia blinking, “She told me she really likes you too,” Mateo adds, like it’s a secret he’s been holding in all day.

Silence and then Alexia’s voice, barely audible: “She did?”

Mateo hums, already sinking back into sleep. “Mhm. She said it when I asked.”

Alexia says nothing else for a moment. You picture her there, sitting beside his bed in the soft light, her hand resting on the blanket, staring down at this kid who just knowingly played matchmaker.

Finally, softly, you hear her say: “Okay. Thanks, Mateo.”

You step back, quietly making your way to Alexia's room, it was quiet expect the hum of your phone on the bed as you got changed, as Alexia pads in softly on bare feet your already part way through your phone call.

You’ve got your back to her, one hand braced on the windowsill, the other holding your phone to your ear. You don’t see her, don’t know she’s there and so you speak freely.

“No, I get it. I know it changes things.” Your voice is low, tired, but steady. Alexia pauses just inside the doorway, out of sight but close enough to hear you clearly. Something in your tone stops her. You exhale into the phone. “Look, I didn’t want anyone to lose their job. That was never what this was about.”

Another beat. You shift your weight, shoulders tense.

“I’ve made a decision. There’s no going back now. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, leaving like that especially under those circumstances but I meant what I said, I can't play there now.”

Alexia stays where she is, quiet as a ghost.

“I’m not staying, no matter who they bring in next what assurances they give me. I know it changes the dynamic, but I’ve already committed to what’s next. I owe it to myself and to them to follow through on that.” There’s a long pause where whoever’s on the other end replying. You nod silently, then say quietly, “Tell them I said thank you. For everything.”

Another pause.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I will be.”

You hang up, your head drops, and for a moment you just stand there, eyes closed, fingertips pressing into the windowsill like it might keep you upright.

Then you turn and freeze, Alexia’s in the doorway now, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. Her expression is unreadable, soft and still. You blink, startled. “How long?”

“Long enough,” she says gently.

You hesitate, the air thick with unspoken things. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” you say finally.

“I know,” she replies.

“I made my choice,” you say, more quietly now. “I had to. Even if things… changed after.”

She pushes off the frame and crosses the room slowly, her gaze never leaving yours. When she stops in front of you, she’s close not touching, but closer than she needs to be. “What happened?”

“My head coach got let go this morning.”

Alexia’s brow lifts, a flicker of surprise in her expression. “Seriously?”

You nod. “The club’s already promoted the assistant. He’s taking over.”

Alexia takes a step further into the room. “You okay?”

You shrug, somewhere between relief and conflict. “It’s… weird. She was part of the reason I left, but not the only reason.”

Alexia watches you for a moment, reading you like she always does, calm, quiet, patient. “Does it change anything?” she asks.

You shake your head slowly. “No. I told them it doesn’t. I’ve already made my decision, and I’m following through on it.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes curiosity, and something deeper. “What did you decide?” she asks softly.

You meet her gaze, steady now. "I signed with Barca yesterday before I left"

Alexia’s eyes widen just slightly a blink, a twitch of her mouth like she’s caught between trying to stay composed and wanting to beam. She shifts her weight onto one foot, then crosses her arms tighter like she’s trying to keep the emotion from spilling over.

“You… you already signed?” she says, voice a little higher, quieter than usual.

You nod, watching her. “Yesterday, right before I left. We made it official.”

A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, and she tries to keep it subtle, but it’s hopeless. Her dimples betray her before her mouth does, and her eyes go bright even as she dips her head, suddenly shy. “I didn’t think I’d be nervous hearing that,” she mutters, half to herself, half to you.

You take a step closer, bumping her gently with your shoulder. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing,” she says quickly, flustered now, laughing a little.

“You kind of are,” you tease, grinning.

She rolls her eyes, cheeks pink anyway, but she can’t stop smiling. “It’s just… after everything. I know how much this decision meant to you, and I didn’t want to be part of the pressure.”

“You weren’t,” you say, and you mean it.

Alexia looks up at you, the shyness still soft around her eyes, but there’s something else there now something steadier, warmer. “I don’t really know what to say,” she admits.

You shrug. “You could say congratulations. Or. Just an idea, maybe finish what we started last night”

That pulls a real laugh from her, quiet and fond. “That is very good idea”

“Well, then,” you say, as she begins reaching out to curl her fingers gently in your shirt, “I just gave you a pretty good reason to kiss me.”

Alexia’s fingers twist gently into the fabric of your shirt, and there’s a beat of silence where you both just look at each other, soft, charged, inevitable.

Then she pulls you in, the kiss is warm and hungry all at once, not rushed, but with a certain urgency. Her hands find your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left, your bodies pressed together like they’ve known for a while what they wanted.

You barely notice the shuffle backward until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sinks down, taking you with her, lips never leaving yours.

There’s laughter between kisses light, breathless as you straddle her, that giddy, heady kind that bubbles up when nerves meet something longed for.

Her mouth breaks from yours only for a second. “You sure you don’t want to go back to the guest room?”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning in again. “Not even a little bit.”

Alexia hums a soft, amused sound as she with an overwhelming ease holds you against her with one arm lifting turning and laying you on the bed reattaching her lips to yours with more urgency than before.

Her touch grew bolder, her fingertips deftly lifting your shirt and sliding it up your sides and over your head. Your heart pounded in your chest like a drum, each beat echoing in the quiet room. Alexia's eyes roamed over your bare skin, a soft smile playing on her lips as she took in the sight of you. Then she leaned in, her breath warm and sweet as she placed a trail of kisses along your neck, her mouth moving with a purpose that sent your thoughts spiraling.

Her fingers found their way to the clasp of your bra, releasing it with a practiced ease that made you gasp. Your breasts spilled into her waiting hands, and she cupped them gently, her thumbs teasing the sensitive peaks. Your breath caught in your throat as she lowered her mouth, her tongue tracing delicate circles that sent waves of pleasure crashing through you. You arched your back, offering yourself up to her, desperate for more of her touch.

Her mouth moved down, her kisses growing more insistent, her tongue darting out to taste your skin. Alexia's hands found the button of your jeans, undoing them, and then sliding them down your legs. Leaving you in nothing but your lacy underwear.

She murmured in Spanish, her voice thick with desire, as she slid your panties off. You felt a blush creep up your neck, but the way she was looking at you made you feel anything but embarrassed. You were alive, on fire, ready for whatever she had in store.

Her fingers began to explore, gliding over your most sensitive spots, setting every nerve ending alight. You could feel yourself getting wetter with every stroke, your body responding to her touch with a fervor that surprised even you. Alexia's eyes never left yours, the intensity of her gaze making you feel as if she could see into the very core of your soul.

And then she was kissing your body again, her mouth moving down your body, her tongue leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When she reached the apex of your thighs, she paused, her breath hot and tickling. The anticipation was unbearable, your entire body taut with need. But she didn't disappoint. Her tongue slipped inside you, and you moaned, your hips bucking involuntarily. She took her time, savouring every part of you, her movements deliberate and precise just like on the football pitch. You felt your climax building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter within you until it finally broke, sending you spiralling over the edge with a cry of pure ecstasy.

Alexia pulled back, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder. How did she know exactly what you needed? How could she make you feel like this?

She repositioned herself between your legs, her own desire evident in the way she was looking at you. Her fingers began to work their magic again, and you felt yourself building back up to that peak, the sensations more intense than before.

Her mouth found your clit, sucking gently as her fingers plunged inside you. You writhed beneath her, your hands tangled in her hair, urging her on. The world outside the bedroom faded away, leaving only the two of you in a cocoon of passion and pleasure.

You felt your orgasm approaching, a crescendo that seemed to build forever, and when it finally crested, you moaned out her name, your body arching off the bed. Alexia's eyes never left you, her gaze a mix of triumph and hunger as she watched you come apart in her hands.

As your breathing began to even out, she kissed her way back up your body, her lips lingering on your stomach, your breasts, your neck, until she reached your mouth. Her kisses grew gentle again, almost tender, as she unbuckled her own pants, sliding them down her legs.

You could see the outline of her arousal through her panties, and the sight of her made you ache to touch her.

With trembling hands, you reached down and slid the fabric aside, revealing her to yourself. She was wet and ready, and you didn't hesitate to dip your fingers into her warmth, feeling her quiver against your touch. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she let out a deep, throaty groan.

Alexia's hips began to rock against your hand, and you felt your own desire stirring once more. You leaned in, your mouth finding hers again as you matched the rhythm of your fingers to the movement of your tongues. You could feel her tightening around you, her breath coming in short gasps as she approached her peak. As she came, her body tensed, and she buried her face in the crook of your neck, her teeth grazing your skin. You felt her release, the warmth of her against your hand, and the tremble of her muscles. It was intoxicating, the power you had over her, the intimacy that you shared in this moment.

Neither of you got much sleep that night, hands and mouths wouldn't stop exploring, if you did fall asleep, it was only temporary as you both seemed to wake up at the same time and hands would wander again silently.

⚽️

It starts with Alexia as she casually tosses herself over with a sigh and a stretch, taking up the middle of the mattress like it’s instinct.

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Comfortable?”

She shrugs, already turned onto her side. “Just getting settled.”

You catch the way she subtly shifts again, back angled toward you now not quite obvious, not quite an invitation, but unmistakable.

You're on your back behind her, heart warm. “Ale.”

“Si?” she says, too innocent, gaze fixed stubbornly on the wall.

“You’re trying really hard not to ask me to cuddle you.”

Her voice is muffled in the pillow. “I’m not trying, I’m succeeding.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m just... lying like this because it’s more comfortable. Nothing to do with you.”

"Ok" you smile and dramatically roll the other way, "Sleep tight" you feel the bed shift as Alexia seemingly looks over her shoulder to see where you were.

"If you wanted a cuddle, I'd allow that"

You laugh softly, "You'd allow it huh?"

"Si" you hear her sigh as she settles back down, there was silence, deafening silence but you knew that wasn't the end of it, "Cold isn't it"

You laugh roll over slid her hand over her waist and up her body to her chest and drag her back into you, snug against your chest. She melts instantly, sighing again this time quieter, softer. Her fingers find yours under the blanket and link.

After a moment, “Happy now” you whisper against the shell of her ear, she nods unable to wipe the smile from her face, "The great Alexia Putellas, a little spoon. Who would have thought it.

Alexia makes a small noise of protest that’s entirely undermined by the way she nudges herself closer, tucking herself firmly into your space. “Si,” she mumbles. “But don’t get cocky about it.”

You smile into her hair. “No promises.”

A quiet beat, then she adds, voice barely above a whisper, “When do you have to go back to Germany?”

You exhale slowly, letting your nose brush gently against the back of her neck before answering. “Day after tomorrow,” you murmur. “Got the last game of the season and need to pack up my things. Say goodbye. Sort out all the boring grown-up stuff.”

Alexia nods, silent for a moment. Then, quieter: “You okay with going back?”

You think about it honestly. The flat that doesn’t feel like home anymore. The training ground that feels like a chapter that’s already ended.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “It’ll be weird, I think. Bittersweet. But I’m ready to close that door.”

“Do you think… you’ll get to play the last game before the break?”

You’re quite a second, thinking. “I hope so. They haven’t said anything official yet, but I’m fit. If they want to show I’m still part of the squad, even just off the bench... maybe. Get to say bye properly”

Alexia nods slowly. “Would that be weird for you? Playing again, after everything?”

You breathe in, then out. “A little, yeah. But it also feels right. To go out properly, not just... vanish. I’d like that.”

She hums, the sound thoughtful. “I’ll keep an eye on the match. Even if it’s just a few minutes, I want to see you play there one more time.”

i'd fight a sim for you | a.p.

alexia putellas x reader | 2.1k | alexia puts up with your yearly random sims obsession

ˏˋ°•*⁀ idk how it got so long, also kind of have mixed feelings on this and idk if i like it or hate it but hope y'all like it! it was a fun request to write :)

any and all feedback, comments, reblogs etc are very appreciated and welcome <3

Alexia had been with you long enough to be used to this yearly routine of yours. At least once every year you’d get overly obsessed, overly focused on, as Alexia calls them ‘tus personitas pixeladas’. 

Every year it started the same, normally when the slightly colder months rolled around, when you’d pull out your blankets and the evenings felt a little longer, you’d retreat into your cozy little world. Scrolling on your phone, coming across other random Sims tiktoks, making you wonder how all your Sims families you’ve created over the years are going. Or falling down a rabbit hole of Sims builds videos, making you grab your laptop thinking you could do even better build. 

Every year Alexia would stand in the doorway, while you didn’t even notice that she was right in front of you, watching you stare at a screen with the most focus she’s ever seen you have. The same ‘oh, it’s that time again,’ look etched on Alexia’s face, slightly amused. You’re lucky she thinks you look cute when you’re so deeply focused. 

The little tongue poking out the side, the frustrated huffs when you can’t get something to look how you had in your vision or when your Sims don’t listen to you, the little giggles. Then her favourite, the way your whole face would light up when you’d find Alexia, ‘Mi amor, you have to see what I made this time,’ You’d look so proud as if you were the one who’d just won the quadruple.

This year was no different, you fell down into your little Sims rabbit hole. Curled up against the couch, your laptop warm against your thighs, almost struggling with how long it had been running Sims while your fingers danced across the trackpad and keyboard fully invested in the screen in front of you.

You had no idea how long time had passed in the real world, it was irrelevant while you were in your Sims world. All you knew was that sim-you had finished a productive day, leveling up a few of your skills, ‘WooHoo’d’ with a sim version of your girlfriend multiple times and only one small fire was started. You’d call it a success. You’d also argue that real you had a productive day too because without real you, sim-you wouldn’t have been productive. sim-you also wouldn’t be real.

Though, in the real world, your actual girlfriend had gone to training, come home, fixed some food and showered. All while you were in the exact same spot, exact same position as when she left this morning.

Alexia leaned against the wall, her arms crossed and hair slightly damp from her shower, she watched you. Mildly amused, mildly concerned.

‘Mi vida, you didn’t even say hi when I came home,’ Alexia’s voice broke through whatever Sims trance you had been in. You could hear the light teasing tone to her voice.

You still didn’t look up towards your girlfriend, ‘I did…,’ You trailed off slightly, ‘...I waved,’ Almost sounding unsure of yourself.

‘You waved at our plant, cariño,’ Alexia let out a small laugh while she watched you instantly pause, your eyebrows scrunching together before you looked up in Alexia’s direction. 

‘It’s – it’s a nice plant?’ You offered weakly, a sheepish smile making its way onto your face, Your eyes darted back and forth between Alexia and your plant, the first thing the two of you bought when you moved in together, ‘It’s not my fault you’re the same height as the plant!’ 

Alexia shook her head, pushing herself off the wall and walking over towards where you sat on the couch. A soft kiss to your forehead, before leaning over to look at your screen. Watching the little characters move around, interacting with each other, ‘And this was more important than greeting your girlfriend, who’s been gone all day, properly?’ Alexia semi dramatically flopped onto the couch next to you, eyebrow raised and a smirk on her lips.

A smirk that was wiped as quick as it came when you responded a firm, ‘Yes,’ Without any hesitation or room for argument in your voice, ‘Because while you were busy being a professional athlete, or whatever, sim-you made me pancakes for breakfast,’ 

Alexia blinked slowly, taking in your words, eyes drifting to the screen where you were putting your sims through more interactions, ‘Sim…me?’ Alexia looked at the screen closely, you’d zoomed in on the two sims you had interacting with each other, ‘That’s supposed to be me?’ Alexia spoke slowly, trying to process, while pointing at the one of the two that resembled her.

‘Yes!’ You excitedly zoomed in closer on sim-alexia’s face and moved to hold your laptop up against Alexia’s face, ‘It’s like I don’t know who the real Alexia is,’ You had spent a lot of time on both sim-you and sim-alexia, perfecting them as closely as you could, ‘Sim-Ale even has the same traits, active and self-assured. Oh and romantic,’ 

You added when suddenly sim-Alexia started a little flexing animation and blew a kiss towards sim-you. Sim-you who immediately giggled, blushing and a little happy dance at sim-Alexia’s actions.

Alexia just stared. Deadpan. Her face was unreadable while she just watched the two characters interact, ‘Why is she – why am I…doing that?’

‘She’s flirty,’ You wiggled your eyebrows, playfully nudging Alexia’s arm, ‘You walked past the hot tub, obviously couldn’t resist,’ The way you said it so casually, the way you knew it was exactly how real Alexia would act, if it was just the two of you and if you actually owned a hot tub.

Alexia would never understand your obsession with this game, how many hours you randomly decide to put into it every year. Though Alexia was used to sitting beside you while she watched you explain the lore behind each sim character and house you had created. 

But having to sit here and watch a sim version of the both of you was new, and different and she didn’t know whether to be concerned or impressed with the commitment you’d put into your sim world, ‘We live in a house with a hot tub?’ 

You gave a hum of acknowledgement, moving the camera around on the game to show Alexia the rest of the house you had created for sim-you and sim-Alexia, ‘...And a rooftop garden. We even wearing matching pajamas, we’re adorable here,’

Alexia, slightly offended at your insinuation that you weren’t and didn’t do ‘adorable’ things in real life, moved to lean back against the arm of the couch opposite to the one you had been tucked up against all day, ‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or scared,’

‘I’d go with flattered,’ You smirked looking over at Alexia. She still didn’t know how to feel, thrown off by the fact it felt like a semi out of body experience while watching your laptop screen. 

You had done a scarily good job and replicating everything. Pulling your legs out from underneath you, stretching them a little before moving yourself, and your laptop closer to Alexia again. Missing her closeness when she moved back and also to show her how Alexia like sim-Alexia really was, ‘She even works out all the time, just like someone else I know,’ You teased, your body fully leaning against Alexia’s now. The two of you watching your screen as if you’d just put a movie on and it wasn’t just Sims.

Sim-you was in the kitchen, cooking some grilled cheese and seeming to not be doing so well, almost starting a fire. While sim-Alexia was also in the kitchen next to you randomly deciding to do push ups.

‘She’s going to get injured on that tile,’ Alexia muttered, hand gesturing towards her on the screen with a bewildered expression, ‘Why is she doing that next to the stove?’ Turning to you with an expression that made it seem like she expected you to have all the answers, like you could make her make sense of this little world.

‘She’s inspired. Leave sim-Ale alone real Ale,’ Alexia huffed and rolled her eyes, but wrapped her arm around you and pulled you in closer, holding you against her side. Fingers absentmindedly dancing across your arm.

The two of you stayed like that for longer than Alexia would like to admit. She also would never admit that it was kind of comfy and cozy, you both cuddled up together, playing sims together. Well you were playing and Alexia watching quite closely.

‘Do you think she’s cooler than me?’ Alexia spoke up out of nowhere after having watched way too many romantic interactions between sim-you and sim-Alexia, the way sim-you looked at her like a happy, love-struck goofball. But you were her happy love-struck goofball, not sim-Alexia’s.

You instantly noticed the edge to Alexia’s voice, peering up at her, the eyebrows slightly scrunched and the inevitable frown that was slowly etching into her face, ‘What are you on about, Ale?’

‘Sim-me…sim-Alexia…her,’ Alexia gesturing towards the screen, ‘She flirts with you like that all the time,’ Eyes narrowing slightly, watching as sim-Alexia just offered sim-you a rose and dipped you into, what Alexia thinks as, an unnecessarily dramatic kiss, ‘I don’t even do that,’

‘Hmm, yeah, not since preseason started at least,’ You teased your girlfriend, grinning, ‘Though to be fair to real you, at least you wouldn’t choose to do that right next to the trash,’ You laughed, referring to where the two sims character had chosen to do that. 

You laughed to yourself, and on purpose kept making sim-Alexia be overly flirty and romantic towards sim-you. You definitely hadn’t expected Alexia to react this way. Little huffs at every interaction, the ever growing frown and the grip she now had on you, keeping you close against her as if she was about to lose the real you to her sim version.

‘She’s too smooth. I don’t like the way she’s looking at you,’ Alexia mumbled, you pulled away a little, as much as Alexia would allow so you could look at your girlfriend. Highly amused at the situation.

‘She is you, amor,’ Pointing between the screen and Alexia.

‘She…’ Alexia now also pointing towards the screen, eyebrows raised in disbelief,’...has too much time. Keeps making grilled cheese and pancakes. Slow dancing with you like that. I don’t trust her,’ It was the way Alexia spoke, as if this was entirely real.

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing, having held in as much as you could. You put your laptop to the side, turning so you were fully facing Alexia almost completely on her lap. Your hands rested against the side of her face while your laughter subsided.

‘Mi vida, she’s not real,’  Your fingers caressed her face, you looked at Alexia properly since she’d been home, only someone like her could manage looking that pouty over some pixels still look so beautiful. You leaned down, kissing her cheek, ‘For someone who’s mad over a video game, you’re still holding me like I might get stolen,’

You laughed, even when you’d shifted, Alexia’s hands never left, instead finding their way to rest against your waist, ‘I have to,’ Alexia looked so serious, the corners of her mouth starting to twitch upwards now instead.

Leaning in, you brushed your lips against Alexia’s cheek, pressing them against the corner of her mouth, letting your lips linger before sitting back a little. Your lips almost ghosting over Alexia’s, your voice low, barely above a whisper, ‘For what it’s worth, I very much prefer the real you, Ale. I’d rather slow dance with you in the kitchen, rather have you make me or I make you breakfast in the mornings,’

Alexia’s expression softened, her grip lessening a little, fingers trailing against your waist, ‘Hmm, and what else would you rather do with me, cariño,’

You tilted your head a little, kiss on the other corner of her lips, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ 

‘Oh, yo quiero saber,’ Alexia said almost too eagerly, making a huff of a laugh escape your lips.

You smirked, fully leaning back, your touch disappearing briefly before returning to wrap your arms around her neck, ‘Then maybe you should stop being jealous of sim-Ale…fake-Ale… and remind me why real Ale is still my favourite,’ You had Alexia wrapped around your finger, everyone knew it. Alexia liked challenges, you liked to push her buttons, a challenging tone and you knew Alexia would take control to prove to you.

Alexia hastily pulled you in, her lips against yours in an instant. A deep kiss that always had you wanting more. Mumbling against your lips, ‘Anything to get you away from her,’

gone 😔😔 but never 🚫🚫 forgotten 🕊️🕊️

cute 🥰😂

Jazz for Peanuts

About the time your daughter shows her attitude

》 Leah Williamson x Reader

》 words count: +1.1k

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

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

Never been more sure of anything in your life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mama, I’m hungry!”

“I know, we’re almost there”

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

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

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

Traitor.

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

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

A backstabber, your own daughter.

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

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

“Finley!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine, I’ll play nice”

It seems to get better after that.

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

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

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

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“How long?”

And, just like that, peace is over.

“Five more minute”

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

“I said five more minute, Finny”

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

You know it’s coming.

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

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines. What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

🏀

The lights inside Palau Blaugrana burst in brilliant hues as you step onto the gleaming hardwood court for the very first time wearing the iconic Barcelona jersey. The atmosphere vibrates with energy—an almost tangible electricity that courses through the air, mixing with the bright hues of blaugrana garlands worn by passionate fans. The rhythmic beating of drums resonates like a heartbeat echoing off every wall, while the mingled aromas of polished wood, mingled with perspiration and adrenaline, transport you to a realm where dreams and determination meet. Your new teammates clap you on the back with murmurs of encouragement that mesh with the pulsing rhythm, yet your focus remains crystal clear.

Number 11.

Boldly stitched across your jersey like a silent manifesto, this number has been inseparable from you for as long as you have danced with the game. It signifies much more than a mere digit—it carries the weight of countless hours of practice, of triumphs and stumbles alike. That steady emblem grounds you as you glance into the sea of faces, absorbing every moment. And then, amidst the roaring crowd, you see her.

Alexia Putellas.

Seated courtside with an air of relaxed authority, she crosses her legs gracefully and rests her arms lightly across her lap. A mischievous half-smirk tugs at her lips, hinting at stories untold. Even if you weren’t a devout follower of the sport, her presence is legendary—a symbol of Barcelona, of dominance, and, by extension, of the emblematic number 11 itself. In a fleeting, electrifying moment, your eyes lock with hers, and though she swiftly turns away, the impression is indelible. In that subtle flicker of amusement on her face, it seems as if she already understands the impact of your presence.

Focus. It’s just a game.

Yet, it isn’t simply a game. It is your grand debut, your moment to prove that you belong in this exclusive circle, to earn your place in this storied club and in this vibrant city. Moments earlier, you had been all smiles, trading jokes with teammates as your image flickered onto the giant screen—your arrival marked by every eye in the arena. Rumor had it that Barcelona had splurged to make you the highest-paid woman’s basketball player in the world, enticing you from your hometown team all the way from England. There was an undeniable buzz surrounding you—a magnetic force drawing every gaze. The weight of their expectations did not weigh you down; rather, if pressure was present, you welcomed it and transformed it into fuel.

Though many whispered about your stature—standing a mere five foot nine inches—it only served to make your exploits on the court all the more remarkable, as every move defied the conventional limits.

And then, the whistle slices through the symphony of excitement, and in that instant, everything else blurs into insignificance. The opening minutes become a whirlwind of fast breaks and razor-sharp passes; the sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor punctuates the relentless pursuit of victory. When the ball lands in your hands, a calm, instinctual resolve takes over. You surge toward the hoop, a graceful blur as you spin past a defender, and then release an almost effortless jumper—a testament to your honed skill.

The crowd erupts in a tidal wave of cheers.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of Alexia leaning forward, her gaze intently tracking every nuance of your movement. Her lips part just slightly, as if momentarily captivated by the poetry of the game.

The contest intensifies into a ballet of tight defenses, aggressive maneuvers, and a relentless battle for every point. You are utterly absorbed, dropping three-pointers with surgical precision, orchestrating assists that shimmer with brilliance, and proving over and again why Barcelona had so ardently sought you out. Yet, amid the flurry of action, your gaze repeatedly drifts toward the sidelines, drawn by the unmistakable presence of Alexia. In those rare glimpses, a subtle tilt of her head, a perfectly raised brow, or an approving nod after a particularly elegant play speaks volumes.

Then arrives the defining moment—a high-tension climax. The score hung in a delicate balance as the final seconds tick away. The ball, as if by fate, finds its way to you at the top of the key. You draw a slow, steady breath, feeling every heartbeat echoing in your ears. Rising as if suspended in time, you release the ball and watch in silent awe as it arches gracefully through the air, spinning in a perfect trajectory before whispering cleanly through the net.

Game.

In that instant, the arena becomes an ocean of sound; cheers cascade over you, and your teammates swarm in a jubilant embrace, their hands slapping your back in a celebratory symphony. Yet, in the midst of the euphoria, your eyes search relentlessly for one singular figure. There, standing amid the explosion of festivity, is Alexia, clapping with measured enthusiasm and that tantalizing smirk still etched on her face. Her expression is enigmatic—a canvas of emotions too intricate to decode, yet charged with intensity.

As the crowd’s roaring applause continues to swell, Barcelona officials step confidently onto the court to honor your debut. A microphone is passed to the team captain, whose brief but rousing speech extols your arrival, your skills, and warmly welcomes you into the heart of the club. Your teammates whirl you into a jubilant huddle, and the atmosphere ascends to a fever pitch. Cameras flash in rapid succession, capturing every triumphant detail as your jersey, emblazoned with the proud number 11, is hoisted high for all to see.

Then she appears.

Alexia Putellas, standing just off to the side with her jacket’s pockets casually imbued with confidence, steps forward as if drawn by inevitability. The distance between you dissolves in the wake of her quiet assurance, mirroring the ease with which the official introductions had been made. In that charged moment, the game itself—with its adrenaline, its roaring crowd, and the embrace of your teammates celebrating your first monumental performance in a Barça jersey—fades into a vivid, unforgettable memory.

Throughout the night, you had caught glimpses of her presence: the way her eyes followed your every move, the subtle lean forward whenever you readied your shot. And then, with calm clarity, she spoke.

“Felicidades,” she intoned smoothly, her voice low yet piercing through the clamor of the arena. “Buen debut.”

Though not every word in Spanish was crystal clear, the tone of her greeting sent a shimmering thrill straight through your chest. “Gracias,” you responded, locking eyes with hers in silent conversation. There was an ineffable quality in her gaze—a mix of challenge and admiration—that left you momentarily breathless. Then, with a playful lilt, she added, “El 11 te queda bien... por ahora.” (11 suits you... for now.)

Without a moment’s hesitation, you quipped back, “I make it look better, though.” Her knowing smirk lingered as she turned to walk away, leaving a trail of mystery and promise in her wake. A quiet laugh escaped you as you shook your head, forever etched with the memory of that final look, a spark that hinted at many more encounters yet to come.

The locker room buzzes with the euphoric aftermath of victory—a symphony of congratulatory shouts and laughter that ricochets off the walls. Your teammates surround you, their faces illuminated with genuine admiration, yet you find yourself replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her words echoing in your mind like a melody that refuses to fade.

"Champagne for the game-winner!" someone calls out, and suddenly a bottle appears, its cork popping with a satisfying thunk that sends foamy bubbles cascading over eager hands. The cold liquid kisses your fingertips as a plastic cup is pressed into your palm.

"To our new número once," your captain toasts in a thick Catalan accent, raising her cup high. "Who plays like she's been wearing blaugrana her whole life!"

Your phone already overflowed with notifications—family, friends, and former teammates all witnessing your Barcelona baptism from afar. But their words blurred together as your mind kept replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her enigmatic smile lingering in your thoughts like a melody that refuses to fade.

You take a slow sip, savoring the bubbles that dance across your tongue, watching your teammates' animated faces as they relive the game's highlights. The locker room's fluorescent lights cast everyone in a warm glow that matches the heat of victory still pulsing through your veins.

"That last shot," Claudia says, your point guard with hands like magic, "I knew it was going in before it left your fingers." She mimics your shooting form with exaggerated flourish.

"Pure instinct," you reply with a shrug that belies the thousands of hours spent perfecting that very motion.

As the celebration continues, your phone buzzes again in your locker. This notification is different—an Instagram follow request that makes your heart skip Alexia Putellas. Your finger hovers over the screen for a moment before you reciprocate, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

Later that night, the team drags you to a celebration at a dimly lit restaurant tucked away in the Gothic Quarter. Ancient stone walls curve around intimate tables, while flickering candles cast dancing shadows across plates of steaming paella and bottles of rich Rioja. Your teammates switch effortlessly between Catalan, Spanish, and English, their laughter a universal language that wraps around you like a warm embrace.

"To think we stole you from London," Claudia teases, refilling your wine glass. "Their loss, our treasure."

"The English never know what they have until it's wearing Barcelona colors," adds Marta, the team's veteran center, her eyes crinkling with mischief.

You're about to respond when your phone illuminates with a notification. Alexia Putellas commented on your post of you mid air the ball flying through the air on its way to score the winning basket

Nice shot tonight.🏀🔥

Three simple words that send a current through your body. You stare at the message, fingers hovering over the screen, suddenly aware of your heartbeat in your ears. The restaurant's ambient noise fades to a distant hum.

"Earth to superstar," Claudia waves her hand in front of your face. "Who's got you smiling like that? Your English boyfriend missing you already?"

You lock your phone quickly. "No boyfriend," you reply, taking a deliberate sip of wine. "Just congratulations."

"From someone special?" Marta raises an eyebrow knowingly.

You shrug noncommittally, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you. You set the phone down, trying to focus on the conversation flowing around you.

The flirting starts subtly.

You reply, Didn’t know you were a basketball fan.

Alexia’s response comes quickly. I wasn’t. Until now.

A smirk tugs at your lips. She’s smooth, you’ll give her that. The conversation flows easily after that—teasing comments about your shooting percentage, her claiming she could school you in a game of one-on-one, you laughing at her confidence. It escalates when she sends a picture of her boots, captioned: Think I could pull off sneakers instead?

You reply with a simple: Doubtful.

A minute later, she sends a selfie, clad in a Barcelona basketball hoodie that’s clearly not hers, lips pursed in mock offense. Better?

Your pulse quickens. I stand corrected.

The back-and-forth continues over the next few days. Playful jabs, inside jokes, the occasional late-night message that lingers on read for a little too long before one of you responds. There’s something unspoken beneath it all, an undeniable tension that neither of you address outright, but it’s there, simmering between every message.

As you scroll through your phone the next day, it’s obvious she’s not done playing. That moment? It hasn’t left your head since. Barcelona as a city, as a community has welcomed you with open arms, and your name is already making the rounds in sports headlines. But nothing compares to the moment Alexia Putellas personally congratulated you after the match, her voice low and smooth as she spoke in her native tongue. You didn’t understand every word, but you understood her the way her eyes lingered, the slight smirk pulling at her lips.

And now, the communication continues.

Alexia comments under a post from FC Barcelona’s official account, featuring a photo of you mid-game.

@alexiaputellas: El 11 te queda bien… por ahora. (The 11 looks good on you… for now.)

A challenge. A tease. You don’t hesitate to respond this time.

@yourusername: I make it look better, though. 😏

Your notifications explode after your writing exchange mimicking the private one face to face the night previous. Fans flood the replies with speculation, excitement, and over-the-top theories. Some are just here for the banter; others are fully convinced something is brewing between you two. Fans speculating, debating, and fuelling the growing tension between you both. The chemistry isn’t just a private moment on the court anymore, it’s playing out in front of thousands.

You post a photo from the gym drenched in sweat, muscles tense, mid-shot, pure focus in your eyes. The caption reads:

Working on my shot, but some things just come naturally.

Minutes later, Alexia replies

 @alexiaputellas: Like? 🤭

You laugh, shaking your head before firing back.

@yourusername: Like winning. Maybe I should teach you how.

More likes, more replies, more eyes on you two. It’s not just fans noticing. Your teammates tease you in the locker room, nudging you with knowing looks. Even club officials seem amused.

Then, later that night, Alexia ups the ante. You’re scrolling when you see a notification; she’s tagged you in her Instagram story. It’s a clip from your first game shared from an official Barcelona page, you nailing a three-pointer, followed by a close-up of her reaction court side, lips parted, brows slightly raised. The caption?

Maybe I should learn from you after all…🤔

Your chest tightens, heat rushing to your face. She’s playing with fire. And you’re more than ready to match her. You reply in her DMs.

You: Careful, Alexia. Keep watching me like that, and people will start talking.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly like she was expecting you to respond.

Alexia: Let them.

And just like that, the game changes. You don’t respond to Alexia’s last message.

Let them.

Two words, yet they sit in your mind long after you put your phone down. She’s pushing now, playing with the line between teasing and something else. And you? You’re more than willing to push back.

The next morning, training is business as usual, but your teammates are already buzzing about your little social media exchange. Whispers and knowing glances are exchanged before anyone even says a word to you.

"You and La Reina getting close?" one of them finally asks, nudging you with an elbow as you stretch. Their tone is teasing, but there's genuine curiosity behind it.

Another teammate chimes in before you can respond, grinning. "That little back-and-forth last night.. looked pretty flirty to me."

You roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose as you switch positions. "You lot need a hobby," you mutter, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrays you.

They laugh, clearly not convinced. "C'mon, you’re not even denying it!" someone calls out, and a few others chuckle in agreement.

You shake your head and focus on your warm-up, refusing to give them anything more. Let them speculate. Like the rest of the world. It harmless. Playful. It would fizzle. You were sure of it.

Still, when you check your phone post-practice, you see a DM from Alexia waiting for you.

Alexia: No comeback? I was expecting more from you.

You grin before typing back.

You: Didn’t think you needed me to spell it out. You’re already watching me closely enough it seems.

You send it and lock your phone, refusing to check for a response right away. Let her sit with it for a while. Later that evening, you’re at home, scrolling through Instagram when another notification appears.

@alexiaputellas liked your post.

The post in question? A new picture from training today focused, intense, a caption that reads:

One of us has to be the best female 11 in Barcelona. Might as well be me.

Something you know would bait Alexia in, you knew she couldn’t resist to comment. Not only has Alexia liked it, but she’s also commented.

@alexiaputellas: Bold statement. Hope you can back it up.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you type:

@yourusername: I can and have, yet to see you do so

@alexiaputellas: You’ll see soon enough. Might have to invite you to a game personally.

You huffed a quiet laugh, staring at your screen. She’s bold today. It didn’t take long for your mentions to explode. Fans caught on immediately, flooding the comments with theories, reactions, and over-the-top ship names.

After a moment of thought, you tapped out a reply.

@yourusername: Got a ticket for me La Reina? 👀

@alexiaputellas: Front row or nothing. See you there. 😏

The internet lost it.

Your teammates lost it.

And you?

You just grinned, because for the first time, you felt in control. Now, it was just a matter of seeing how far she’d go. The comments explode. Fans are already losing their minds over the not-so-subtle invitation.

@yourusername: I’ll be there. Front row.

Your stomach does a slow, lazy flip. It’s a challenge. A promise. And for the first time since arriving in Barcelona, you’re not just thinking about basketball anymore. You're thinking about her. Your phone is practically vibrating from the attention. Your last comment—"I’ll be there. Front row."—has sent fans into a frenzy. The replies are a mix of shock, speculation, and sheer amusement.

-Did she just confirm she’s into Alexia?! -This is some next-level flirting. -Forget football, forget basketball, I’m here for this storyline.

"You are such a menace.” You heard soon as your bag dropped in your spot and your back sit felt the cool wood beneath it as you took a seat.

You glanced up from your phone to see your teammate, Jordan, shaking her head at you from across the locker room.

"What?" you asked, feigning innocence.

Camila snorted. "Oh, don’t act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing." She held up her phone, showing your exchange with Alexia on her screen. "This? This is elite-level flirting.”

A couple of your other teammates leaned in. "I give it two weeks before you two are spotted together."

"Two weeks? Please. By next week, she’ll be showing up to our games."

You just smirked. "That’s assuming she can handle the heat.” Another said

Jordan rolled her eyes. "You realise this means you have to go now, right? You can’t just flirt with the most famous footballer in Spain and then not show up."

You stretched your legs out, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll see how I feel."

Jordan shook her head. "You’re enjoying this way too much.” You didn’t even try to deny it.

"Let me get this straight," your coach said announcing her presence in the corner, arms crossed, a barely-contained smirk on her face. "You’re flirting with the most famous footballer in Spain… publicly?"

You rolled your eyes. "I wouldn’t say flirting—"

"Really?" The whole team cut in, in unison, Marta holding up their phone as evidence. "Because to me, ‘Front row or nothing. See you there.’ sounds a lot like flirting."

You had nothing to say to that.

Your coach just shook her head. "I’ve seen players distracted by a lot of things, but this might be my favourite."

Your teammates snickered from across the gym.

"She’s already in her head," Claudia teased. "We might as well start planning a double sports wedding."

"Oh, shut up," you muttered.

Your coach laughed. "Look, as long as you don’t start missing shots because of her, I don’t care what you do. But…" She paused, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Just know that if she shows up to one of our games, I’m putting her in a jersey and making her run drills."

You grinned. "I’ll let her know."

🏀

Before I explore this idea more, would anyone actually want to read it?

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

Word Count: 5k

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

Then you see her.

Alexia.

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

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

Kickoff comes.

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

And you do.

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

You're in this now.

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

Then she spins.

Clean. Sharp.

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

She’s enjoying this.

So are you.

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

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

It builds.

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

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

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

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

She says nothing. But her gaze lingers.

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

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

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

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

You turn back around.

But you feel her eyes.

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

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

Neither of you jump.

It’s not about the ball.

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

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

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

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

Her knuckles.

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

You turn slightly, catching the edge of her profile.

And she glances back.

Not a smile. Not this time.

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

Then she disappears into the shadow of the tunnel.

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

That gaze hasn't left your skin.

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

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

Alexia.

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

Kickoff again.

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

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

1–3.

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

Almost.

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

You do.

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

2–3.

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

You’re matching her.

And she knows it.

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

Neither of you are pretending this is just football anymore.

The minutes crawl.

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

You find the space.

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

You lift it.

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

3–3.

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

And she’s there.

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

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

She doesn’t move it away.

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

It sounds like a pause.

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

But this time she doesn’t pass.

She stops beside you.

Neither of you speak.

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzes against your thigh.

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

You grin, typing back with your free hand.

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

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

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

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

You blink. Sit up a little straighter.

You: … What do you mean?

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

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

You reread the texts. Twice.

You: Shut up.

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

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

You: Maybe she does

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

To her.

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

And now this.

You stare at your phone.

Your thumb hovers over her name.

You haven’t followed her yet.

Not officially.

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

⚽️

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

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

But this time — it’s different.

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

Alexia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kickoff comes.

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

You glance over your shoulder.

She’s watching you.

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

She always is.

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

Just heat.

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

Still, no words.

Just her hand, steady. Familiar. Dangerous.

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

You expect her to be jogging away.

But she’s right there, offering her hand.

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

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

You give her a smirk.

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

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

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

Then she laughs.

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

She steps away. You're left standing still.

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

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

You don't slow down.

She doesn’t either.

You meet.

Hard. Messy. Beautiful.

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

2–1.

The stadium erupts.

You don’t hear it.

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

Neither are you.

Still no words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not watching her as much now.

Now, it’s survival.

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

Then the final whistle comes.

Still level.

It goes to penalties.

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

You nod.

Not because you want to.

But because you have to.

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

But on you.

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

Until it comes down to you.

Final kick. Final player.

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

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

Cata bounces lightly on the line, gloves flexing.

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

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

But her glove flashes.

Cata gets a fingertip. Just enough.

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

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

And then it’s done.

The stadium erupts — not for you.

You drop to your haunches.

Head down. Hands on your knees.

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

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

But then you feel hands.

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

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

It was yours to win. And it slipped.

Through fingertips. Through inches. Through fate.

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

This wasn’t the ending you wanted.

-

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

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

You stay rooted to the spot.

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

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

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

Alexia.

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

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

You draw in a breath and turn away.

Not toward the tunnel.

Not yet.

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

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

You stay there longer than you should.

Because it matters.

Because they matter.

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

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

You glance once more toward midfield.

She’s still there.

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

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

You don’t rush.

You carry the silence with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia’s the first to speak.

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

You shrug, a wry smile pulling at your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 7.6k

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gee: Looks cozy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You play?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You huff a laugh. “That’s debatable.”

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

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

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

"When can I see you again?"

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

"I've come to love cliches"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not rushed. Not apologetic. Just sweet. Soft.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve got that face.”

Beth sits up straighter. “What face?”

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

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

“She kissed me,” you say.

Georgia’s eyes go wide

“Who—” Beth starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy nearly chokes on her protein shake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So are you like? Dating?"

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

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

"Fuck you Gee" You laugh as she did.

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I made this!” he yells.

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

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

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

They lose it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was softer than that, warmer.

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

0-1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not,” you rasp. “Coming off.”

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

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

Your jaw tightens.

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

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

You’re still feeling every step.

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

The board goes up: +3.

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

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

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

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

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

Top corner. The stadium erupts.

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

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

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

Just… in awe.

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

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

⚽️

Second half starts and you press.

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

In the 48th minute, the gap opens.

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

Big mistake.

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

Two touches then you bury it.

Low. Near post. Keeper stuck.

2-1.

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

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

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

3-1.

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

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

65th Minute

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You catch phrases in broken pieces.

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

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

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

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

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

You come back to yourself in pieces.

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

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

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

You flinch when gloved fingers press gently to your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. Or something like it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You start the walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile with only half your mouth.

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

You nod once. Just once.

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

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

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

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

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

𝑻𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒔/𝑨.𝑷𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia’s jaw tightens. “Emilia-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emilia doesn’t respond, just cries harder.

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

Emilia shakes her head against the floor.

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

Still nothing.

Alright.

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

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

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

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

Emilia lets out a muffled sob.

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

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

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

Eventually, Emilia’s sniffles quieten.

Alexia tilts her head slightly. “Better?”

A small nod.

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

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

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

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

Alexia’s heart softens instantly.

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

Emilia nods. “Sí.”

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

Another nod, this one more hesitant.

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

Emilia pouts. “I know.”

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

Emilia nods.

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

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

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

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

Emilia shakes her head and clings tighter.

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

Emilia puffs out a tiny breath. “Mami.”

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

“I’m sorry,” Emilia whispers.

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

“I was naughty,” Emilia mumbles.

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

Emilia sniffles. “Still feel bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emilia nods, rubbing at her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mami?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

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

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

**

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