Picture Perfect | Blue Stars

not me having watched them live for the first time on the worst day ever in Turin. i gotta go and watch them win... need it for my mental health (MAYBE NEXT YEAR)🔵🔴

caro reminiscing about the last 4 champions league finals in a row, including one "where she wanted to go home" 😤

source: esport3 on instagram

göteburg 2020-21: raise the cup for the first time

turin 2021-22: the worst. i wanted to go home

eindhoven 2022-23: the first goal because i knew that we would win it

bilbao: 2023-24: irene's stop with her head on the crossbar because yes, it is our day and we will win.

ok, damn 🥵🥵🥵

Double Exposure

sunmary: you want to go topless, alexia isn’t too pleased

warnings: mentions of smut, some vulgar language

a/n: okay a bit of context; rich!alexia inspired by that pic she posted looking hot all in black. reader was her sugar baby before things got serious and they fell in love. sugar baby = bad for image so reader was kept secret up until now. this is their honeymoon. *and breathe*

word count: 2.2k

-

“You’re not seriously going out there like that?”

Her words flat. Almost bored. Which is rich, coming from a woman who—barely ten minutes ago—was on her knees between your legs, growling into your cunt like it owed her rent and a written apology. Her voice now is the exact opposite of how it sounded then: cool, clipped, almost affronted. Like you’ve just told her you prefer supermarket olive oil. Like she doesn’t still have your taste on her mouth, drying into the fine creases of her lips, sunk into the seam where her teeth pressed down too hard on your inner thigh. Like her face wasn’t, moments ago, framed by your knees.

There’s a bruise on your hip in the exact shape of her thumb, planted like a signature. Another on the inside of your arm—darker, more controlled. Intentional. Just about composed, like something framed and hung under a spotlight. Your ribs ache faintly from where her elbows braced, sharp and functional, digging in as if she was preparing to split you apart. You haven’t seen your reflection yet, but you don’t need to. You already know what you must look like: mouth swollen and slightly parted, ribs flushed with heat, nipples still tight from her teeth and the blast of the air conditioning you forgot to turn off. Hair tangled, skin glistening at the hollows. The kind of wreckage that suggests not just sex, but possession.

You wonder what someone might assume if they saw you now. Not what, but who.

As in—Who did this to her?

As in—Who owns her like that?

The answer, of course, is already stepping barefoot onto the polished teak.

Her presence is enormous—not in volume, but in precision. In density. She radiates this sense of curation, of something not just expensive but worth owning. She moves like something honed to a point. She exists the way a Cartier Crash watch does: violently elegant, disturbing in its fluid asymmetry, confusing in its intention but undeniable in value. She is the kind of woman who doesn’t tell the time; she is the time. You once asked her for it, just to see what she’d do. She didn’t answer. Just turned your chin with her knuckle and kissed you hard enough to erase the question mid-sentence.

“I’m warm,” you say.

Which, in your shared language, means: Don’t tell me what to do.

Which also means: I want to see if you’ll still claim me in public after I deliberately ignore you.

Which, if you’re being honest, means: I’m still hungry. Even now. Even after that.

She says nothing.

You can feel her looking at you—feel her stare like fingers, counting every inch, every blemish, every trace she’s left behind. You wonder what part of you she starts with: the notched line of your spine, still red where her nails dug in; the subtle knot at the base of your shoulder from how she’d gripped it, too tight and too long; the soft under-curve of your breast now exposed to an entire sea that doesn’t give a single fuck. A sea that couldn’t care less whether you’re clothed, naked, adored or completely destroyed.

You imagine a lens somewhere. A long one. A telephoto. Some French man called Henri crouched in a small dinghy, cradling a Canon 1DX with a greasy finger and a questionable sense of ethics. You picture the headline already drafted in someone’s inbox: PUTELLAS’ MYSTERY WIFE BARES ALL OFF THE COAST OF CORSICA.

In all-caps, of course. They always use all-caps when a woman’s tits are involved.

You smile.

She walks over now, slow and certain. Picks up your discarded bikini top from the side of the lounger. Holds it between two fingers like it offends her on a structural level.

“This is literally a shoelace,” she says.

“It’s Prada.”

“It’s two triangles of fabric and the audacity of youth.”

You bought it impulsively the same day she signed the closing papers on the London penthouse, high off real estate and champagne, off her hand on your thigh beneath a linen tablecloth at Scott’s. She’d said it was too revealing, and you’d laughed directly in her face—mostly because she said it while unzipping your dress in the boutique changing room, knuckles grazing the lace you’d worn just for her. You still have the tag, folded neatly into your drawer next to a crumpled Agent Provocateur receipt and the Hermès tissue paper she tore through with zero ceremony. She, meanwhile, keeps everything. You once found an envelope in her office drawer marked in her small, upright script:

Apology Gifts – Receipts (Honeymoon Series).

Inside: three separate invoices from Van Cleef & Arpels. Two dated the same week.

“You’re topless,” she says this time. Not angry. Just too the point. Aware. Like she’s updating you on the weather.

Cloudless sky. Northeasterly breeze. Wife’s tits out.

You reach up, twist your hair into a loose knot. The strands stick slightly, damp with sea mist and the residue of her breath on your neck. Your breasts lift and settle with the motion. You can feel the weight of them shift, the sore prickle of friction where she pulled and twisted and nipped. Her eyes follow the movement, a twitch of hunger barely there in the corner of her mouth.

“I know,” you say, voice neutral. Sweet. Dangerous.

Alexia sighs. Her hand moves through her hair—shorter now, though just enough off to rifle her off split ends. There’s a dent pressed into her hairline from the fabric headband she still wears to play, out of habit more than need. You touch it sometimes in bed, when her back is to you, when her breathing’s heavy but not quite asleep. A thumb against the divot, like a priest touching his rosary.

Her wrists are bare. No jewellery today except for the platinum wedding band you places there twelve days ago, and the thin gold chain at her throat. It holds a Charles X medallion, antique, slightly tarnished. She claims it means nothing. But she wears it every time she signs a deal. Every time she fucks you after one. You’ve seen her in diamonds, emerald-cut and cruel. But nothing sits on her body like that coin.

“There could be press,” she says.

“There could be sharks,” you say. You don’t even look at her. “But that didn’t bother you when you fingered me in sea yesterday.”

You recline against the lounger, the one with the pale linen cover you never sit on dry. Your spine still stings—fibres rubbing into your back while she pinned you there, muttering things too filthy to be translated. The fabric beneath you now is cool, slightly damp from condensation or the aftermath of a very physical forty plus minutes. You cross one ankle over the other, toes flexing idly. The sun toasts your chest. You let it. You want it to tan the shape of her mouth across your breasts.

She doesn’t respond. Not immediately. You know that silence. It means she’s choosing her words, trying not to sound like her mother. Or worse—like the managers, the press officers, the people who shadowed her for years with clipboards and crisis management emails. Alexia never speaks by accident. It’s one of the things that drove you insane when you first met her—this polished, endless restraint. The way she could dress down a boardroom of men, then turn to you and call you mi amor in the same tone.

Like both were contracts. Like both were binding.

Now, she says: “You’re not used to being wanted by people who don’t actually like you.”

And there it is.

It lands like a dare. Like a diagnosis. Like she’s giving you something to chew on, not swallow.

“Is that what this is about?” you say, head tilting. “You think someone’s going to look at me and decide I’m… what? A threat?”

“I think someone’s going to look at you and decide I’m careless,” she says.

You freeze. Not outwardly. Just a beat in your breathing. That’s the thing about her—she never needs to shout. She just drops the knife and waits to see who bleeds first.

Her shadow breaks across your thighs like ink. The sun hits the length of her left leg, slicing down from hip to shin like it’s auditioning for something. She’s all lean geometry and sin. A shape so precise you’d believe it was machine-cut.

You think she might kiss you. You want her not to. Not yet.

She leans in instead, low enough that her voice barely has to travel.

“You’re covered in bruises,” she says, almost admiringly. “I fucked you stupid. You’re wearing nothing but saltwater and lip balm. And you’re sitting here like you’re not my wife, and I didn’t make you like this.”

You swallow. Your throat is dry, like it always gets after she’s done with you—used up and dusted out. Your body throbs in memory. Your cunt still pulses when you shift.

“You did make me like this,” you murmur. Soft. Sincere.

And somewhere in her expression—just for a second—you see it: that twitch of pride she tries not to show. The quiet, sinful satisfaction of ownership.

“Exactly.”

She reaches for your sunglasses—her sunglasses, black Celine with amber lenses and an arm smudged with your thumbprint—and lifts them off your face in one smooth, silent movement. Her fingers graze your cheek, knuckle to jawline, and it’s enough to short-circuit your thoughts. Your brain hums white for a moment. She’s close enough that her breath ghosts across your lips, and you can still smell yourself on her skin—rich, musky, heady, obscene.

She looks at you like she’s weighing options. Like she’s standing in front of a vitrine and trying to decide whether to sell you, pawn you, or buy you back again just to prove she could. There’s a flicker in her eyes, something almost amused. You get the sense she’d fuck you right here on the deck if she thought it would end the conversation.

“You forget this is a game,” she murmurs, voice low and even, like silk slipping through her teeth. “And the thing about games is, someone always plays dirtier than you.”

You blink slowly. Her breath smells like lime and sea salt, fresh and sharp. Her bottom lip is still slightly swollen—faintly bitten, faintly red, with a drying sheen of you along the corner. You imagine licking it off.

“Let them play,” you whisper.

And you mean it. You’re reckless with it. Bare, skin hot and mouth parted, knowing she could undo you again just by slipping her fingers into your bikini bottoms—or worse, pulling them down and walking away.

She smiles, but it’s sharp around the edges. Not cruel, just resigned. As if she already knows how this ends. As if she’s already read tomorrow’s headline and memorised the photo credit.

“You say that now,” she says. “Until they’re in your face asking how much I paid for you. How long you’ve had your tits done. Whether the bruises mean I hit you. Whether I own you or rent you.”

You flinch, but barely. Not from her—never from her. It’s not the words that land. It’s the image of someone else using them. Of a voice you don’t know, speaking in contempt and press passes. Of a cheap hotel room and a slideshow of your body from twenty different angles, taken without permission, captioned without truth.

“I can handle it,” you say, but your voice lacks the usual gloss.

“Can you?” she asks, soft as cashmere. “Because I don’t think you’ve had to yet.”

You want to argue. You want to say you’re not naive. That you’re not a doll or a trophy or some wife-shaped ornament she found at a charity gala and forgot to put down. But the sun is too warm and your skin still buzzes from where she held you down. Your cunt still aches in the best possible way. And deep down, you know she’s right.

You’ve lived wrapped in her world like a pearl in velvet. You’ve been sheltered in her storm—hidden inside her yeses, her private flights, her curated little ecosystem where nothing touches you unless she allows it.

“I like the sun,” you say.

It’s not a counterpoint. It’s not even an argument. Just a truth. You like the heat on your skin. You like being watched. You like the idea that someone, somewhere, might see what she’s done to you and ache with the knowledge that it wasn’t them.

She nods. Stands. Her shadow slips away like an expensive afterthought.

“I’ll talk to Marc,” she says. “Have him revoke the crew’s electronics permissions.”

And then she’s gone. Back into the cool interior, where everything is silent and beige and expensive and untouched. Where the floors don’t creak. Where the cameras can’t follow. Where her phone is probably already ringing and her assistant is already listening.

You stay.

The sea is stupidly blue. Aggressively blue. The kind of rich that makes you feel poor just looking at it. Your nipples are tight. Your skin smells like sweat and sex and suncream. Your pulse is low and steady, like a cat in a warm window. Your lips still taste faintly of her—salt and spit and something deeper.

You don’t know where the camera is. But you’re certain there is one.

You sit perfectly still. Posed. Cinematic. The image already forming in the lens:

Topless. Ruined. Glowing. Defiant.

The kind of wife who knows exactly what she’s risking.

And exactly how good it looks when she does.

𝑻𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒔/𝑨.𝑷𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔

Trying something a little different. Let me know if this is something you want to see more of <3

Alexia exhales slowly, rubbing her temple as Emilia lets out another frustrated huff.

It’s been a long day. From the moment she woke up, Emilia has been on edge. First, she didn’t want to wear the clothes Alexia picked out. Then, breakfast wasn’t right -her toast was too crispy, her juice too cold. Every little thing has been a battle, and Alexia’s patience is wearing thin.

Now, in the middle of the grocery store, apparently it was all coming to a head.

“Mami, I want it,” Emilia says, gripping the bright pink doll box with both hands.

Alexia shakes her head. “No, mi amor. Not today.” She had no problems buying Emilia the things she wants, and she often does anytime the little one asks, but she had no intentions of rewarding bad behaviour.

Emilia’s lower lip wobbles. “Pero, Mami…”

Alexia crouches down, steadying herself. “Listen, you have not been good today, chiquitina. Lots of tantrums, sí?”

Emilia drops the box and crosses her tiny arms. “No.”

Alexia sighs, reaching out to tuck a curl behind her ear. “You have, mi amor. And when we are not good, we don’t get treats.”

Emilia stares at her for a second, processing the words. Then, without warning, she stomps her foot. “I want it!”

Alexia’s jaw tightens. “Emilia-“

“I want it!” Emilia repeats, louder this time.

A few shoppers glance their way. Alexia feels her patience slip further, her fingers pressing against her temple.

“Emilia, enough,” she says, voice firm.

Emilia, however, is past the point of reasoning. “No! I want it, I want it, I want it!”

Then, to Alexia’s absolute horror, Emilia throws herself onto the floor, kicking her legs and wailing. Alexia closes her eyes briefly.

She knows this is normal -knows that kids have days like this, knows that Emilia is just overwhelmed, overtired, or maybe both. But knowing doesn’t make it any easier when her child is screaming in the middle of the grocery store. She takes a deep breath, then kneels beside her.

“Emilia,” she says, voice low but steady.

Emilia doesn’t respond, just cries harder.

“Mi amor,” Alexia tries again, resting a hand on her back. “You need to get up.”

Emilia shakes her head against the floor.

Alexia exhales, her patience thinning even further. “Emilia. Now.”

Still nothing.

Alright.

Alexia leans down, slipping her hands under Emilia’s arms and lifting her effortlessly. Emilia kicks, fists pounding weakly against Alexia’s shoulders, but Alexia doesn’t budge.

“Shhh,” she murmurs, rubbing slow circles against Emilia’s back, her free arm beneath Emilia’s behind to keep her supported. “Respira, chiquitina.”

Emilia sniffles, face pressed into Alexia’s neck, and Alexia sways gently, rocking her in the middle of the aisle.

“It’s okay, mi amor,” she whispers. “I know you’re upset.”

Emilia lets out a muffled sob.

Alexia sighs, kissing her temple. “But this is not how we ask for things, sí?”

There’s no response, but the kicking stops and Alexia takes that as progress. She walks them toward a quieter section of the store, away from the curious glances and whispered conversations. She finds a bench near the pharmacy and sits, keeping Emilia cradled in her arms.

For a while, neither of them speak. Alexia just holds her, rubbing her back in slow, soothing motions.

Eventually, Emilia’s sniffles quieten.

Alexia tilts her head slightly. “Better?”

A small nod.

Alexia brushes her curls back. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, chiquitina?”

Emilia shifts, her little fingers twisting into Alexia’s hoodie. “I don’t know.”

Alexia hums, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “That’s okay.”

Emilia sighs, rubbing her eyes. “I just feel yucky.”

Alexia’s heart softens instantly.

She cups Emilia’s cheek, tilting her face up slightly. “Mi amor, you can tell me anything. You know that, sí?”

Emilia nods. “Sí.”

Alexia kisses the tip of her nose. “Even when we feel bad, we have to try to be good, sí?”

Another nod, this one more hesitant.

Alexia smiles gently. “And when we are not good, we do not get treats.”

Emilia pouts. “I know.”

Alexia chuckles, squeezing her a little tighter. “Do you want to help me finish shopping?”

Emilia nods.

“Vale.” Alexia stands, settling Emilia on her hip. “Let’s go, chiquitina.”

Emilia rests her head against Alexia’s shoulder, her tiny arms wrapped tightly around her. From that moment forward, Emilia doesn’t cause any more trouble, but she doesn’t let go of Alexia either. She stays wrapped around her, her small arms slung around Alexia’s neck, her head tucked right under Alexia’s chin

Alexia doesn’t mind -not really. She’s used to Emilia being clingy on her bad days. It’s just, as strong as she is, shopping with a five-year-old stuck to her hip isn’t the easiest thing in the world.

“Mi amor,” Alexia murmurs, adjusting her grip on Emilia as she reaches for a carton of milk. “I need both hands.”

Emilia shakes her head and clings tighter.

Alexia sighs, balancing the milk in one arm and maneuvering the cart with her foot so she could place the milk inside. It’s ridiculous, really, but she makes it work.

Emilia puffs out a tiny breath. “Mami.”

Alexia hums, absentmindedly scanning the cereal aisle for Emilia’s favourite. “Sí, chiquitina?”

“I’m sorry,” Emilia whispers.

Alexia shifts her hold, pressing a kiss to Emilia’s forehead as she pats her behind softly. “I know, mi amor.” She assures.

“I was naughty,” Emilia mumbles.

Alexia shakes her head. “You were upset. It happens.”

Emilia sniffles. “Still feel bad.”

Alexia cups the back of her head, rubbing her thumb in slow circles. “We all have bad days, chiquitina. Even me.”

Emilia lifts her head, looking at her with wide, serious eyes. “You do?”

Alexia nods, shifting the little one so she was settled on her front as opposed to her hip. “Sí. Sometimes I am grumpy too.”

Emilia frowns. “But you don’t cry on the floor.” She points out.

Alexia chuckles. “No, but sometimes I want to.”

Emilia giggles, a soft little thing that makes Alexia’s chest warm.

“You’re not mad at me?” Emilia asks, her voice small.

Alexia shakes her head. “Never, mi amor.”

Emilia exhales, nestling back against her. “Okay.”

Alexia runs her fingers through Emilia’s curls. “Almost done. Do you want to help me pick some fruit?”

Emilia nods but makes no move to get down, and Alexia smiles to herself as she grabs a few more things before finally heading to the checkout. Emilia still doesn’t let go, even when the cashier coos at her and tells her how cute she is. Emilia just burrows deeper into Alexia’s hoodie.

By the time they get to the car, Emilia has gone completely quiet.

Alexia buckles her into her car seat, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Tired?”

Emilia nods, rubbing at her eyes.

Alexia smiles, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s go home, mi amor.”

The drive is quiet. Alexia keeps one hand on the wheel, the other stretched toward the back, letting Emilia hold onto her fingers. When they get home, Emilia doesn’t even have to ask Alexia to scoop her up again.

“Nap time,” Alexia whispers, carrying both Emilia and the groceries inside, setting the bags on the counter before making her way into the living room.

Emilia doesn’t argue, just curls into Alexia’s arms, clinging like a little koala.

Alexia sighs, settling them both onto the couch. Emilia shifts, making herself comfortable on Alexia’s chest, tiny legs straddling her hips with her head nestled under her chin.

“Mami?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Alexia’s heart melts instantly. She tightens her hold, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of Emilia’s curls. “I love you too, chiquitina. So much.”

And just like that, Emilia drifts off, safe and snug in her mami’s arms.

**

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @simp4panos @silentwolfsstuff @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan @ktgoodmorning @chelseacult

❤️❤️

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

You and Alexia tell your family and friends

Another evening, as you changed into one of Alexia’s oversized hoodies to head out for a casual dinner with some of her teammates, she stood in the doorway watching you yet again

You caught her smirk in the mirror. “What?”

Alexia’s grin grew. “You think no one’s going to notice if you keep dressing like that?”

You tugged at the hoodie, making a face. “It’s comfortable.”

She walked forward, arms slipping around your waist, hands immediately finding your bump. “It’s obvious,” she murmured, her thumbs brushing the curve. “You’re getting rounder.”

You groaned dramatically. “That’s what you want to say to your pregnant wife?”

She laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I love it,” she murmured.

You sighed, melting into her touch. “It’s getting harder to hide.”

“Why are we hiding it?” she teased. “We should get you a shirt that says, ‘Pregnant with a footballing legend.’”

You rolled your eyes. “No one is finding out until the all ok on the next scan. That’s the rule.”

Alexia huffed. “Fine. But after that, I’m buying you all the tightest maternity shirts.”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

—

It starts off slowly—small things.  

Burt, your gentle giant, begins following you more closely than usual, shadowing you from room to room like your fluffy, silent bodyguard. Ernie, your little stubby-legged sidekick, starts curling up right at your feet every time you sit, instead of his usual spot squished up next to Burt or on his throne of pillows.  

At first, you think it’s just them reacting to how unwell you’ve been. You’re barely eating, you nap constantly, and your movements are slower, cautious. They’re just being protective.  

But then, one morning, it becomes obvious.  

You’re stretched out on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket with a mug of cold ginger tea resting on the coffee table. Alexia is in the kitchen, fussing with toast and muttering to herself in Catalan about how plain crackers shouldn’t be this hard to make appealing.  

Burt ambles over first, lumbering with his usual lazy grace, and without hesitation, lowers his head and rests it gently—delicately—on your stomach.  

You blink, freezing for a second.  

“Hi, buddy,” you murmur, scratching his ear. “You comfy there?”  

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t nudge. Just… rests.  

And then Ernie trots over, climbs halfway onto your lap like he’s always done, and nudges his little head just under Burt’s, resting it right against your belly.  

You stare down at them, a lump forming in your throat.  

They know.  

Somehow, without being told, without a single ultrasound photo or whispered secret, they know.  

They know there’s someone new in there.  

Alexia walks in and stops mid-step, eyes softening instantly at the sight of all three of you. “Mira’t,” she says gently, smiling so wide it makes your chest ache.  

“They know,” you whisper, your hand resting on Burt’s big, warm head. “They know I’m pregnant.”  

Alexia comes to kneel by the sofa, brushing a hand across Ernie’s back and then resting the other gently on top of yours. “Of course they do,” she says softly. “They’re family.”  

You glance down at the two of them—Ernie snoring softly, Burt’s eyes watching you like he’s guarding something sacred.  

“They’re going to be so good with the baby,” you whisper.  

Alexia kisses your temple, her hand still over yours, over your belly, over everything the four of you are now protecting.  

“They already are.”

—

It was already one of those days where everything felt like it was moving too fast.  

The crucial scan was scheduled for 5:30pm—a big one. The kind where you’d finally be far enough along to see real definition, measure growth, maybe even hear more than just the rapid-fire thump of a heartbeat.  

You were nervous. So nervous.  

And Alexia was still at training.  

She’d promised—sworn—she’d be done by 4:30, back home by 5:00, and the two of you would go together, hand in hand like you always did.  

But 4:45 came. Then 5:00.  

And you were still standing in the hallway, dressed, holding your water bottle and your folder of notes and appointment letters, watching the front door like it might open on its own.  

Your phone buzzed.  

Alexia 🖤  

Training ran over. I’m trying to leave now. Don’t wait. I’ll meet you there. I’m sorry, mi amor. I’m coming as fast as I can.

You stared at the message, heart sinking slightly. You understood—God, you did. It wasn’t her fault. She’d been pulled for media, and then a short team talk had somehow turned into a full breakdown of the last three matches.

But still.  

You wanted her there.  

Especially today.  

---

By the time you made it to the clinic, your hands were shaking slightly, your nerves setting in. You checked in, sat down, and texted her.  

You: In the waiting room. Room 4. I’ll stall them if I can.  

No reply.  

You assumed she was driving.  

The nurse called your name at 5:37. You stood, hesitating—wanting to beg for just five more minutes—but the words wouldn’t come.  

You followed her in, lying down on the exam table, the same room where you’d been told there was no heartbeat. You hoped it wasn’t an omen.

Your eyes fluttered shut. Please, please let this be different.

Just as the nurse rolled the machine closer, the door burst open.  

Alexia.  

Out of breath, flushed from sprinting, her Barça hoodie half-zipped, boots clomping awkwardly against the linoleum floor.  

“Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento,” she panted, holding up a hand to the nurse as she crossed the room in two long strides. “I ran from the car park. I’m here. I’m here.”  

You let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh, and the nurse gave you both a soft smile. “Perfect timing. Let’s take a look, shall we?”  

Alexia immediately took your hand, her forehead resting against yours for a second. “Never again,” she whispered. “I swear, I’ll walk out mid-training next time if I have to.”  

You squeezed her fingers. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”  

And then—  

The sound.  

That perfect, powerful heartbeat, stronger than last time.  

And on the screen a tiny, clear shape. Arms. Legs. Movement.  

Your baby.  

You felt Alexia's hand tremble in yours as the two of you stared, breathless, overwhelmed, absolutely undone.  

She whispered, voice cracking, “That’s our baby.”  

And this time, you were both exactly where you were meant to be.

—

The soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the heartbeat fills the room like music. You can feel Alexia’s grip on your hand tighten, not painfully—just grounding, like she needs to hold onto something before her heart floats right out of her chest.

The nurse smiles at both of you, adjusting the angle of the probe slightly. “Your baby is measuring beautifully,” she says kindly, her voice warm and calm. “Let me show you a few things.”

You both lean closer to the screen, eyes wide as the grainy black and white image pulses with life.

“Here’s the head,” she says, pointing gently with her cursor. “You can see the curve of the skull here, and this shadow is the brain starting to form. Strong and symmetrical.”

You gasp quietly, heart stuttering. “That’s their head?”

Alexia’s face is soft with awe, her eyes fixed to the monitor like it holds the entire universe. “Dios mío…”

“And right here,” the nurse continues, shifting the view slightly, “are the arms—little hands starting to form at the end.” She chuckles softly. “Look at those fingers.”

You actually see them. Tiny, wiggling, real fingers.

“They’re moving,” you whisper, voice caught in your throat. “They’re really moving.”

“They’re practicing already,” the nurse grins. “Busy little one.”

You look over at Alexia, whose eyes are completely glassy, her lips parted in stunned wonder. She hasn’t blinked once.

She clears her throat, voice slightly hoarse. “Our baby has hands.”

“And feet,” the nurse adds, tilting the probe again. “Look at those toes.”

You both laugh, and you feel a tear finally slip free, tracing a warm path down your cheek. Alexia catches it with her thumb before it can fall further.

The nurse takes a few more measurements before clicking a button. “Would you like a printout of the scan?” she asks gently.

You nod immediately. “Yes, please.”

Alexia, still slightly in shock, lifts her hand. “Can we—uh, can we get more? Like, the extras? Whatever you have.”

The nurse raises an eyebrow, amused. “Photos, USB, key rings, digital files?”

“All of it,” Alexia says without missing a beat, reaching into her jacket for her wallet. “We want everything.”

You snort a laugh, your heart swelling. “Are you buying out the baby merch stand?”

“If I could frame the heartbeat and hang it in the hallway, I would,” she says without a hint of irony.

The nurse chuckles, handing you a warm set of glossy scan prints. “Here’s your first photo album, then.”

You take them in trembling fingers, staring down at the blurry but perfect image of your baby, your heart thudding in time with theirs.

Alexia wraps an arm around you as you sit up slowly, careful not to smudge the prints with your fingertips.

You lean into her shoulder and whisper, “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

She presses a kiss into your hair, her voice low and steady. “Yeah, mi amor. We are. And they already have the best nose I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh into her shoulder, holding the scan to your chest. And for the first time, in a long time, your joy doesn’t feel careful.

It just feels real.

—

The car is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels sacred.  

You're parked just outside the clinic, the soft hum of Barcelona’s evening settling around you, people passing by unaware that in the small, private world of your car, something extraordinary has just happened.  

Alexia sits in the driver’s seat, keys still in the ignition but engine off, her body angled toward you, legs tucked slightly beneath her as she holds the envelope of scan photos like it’s made of glass.  

You’re beside her, curled slightly sideways in your seat, seatbelt off, one leg folded under the other, eyes still fixed on the black and white print in your hands.  

The baby is small, but there’s no denying they’re there. A shape. A form. Arms. Legs. Fingers. A heartbeat.  

“Look,” Alexia says softly, holding one of the scans up to the light as if it’ll help her memorise every single detail. “That’s their little hand. You can see it.”  

You nod, eyes welling again. “I know. I still can’t believe it’s real.”  

Alexia gently slides one of the scans into your lap, her voice reverent. “This one’s my favourite. The profile… they have your nose.”  

You let out a wet laugh, dabbing at your cheeks with your sleeve. “Alexia that’s biologically impossible.”  

“It does” she says firmly, grinning even as her voice shakes with emotion.  

The grin fades slowly as she stares down at the photo again, her expression softening. “They’re ours.”  

You glance at her. Her eyes are glassy again, lashes damp, and she’s not trying to hide it.  

“I was so scared to go to this appointment,” you admit quietly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about last time. What it felt like to walk out of there empty.”  

Alexia reaches across the centre console, slipping her hand into yours, weaving your fingers together. “I know. I felt it too. Like I was holding my breath the whole time.”  

“But we walked out with this.” You hold up the scan, your thumb gently brushing over the shape of your tiny baby. “We walked out with them.”  

She squeezes your hand. “We walked out as parents.”  

The word hits you like a soft thunderclap.  

Parents.  

You sit in silence for a moment, just feeling it.  

The responsibility. The beauty. The miracle of it all.  

You gently turn to her and whisper, “Do you think Burt and Ernie will be jealous?”  

Alexia snorts, blinking through her tears. “They’re going to be obsessed. Burt’s going to be a bodyguard, and Ernie’s going to teach them how to sneak food off plates.”  

You laugh, wiping at your eyes. “We’re going to have a baby. In a few months, we’re going to be waking up to cries, and diapers, and chaos… and it’s going to be the best thing we’ve ever done.”  

Alexia leans over, her forehead resting gently against yours, her other hand still clutching the envelope of scan photos to her chest.  

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” she admits, her voice barely a breath. “But I’ve also never loved anyone the way I love you. Or wanted anything more than this with you.”  

You smile, brushing your nose against hers. “We’re doing this together. Every second of it.”  

She kisses you softly—slow and full of promise—then pulls back just enough to whisper:  

“Let’s go home, mamá.”  

And just like that, everything feels right.

—

Eli’s home always felt warm.

It was the kind of place where love was stitched into the very walls, where the smell of home-cooked meals clung to the furniture, where laughter echoed through the hallways even on the quietest nights.

And tonight, it was no different.

Alba was already nursing a glass of wine, chatting animatedly about something ridiculous that happened in her life, while Eli busied herself serving up far too much food for just the four of you.

But you were struggling. The smells of everything—the garlic, the roasted meat, even the faint scent of wine—had been assaulting your senses since you walked in the door.

Alexia had noticed immediately. And so had Eli. Her sharp eyes flicked toward you as she placed a bowl of food in front of you, her brow furrowing slightly when she saw how pale you looked. “Mi amor,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Are you still sick?.”

You forced a smile, pushing your food around with your fork. “I’m fine.”

Eli narrowed her eyes slightly, unconvinced. “You haven’t touched your food.”

“I’m just not too hungry,” you tried again.

That made everyone go silent.

Alba blinked dramatically, looking between you and Alexia. “Since when are you not hungry?”

Alexia let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “Mami, I think we have something to tell you.”

Eli froze.

Her eyes widened slightly, her hands stilling over the napkin she had been adjusting. “Tell me what?”

You exhaled, setting down your fork. Your hands trembled slightly as you stood up from your chair, suddenly feeling so many emotions at once. Then, slowly, you reached for the hem of your hoodie and lifted it—just enough to reveal the small but undeniable bump that had begun to form.

Eli gasped.

Alba nearly choked on her wine.

“I get morning sickness in the mornings and the evenings,” you murmured, a soft but certain smile on your lips. “because, I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Eli’s hand came up to her mouth, eyes wide, her entire body still as she stared at your stomach.

Alba’s chair scraped against the floor as she pushed back from the table, standing so suddenly she nearly knocked over her glass. “Wait, WHAT?!”

You laughed softly, pulling your hoodie back down as Alexia reached for your hand, her warmth grounding you.

“You—” Eli blinked rapidly, looking at you, then at Alexia, then back at you. “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded, feeling tears sting your eyes at the sheer emotion in her voice.

Eli let out a soft sob and immediately wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a warm, desperate embrace. “Mi niña…” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

You melted into her, feeling the weight of the moment settle deep in your chest.

Alba, on the other hand, was still staring at you both like you had just told her the world was ending.

“You—” She pointed wildly between the two of you. “You’re pregnant?!”

Alexia smirked. “Yes, Alba.”

Alba blinked. “Like, for real?”

You let out a breathy laugh, wiping at your eyes. “For real.”

Her eyes widened further. “But you—” She frowned slightly. “I didn’t even know you were trying yet?”

You swallowed hard, glancing at Alexia before turning back to them. “We kept it private. We, um—” You hesitated before inhaling deeply. “We’ve actually been trying for a while.”

Eli pulled back slightly, concern flickering in her gaze. “Cuánto tiempo?”

You squeezed Alexia’s hand, finding strength in her touch. “This is our fourth attempt.”

Eli’s breath caught. “Four?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “The first two times didn’t work. The third time… we got a positive, but we lost the baby.”

Alba let out a soft oh under her breath, her expression instantly shifting to something more serious. Eli’s hands gripped yours tightly, her eyes shining with pain and understanding. “Mi amor,” she whispered.

You offered her a small, grateful smile. “But now, this time… we feel so lucky.”

Eli wiped at her eyes, sniffling before letting out a watery laugh. “I can’t believe this.”

The moment wraps around all of you like a warm blanket—arms tangled, breath hitching, emotions hanging heavy in the air.  

Eli’s still clutching you tightly, murmuring soft blessings against your hair, one hand now splayed protectively over your bump like she already considers herself a guardian of the little life growing inside you.  

Alexia leans into your side, her eyes locked on yours like she’s still trying to absorb the reality of what’s happening—her wife, her mother, her sister, and your baby all woven together in a moment you never knew your heart needed so badly.  

And then, you notice it.  

Alba.  

She hasn’t said anything since her initial outburst. She’s stepped back from the hug, standing slightly off to the side now, hands wrapped around herself. Her face is unreadable for a moment, her jaw tight, her eyes glassy.  

Alexia turns her head, still holding you close. “Alba?” she says gently. “You okay? We’ve just told the most incredible thing is happening to us and you look like you couldn’t care any less”  

Alba blinks, like she’s only just noticed the attention shifting to her. Her lips press together, her throat bobbing once. “Yeah,” she says quickly, but her voice cracks halfway through.   She tries to brush it off with a shaky laugh. “I’m—God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  

And then it happens.  

Her voice breaks completely, and she brings a hand to her face, trying to stop it, but the tears are already slipping down her cheeks.  

You and Alexia freeze.  

“Alba…” Alexia says softly, stepping toward her. “Hey, hey, what is it?”  

Alba tries to speak but chokes on the first word. She lets out a sob, frustrated and emotional and completely unguarded—so unlike her usual chaotic, firecracker self.  

“I’m just—” She laughs and cries at the same time, wiping at her face. “I’m so happy. I’m so happy you’re pregnant and I—” She stops, breath catching. “I didn’t know how much I wanted this for you both until you said it out loud.”  

Alexia pulls her into a hug immediately, arms wrapping around her younger sister with such force that you feel it in your chest.  

Alba clings to her, burying her face into Alexia’s shoulder like she did when they were kids, when things were overwhelming, when she needed someone to hold her while she felt.

Eli stands beside you, eyes still damp, her hand sliding back into yours with a squeeze.  

You watch Alexia whisper something into Alba’s ear, soothing, loving, and Alba nods through her tears, pressing her forehead to her sister’s chest.  

“I thought she was sick,” Alba murmurs. “I thought something was awfully wrong, I’d convinced myself we-you’d loose her and i didn’t know how we’d handle that, you were so sick that night, you looked so sick and it looked like you’d lost weight, it scared me”  

Alexia huffs a small, tearful laugh. “You idiot”

You walk over quietly and slide your hand into Alba’s. She looks at you, still tear-streaked, and lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “I’m fine, i speak to my doctor all the time” you showed your bump again, “It’s just morning sickness, i promise, i’m doing everything the doctor tells me to, to make sure the baby and I are healthy through this little bit”

“I’m going to be a Tía.”  

“You’re going to be the most chaotic Tía ever,” you say with a grin.  

“I’m going to buy them the loudest toys known to man.”  

“Absolutely not,” Alexia says immediately.  

All three of you laugh through the tears. And standing there, wrapped up in love, in emotion, in family—you know it more than ever.  

This baby is already surrounded by a world so full of love, they’ll never go a day without feeling it.

You gently tug your hand free from Alba’s and slip it into your coat pocket where, carefully folded and protected like a sacred treasure, the scan photo has been tucked away since the clinic visit.  

Your fingers tremble a little as you unfold the paper, the soft crinkle drawing Eli’s and Alba’s attention immediately.  

“I have…” you begin, voice still thick with emotion, “…something I want to show you.”  

Alexia, still standing with one arm around her sister’s shoulder, glances over at you with that soft, knowing look—the one that says I know how much this means.  

You hold the photo out toward them, your thumb brushing over the image like you can’t quite believe it’s real, even now.  

“From our last scan,” you say gently. “We saw everything. Their head, their hands… we even heard the heartbeat again.”  

Eli gasps softly and moves in close, her hand coming to rest over her heart the second her eyes land on the image. Her lips part, and her breath catches. “Ay, míralo…”  

Alba steps beside her, peeking over her mother’s shoulder. At first she’s quiet, her eyes scanning the blurry but unmistakable shape of the baby—so small, curled like a comma, but there.  

“Is that their…?” she starts, pointing clumsily to the head.  

Alexia steps in, smirking. “Yes. That’s the head. Not a potato, like you’re probably thinking.”  

Alba laughs through a sniffle, nudging her playfully. “I wasn’t going to say potato!” A beat. “...But it does kind of look like one.”  

Eli swats her gently, but she’s still crying, her thumb now tracing the edge of the photo like it’s the most precious thing she’s ever held.  

“They’re perfect,” she whispers. “Already perfect.”  

You step closer to Alexia, letting her wrap an arm around your waist, her hand automatically resting against your bump.  

“I’ve stared at this photo a hundred times already,” you admit, resting your head on her shoulder. “And every time I do, it hits me all over again—they’re real. They’re ours.”  

Alba reaches for the photo, asking softly, “Can I hold it?”  

You nod, and she takes it gently, like she’s afraid she’ll break it. She stares at it for a long moment, then looks up at you and Alexia, her expression open and vulnerable in a way you rarely see.  

“I’m going to love them so much,” she says quietly. “You don’t even know.”  

Alexia smiles, her own eyes misty again. “We do know. We’ve discussed it at length”  

The four of you stand there in Eli’s kitchen—food forgotten, hearts wide open, surrounded by the smell of roasted garlic and the sound of quiet sniffles.  

And in that moment, with your scan photo passing from hand to hand, something settles in the room.  

This baby is already home.  Already loved. Already theirs, too. You step back from the circle of warmth in Eli’s kitchen, cheeks still flushed from all the tears and laughter, your heart full but pounding with a new kind of anticipation. You’d been waiting for the right moment to do this. And now, watching Alba cradling the scan photo like it’s made of stardust and Eli still dabbing at her cheeks with a napkin, you know maybe you were ready to reach out to your own family. 

Alexia reaches for your hand, pulling you gently into her side, her voice soft and low against your ear. “I love you.”  

You smile into her shoulder, tears prickling your eyes again. Eli steps forward, pulling you into a hug again, whispering, “This baby is already so lucky. So loved.”  

And in that moment, wrapped in her arms, Alexia’s hand on your back, Alba quietly swearing she’s going to be the “cool emotional aunt,” you feel it again—  

That this little life growing inside you has already built a family bigger than blood.  

They’ve built a home.

Alba is still standing there in the kitchen, one hand clutched to her chest and the other holding the framed scan at arm’s length like she’s trying to mentally zoom in. Her eyes are narrowed, tongue poking out slightly as she inspects the grainy image with ridiculous focus.  

Then, she says it.  

Totally serious.  

“I’m telling you… they have your nose.”  

You blink. “What?”  

Alexia perks up instantly, standing straighter beside you like a lightbulb just went off. “Thank you!” she exclaims, pointing at her sister. “I said the same thing when we left the clinic!”  

You gape at them both. “How—how can you possibly tell that from a grainy black and white scan that looks like it was taken with a potato?”  

Alba smirks, triumphant. “You can totally tell. Look at this little bump on the bridge! That’s you.”  

Alexia crosses her arms with a smug grin. “Exacte. I said they had your nose, and you told me I was being ridiculous.”  

You throw your hands up, exasperated but laughing. “Because it is ridiculous! You do remember it was your egg, right? Your DNA? I’m just the deluxe human incubator in this equation.”  

Alba gasps. “Did you just call yourself a deluxe human incubator?”  

Alexia bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “That’s going on a T-shirt.”  

You groan dramatically, dropping into the chair. “You two are unbelievable. The baby is genetically yours, Alexia. Your egg.”  

Alexia shrugs, still staring at the scan like she’s searching for clues. “Maybe. But they’re growing inside you. And if they’re already getting your attitude—”  

“—they’re definitely getting your nose,” Alba finishes.  

You cover your face with your hands. “I regret telling you anything.”  

But you don’t, not really. Because when you peek through your fingers, they’re both grinning at the scan like it’s a masterpiece, like this blurry photo has already revealed an entire person.  

Your person.  

Alexia catches your gaze, her teasing fading just enough for something softer to settle into her expression. She kneels beside your chair and places a hand on your belly, gentle and sure.  

“Regardless of whose nose they have,” she murmurs, “they’re ours. Every little bit.”  

You smile through the warmth rising in your chest, brushing your fingers through her hair.  

“Yeah,” you whisper. “They really are.”  

And just like that, even with all the bickering and chaos, the room is full of peace again. A quiet knowing. A family already falling in love with someone they’ve never met.

—

Something shifted as the second trimester arrived.

It wasn’t dramatic—there wasn’t a switch flipped overnight—but it was definitely noticeable. Your nausea, while not entirely gone, began to give you some grace. You could finally keep food down, you started sleeping better, and the fatigue that had made your limbs feel like lead slowly began to fade. You started to feel more like yourself.

Except… not quite.

Because this version of you? This new, radiant, glowing, tingling version of you? She was insatiable.

At first, you thought it was just a fluke—a flurry of hormones shifting as your body adjusted, a couple of blush-inducing dreams that left you tangled in sheets and aching in a way you hadn’t felt for weeks. But then it kept happening.

A lingering glance from Alexia while she dried her hair. The way her hand would rest lazily on your thigh as you lay on the sofa. The sight of her in her training gear, all strength and casual swagger, or standing at the kitchen counter in a hoodie and nothing else, humming softly to herself.

It did things to you.

You tried to play it cool at first. A few stolen kisses while she made breakfast. Your hands wandering a little lower than usual as you cuddled in bed. Her hand cradling your bump during a sleepy embrace would have you biting your lip, trying not to press into her palm.

But Alexia, of course, noticed.

She always did.

And she definitely wasn’t complaining. One night, lying on the couch with your head in her lap while she mindlessly scrolled through Netflix options, your fingers were tracing slow, lazy circles on her knee. You weren’t really paying attention to the screen. You were watching her. The curve of her jaw, the way her lips curled in thought, the subtle flex of her thigh under your head. You shifted slightly, pressing a little closer.

Her eyes flicked down. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes hooded. “Yeah. Just…”

She tilted her head, smirking. “Just what?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “I really want you right now.”

She blinked, caught off guard—but only for a second. That knowing smirk deepened as she leaned down and brushed a slow kiss against your lips. “You’re glowing,” she murmured, her hand smoothing down over your bump. “And kind of dangerous right now.”

You grinned against her mouth. “Dangerous?”

“You’ve been giving me that look for a week. I’ve been trying to behave.”

You shifted again, this time straddling her lap slowly, wrapping your arms around her neck. “Don’t.”

Alexia’s hands slid to your hips instinctively, her breath catching. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to hers. “You won’t. I feel good, Lex. Really good. Better than I have in months.”

She kissed you then—deep and slow, the kind of kiss that said she’d been waiting for you to feel like this again, the kind of kiss that didn’t just ignite your skin but centred you. That night was soft and careful and full of laughter and breathy sighs, full of the quietest kind of fire. Alexia’s hands cradling your body like she was holding something precious. Her lips mapping your skin slowly, reverently, like she’d missed every inch of you and wasn’t going to waste a second more.

She didn’t rush you. She didn’t push. She followed your pace, your need, your rhythm. And God, you needed her. Not just the closeness, not just the aching low in your belly. You needed her—the warmth of her breath on your shoulder, the press of her lips to your bump as if thanking it for giving you back to her like this.

After, she held you with one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting on your belly, her thumb brushing soft strokes over the curve of it.

“I missed us,” she murmured into your hair.

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Me too.”

And she smiled against your skin, whispering, “Let’s make up for lost time.” You laughed—soft and satisfied—already knowing that with her, you had all the time in the world.

—

You were standing in front of the mirror, tugging gently at the hem of the flowy black top you’d chosen for the night. It draped comfortably over your bump—still not obvious to the untrained eye, but enough that you’d started reaching for looser fits out of instinct.

Behind you, Alexia was sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping on her trainers, one eyebrow arched in focused determination.

You turned slightly, smoothing your shirt again. “Hey, Lex?”  

She grunted in response, still battling her shoes.

“I think… I want to tell Carla tonight.”  

She paused, looking up like you’d just said you were moving to the moon. “Tell Carla what?”  

You gave her a look. “About the baby.”  

Alexia blinked. “Wait—you haven’t told her yet?”  

You shrugged a little, avoiding her eyes in the mirror. “No, I mean… I kind of assumed you had?”  

She stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “No, I figured you would. She’s your best friend.”  

“I know, but I thought maybe with all the training, and the away games, and how close you two have gotten, it would’ve just… slipped out.”  

Alexia stepped behind you now, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Mi amor, Carla thinks your ‘stomach bug’ is the longest-running flu case in Europe.”  

You winced. “Okay, yeah. Fair point.”  

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I just assumed you told her ages ago. She’s going to lose her mind.”  

You turned to face her fully, nervous energy fluttering in your chest. “Do you think she’ll be upset we waited this long?”  

Alexia shook her head immediately. “Not for a second. She’ll probably cry, and then call you dramatic, and then demand she gets to be godmother without even asking.”  

You laughed, because it was so Carla.  

“She just means so much to me,” you said softly. “I think part of me wanted to tell her when it felt safe. When it felt real. And now that it does… I want her to know.”  

Alexia cupped your face, her thumbs brushing your cheeks gently. “Then tell her. Tonight. I’ll make sure everyone’s distracted so you two can have your moment.”  

You smiled up at her, heart swelling. “You’re good at this whole supportive wife thing, you know.” 

She smirked, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I’m practicing. I hear pregnant women can get needy.”  

You pulled back with a playful glare. “Excuse me?”  

“Emotionally needy. Physically clingy. Obsessed with their gorgeous footballer wives.”  

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and swatting her with it lightly. “You wish.”  

She caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, then rested it gently against the curve of your stomach.  

“Carla’s going to be so happy,” she said softly. “She loves you. And she’s going to love them too.”  

You nodded, heart full, nerves buzzing just a little.  

It was time.  

And tonight, you were finally going to share your biggest joy with one of the people who’d loved you through everything.

The restaurant was loud in that comforting way—ambient, warm, filled with clinking glasses and voices layered over upbeat music. The team had already taken over a long table at the back, some players halfway through their first round of drinks, laughter echoing as Mapi recounted something dramatic with hand gestures big enough to nearly take out a waiter.

You and Alexia walked in hand-in-hand, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, grounding you the way she always did when you were buzzing with nerves. She leaned in as you neared the table, voice low and teasing against your ear.

“You’re going to cry when you tell her, aren’t you?”

You scoffed. “Please. I’m perfectly composed.”

Alexia smirked. “You got misty-eyed at a baby socks display last week.”

“That was different. They were tiny and knitted.”

She laughed, gently squeezing your hand one last time before breaking away to greet her teammates. “I’ll buy you ten pairs if it helps you breathe right now.”

You scanned the table, and there she was—Carla, sitting on the end, already waving when she spotted you, her grin wide and chaotic as always. She made a space instantly, scooting over with a dramatic “Finally! Took you long enough!” and motioning for you to sit beside her.

You sat, nerves rolling like thunder in your chest.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, bumping your shoulder. “You look…” Her eyes narrowed, studying you for half a second too long. “…a little tired. Still fighting that virus?”

You smiled carefully. “Sort of.”

Carla turned her body toward you slightly, sipping from her drink. “You okay though? You’ve been kind of… I don’t know. Not off, just… low profile.”

Now or never.

You wet your lips and set your bag down beside your chair, shifting slightly so your knee touched hers. “Actually… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. For a while. I just—wasn’t ready before.”

Her brows lifted immediately, and the playful energy dimmed into something more focused. “Okay. What’s going on?”

You swallowed thickly, glancing down at your lap for a second before looking back at her. “I’m pregnant.”

Carla stared.

You waited.

For once in her life, she said nothing.

“I know,” you said gently, watching the shock ripple across her features. “It’s been a long road, and we weren’t sure it was going to happen, but… we’re in the second trimester now. It’s really happening.”

Her hand came to her mouth, eyes already glassy. “Wait. Wait—shut up.”

You laughed softly. “Carla—”

“You’re pregnant?!” she whispered fiercely, smacking your arm before launching herself across the small space to throw her arms around you. “You’re—oh my God, you’re—why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you held onto her. “I wanted to. We just… had a few scares. I needed to feel like it was real before I could share it.”

Carla nodded against your shoulder, still gripping you like she might not let go. “God, I’m so happy. I’m so—like, I don’t even know what to say. You’re going to be the best mama.” When she finally pulled back, she sniffled and immediately tried to laugh it off. “Ugh, I hate you for making me cry in public.”  

You wiped at your own eyes. “It had to be you tonight. I couldn’t keep it from you anymore.”

“Wait—does everyone else know?”

You shook your head. “Just family. You’re the first person from the team.”  

Her eyes went huge. “I’m honoured. I’m actually—Oh my God, does this mean I get to be the fun godmother?”  

You laughed. “You kind of already are.”  

She wiped under her eyes again, then glanced over your shoulder, and her expression shifted to mock-serious. “Tell Alexia if she doesn’t give me godmother rights, I’m stealing the baby.”  

Alexia, returning to the table with two glasses of water, slid into the seat next to you and arched an eyebrow. “Stealing our baby?” she asked dryly, handing you one glass.  

Carla grinned through her drying tears. “You heard me.”  

Alexia glanced at you, then at Carla, then smiled softly. “You can be the godmother. But only if you agree to babysit when we haven’t slept for three nights in a row.”  

Carla lifted her glass dramatically. “Done. I’ll even bring snacks.”  

The three of you clinked glasses quietly while chaos bubbled around the rest of the table. But in that little corner, with laughter and tears and secrets finally spoken, everything felt a little more real. A little more whole.  

The night hums on around you—dishes clinking, conversations overlapping, laughter rising every so often from one end of the table or the other. Carla’s still next to you, now proudly pointing out baby items on her phone she thinks are essential, including, for some reason, a bassinet shaped like a race car.

You’re in the middle of politely telling her the baby doesn’t need its own pit crew when someone stops beside the table.

“Ingrid!” you say brightly, your smile wide and honest.

She returns it, but it’s soft—slightly tight around the edges. Her eyes drift over your face, studying you in that careful way people do when they’ve been worried.

“Hey,” she says quietly, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Can I… just check in for a second?”

You nod immediately, and Carla wordlessly scoots over to give her space.

Ingrid crouches slightly to be more level with you, her eyes kind. “I didn’t want to crowd you, but I’ve been meaning to ask if you’re okay. Alexia said you’ve been unwell for a while… and when you didn’t really talk to Carla the other day, I—” she hesitates, her brow furrowing, “—I just got a bit worried.”

Your heart tugs, the genuine concern in her voice making your chest ache in a surprisingly tender way.

You glance sideways, toward Alexia, who’s been watching the exchange quietly from the other side of you. Her eyes flick to yours, and you see it there—the guilt, the unspoken truth she’s been holding onto.

She hadn’t told them because it wasn’t just her story to tell. But maybe it was time. Maybe it was time to let everyone in.

You rest your hand over Alexia’s on your knee, giving it a light squeeze.

“Lex?” you say softly. She meets your gaze, and you offer her a small, reassuring nod. “I think you should tell them now. While we’re all here.”

Her brows lift slightly. “You’re sure?”

You nod again, heart pounding in your chest, but the relief already washing over you like sunlight breaking through a long winter cloud. “I’m ready,” you whisper. “We’re ready.”

Alexia leans over and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, then turns, reaching gently for Ingrid’s hand to pull her upright.

Ingrid looks confused for a moment, eyes darting between you both, before Alexia clears her throat—just loud enough to catch the attention of those closest.

It doesn’t take long. One person notices, then another, and within seconds, the whole table begins to quiet. Heads turn. Conversations pause.

Alexia stands slowly, still holding your hand. Her voice is calm, but her eyes are lit with something electric, something trembling but proud.

“I know a few of you have been wondering why this one here,” she says, nudging you gently, “has been a little MIA lately.”

The girls around the table start murmuring—some smiling already, some just curious.

“She’s been dealing with a lot,” Alexia continues, looking down at you with soft adoration, “but not because of a bug. Or stress. Or anything of the other lies I’ve told you.”

You stand now too, the nerves bubbling under your skin like champagne, but Alexia steadies you with her hand in yours.

“She’s pregnant,” Alexia says simply.

A stunned beat.

Then—

“WHAT?!” Mapi shrieks.

“No jodas—”

“OH MY GOD—”

Chaos erupts.

Voices raise, chairs scrape as half the table jumps up in excitement. Mapi launches herself over the table like she’s diving for a trophy, nearly knocking over a candle in the process. Aitana’s mouth is hanging open in disbelief. Ingrid’s hands are covering her heart, her face softening with every second.

Carla is grinning like the cat that got the cream, proudly taking credit like she was the one who made the announcement.

And in the middle of it all, Alexia has her arm around you, her head bent to yours as you both soak in the sound of pure, unfiltered joy.

When Ingrid finally reaches you again, she doesn’t say anything right away. She just wraps you in the warmest, most genuine hug.

“I’m so happy for you,” she says into your shoulder. “You’re going to be incredible.”

You close your eyes, heart full. For the first time, you feel it completely. Now they all know. And they already love your baby like they’ve been waiting for them too.

The noise eventually settles—if only slightly.

There’s still laughter and excited voices bouncing around the room, a few players wiping away surprised tears (Aitana’s pretending not to, but her red nose gives her away), and the waitstaff bringing over more drinks and desserts with cautious smiles, clearly clocking that something big just happened.

Alexia hasn’t let go of your hand since the announcement, and you don’t want her to.

Carla’s still beaming, whispering something about how she’s going to ‘crash every family photo’ and ‘bring a suitcase to the hospital,’ while Ingrid quietly rests a hand on your back like she’s still anchoring you to the moment.

And then—of course—Mapi stands on her chair.

She clears her throat dramatically, raising a glass of something sparkly that definitely wasn’t what she originally ordered. “Everyone. Please. Shut up and give me the floor. For once in your lives.”

A few groans, some cheers, and at least one “don’t fall, Mapi” echo from across the table, but the room does fall quiet—albeit with amused, expectant grins.

She turns, facing you and Alexia directly now, her gaze more focused than usual, her smirk softening into something almost reverent.

“I make a lot of noise,” she begins, eliciting a collective “¡sí!” from the table. She ignores it with a wave. “But tonight I want to make noise for them.”

She nods at you. Then at Alexia.  

“You two have been through a lot. We all know that. And you’ve built something together that’s… unbreakable. Something strong. Something soft. Something that all of us admire more than we probably say.”

Alexia shifts beside you, clearly trying not to get misty-eyed already. You squeeze her hand tighter.  

“And now,” Mapi continues, lifting her glass higher, “you’re bringing someone new into that love. A tiny person who’s going to be ridiculously lucky from the very first breath they take. Lucky to have two mamis who already love them more than anything. Lucky to grow up with warmth and safety and laughter—and the best damn football education in the world.”  

Laughter breaks across the table, but it’s gentle, affectionate.  

Mapi’s voice softens, but her words ring clear.  

“To the little one—who doesn’t even know yet how loved they already are. Who’s going to be raised in a world full of strength, softness, and chaos. We can’t wait to meet you. We’ve got your back already.” She pauses, then adds with a wink, “And if you come out with great hair and questionable jokes, we’ll know exactly who to blame.”  

You and Alexia both burst out laughing as everyone lifts their glasses, the entire table echoing in chorus:  

“To the baby!”

The clinking of glasses surrounds you, a symphony of celebration.  

And as you press your forehead to Alexia’s, both of you laughing, a little teary, you whisper, “They’re going to have so many people in their corner.”  

Alexia nods, eyes shining. “The best team we could ever ask for.”  

And in that moment, with love wrapped around you in every direction, you feel it in your bones—this baby isn’t just coming into a family.  

They’re coming into a legacy.

Dreaming in Blaugrana

The first rule of being Cat Culer? Don’t break character.

No talking. No gestures that are “too human.” Be goofy, be silent, be the lovable cat that makes kids laugh and grown players roll their eyes—but in a fond way.

You were good at it. Almost too good.

What started as a fun, side gig to make some extra money during your internship had turned into something... more. Somehow, you’d given Cat Culer a personality—something between chaotic little sibling and emotional support animal. The fans loved it. The staff loved it.

And now, annoyingly, the players did too.

You weren’t just the mascot who danced during warm-ups and waved from the sidelines anymore. You were in it. Integrated. Like some strange, silent member of the squad who just happened to be covered in fur and couldn't speak.

Sometimes, the team would warm up around you. Vicky had started a ritual of kicking the ball at your feet to see how many times you could clumsily bounce it back before tripping over your tail. Aitana once tied a sweatband around your paw during a training session and told the staff you were “rehabbing an injury.” Even Patri tried to teach you the team handshake—painfully slowly, like she was working with a toddler.

But it was Mapi who first saw you as something more than a walking cat suit.

At first, she just teased you, like she did with everyone. She tossed her training bib over your head once and told you to “earn your spot.” She’d sneak behind you and tug your tail, then whistle innocently like she wasn’t the one who did it. Classic Mapi chaos.

But after a few weeks, the teasing turned into something more familiar. Something gentler.

She’d wave you over during breaks, gesture for you to sit beside her on the bench like it was normal. She started talking to you—not just playful jokes, but actual talking. About how training had gone. How she was tired of certain drills. How the new boots she got were “literally trying to kill her.”

You couldn’t respond, of course—not in words. But you’d nod, shrug, act things out when it felt right. You became her sounding board.

Some days, she brought an extra snack and just handed it to you without a word. A granola bar. A piece of fruit. Once, an entire slice of pizza smuggled in a napkin, handed off like contraband.

One quiet afternoon, she flopped down beside you on the grass after training, her curls still damp, and sighed. “You know,” she muttered, “you’re actually a decent listener.”

You mimed writing that down in a little notebook. She snorted.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

It started with a dare.

Something stupid—classic Mapi.

“Bet you can’t nutmeg me,” she challenged, already halfway into a pair of too-big goalie gloves she’d found in the locker room. The rest of the team had filtered out after training, and the sun had started dipping low, casting long gold shadows across the empty pitch.

You—still suited up as Cat Culer—pretended to crack your knuckles, gave her a dramatic nod, and stepped up to the ball.

Mapi widened her stance like she was guarding the Champions League final.

You tapped the ball forward, danced left, feinted right—and slipped it between her legs.

She let out an indignant squawk and spun around. “No. No way. That was illegal. There’s dark magic in that foam.”

You threw your paws up in celebration and did a full-body wiggle, which only made her groan louder.

“You are such a menace,” she said, laughing. “I swear, I don’t know how none of us have figured out who you are yet.”

You sit down on grass slowly, gave her a thumbs-up with one plush paw.

She walked over and plopped down beside you. “I’ve always wondered who’s behind that thing, you know. Like—do they hire a stunt double? Is it one of the interns?” Her eyes glinted, teasing.

You froze.

Mapi nudged your foam elbow with hers. “You gonna tell me or is this a lifelong secret kind of situation?”

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

And then—without letting yourself think about it too hard—you reached up, grabbed the mascot’s oversized head, and pulled it off in one slow, silent motion.

The air hit your face like a wave.

Mapi blinked. Her mouth parted in surprise, eyes scanning your features like she was making sure she was seeing right.

“No way,” she whispered. “You?”

You gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Surprise.”

For a second, she just stared. Then—suddenly—she burst out laughing.

“Holy shit,” she said, slapping her thigh. “You’ve been Cat Culer this whole time?!”

You nodded, heart pounding.

“You’re the intern! The one who helps with post edits and carries tripods like they’re sacred.”

“Guilty.”

Mapi grinned wide, shaking her head. “I can’t believe I’ve been emotionally bonding with the intern in a cat suit.”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean for it to be a thing. It just kind of… became one.”

Her smile softened a bit. “Hey. Your secret’s safe with me, okay?”

You met her eyes—grateful, nervous, kind of dizzy. “Thanks.” You preferred it that way Because when the suit came off, you weren’t Cat Culer.

You were just… you.

The new girl.

Quiet. Polite. The one who held boom mics just out of frame, who adjusted camera angles in the rain, who edited clips at midnight so the club’s socials would be ready for the next day.

Technically, part of the media team—but more like the background noise of it. Your job was to capture the spotlight, not stand in it.

You’d shared maybe four conversations with Alexia outside the suit. And "conversations" was a generous word. They were more like transactions.

“Lighting’s too harsh.”

“Where do I stand?”

“Let me know when this is done.”

No eye contact. No small talk. Not even a nod.

She wasn’t mean. Just… clipped. Cold. Efficient. She said what she needed to say and moved on. You were just another staffer in black Barça gear with a badge around your neck and a checklist in your hand.

She didn’t know your name. Probably didn’t realize you had one.

You could’ve been swapped out for someone else the next day, and she wouldn’t notice.

And it hurt.

Even though it shouldn’t have.

You told yourself it was fine. She had other things to worry about—pressure, performance, expectations that never seemed to loosen. She didn’t owe you anything. She didn’t have time to smile at every intern fumbling with a tripod.

But still…

It was strange. Jarring, even.

Because when you were in the suit—when the fur was zipped up and your face was hidden and your voice silenced—that’s when she smiled. When she sought you out. When she saw you.

Not the person underneath. Not the girl with tired eyes and a half-eaten protein bar in her pocket. But the character. The mask.

Cat Culer was allowed into her world.

You weren’t.

And no matter how many times you told yourself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t personal—

It still felt personal.

But in the suit?

She looked for you.

She laughed with you.

Like she didn’t even realize that just an hour earlier, she'd walked right past you—barely sparing a glance, barely recognizing you as a person, let alone the one she’d end up sitting beside in silence, sharing a moment that felt achingly close to something real.

Something you wanted to be real.

It was confusing. Unfair, even.

Because outside of the suit, you were no one.

Just the girl behind the lens. The one holding the mic.

The one taking up space but not attention.

You were used to being behind the scenes, but this? This was different.

She didn’t just ignore you. She didn’t see you.

Not until you stopped being you.

And yet you kept coming back.

Today was one of those rare, quiet afternoons—the kind where time slowed down just enough for your thoughts to catch up to you. No matches. No press. Just the sun low in the sky, spilling gold across the grass like it was painting over everything you couldn’t say out loud.

The stadium was mostly empty. A few distant voices. The echo of water running in the showers. The sharp, clean scent of freshly cut pitch.

You could’ve gone home. Everyone else had.

You should’ve.

Instead, you suited up.

You weren’t even sure when it had stopped being part of your job. When slipping into the oversized fur and foam had become something you needed. Maybe it was gradual. A slow shift you didn’t notice at first—how Cat Culer started feeling safer than your own skin.

When you wore the suit, no one judged.

No one asked questions.

You didn’t have to perform you, you just… performed.

And they loved you for it.

The players—especially Mapi—treated you like family. Even the staff smiled more. Fans waved, kids screamed your name. But most of all… she saw you.

Alexia.

In the suit, you were someone worth walking toward.

Someone worth talking to.

She would joke. Nudge you with her elbow. Give you that quiet little smile she rarely wore around anyone but teammates. A smile that felt rare, almost private. Like a gift.

And yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have let yourself read into it.

But how could you not?

When it felt like the only time she actually saw you was when you were hidden behind fur and mesh eyeholes?

The irony stung. That she connected with the version of you that wasn’t real—wasn’t even allowed to speak. That this—this character you created to survive the sidelines—was somehow more lovable than the real thing.

And still, you pulled the head over your face.

Still, you zipped it up.

Because the truth was…

It hurt less to be seen as a cartoon than to not be seen at all.

The suit was hot. Suffocating, even.

The kind of heat that stuck to your skin, that crawled down your spine and made every breath feel a little heavier. But you didn’t take it off.

You couldn’t.

Not yet.

You stayed near the edge of the pitch, wandering the sideline with your usual exaggerated movements—half warm-up, half act. Knees high, arms flopping in all the wrong ways, tail swaying with each bounce. The sort of routine that had become muscle memory now. Familiar. Safe.

It was stupid, probably. No one was watching. No cameras. No kids. No coaches.

Just the empty stadium stretching around you, golden light pouring in from the last slant of the sun, and a silence so thick it felt like it could swallow you whole.

And then—

“You know you’re not on the clock, right?”

You turned so fast your oversized feet nearly tripped over themselves.

Alexia stood by the railing, one arm resting casually against the metal, the other folded across her chest. She was still in her Barça training gear, hair damp from a quick shower, the tips of it curling slightly as they clung to the sides of her face. Her expression was unreadable—half teasing, half tired. But she was smiling.

At you.

At Cat Culer.

Not the girl inside.

You gave a familiar shrug—shoulders high, paws out, head tilted dramatically to the side like a guilty cartoon.

She let out a quiet laugh. Just one breath. Soft, but real.

“You just like the attention, don’t you?” she said, stepping down from the railing and walking toward the bench behind you. “Can’t go one day without being a menace.”

You placed a paw to your chest in mock offense, shaking your head like how dare you?

Another breath of laughter, and she sank down onto the bench with a heavy sigh, legs spread, elbows resting on her knees. The kind of posture that said I’m done for the day. That she didn’t have to be Captain Putellas right now. Not here. Not with you.

It wasn’t the first time she’d sat near you like this.

But it never failed to catch you off guard.

Slowly, cautiously, you lowered yourself beside her. The fur brushed her sleeve for just a second. Your heart skipped.

Alexia was quiet. Just breathing. Letting the air fill in the spaces between the words she wasn’t ready to say. Then finally, voice low: “I think my legs are turning against me.”

You made a small stretching motion, cartoonishly showing off your ‘injured’ legs in solidarity. She smiled without looking at you.

“I’ve done, like, eight interviews this week,” she muttered. “They ask the same stuff every time. Like they want me to say something groundbreaking, but only if it sounds good in a headline.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

That was the thing about the suit. You couldn’t speak. So you listened. You heard people in ways you never could outside of it.

She sighed again, voice softer now. “I think I’m just tired of being who everyone expects me to be.”

That line hit you straight in the chest. Deeper than anything else she’d said.

Because you knew that feeling.

More than you wanted to admit.

“I’m the captain. The face of the team. I can’t mess up. Can’t be off. Can’t even be quiet for too long without someone thinking something’s wrong.”

She turned her head slightly, eyes on the pitch, but her voice was directed toward you. “But you… You don’t care about any of that, do you?”

You slowly shook your head.

Not in judgment. Not in pity. Just… listening.

“It’s nice,” she murmured. “Being around someone who doesn’t expect anything.”

She paused.

Then: “I talk to you more than I talk to half the staff.”

You went still.

There it was. The part that always hurt.

You were part of the staff. She’d walked right past you hours ago, when you were setting up lights for post-training interviews. She’d looked through you like you didn’t exist. Like your presence didn’t matter.

But now? In this suit? You were someone she opened up to. Someone she could breathe around.

And you couldn’t say a single word back.

You lifted your paw and gently bumped it against her shoulder. Just once. A plush, silly gesture. A peace offering. A silent I’m here.

She looked over, and for the briefest moment, her face softened. Not the public smile she wore for cameras. Not the polite mask she used in interviews.

Something smaller. Warmer.

“You’re not so bad, gato.”

You wanted to tell her it was you.

That you weren’t just this suit. That you were listening.

That you saw her, even when she didn’t see you.

But the words stayed trapped inside the costume.

And your silence made it easier for her to keep pretending.

She stood with a quiet grunt, brushing imaginary dust from her sweats.

“See you around,” she said. Then paused.

Added, more gently:

“Don’t work too hard.”

And then she walked off. Just like that.

Leaving you on the bench, still in the suit, paws resting in your lap, body aching from the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

The stadium was quiet again. Empty. Still.

She didn’t know you.

Not really.

But for a moment—for that moment—she saw something in you.

Even if it wasn’t the version you wished it had been.

It was getting harder. Harder to keep track of which version of yourself people were talking to. Harder to separate the suit from the skin underneath. Harder to pretend it didn’t sting when Alexia smiled at Cat Culer like an old friend… and barely nodded at you the next morning in the media room.

You were crouched low behind the training cam—hoodie up, fingers adjusting the focus, keeping quiet like always. You liked the quiet. You had to. It was easy to disappear when no one was looking for you.

Alexia passed behind you. You felt her presence before she even spoke.

“Camera’s in the way,” she said.

Not cold. Not cruel. Just… indifferent.

Like she was speaking to a wall. Or a chair. Or another piece of equipment she didn’t know by name.

You muttered, “Sorry,” and scooted out of the way.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t realize you were the same person she’d sat with on the bench yesterday, shoulder to foam shoulder, sharing pieces of herself like secrets whispered into the night.

You watched her walk off, and something hollow settled in your chest.

It wasn’t her fault. Not really. You weren’t someone she was supposed to notice.

You weren’t a teammate. Or a coach. Or anyone with enough authority to be worth remembering.

You were just… staff.

One of dozens of faces tucked into the background of her world. The quiet girl behind the lens. The one who clipped post-match quotes and adjusted microphones and sent edited reels for approval before most people had even finished their breakfast.

You were the one who waited in tunnels for interviews to wrap, who carried backup batteries in your pockets and held Cat Culer’s oversized head in your lap during travel so it wouldn’t get crushed under gear bags.

You did your job. You blended in.

You shifted back behind the camera, hit record, and told yourself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Because you remembered every moment. Every soft glance. Every laugh.

Even if she didn’t know they’d ever been yours.

And every day, it got harder to pretend that being half-seen was enough.

But later that afternoon, suited up and pacing the tunnel outside the pitch, tail swaying in loose, idle arcs behind you, you felt her before you saw her.

It was always like that with Alexia.

A shift in the air. A weight in the silence. Like her presence had its own gravity, and you couldn’t help but be pulled toward it.

“Guess who’s early today?” came her voice from the tunnel entrance—low, teasing, touched with something lighter than you ever heard when she talked to media or press.

You turned, paws to your chest like who, me?

Alexia grinned, and you felt it hit you square in the ribs.

“I knew it,” she said, stepping closer, arms crossed over her chest in that relaxed, effortless way that made her look like she belonged to the moment. Not the captain. Not the face of a franchise. Just... a woman with tired eyes and a crooked smile.

Her tone with you was different here. Softer. Unpolished.

Not the rehearsed charisma she pulled out for interviews. Not the carefully edited warmth of someone used to being seen from behind a lens.

Just real.

She leaned her shoulder into the wall beside you like it was habit now—like finding you here was part of her routine. Like you were her routine.

“You’ve got good timing,” she said, tilting her head slightly toward the field. “Mapi and Patri are already out there arguing over who gets to play with you first. Pretty sure Patri has a full game plan. Tactics and everything.”

You let out an exaggerated shiver, paws flailing in mock fear, and Alexia laughed—really laughed.

And something in your chest cracked open just a little more.

“I swear,” she said through a breath, shaking her head, “you’ve got everyone wrapped around your paw.”

She paused.

Then added, offhand—but too easily:

“Even me.”

Your whole body went still.

Even me.

You knew it was just a phrase. A playful throwaway. Something she didn’t even think about.

But you felt it anyway. Like it had weight. Like it had meaning.

And worse—you wanted it to.

You lifted your plush thumb in a slow, shy thumbs-up, and she rolled her eyes in that familiar, fond way. But there was something behind it. A softness that didn’t exist anywhere else. Not with the press. Not with the fans.

Just here. Just with you.

She nudged your foam shoulder with hers—gentle, warm. Nothing anyone else would notice. But to you? It was enough to make your knees weak inside the suit.

And you hated how much you wanted to lean into it.

How much you wished you could stay in this stupid costume just to stay in her orbit a little longer.

Eventually, the rest of the players filtered onto the field in waves—half-laced boots, tangled ponytails, loose energy from a long day and not enough sleep. The air buzzed with lazy chaos.

You stepped out with them, tail bouncing, paws waving, and instantly Mapi was on you—trying to toss a training bib over your head, shouting “Get over here, ratón!” while you ducked and scrambled and flailed dramatically in slow-motion.

The girls were in stitches. Patri egged her on. Ingrid filmed the whole thing. Someone tossed you a cone like a weapon and you wielded it like a sword.

But through it all—every dance, every ridiculous skit, every exaggerated pratfall—you felt her watching.

Alexia.

Not hovering. Not orchestrating.

Just… present. Just there.

You heard her laugh when you tackled Mapi and held her down in victory. Heard her whistle when you attempted the latest TikTok dance and butchered it in the best way.

You didn’t have to look to know her eyes were on you. You could feel it.

And then the cameras arrived.

Lights. Lenses. Boom mics and branded windbreakers. They swarmed like a reminder that this was still a job, still a performance.

But when Alexia leaned in—quietly, casually, just loud enough for the crew to hear—it didn’t feel like performance at all.

“You’re the real star of this team, huh?” she whispered near your foam ear, voice low and laced with a grin.

You froze for half a second.

Then nodded.

What else could you do?

You were sweating inside the suit. Your heart was a thunderstorm.

But on the outside, you were calm. Cute. Carefree.

You were the mascot she liked.

Not the girl she didn’t see.

Later that night, long after the stadium had emptied and the echo of cleats had faded into memory, you sat curled up in the dim glow of the media office. The only sound was the quiet whir of the desktop fan and the occasional click of your mouse as you scrubbed through hours of footage.

Your hair was still damp from the world’s fastest shower, the scent of hotel soap clinging faintly to your oversized hoodie. Your knees were pulled tight to your chest in the rolling chair, ankles crossed, fingers moving on muscle memory. The kind of work you could do half-asleep.

But you weren’t asleep. Not even close.

You were too focused on the screen—on every frame where Cat Culer bounced through training, taunting teammates and soaking in the chaos. You zoomed in. Watched it again. Slowed it down.

Alexia, in the background.

Her eyes.

Tracking the mascot.

Not once. Not twice. Over and over.

Lingering in shots she didn’t need to be in. Smiling at moments no one else caught. Laughing, just slightly, even when the camera wasn’t on her.

You paused the clip.

Frame by frame, you scrolled to the moment her gaze landed right where yours would’ve been—if she’d only known who she was really looking at.

It wasn’t in your head.

It wasn’t.

She saw you.

Just not… you.

A quiet knock against the doorframe jolted you from your spiral.

“Yo,” came a familiar voice.

You blinked, turned, and found Mapi lounging casually in the doorway. She looked like she’d just finished a shower herself—hair damp, socks mismatched, water bottle tucked under one arm and a bag of off-brand chips in the other.

She gave you a once-over, like she was evaluating your life choices. “You’re always here. Don’t you ever sleep?”

You tugged your hoodie down over your knees, suddenly aware of how small you looked in the chair. “Deadlines,” you mumbled.

Mapi made a noncommittal sound and strolled in, dropping into the seat beside you without asking. She peered at the monitor. “You were on fire today. The kids are gonna eat this up when it goes live.”

You blinked. “You mean… Cat Culer?”

She raised an eyebrow, giving you a sideways glance like don’t play dumb.

“Obviously.”

You let out a soft laugh, but it didn’t sit right in your throat. There was something about the way she was looking at you now—curious, amused, but… sharper than before.

You felt your smile slip. “What?”

Mapi tilted her head, eyes narrowed slightly. “Nothing,” she said slowly. “Just... you and the gato. Same height. Same build. Same—how do I put this nicely—chaotic little limbs? I am suprised I didn’t realized it before or others… you are really good at hiding ”

Your heart tripped over itself.

She tapped a chip to her bottom lip thoughtfully. “You’re not, like... secretly training for Cirque du Soleil, are you?”

You shook your head too fast. “No. I mean—I just—”

Careful.

Mapi snorted. “Relax, I’m joking. Kind of.”

Your eyes darted back to the screen, needing somewhere to hide. Alexia’s face was frozen mid-laugh, body tilted toward the mascot, eyes soft in a way that made your throat go dry.

Mapi followed your gaze. Her voice dropped, just a little. “You know… she likes her.”

Your hands stilled on the keyboard. “Who?”

She gave you a look. “The gato.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “She likes the mascot?” you said, hoping that maybe answer of that question would make it sting less.

“Yeah,” Mapi said with a shrug. “More than she likes most people.”

She said it so easily. Like it was no big deal.

But it was.

Because it meant Alexia had made room in her heart for something that wasn’t you.

It meant the warmth wasn’t meant for your name, or your face, or the real version of yourself sitting here, half-curled in an office chair with tired eyes and raw nerves.

She liked the suit.

She liked the part of you you could never keep forever.

You stared at the screen again, at the still image of her laughter, frozen in time. So close. So far away.

“That's something,” Mapi had said.

It was.

And it wasn’t.

Because you knew how this story usually went.

You were the invisible girl. The one behind the mask.

The one who stayed after the lights went out, cleaning up the pieces of other people’s moments.

It was an off-day for media staff—no filming assignments, no urgent emails, no TikTok drafts or caption rewrites waiting in the queue. The team had a closed training session, no press allowed, just players and coaches and the hum of routine.

By all accounts, you should’ve stayed in bed. Slept in. Breathed.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you were there before most of the players, slinking in through the side entrance with your staff pass tucked inside your hoodie, like even that was too bold. You walked slowly, deliberately, as if convincing yourself that every step was justified. As if the weight of the camera slung across your shoulder was reason enough.

Maybe it was habit.

Maybe it was something lonelier than that.

Because staying home meant silence. Meant stillness. Meant your mind running laps around itself with nowhere to go—loops of what-ifs and what-are-you-even-doing and she-laughed-at-you-yesterday-but-was-it-real?

So you came here instead.

You didn’t suit up. The costume was still in the staff locker room, tucked into its usual oversized duffel bag like some sleeping beast. Today, you couldn’t bring yourself to put it on. Not yet. Not until you figured out why you needed it so badly.

Instead, you lingered at the edge of the pitch, hugging your hoodie tighter around yourself as you fiddled with the camera. Checking battery levels that didn’t need checking. Adjusting light exposure even though the sun hadn’t moved. You acted like you were preparing to shoot something, like you were gathering B-roll for a nonexistent project.

Truth was, you didn’t know what you were doing.

You just… couldn’t not be there.

The players began arriving in pairs and small clusters, loose and sleepy from the early hour, their voices carrying in bursts of Spanish and Catalan. Some waved. Some nodded. Most didn’t notice you at all. You blended in like always—part of the furniture. A blur behind the lens.

Then she walked in.

Alexia.

Even from across the field, she changed the air. It was subtle, but undeniable. Her stride was confident, loose hoodie tied around her waist, hair scraped back in that way that made her look effortlessly in control. People shifted as she passed. Some greeted her. Some didn’t dare. But all of them noticed.

You watched from your corner, not daring to lift your camera, not even pretending now.

You told yourself it was curiosity. Professional habit. A media reflex.

But really, it was gravity.

She had it. That quiet pull. That way of moving like she belonged to the space and the space belonged to her.

You told yourself not to stare. Not to expect anything.

Still, you searched her face from afar—looking for a trace of recognition, some hint of softness she only ever gave the mascot.

But her expression was unreadable. Focused. Her eyes scanned the field, the layout, the drills—not you.

She never looked in your direction. Not once.

And that should’ve been okay.

You weren’t her teammate. You weren’t her friend. You weren’t anyone.

But the silence where her smile used to be?

It echoed.

You adjusted the lens on your camera—though it didn’t need adjusting—just to give your hands something to do. Just to remind yourself you were real. Even if she didn’t see it.

Especially because she didn’t see it.

And maybe it would’ve been easier if she had never laughed with you.

Never leaned into your shoulder.

Never whispered, “Even me.”

But she had.

And now every glance that didn’t come your way hurt more than it should.

Because she saw the suit.

Not you.

Not yet.

Maybe then it wouldn’t have mattered that she didn’t look at you today.

But she had. And it did.

You busied yourself filming Mapi and Ingrid warming up—banter, light jabs, the usual chaos. It was easier to focus through the lens. The viewfinder gave you distance, let you pretend. Through it, everything had edges. Framing. Control.

You could hide behind autofocus and ISO settings and pretend the gnawing in your chest wasn’t real.

Mapi was spinning a ball on her finger while Ingrid shouted something half-sarcastic in Norwegian when you caught movement from the corner of your eye.

Mapi jogged over.

You dropped the camera slightly, instinctively straightening up like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

She squinted at you under the morning sun, sweat dampening the edge of her hairline. Her tone was quieter than usual. Gentler. “You good?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… needed some extra footage. B-roll. Might use it for the mini-doc.”

Mapi didn’t buy it.

Didn’t even pretend to. She crossed her arms, hip cocked slightly. “You’re filming warmups on a closed training day. You didn’t even tell Carla you were coming in.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just wanted to be useful.”

Mapi gave you a long look. The kind that peeled back your layers even when you weren’t ready. She tilted her head slightly, lowering her voice. “You know you don’t have to put on the suit every time you want to be seen.”

That hit harder than you expected.

You let out a half-laugh—dry, automatic. “I’m not trying to be seen.”

She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Then why do you look like someone kicked your dog?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You blinked too fast and looked back down at your camera, adjusting your grip like that was the problem. Like if you just focused hard enough, everything else might fade.

Mapi didn’t press. But she stayed close, silent for a beat longer than usual. Then, without warning, she gently bumped her elbow into yours.

“For what it’s worth…” she murmured, “I think she’s starting to notice.”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

Mapi didn’t look at you. She tilted her chin toward the field instead, voice low, unreadable. “Look.”

Your eyes followed the motion.

There, just past the midfield line, stood Alexia. Hands on her hips. Posture loose but alert. Her gaze drifted across the field—casual, scanning—but when it passed over you… it paused.

She looked once.

Then again.

Slower this time.

Like she was trying to place something. Like she didn’t quite understand why she was looking at you at all—but couldn’t help it.

Your pulse stuttered.

Mapi didn’t say anything, but you felt her watching you carefully. Not with judgment—just that quiet, unnerving perceptiveness she slipped into when she thought people were hurting.

“She doesn’t know it’s you,” Mapi said finally, voice low. “But something in her does. You’re not as invisible as you think.”

You swallowed hard.

Didn’t answer.

Because if you did, you weren’t sure what would come out.

Later that afternoon, you suited up.

You told yourself it was for content. Just a few silly videos to keep engagement up. Something harmless for the socials—Cat Culer doing crossbars or mimicking warmups or being chased by Mapi again.

But deep down, you knew.

You did it because you missed the way Alexia looked at you when she thought you were someone else.

Because the ache of being ignored that morning hadn’t gone away. And this? This was the only version of yourself she saw.

The moment your paws hit the edge of the pitch, the atmosphere shifted.

Patri lit up and waved like you were a long-lost sibling. Ingrid shouted something loud and impossible to decipher, but her grin said enough. Mapi didn’t even hide her smirk—just threw you a lazy salute and mouthed, “Showtime.”

And then there was Alexia.

She turned as if pulled by instinct. As if she’d felt you before she even saw you.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t wide or showy—barely even noticeable if you weren’t looking. But you were always looking.

It was a smile that reached the corners of her eyes. That softened her whole face. That made your stomach twist.

She walked over like she always did now, no hesitation, no curiosity. Like you were already part of her routine.

“You’re late,” she said, arms crossed, eyes bright with quiet amusement. “We had a whole debate earlier. Mapi swears you dance better than half the team. I told her she’s dramatic. Don’t make me look bad.”

You covered your face with your paws and gave a sheepish head shake—me? never.

Alexia snorted. “Coward.”

So you gave her a tiny shimmy. Just enough to get a laugh. Foam hips swaying in exaggerated rhythm.

It worked.

Her laugh was instant—unfiltered and real—and it tore something open inside you.

Because it wasn’t a laugh she gave to the cameras. Or to reporters. It was the kind she gave when she forgot to guard herself. The kind you’d never heard outside the suit.

You couldn’t help it. You leaned into her, just slightly.

She bumped her shoulder against your padded one without missing a beat. The same way she always did. It felt like a secret ritual now. A quiet way of saying you’re here.

Then—quietly—“You’ve been weird lately.”

You stilled.

Her tone wasn’t suspicious, exactly. Just… observant.

“Not bad weird,” she added quickly, glancing toward the field. “Just different. Like you’re… distracted.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held your stupid foam paws in front of you and tried not to panic.

“Don’t know what it is,” she said, quieter now, almost to herself. “Just feels like something’s shifted.”

Your breath caught.

She was noticing. Maybe not enough to connect the dots. But enough to feel it. Enough to sense that something wasn’t adding up.

You raised one paw and tapped your chest, then pointed at her—You know me, the motion said, you already do.

Alexia looked at you, really looked. Her eyes lingered like they were searching for a crack in the surface. A tell. Something to anchor what she was feeling.

She gave you a crooked smile. The kind that felt too intimate. Too knowing.

“Yeah. Maybe I do.”

Your heart stuttered.

Because maybe she did.

And maybe she didn’t.

But whatever this was—it was slipping past the boundaries you’d built. She was reaching into something you weren’t sure you could keep hidden much longer.

And the longer you wore the mask, the more it started to feel like it was the real you.

Or worse—like it was the only version she wanted.

That night, long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and most of the players had filtered out with echoes of laughter and slamming lockers, you stayed behind.

You told yourself it was to finish uploading footage, to organize the next day’s social queue, to label files and adjust sound levels.

But really—you were hiding.

Your back ached from hours of crouching. Your hands still trembled, your whole body buzzing from the heat and adrenaline that clung even after the mascot head came off.

It sat on the desk now—Cat Culer. Big foam smile. Empty eyes. Watching you.

Mocking you.

You stared back at it like it had betrayed you.

Because in a way, it had.

She’d fallen for someone who wasn’t real. Not entirely. Not fully. And the terrifying part wasn’t that she might find out.

It was that maybe she never would.

The door creaked open.

You froze.

Footsteps. Light. Familiar.

Then a voice—casual, distracted. “Sorry—forgot my charger.”

Your stomach dropped.

You turned just as Alexia stepped into the room.

She paused instantly.

Eyes on the suit first—still clinging to your body, tail and torso intact—then slowly lifting to the mascot head on the table. And finally… your face.

Your real face.

Exposed.

Still flushed. Still damp from the heat.

The room shifted. The silence tightened.

Her brows pulled together, confusion flickering behind her eyes. She opened her mouth like she might say something—then stopped.

Her expression flattened. Neutral. Guarded.

“I, uh…” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the locker behind you, though she didn’t move to grab anything. “I didn’t know you were…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t have to.

The air between you was full of everything she didn’t say.

You wanted to speak. To explain. To apologize. To do something rather than nothing. But nothing made it past your lips.

She lingered there for one breath. Then another.

And finally, her voice low and distant, she said, “I gotta go.”

She turned before you could answer. Before you could stop her.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And just like that, the silence returned.

The only sound left was your own breath, shallow and uneven, echoing back at you through the empty grin of the mascot head beside you.

she's not wroooong 😂 also ✨LESBIANS✨

LMAO Christen 😂

A/N: Secret relationship fic requested by a lovely anon. This fic is inspired by Notting Hill, one of my favorite movies. The beginning is pretty similar to the movie, but later on I pretty much make it my own. Keep in mind that Alexia is like 200x more famous in this fic. Hope you enjoy!

Just a Girl (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

Of course, you’ve seen her play and have always thought she was, well, incredible — but despite living in the same city, she’s a million miles from the small world you live in.

Carrer de la Riera Baixa is home to secondhand stores passed down from generation to generation, independent record stores with selections long forgotten, and a bar only sought out by those with something to forget. Tucked in between is your bookstore. Unlike the other stores, there is no storefront or windows to peak through. The only clue of what is sold is engraved on a plate, nailed to the door.

Llibres Rars FOR THOSE WHO SEEK THE PAST

Riera Baixa is gritty but honest, and most importantly, all you have ever known. From your apartment building, it takes exactly 80 steps to reach the shop. It’s a path you can take with your eyes closed if necessary.

And from this path you have not strayed.

Even when your girlfriend of five years asked you to take a detour and build a life together in a new city. The words ‘new’ and ‘different’ sparked feelings in you that greatly contrasted her own. Whereas she felt excitement, you felt fear. All you’ve ever known is Riera Baixa and all you’ve ever looked forward to are those 80 steps. You tried to explain this to her but your words were simply not enough. So, she packed her bags and sought out a new adventure. The morning after she left, you walked those 80 steps again, but it felt like you were walking for miles.

The pain of her leaving subsided with time, but she left a void in your heart you thought would be impossible for anything or anyone to ever fill — or so you thought.

On Saturdays something special happens on Riera Baixa street. The metal doors slide open and the stores spill out onto the streets for residents and tourists alike. The strum of an acoustic guitar fills the air, a beautiful melody mixed with the sound of excited chatter and intense bargains taking place.

Inside the bookshop, you’re hunched over the front desk, staring at numbers on a page that bring you no satisfaction. Your sole employee and close friend, Anna, stands by your side, her hand resting on your shoulder.

“A major sales push and all we have to show for it is 233 euros in profits,” you look at Anna, your voice, defeated.

“I think you need some coffee. You know, to ease the pain a little.”

You let out a deep sigh, “make it a café con leche and a chocolate croissant, please.”

With one small, comforting squeeze on your shoulder, Anna walks out of the bookshop in search of the only thing that can bring you a little bit of happiness.

You remain focused on the page, hoping that if you stare at it long enough the numbers will transform. The bookshop has never been the most profitable business on Riera Baixa street, seemingly always hanging by a thin thread— a very thin thread. And yet, it has remained a staple of the market, making just enough to survive year after year.

The little bell attached to the door rings out in the quiet, taking you out of your thoughts. You glance up casually, expecting to see just another customer with an unfamiliar face.

It’s like the air is sucked out of the room.

Despite the black cap and sunglasses, there’s no mistaking her. No matter where you are in the city, you see her. Her face is plastered on every newspaper, her name a constant sound on the radio, the city walls decorated with murals of her.

It’s Alexia Putellas, the greatest football player in the world, the pride and joy of Barcelona — here — in your store. She is the inspiration of many and the example of hard work and dedication. But also, the most heavenly, generous, beautiful woman on earth.

“Need some help?” you ask, the words almost getting stuck in your throat.

Alexia glances up from the book held gingerly in her hands, “No, thank you. Just looking around.”

“Ok.”

You feign interest in the scattered pieces of paper on the desk, flipping through the pages with no purpose.

From the corner of your eye, you can see Alexia wander from shelf to shelf, fingertips brushing against the spine of the books that intrigue her. Something does indeed catch her eye because she stops and picks out a book from the shelf. It’s a book you instantly recognize, even from a distance.

“Good choice, but uh, just a little bit depressing” you dare to say, hoping she won’t mind the interruption too much.

Alexia makes no effort to look in your direction, her attention on the cover of the book. “What’s it about?” she asks.

“Oh — well, long story short, all the main character knows is tragedy so to protect herself, she doesn’t let anyone get close. She thinks she’ll just inevitably lose them.”

“I see.” Alexia appears to give the novel some more thought but, in the end, decides to heed your warning and returns the book to its proper place.

Alexia continues her search — for what, you do not know. But whatever it is, you want to help her find it.

Eventually she plucks out another book, but this time doesn’t bother to look at the cover. Instead, she brings it up to your view, “and this one?”

“That one has too many men with insufferable egos.”

Alexia hides her smile behind the book, “not my thing,” she says, and puts it right back.

You lose sight of her when she wanders to the back of the shop, daring to explore the mess of books stacked up from floor to ceiling. Very rarely do customers visit that section and that only makes her far more intriguing.

After a few minutes, Alexia returns to the front of the shop with a book held delicately in her hands. “I think I found the one,” she says, resting the book on the desk.

Taking a peek at the cover, a smile tugs on your lips. “It’s one of my favorites, actually.”

Alexia tilts her head slightly to the side, removing her sunglasses and finally allowing you to see her eyes.

You wonder if she can tell your heart skipped a beat or two.

“If it’s your favorite, why do you have it all the way in the back?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” you pause for a moment to think, “I guess some novels are best stumbled upon y’know… found at just the right moment by the right person.”

“Am I the right person?”

“Definitely.”

Alexia looks at you with a slight smile and just like that, whatever worries you had before she walked in are no more. When you complete the transaction and hand her the bag, her fingers brush against your own for a brief, but electrifying second.

“Have a good day,” she says, bringing up the sunglasses to cover her eyes once again, much to your disappointment.

“Yeah… you too,” is all you can say, but the voice in your head is begging for her to stay.

Alexia opens the door to leave but hesitates, “I didn’t catch your name,” she says.

“Oh, it’s Y/N,” you manage to say, for a brief second forgetting your own name.

Alexia silently mouths your name and offers you a smile that warms your entire body. With that, she steps out onto the street and disappears from your view.

Once again, a quiet takes over the shop. You’re left in a daze, having to pinch yourself to prove that it was all real— that she was real.

Anna returns just a few minutes later with two cups in her hand and a flustered look on her face. “Café con leche as ordered,” she says, shuffling the papers out of the way and resting the hot, steaming cup of coffee on the front desk.

“You won’t believe who was just here,” you say, still in a state of disbelief.

“Alexia Putellas?”

You take a step back, shocked that she was able to guess so quickly. “Yes! Wait, did you see her when she walked out?”

Anna appears to be just as surprised as you, “hold on, I was right? That was a total guess, oh my god!” she exclaims, looking back at the door, hoping Alexia would just walk right back in. “But no, I saw her on the front page of a newspaper when I was at the pastry shop. That’s why she was my first guess.”

“It was a damn good guess.” You reach for the cup but go still when you realize something is missing, “no chocolate croissants today?”

“Oh shit!” she taps her forehead with her palm, “the new girl, Emma, was flirting with me again, and well, you know how I get,” she says, her cheeks red with a blush.

You let out a little snort, shaking your head. “Perfectly reasonable explanation,” you say, “I’ll go get it. I think some fresh air will do me good.”

Just as you’re about to step out onto the street, Anna calls out to you. “Wait! You mind getting me an orange juice? I meant to get one but-“

You give her a knowing look, “you looked into Emma’s beautiful eyes and forgot?”

“Yep!”

It’s usually a short walk to the pastry shop, but on Saturdays it takes a little longer with the crowd that gathers in search of antiques and other goods.

Emma smiles when you walk in and asks you about Anna to which you reply, “back at the shop, a flustered mess.”

While Emma works on your order, you can’t help but glance at the newspapers on display. Alexia’s face is on the cover of about half of them, and the headlines all attack her in one way or the other.

Alexia Putellas A Shell of Her Former Self, reads one of the headlines.

Another cover has Alexia crying on the pitch, her hands over her face and with the headline, Will Putellas Miss Again?

Ever since Alexia missed a penalty in last years Champions League final penalty shootout, the press have developed an obsession for attacking her. Only a few months prior to the final they were singing her praises, but as it turns out, highlighting her misfortunes brings in a whole lot more money and attention.

With a cup of orange juice, chocolate croissant, and some napkins in your hands, you swing out of the pastry shop with very little care. You’re about to turn a corner when you bump into-

“Alexia!” a rising panic in your voice.

“Shh!” she looks around to see if anybody heard, orange juice dripping from her shirt down onto the street.

“I’m so sorry! Here, let me help.” Without much of a thought, you attempt to pat dry her shirt but get a little too near to her breasts for someone Alexia just met.

“What are you doing?!”

You jump back, flustered, and so utterly embarrassed. “Sorry… again. Um, listen I live just right over there, please, you could get cleaned up and be good to go. I’d hate to ruin your day,” you pause, letting out an awkward chuckle, “If I haven’t already.”

The sunglasses shield her eyes, but you don’t need to see them to tell she’s annoyed. “Fine. But what do you mean, just right over there?”

You point in the direction of your apartment, “literally right over there, it's the one with the red curtains.”

Alexia looks down at her shirt, soaked and stained with orange juice. With a sigh, she nods and accepts your offer. __

Your apartment is an extension of the bookstore. Books everywhere and on everything; some closed, and some left open to your favorite passages.

“Something tells me you like to read,” she says, a hint of teasing in her words.

You give her a nervous smile, “just a little.”

Alexia takes off her sunglasses and places them on the nearest table alongside her bags. “It’s a good thing I decided to buy this top after all,” she says, taking out a black crop top, “Bathroom?”

“Right over there,” you reply, pointing to the bathroom door at the end of the hallway.

With Alexia out of sight, you take in a deep breath in hopes it will calm your nerves but it’s hard to ignore the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Saturdays are usually pretty eventful, but this is something else entirely. It’s not the fact that’s she’s incredibly famous that has you feeling like this. While it’s true that there’s no lack of beautiful women in Barcelona, none have ever made your heart explode in your chest and your soul stand still in awe with just one look.

Alexia steps out of the bathroom and there goes your heart again, picking up its pace. The top rides up her stomach just enough for you to see the carved rigids of her abs, and tight enough for you tell she’s not wearing a bra.

It’s so incredibly obvious that you’re staring, but the sparkle in her eyes hints that she doesn’t mind.

“Cup of coffee before you go?” you ask, forcing yourself to maintain eye-contact.

“No, thank you.”

“Tea?”

Alexia tugs on her bottom lip for a moment then shakes her head, “no.”

“How about a croissant? Best in all of Barcelona.”

Her lips twitch in an effort to fight her smile, “really, no.”

“Will I always get a no from you?”

There’s a pause.

“No,” she says and gives you a look that means something, but you just don’t know what.

“I should go,” she says, “I want to say thank you for all your help, but you are the one that spilled orange juice all over me so…”

You look down at your feet, trying to muster up a little bit of courage, “Before you go… I realize I might never get another chance to tell you this, considering I’ve done nothing but make a fool of myself today but,” you meet her eyes, “you’ll forget all about me the second you step out of that door, but… I fear you’ll never leave my mind.”

She smiles, and you realize that’s all you’ll get in return.

“Right, well…,” you guide her towards the front door, “it was nice to meet you, Alexia.”

With a nod, she steps out of the apartment and you close the door behind her. Leaning against it, you tap your forehead again, and again on the door in embarrassment. “That literally couldn’t have gone worse,” you say with a heavy sigh.

You turn away from the door but suddenly, you hear a knock. You expect it to be Anna, tracking you down since you never made it back to the shop. But when you open the door, you see Alexia.

“Hi,” she says, “Sorry, I forgot my bags.”

You look back and see her bags still on the table where she left them, “oh, right. I’ll get them for you.”

When you return to the door with her bags in your hand, you notice Alexia has taken two steps inside the apartment. You go to hand her the bags but surprisingly, she doesn’t make a move a muscle to take them from you.

You’re confused, but in her eyes, you only see certainty.

That’s when she kisses you, without any warning but without haste, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her. It’s a gentle kiss, without passion but with a tenderness that has you feeling like you’re floating in the clouds.

Alexia pulls away and it takes a few seconds for you to open your eyes. You have so many questions, but it seems you’ve lost the ability to speak. In silence, Alexia reaches for the bags still in your hands and with one last look, walks out once again.

This time, however, she leaves you with a little hope in your heart that one day, maybe she’ll return.

___________________

“So let me get this straight,” Anna says, pacing back and forth on the balcony of your apartment, “five-time Balon D’or winner, Alexia Putellas, kissed you?”

“That is correct.” You don’t blame Anna for having trouble believing your encounter with Alexia. Hell, it’s hard for you to believe and you lived it.

“And she just walked out? Didn’t say anything, just kissed you and went on her merry way?”

That part of it all was also difficult for you to wrap your head around. “Kissed me and walked right out,” you reply, looking down at everyone going about their lives on Riera Baixa street, “I swear I’ve never been so confused in my life.”

Anna plops down on the chair next to you and lifts her legs up to rest on the railing, “No wonder you were acting so weird when you got back to the shop. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t pass out — God knows I would have.”

“Well, I stood there like an idiot for like fifteen minutes after she left so… close enough.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, just trying to make sense out of something that makes absolutely no sense at all. The memory of the kiss is permanently engraved in your memory. No matter what you do to try and distract yourself from it, it’s impossible to not relive it in your mind.

“So what are you gonna do now?” Anna finally asks.

All you can do is shrug, “what can I do?” You’ve been asking yourself that very same question and have yet to come up with an answer. “She’s famous, Annie, it’s not like I can track her down or something. Let’s say I do somehow manage to get in contact with her, would she even want to talk to me? I mean, yes, she did kiss me but she also just walked out and left me standing there. I honestly don’t kno—”

“Oh my god!” Anna jumps out of the chair with her phone in her hands.

Her sudden outburst startles you, “what!?”

Anna starts gesturing wildly at the phone, “Alexia just followed the bookshop on Instagram!”

You jump out of your chair, just like Anna, and take the phone from her hands.

Alexia Putellas has followed you

“This is huge,” Anna says, peering over your shoulder at the screen, “not only for your love life but for the store too.”

Business is the last thing on your mind. The realization that Alexia hasn’t forgotten all about you has your head spinning, so much so that you need to sit back down. You’re staring at the notification with your heart ready to explode out of your chest, but then you get another one and this time, it’s a message.

Alexia: sorry couldn’t find you by your name 🙄 Alexia: it’s a little late notice but we have a game tomorrow. Can you make it? Alexia: I want to see you again

Each message sends you further into a state of panic, your hands trembling. All of the sudden everything feels really real. Your kiss with Alexia felt so surreal that you could almost trick yourself into believing it was all a figment of your imagination. But now, reality has smacked you right across the face and you’re terrified.

“You ok? You’re white as a ghost,” Anna says, reaching for your trembling hands.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you say to her, feeling a pressure in your chest, “she’s Alexia Putellas, Anna. She’s all people talk about in this city and everyone wants to know everything about her. Remember her last relationship?”

Anna nods, a slight grimace on her face. “Yeah, the press wouldn’t leave them alone. I’ll admit, it was all a little extreme.”

Just the idea of being followed around everywhere you go by strangers with flashing cameras has you paralyzed with fear. You’re a creature of habit, finding comfort in routine and happiness in an ordinary life. Alexia’s life is anything but ordinary and you fear you’ll sink rather than float in her presence.

“I can’t do this,” you say, giving the phone back to Anna and running your fingers through your hair feeling overwhelmed. “We’re from two different worlds.”

Anna knows you better than anyone else and was there by your side, helping you pick up the broken pieces of your heart. Like you, she lives in her own little world on Riera Baixa street and has never desired a change of scenery or change of pace.

“Are you going to reply?” Anna asks you, softly.

You take a shuddering breath, your eyes starting to tear up. “It’s better that I don’t. Besides, she’ll forget all about me soon enough,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh, wiping away the single tear running down your cheek.

Anna gives your hand a little squeeze. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” she says, but knows better than to push the subject.

___________________

It’s the end of yet another slow day at the bookstore which only makes it all that more difficult to keep your mind off Alexia. Anytime the bell rings announcing a new customer your heart drops at the small possibility of it being her. But it’s never her and as much as you hate to admit it, you feel disappointed each time.

The bell rings and you look up to find a man with a rather bored look on his face.

“Welcome,” you greet him, “can I help you?”

The man stops a few feet away from you and looks around slowly, “do you have any travel books?”

“Uh,” you look around the store, the answer very clear to you, “no, sorry, we only sell novels.”

The man doesn’t seem satisfied by your answer. “Rick Stevens?”

You try to recall the name of the author, but nothing comes to mind. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with his work. Do you know the name of the novel?”

“Best of Europe Guidebook.”

Fighting the urge to scream, you give the man a tight smile. “That’s a travel book. We only sell novels, sir.”

“What about Fodor’s Essential Europe?”

You take a glance at the clock and breathe a sigh of relief when you see its almost closing time. “Nope, don’t have that either,” you say, stepping away from the counter and towards the door, “unfortunately it’s time for us to close. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you find what you need.”

The man takes an unbearably long time to walk out of the door and you try to hide your eagerness when you close the door behind him.

“Why is Anna never here to deal with the weird customers,” you mumble to yourself.

Shrugging off the annoyance, you start to pack up your belongings to head on home.

But once again, the bell rings and that same annoyance starts to creep up again, “We don’t sell travel books,” you say without even bothering to turn back and see who walked in.

“That’s good to know,” says a very familiar voice.

Your body goes still, a chill running down your spine. It’s the very same voice that’s been haunting your dreams for days. With your eyes closed, you take one deep breath before turning around and finally facing her.

“Alexia.”

Same as the first time she walked in, a black cap and sunglasses conceal her identity. When she takes off her sunglasses, a part of you wishes she would have kept them on. Her eyes pierce through you, making you feel weak in the knees.

“You left me on read,” Alexia says, taking a step closer to you.

“I did,” you say, taking a step back.

“Why?” She says, now a little bit closer.

You go to take another step but feel your back against the bookshelf. “I just don’t belong in your world, that’s all.” You want to be firm with your words, but your voice falters.

Now within arm’s reach, Alexia shakes her head. “You don’t know my world,” she says.

When you don’t answer, she closes the little bit of distance remaining between your two bodies. Your skin ignites when she brushes a finger along your cheek, your eyes flutter as you instinctively lean into her touch.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” her voice is quiet, almost a whisper against your ear. Alexia slides her hands down to your hips, her grip firm but gentle: making it clear she has no intention of letting you go.

Your pulse beats loudly in your ears, her scent invading your lungs and clouding your mind. Nothing good can came of this, you know it, and yet you’re incapable of pushing her away. Your eyes flick down to her lips, just for a quick second, but it’s all the confirmation Alexia needs.

She bows her head down warily, watching your reaction, almost as she’s scared you’re going to run away any second. She tests you by brushing her lips against yours, a jolt of electricity running between you. Her tongue runs across your bottom lip and you can’t take it anymore.

“Kiss me.”

And Alexia doesn’t hesitate. The kiss starts slow — deep but hesitant. Your hands trembling lightly as you reach up to cup her cheeks. Eventually, the whole world disappears and all you’re left with is the feeling of her lips.

___________________

You give in to temptation and agree to keep seeing Alexia in secret. After every game, she finds her way to your apartment, sneaking away from the press that wait for her outside of Camp Nou. The only one who knows of your relationship is Anna and you’ve sworn her to secrecy.

It turns out that what exists between the two of you is far deeper than just a physical attraction. More than just lust. There is a certain kind of comfort and peace you feel when she holds you in her arms. You’re certain Alexia feels the same way as you see the way her shoulders relax when she steps inside your apartment, and the sadness in her eyes when she has to sneak away in the morning.

You’ve also picked up on the ease with which Alexia has settled into your apartment. Her favorite Barça sweatshirt has found a home in the top left drawer of your dresser. Her toothbrush now keeps yours company in the bathroom. And every morning, without fail, she asks you to stop by the pastry shop for a coffee and chocolate croissants that, according to Alexia, are indeed the best in all of Barcelona.

Having been given a few days off to rest, you have the rare privilege of spending all day together. So, of course, the two of you decide to waste an entire day in bed.

There’s a full-length mirror in the corner of your bedroom. In its reflection, you see two bodies tangled up in messy white sheets, legs intertwined, Alexia’s fingers lightly grazing against your bare back. Goosebumps form on your skin and you don’t know if it’s from her touch or the cool breeze that’s coming through the balcony sliding door.

You turn around to face Alexia. Her hair is tousled; a small smile on her face, thoughts hidden behind her eyes.

“Everything ok?” you ask softly, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

Alexia supports her head with her hand, looking at you with tenderness. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time,” she says, “I haven’t felt like myself in a long time.”

Little by little, Alexia has clued you in on her life as a professional athlete and all the pros and cons that come with it. At first it was a dream come true to be recognized as the best, but through the years, that title has become more of a burden than anything else.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

The media demands Alexia to secure the Champions League trophy in order to be deemed worthy of yet another Ballon D’or. They demand a player who can show up in important games: a player who can make that crucial penalty in a final. All her previous accomplishments be damned. All they remember is that penalty.

“You know I forgot my bags on purpose,” she says, tugging on the sheets draped over your body.

“What do you mean?”

Alexia let’s out a little chuckle at the memory that’s replying in her mind, “the day we first met” she says, “remember, you were rambling about how you would never forget me...”

You tug the sheets up to hide your face, a warmth on your cheeks.

“I thought it was so cute,” she says, sneaking her hand underneath the sheets to rest on your stomach, “I knew I had to get the bags before leaving but I decided to leave them behind.”

You peer out from under the sheets, “how come?”

“I wanted an excuse to come back and see you. I thought I’d let a few days go by but I don’t know, I wanted to kiss you so bad and just I couldn’t wait.”

Her confession comes to a surprise as you have always believed you made a complete, total fool of yourself that day.

“Hm, well I do have that effect on people,” you tease.

Alexia rolls her eyes and throws the sheet over the two of you. Underneath the covers, you share lingering kisses, giggles, and promises of forever.

___________________

You watched it happen live from the bookstore.

The game was tied and there was no sign of either team conceding a goal in the final minutes. But with only three minutes left in the game, Aitana was fouled inside the box and the referee immediately blew her whistle.

Penalty.

You were certain Alexia would be the one to take it and for that reason, you were on edge. Despite putting on a great performance all game, if Alexia missed the penalty, that’s all people would talk about. You knew that and most importantly, so did Alexia.

Everyone at the stadium, including you all the way at the bookstore, held their breath. You watched Alexia very carefully as she stood there, staring down the goalkeeper. What you saw sparked in you concern. There was an undeniable confidence in her posture, but in her eyes, you noticed something else entirely.

Your hands covered your face, but through the gaps, you watched the ball fly up and over the crossbar.

Alexia missed the penalty and the first leg of the champions league semifinal ended in a draw. While not the worst result, you had no doubt the media would attack her mercilessly for failing to secure the win.

Which is why you’re waiting for her at the bookshop, like you always do after a game— no matter the result. Right now, your number one priority is being there for her and to silence all the negative thoughts that are undoubtedly running through her mind.

Every tick of the clock feels like an eternity but the door does eventually open. The second Alexia’s eyes lock on you, her lips start to quiver. “I missed,” she manages to say before covering her mouth with her hands, shoulders shaking as she fights the sobs building in her chest.

You run and take her in your arms. “Oh, baby…” you say, tears welling up in your own eyes.

Alexia hugs you so fiercely, as if afraid you’ll disappear. All the disappointment, frustration, and pain rush out of her as she sobs in your arms. All you can do is stroke her back, whisper words of affection in her ear, and simply hold her in hopes that will be enough to ease a little of her pain.

But it’s hard to fight the pain when it shows up at the front door.

Strangers with flashing cameras overwhelm the entrance of the bookshop, shouting and begging for a glimpse of Alexia.

Hearing the disturbance outside, Alexia looks up from your shoulder with tear-stained cheeks. “Mierda,” she mumbles, “I rushed to get here and they must have followed me.”

Fear begins to creep on you but you try your best to hide it from her. This is exactly what you feared: your world being invaded by the press. Now that they know you and Alexia have some sort of connection, they won’t stop until they get to the bottom of it. In just one night, your little world is not so little anymore.

“It’s ok,” you assure her, running your fingers through her hair. “But we can’t stay here all night. When you’re ready, we’ll walk out and make a run for the apartment.”

Alexia, not wanting to face the press in her current state, takes a few minutes to gather her composure. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and takes a few good, deep breaths. It’s a ritual you imagine she’s had to do on more than one occasion, and it makes you hate those who are waiting outside with even more of a passion.

Hand in hand, you share one last look before walking out of the bookshop.

Nothing could have prepared you for this. All at once they all scream their questions at you and Alexia, forcing their cameras and microphones directly in front of your faces. They take no mercy despite your obvious fear and discomfort. The only one who notices is Alexia, who tightens her grip on your hand and forces her way through the crowd of reporters.

“Alexia is this your girlfriend!?” asks one of the reporters, following closely.

You put your head down, trying your best to hide your face from the cameras. Your silence does nothing to deter their never-ending onslaught of questions. All their voices mix into one, but your ears manage to catch some of the questions thrown at Alexia, and each one makes you rage more than the last.

“Do you deserve to win the Balon D’or!?”

“Why are you still taking the penalties!?”

“Alexia, how does it feel to let the team down again!?”

Little by little, the two of you manage to navigate through the crowded Riera Baixa street and make it to the front door of your apartment building. With a hand on your back, Alexia helps you get inside first as the reporters grow more and more aggressive. With force, Alexia closes the door behind her.

You can still hear their muffled voices coming from outside, but with the reporters now out of sight, you allow yourself to let out a sigh of relief. Feeling overwhelmed, you lean your back against the wall and slide down to the floor. Alexia kneels next to you and wraps her arms around you. It seems like it’s now her turn to comfort you.

“I’m so sorry, mi amor,” she whispers, softly kissing your temple, “it won’t always be like this, I promise.” Alexia tries her best to comfort you with her words, but you fear nothing will relieve the pressure you feel in your chest.

By some miracle, Alexia manages to fall asleep despite everything that happened, but you suspect it might have something to do with playing a full 90 minutes of intense professional football. You on the other hand, are still awake. The thoughts running through your mind make it difficult for you to find rest. That, and all the reporters still camped outside your front door. Some have given up and left, but others seem to be more persistent.

Glancing at Alexia, you feel a tug in your heart. The time you have spent together has been nothing but magical. Her presence in your life has reintroduced love and hope to a heart that feared it would never feel those things again. But, despite making you the happiest you’ve been in a very, very long time, you fear she might have also introduced you to something you never sought to experience.

Fame.

___________________

You haven’t been able to step a foot inside the bookshop in days. Every time you dare to step out of your apartment, reporters jump out of their hiding spots and hound you with questions about Alexia, and about your relationship with her.

Even though you have not spoken a single word to them, the press somehow managed to find out everything about you. Alexia has warned you not to go on social media for a little while, at least until everything calms down a little. You should have listened to her because it would have saved you a lot of stress and discomfort.

There are hundreds of articles written about you, diving deep into your personal and professional life. Some are even dedicated to comparing you to all of Alexia’s ex-girlfriends to see where you rank next to them. The article that affected you the most was the one that exposed your long-term relationship with your ex, and questioned if you ended it in pursuit of Alexia and her fame.

So many lies written about you and you feel powerless to them all.

You’re at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket with a newspaper in your hands when Alexia walks in. Interested in what you’re reading, she makes her way to you and sighs when she reads the headline.

All You Need to Know about Alexia Putellas’s New Love

“I told you to not read these things,” she says, taking the newspaper from your hands and throwing it to the side.

You don’t put up much of a fight since you already read the article a hundred times. “I know, baby, but I can’t help it,” you argue, “one day nobody knows my name and the next they know everything about me.”

Alexia sits down at the seat next to you and reaches for your hand, “I understand, mi amor” she says, her thumb caressing your knuckles. “But I promise things will get better. They’ll get bored eventually and move on to the next thing. We just need to give it a little time.”

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you have to suppress the little bit of frustration you feel at her words. You want to go outside and point at all the reporters still there and ask her if things will truly, ever get better. But you don’t. You don’t because you know Alexia is not to blamed for any of this as she is just as much of a victim as you are.

“How was training,” you ask, trying to shift your focus to literally anything else.

Alexia lets go of your hand and runs her fingers through her hair in frustration. “Horrendous,” she says.

After her penalty miss, Alexia has been all over the place. She has no trouble falling asleep but has struggled to sleep through the night. You’ve lost count of how many times she wakes up through the night, gasping for air, her hand on her beating heart.

Every night in her dreams, Alexia steps up to take an important penalty and she misses. Every time.

“Jona tells me I’m playing with too many voices in my head,” she says, “that I should stop listening to what the media is saying about me and just play my game.”

“Kind of like how you tell me to stop reading these articles,” you counter, glancing at the newspaper Alexia threw to the side, “but we both know it’s easier said than done.”

Realizing that the both of you needed to take some time and relax, you asked Alexia to join you for a bath and she agreed without much convincing needed. When all the voices get too loud and the words printed on the pages hurt a little too much, the two of you find in each other arms a peace and quiet you so desperately need.

In the bathtub, Alexia is lying back, using your chest as a pillow. Lulled by the warmth of the water and the comfort of each other’s bodies, neither of you have said much.

“One day it will be just you and me,” she says softly, breaking the silence, “no reporters following us around, no more articles. Just you and me.”

You tighten your hold on her just a little bit and lean down to leave a kiss on her shoulder. “One day,” you reply, but your words are not said with the same amount of confidence.

Alexia gives you no indication that she picked up on the uncertainty in your voice, but she also doesn’t say anything else.

___________________

“I think it’s safe for me to go out.”

Alexia joins you by the window and takes a peek. When she doesn’t see any reporters, she smiles. “Chocolate croissants?”

“Coming right up,” you say, a little surprised to actually hear some excitement in your voice.

For the first time in what seems like forever, you dare to step out onto Riera Baixa street. The reporters camped outside your apartment appear to have taken a break and therefore, have allowed you to try and go back to your normal life. Things are different, however. Before you walked the street with no care in the world, now, you have to walk with caution and always be on the alert.

When you walk inside the pastry shop, however, you’re reminded that your life is anything but normal. Emma is working today and you hear her voice call out to you, but you can’t make our her words though the white noise and the muffled sound of your heart beating rapidly in your chest.

Your trembling hands reach for the newspaper and you read the headline to yourself.

“Dating a Football Player is Good for Business.”

The article goes into depth about the bookstore and its financials. How they managed to get this information, you don’t know. The article reveals that the bookshop barely makes a profit and clearly implies that you’re using Alexia to bring attention to the store. Their evidence? The insane number of followers the store has gotten since your relationship with Alexia was made public.

Crumbling the newspaper in your hands, you walk out of the pastry shop without even bothering to pay for it. While there are no reporters around, the familiar faces of Riera Baixa all give you a second glance and some don’t bother to lower their voices as they gossip.

“Maybe that girlfriend of hers will visit our shop and get us some attention,” someone says and it takes everything in you not to turn around and give them a piece of your mind.

The first thing Alexia notices when you walk inside is that there are no chocolate croissants in your hands. Then the newspaper and the look on your face. “What happened?” she asks, concern in her voice.

Without a word, you drop the crumbled newspaper on the kitchen table and then walk to the sofa, where you sit down with your knees tucked close to your chest.

Just like you, Alexia sees red when she reads the article. Instead of crumbling the newspaper, she shreds it to pieces with her hands.

Alexia joins you on the sofa, her hand reaches out to comfort you but you pull back from her touch. It breaks your heart to do so, but you’re just not sure you can keep going on living like this. No longer do you feel safe in your home. The street that you have grown up in and have dedicated your life to, no longer seems to welcome you. Everything you once held dear has turned its back on you.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say, feeling that familiar lump forming in the back of your throat. “This is all too much for me, Ale,” Your words are directed at her, but you don’t have the strength to look her in the eye. “You make me so happy; you really do. But I can’t take another day of lies being written about me. Tired of not being able to work… of not being able to live.”

Alexia tries to reach out to you again but hesitates, “baby, please, look at me.”

The look in her eyes shatters your heart into a million little pieces. Alexia knows you have reached your breaking point and that means she’s on the verge of losing you — if she hasn’t lost you already.

“What they said about you is horrible, but mi amor, I know the truth. We know the truth and that’s all that matters.”

You shake your head slowly, “but it’s not enough.”

Alexia leans back, visibly hurt by your words. The realization that she has indeed lost you washes over her, and you force yourself to look away once again. Alexia doesn’t say anything else and gets up to walk to your bedroom.

From the sofa, you hear her open the drawers and pack up her belongings. You fight the tears for as long as you can, but it’s a fight you never had a chance at winning.

Her footsteps draw closer and then stop in front of you. Still, you can’t look her in the eyes.

“You pushed me away once and I came back for you,” she says, “if you let me walk out this door, don’t expect me to come back again.”

When you don’t say anything in return, she looks down and nods. “If you focus on the media and their lies, you’ll never see the truth. And the truth is that at the end of the day,” she sighs, her voice soft, “I’m just a girl, standing in front of another girl, asking you to love her. That’s all.”

With that said, Alexia slings the duffel bag over her shoulder and makes her way to the front door. She doesn’t open it right away, like she’s hoping you’ll stop her.

But you don’t.

You let her walk out of your life.

___________________

“Do you think I made the right decision?”

Anna takes a moment to think, having just been told about your breakup with Alexia. “Um, well,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “yeah… I mean, all the reporters and all that ugly stuff written about you, it had to stop, right?”

You nod your head, relieved your friend understands why you had to make such a difficult and heartbreaking decision. “It was never going to end,” you say with a sigh, finding a little happiness again in restocking the shelves with the new books that arrived while you were locked away in your apartment.

Anna hums in agreement, but you fail to notice the hint of doubt in her eyes. Behind your back, she pulls out her phone and sends a quick text to someone.

A little while later the bell announces a new visitor, and you don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The smell of coffee and of fresh baked pastries are big hints, but it’s the goofy smile on Anna’s face that confirms your suspicions.

Anna’s crush, Emma, walks to the desk with coffee and a bag with croissants in her hands. “I was told there was an emergency,” she says, a teasing smile on her lips.

You appreciate their effort to make you feel better, but they just doesn’t know that chocolate croissants will forever remind you of Alexia.

“Our girl is feeling a little down, that’s all,” Anna says, walking over to Emma and giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

Emma gives you a little pout, “did something happen?” she asks with genuine concern.

Taking a deep breath, you walk towards the counter and take the cup of coffee in your hand, feeling the warmth radiating from the cup. “I ended things with Alexia,” you tell her, taking a sip of the coffee.

Anna and Emma exchange a look, a conversation taking place between them with just their eyes.

“Bad breakup?” Emma asks but seems to immediately regret it, “sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it’s alright,” you tell her, leaning against the very same bookshelf Alexia kissed you against that night. “I just told her I couldn’t take it anymore. You know, all the attention that comes with being with her.”

“How did she react?” Emma asks.

Your chest rises and falls with a deep sigh, “she packed her bag with what she had in my apartment and left.”

You’re about to take another sip when you remember what Alexia said before leaving, “she wanted me to know that if I just focused on the reporters and all that craziness, that I would fail to see that she was just a girl, standing in front of another girl… asking me to love her.”

Anna stops mid-bite into her croissant and looks at you with her eyes wide open, “You didn’t tell me that part.”

You look back and forth between Anna and Emma and quickly, very quickly, realize you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life.

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” you ask despite already knowing the answer.

They nod in unison.

With your coffee back on the desk, you start to pace the room with your hair in your hands. “How could I have been so stupid!?”

Once again, you allowed your fear of change to control your life. For so long you’ve lied to yourself, thinking that letting your ex walk away was ultimately for the best. But at the end of the day, all she wanted was a change of scenery. There was no doubt in her mind that the love you shared would flourish anywhere. And yet, you pushed her away. You tricked yourself into believing you were the victim but really, you were the one to break her heart. And now, you have made the same mistake with Alexia.

While you’re lost in your thoughts, Anna and Emma have their faces buried in their phones.

“Chicas, what do I do!?” you ask them, fearing that you just might be too late.

“We’re checking Twitter,” Anna says, scrolling through the app with a serious determination.

Emma looks up from the phone, “the team bus hasn’t left yet for the airport,” she announces, “it’s a little dramatic and will bring you more attention than you probably want, but I think desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“I don’t care about causing a scene,” you tell her, surprised by how confident you sound, “I’ll deal with the cameras. I just want her back.”

Anna and Emma both nod and spring to action.

“I’ll get the keys. Em, take her to the car,” Anna says, running to the backroom to get the car keys.

The three of you jump in Anna’s car with only one goal in mind: get to Alexia before it’s too late. It’s important you get to her before she leaves because one, you need to apologize for pushing her away. And two, you need to calm the thoughts that are more than likely driving her crazy.

“Buckle in everyone, today feels like a great day to lose my license,” Anna says, shifting the car in gear.

The car screeches out into the street and the engine revs as it speeds away. Maneuvering through the streets of Barcelona, your body gets thrown to the side with every turn Anna takes. You’re a little concerned at the speed, but you don’t dare to ask to her slow down.

The car comes to a halt in front of a red light and Anna taps the steering wheel in frustration. “come on… come on…” she says to herself.

As soon as the light turns green, Anna slams her foot on the pedal leaving clouds of rubber dust behind. She earns herself a few honks from the nearby drivers and when you glance back, a few middle fingers too.

In the back of the car, you’re lost in thought trying to figure out what you’re going to say to Alexia when you see her. So lost in thought that you failed to spot the familiar Bluagrana colors in the distance, moving further and further away from you by the second.

“There it is!” Emma screams out, pointing at the bus.

Staring at all the traffic up ahead, Anna grips the steering wheel and takes in a deep breath, “my time to shine.”

Emma glances back at you with a little fear in her eyes and there’s no doubt she sees the same in yours.

Anna expertly weaves the car in and out of the chocked line of traffic. A few cars swerve out of the way when they see Anna coming up behind them, earning her more honks and a few more offensive gestures. Miraculously, Anna manages to come up right up alongside the bus and repeatedly taps the horn to get the drivers attention. When the bus doesn’t slow down, Anna accelerates in an attempt to get in front of it.

“Anna, please remember that’s a bus full of professional athletes,” Emma warns her.

Anna nods, determined, “I got this.”

The bus driver, finally realizing there’s a maniac driving next to them, starts to slow down a little bit. This gives Anna the opportunity to pass the bus and get in front of it. The car starts slowing down and the bus driver has no choice but to also slow down and come to a stop.

“It’s go time, Y/N! Go get your girl,” Emma says, looking back at you and giving you two thumbs up.

You want to throw up. You’re not sure if it’s because of the nerves or because of Anna’s driving, but there’s a concerning feeling in the pit of you stomach. But, you know there’s no time to lose so push it out of your mind.

“Thank you, Annie,” you lean into the driver’s seat and give her a kiss on the cheek, “you’re the best!”

Just about you’re close the car door behind you, you hear Anna say, “and they say lesbians can’t drive.”

With the team bus stopped in the middle of a busy street, it’s no surprise a crowd has started to gather around it.

“Alexia!” you scream out, hoping she’ll hear you from the inside. If your face hadn’t been plastered all over the news these past few weeks, people would assume you’re a lunatic fan chasing after Alexia.

Instead, you’re just a girl fighting to win back the love of her life.

“Alexia! It’s me!”

You start to make your way around the bus, hoping you’ll see her sitting by one of the windows. Unfortunately, the glass is so tinted that you can barely see inside.

The sound of the bus door opening gets your attention, and you turn around to see Alexia peeking outside.

“Ale!” you say, running to her.

Alexia looks around, confused. “What’s going on?” she asks, “what are you doing here?” and you can hear the unmistakable hurt in her voice.

“I’m here for you.”

Now that you’re both standing outside, people have started to take out their cameras to capture the moment. You can see them from the corner of your eye, but you pay them no mind. You only have eyes for Alexia.

“Baby, I’m so, so sorry,” you plead, reaching for her hands but she keeps them tucked to her side, “I made a huge mistake. I was so scared, and I acted like a huge idiot. The day you walked into the bookshop; you changed my life. For so long I’ve been so afraid of change. I’ve resisted it like you wouldn’t believe. But I’m done being afraid, mi amor.”

You reach for her hand again and this time, she allows you to.

“I’ll take it all to be with you, the good and the bad. Let them write whatever they want, I don’t care,” you take a step closer, your other hand reaching up to caress her cheek, “you were right, baby, you were so right. All that matters is that we know the truth, that you know the truth,” you pause, a small smile tugging on your lips, “and the truth is that I’m so deeply and madly in love with you.”

Alexia looks around, seeing more and more people with phones in their hands all directly pointed at you. And yet, you don’t seem to care at all. There’s no doubt this little scene will be all over the news, but again, you don’t care.

“Are you sure you want all of this to be your life?” she asks, giving you one last chance to back out.

You nod without hesitation, “As long as you’re in it.”

Alexia looks deeply into your eyes, trying to find even a hint of doubt but she sees none. Out in the middle of the street, with the entire world watching, the two of you stand there. No words. No movement. No sound but a million words being said through locked eyes.

Alexia reaches up for your face with both hands and brings your lips to hers with urgency. She kisses you in front of everyone, as if though you are the only two people in the world and that’s exactly how it feels. It’s a kiss that takes your breath away and makes your heart soar.

Dazed, you open your eyes when Alexia reluctantly releases you. All around you, people clap and whistle.

“I hate to interrupt you two lovebirds,” a voice calls out, and you look behind Alexia to see her manager, Jona, outside the bus, “but we have a plane to catch.”

Alexia nods back at him but you have a feeling that if it were up to her, she wouldn’t be going anywhere.

You take her face in her your hands, “listen to me, Putellas,” a serious tone in your voice, “you are the best football player in the world, do you hear me? We all make mistakes but you should never let them define you. Those penalties mean nothing, Ale. Ballon D’or or no Ballon D’ D’or, it will not tarnish your legacy. So, I want you to walk out onto that pitch with your head held high, and kick some ass.”

Your words seem to resonate deeply with her because she pulls her shoulders back and nods her head with a new, fierce determination in her eyes.

“And you’ll be here when I come back?” she asks.

“No matter what.”

___________________

With Anna and Emma by your side, you watched Alexia take the free kick that guaranteed Barça’s spot in the final. While they jumped up and down in each other’s arms, your eyes remained glued to the screen. Alexia celebrated the goal with so much passion, unleashing all the frustration and anger that has plagued her for so long. But, as her teammates started to return to their positions, Alexia pointed at one of the cameras and formed a heart with her hands. A message for you.

Barça went on to win the final and you got to watch the love of your life, and the captain of the greatest football club in all of Europe, lift the Champions League trophy.

After the spectacle they witnessed when you proclaimed your love for Alexia to the entire world, reporters follow the two of you everywhere you go. While it certainly has not been easy to get used to, you find comfort in Alexia’s touch. When she senses you’re feeling overwhelmed, she whispers, I love you, in your ear and reminds you of what is really important.

Like now, you’re sitting in a limousine about to walk your first ever red carpet. Alexia is by your side, confident, with no hint of nerves on her features.

“You ready, mi amor?” she asks, her face illuminated by the flashing cameras that wait for her outside.

“I’m ready.”

The door opens and the fans explode in a roar when they get their first good look at Alexia. Winning the Champions League final only cemented her as the best football player in the world, and the entire world stands at attention in her presence.

Alexia leads you to the red carpet, not once ever letting go of your hand. You stand together, side by side, posing for pictures you know will be plastered on every newspaper and spread all over social media. And yet, you feel no fear or discomfort. All that matters to you is that light in Alexia’s eyes, and how it has continued to shine bright with you by her side.

“I’m happy you’re here,” she whispers in your ear, causing a blush to creep up on your cheeks.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

When they call her name and announce her as the winner of the Ballon d'Or, you watch as the most prominent members of the football world all rise in her honor. The spotlight shines on her ethereal beauty and it makes your heart skip a beat. You fall in love with her all over again.

Right as she’s finishing up her speech, she looks down at where you are sitting and smiles at you with love in her eyes. “I love you,” she mouths, and blows a kiss in your direction.

A kiss you reach up to catch, and hold very dearly close to your heart.

Bebita - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Turns out the captain’s toughest rival isn’t on the pitch-it’s her own baby, who smiles for the squad but not for her.

Warning: One adorable baby, one jealous Alexia, and two exhausted parents who are definitely too tired for anything even remotely sexy.

Word count: 2.7

a/n: This is a scheduled post, I'm sleeping.

MASTERLIST

..

The VIP area sat a few rows up–quiet except for the distant thump of the ball and the soft murmur of the crowd. Y/n settled into the seat, baby Clara balanced on her lap. 

Clara’s tiny brunette pigtails bobbed as she wriggled against Y/n’s chest, her hazel eyes fixed on the green pitch below. She was always like that, always trying to move away from Y/n and Alexia, even though she had barely learned how to stand on her own.

Out on the field, Alexia knelt on one knee, cycling through her familiar pre‑match stretch, every motion precise and powerful. 

Clara watched, leaning forward as though she understood that the woman in the Barça kit was her other mama.

“Look, mi amor,” Y/n whispered, angling Clara so she could see. “Do you see Mami?”

Clara squealed happily, reaching out to point. In her other hand, she clutched the battered cat‑culer teddy Vicky had given her.

It had been a gift for Clara’s first birthday, which had happened just weeks ago. How did a one-year-old manage to take off the cat's tails, bite down its ear and unsew its eyes? Y/n wasn’t sure, but she was sure that Clara loved the thing dearly.

Y/n brushed a strand of hair from Clara’s forehead. “She’s getting ready to play for you today.”

Clara shifted, trying to stand. Her little legs wobbled, and she toppled onto Y/n’s thigh with a surprised giggle.

“You’re going to fall,” Y/n laughed, scooping her daughter, sitting her on her lap. “You just learned how to do that–be patient.”

Clara patted Y/n’s cheek, then lifted Cat, pressing it against her cheek as if comforting herself–and everyone else too.

Through the railing, Y/n watched Alexia rise and take a final glance toward the stands, her eyes briefly meeting Y/n’s. 

Alexia gave a single nod, smiling shyly.

Y/n smiled and took Clara’s small hand and waved at Alexia. “Say hi to mami, Bebita.”

Clara babbled excitedly, watching her mom.

Y/n pressed her lips to Clara’s pigtail. “Ready to see Mama in action? The game’s starting.”

Clara kicked her legs and clutched Cat tighter.

Y/n put earmuffs on Clara, and they both waited for Alexia’s first touch of the ball.

..

Y/n stepped down onto the pitch, Clara cradled in her arms, the roar of the crowd fading into a soft hum now that the final whistle had blown. 

Alexia jogged over from midfield, still in her game‑worn kit, sweat-slick hair plastered to her forehead, a smile on her face, both from seeing her little family and from winning the game as well.

Clara’s hazel eyes gleamed–not at Alexia, but at the Cat teddy Y/n held. 

Y/n had just pried it away to stop Clara from yanking out its last button eye, but the little one was too quick; she snatched it back, buried her face in its floppy ear, and squeezed it as if it were the only thing in the world.

“Hey, mi amor–where’s my big winner's smile?” Alexia called softly, holding out her arms for Clara.

Clara peeked over the teddy. 

Y/n wasn’t sure, but somehow Clara has mastered the deadpan face at only one year and two weeks.

Alexia’s brow furrowed. 

Alexia’s brow creased in confusion. “Why so serious, bebita?” she asked, reaching to lift Clara into her arms—but each time she tried, Clara twisted away.

“She didn’t even give me a single grin,” Alexia said, casting a pleading glance at Y/n. “Do you think… is she mad at me?”

Y/n chuckled, rocking Clara gently against her. “She’s not mad, amor. I think she’s just tired.”

“Tired?” Alexia scoffed. “I saw her napping from the pitch.”

“Sleeping surrounded by thousands of people isn’t the same as snoozing at home,” Y/n replied, stepping closer. “But now, can the captain give me some attention?”

Alexia grinned, leaning in for a quick kiss, only to feel something wet against her cheek. Clara was pushing her face away,

“Okay, wow,” Alexia said, feigning offence. “What’s put you in such a mood, huh? Did Mama not breastfeed you today?”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “Of course I did.”

Before Y/n could even get a word out, Vicky and Jana appeared at the edge of the pitch, grinning like they’d just won the lottery.

“Bebita!” they called in perfect unison, spotting Clara from a distance.

Clara’s deadpan expression shattered instantly into a bright, gummy grin–her two little teeth front and centre like she was showing them off. 

As the two girls jogged over, she actually started to wiggle in Y/n’s arms, arms flailing in excitement.

Vicky scooped her up with practised ease, plopping Clara into her lap like they were old besties. 

Jana was already fussing with her pigtails, smoothing them down and cooing sweet nothings that had Clara giggling, soft and high-pitched, the kind of sound that made everyone around them melt.

Y/n and Alexia shared a long, stunned glance.

Alexia crossed her arms, deeply offended. “Wow. Amazing. My own filla [daughter] ignores me but loses her mind for these two.”

Y/n patted her shoulder with exaggerated sympathy. “Don’t pout, campeona. She does love you–just maybe not right now.”

Alexia sighed deeply, leaning over to tousle Clara’s hair in an attempt to salvage her dignity. 

But Clara, nestled happily in Vicky’s arms, gave her a very unimpressed wave–one lazy, pudgy little hand–and turned right back around to cuddle her beloved teddy and friend.

Y/n could swear she saw her daughter frown at Alexia. A warning frown. 

Alexia looked wounded. “Did… did she just glare at me?”

Y/n bit back a laugh. “Maybe. A little. You might have messed with her giggling privileges.”

“I hope she doesn’t expect me to pick her up from parties when she’s older,” Alexia muttered, arms wrapped lazily around Y/n from behind.

Y/n snorted. “Oh? So you’re already planning to let her go to parties now? Because last I heard, you said she wouldn’t be out of our sight until she turned 23 and a half.”

“Shut up,” Alexia grumbled, chin on Y/n’s shoulder, eyes narrowed as more players started to swarm their tiny queen. “She’s supposed to be obsessed with us, not… them.”

Clara, meanwhile, was thriving. Surrounded by teammates, she sat like a baby monarch on Vicky’s lap, accepting all compliments and forehead kisses.

Alexia checked her Samsung watch. Fifteen minutes.

“That’s ridiculous,” she huffed. “I carried her for nine months!”

Y/n said grumpily. “No, you didn’t. I did.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. “Fine. But I’m the one who wakes up every night to change her diaper.”

Y/n gave an exaggerated shrug. “Yeah… that’s fair.”

Alexia had already had enough. She pulled away and marched toward the huddle of players, determined to reassert her maternal dominance.

By then, Clara had migrated from Vicky to Patri, who had Pina crouched in front of them playing peek-a-boo with the intensity of a professional entertainer. 

Every “boo!” sent Clara into high-pitched giggles, her tiny arms flailing like she was trying to fly.

Off to the side, Salma had somehow gotten hold of the Cat Culer plush and was cradling it like a kitten, complete with exaggerated ‘mrow-mrow’ sounds and purring noises. 

Clara was enchanted. She squealed and reached both hands toward Salma.

She swivelled from Patri to Salma, a wide smile spreading across her face. It was a deadly combo: Patri’s over-the-top silly faces and Salma’s soft, ridiculous lullaby cat impressions.

Alexia barely made it back to the group before Clara let out a delighted squeal.

Too much. That was too much joy for one player circle.

Without warning, Alexia swooped in and plucked Clara right out of Patri’s arms.

“Come on, Clara,” she muttered, hoisting Clara onto her hip like a protective mama bear. “You’re ours.”

“Noo!” Patri gasped, hands dramatically outstretched. “Our amiga!”

“She was smiling!” Jana chimed in from seemingly nowhere.

Alexia blinked. “Where did you even come from?”

Jana just pouted and pointed. “She likes me more than you.”

Alexia raised her brows. “She drooled on your shoulder last week.”

Alexia ignored them all, bouncing Clara gently on her hip and muttering like a dramatic villain, “Your amiga needs to sleep in one hour, chicas. Back off.”

And that’s what did it.

Clara’s big eyes blinked once… twice… and then her lip wobbled.

The betrayal hit her in full force.

She let out a wail so dramatic, so raw and heartbroken. How did a baby have so many emotions? Who knows?

Alexia’s face fell in real time. 

“Oh, come on, bebita…” she cooed, trying to adjust her hold, bouncing Clara with expert panic. “Don’t cry. Mama’s sorry–”

“Give her back,” Vicky said, deadpan. 

“No!” Alexia turned, spinning away like she was protecting Clara, “She’s mine. I made her.”

“You did not!” Y/n called after her.  “I made her, remember? Forty-three weeks?”

Alexia didn’t turn around. “Fine, but I clipped her nails yesterday. Let me have this!”

Y/n stepped forward without a word and plucked Clara from Alexia’s arms.

“Shh, what’s going on with you today, huh?” she asked, settling Clara against her chest. Instantly, Clara melted into her, the cries slowing as she rooted for the breast like nothing had happened.

Alexia folded her arms and watched the scene unfold, tapping her foot. “She hates me today.”

Y/n leaned in and kissed her cheek, still swaying with Clara. “She doesn’t hate you. She just wants to party with the girls.”

Alexia’s pout softened. “Next time, she should save a giggle or two for me.”

Clara was nearly asleep by the time Alexia guided them toward the locker room, collecting her things so they could finally go home.

The walk to the car was slow, careful not to wake the tiny diva—but Clara, ever the drama queen, cracked her big hazel eyes open as Y/n buckled her into the car seat.

“Hi, Neneta,” Y/n cooed in a baby voice. “I bet you're gonna stay up the whole drive and absolutely not fall asleep at bedtime, huh? Yeah, of course you will.”

Clara giggled, like she was absolutely planning to sabotage their night.

Y/n frowned, struggling with the seatbelt–it wasn’t going over the right way, and it looked like it was pressing into Clara’s belly.

“Ale, I need help,” she called, glancing over her shoulder.

Alexia appeared behind her, now in a soft, oversized shirt, hair down and still damp from her shower. “What, amor?”

She leaned in to take a look–and that’s when it happened.

Clara smiled. Not just any smile. A big, two-toothed, gummy grin, arms shooting up toward Alexia.

Alexia gasped. Literal tears sprang to her eyes. 

“Oh, el meu tresor, has tornat a estimar la mameta, eh?” [Oh my treasure, have you come back to loving mommy, huh?]

She scooped Clara out of the car seat with no hesitation, kissing her all over while Clara giggled and wrapped a chubby hand in Alexia’s hair.

“Alexia, put her back!” Y/n scolded. “It’s cold! She’s gonna catch a cold!”

“My bebita,” Alexia crooned, ignoring her. “Mine.”

Y/n squinted. Something wasn’t adding up. Then her eyes narrowed in on the baby's fist, twisted lovingly in Alexia’s damp hair.

“Alexia,” she said slowly.

“What?” Alexia asked, still too busy baby-cuddling to notice the growing danger.

Without another word, Y/n stepped forward, gently took a handful of Alexia’s hair, and lifted it up into a mock ponytail.

Instantly–cry. A full-body, soul-deep shriek from Clara that echoed off the parking garage walls.

“What the-?”

Before Alexia could finish, Y/n let her hair fall back down. Clara stopped crying on a dime. She blinked twice, then went back to calmly playing with Alexia’s nose.

“She doesn’t like your hair up,” Y/n deadpanned. “She’s been mad at you all day because you put it in a ponytail. Diva behaviour.”

Alexia stared at her daughter in disbelief. “Is that true, bebita? I’m gonna have to figure out how to play football with my hair down, huh?”

Clara gave her a sleepy little grunt and patted her cheek, as if to say, finally, someone’s catching on.

The car ride home was full of Clara's babble–her favourite form of post-bedtime rebellion.

“She’s giving a full concert back there,” Alexia mumbled, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Y/n’s thigh.

“She’s practising for her world tour,” Alexia said with a small yawn.

From the backseat came a joyful “DA! and “MA!” followed by a long, dramatic sigh…Clara’s version of a mic drop.

Y/n twisted in her seat to look at her. “Clara, it’s sleepy time.”

Clara kicked her feet.

Alexia glanced at her in the mirror. “Bebita, no kicking mami.”

“Maybe she just needs to wind down,” Alexia offered. “You know, like a little story, some quiet time…”

“She just yelled at her own toes,” Y/n said hopelessly. “We’re not sleeping today.”

By the time they pulled into the garage, Clara was still going strong, waving her arms as if she was saying hi to a crowd, but Alexia didn’t care because she was giving her a gummy grin every time she looked back. 

Y/n unbuckled her with a sigh.

“We have ten minutes before she realises she’s a baby and not a woman in her twenties at a club,” she muttered.

Inside, Alexia took Clara while Y/n dealt with the diaper bag and Alexia’s game bag. 

Clara was clinging to her again, arms tight around Alexia’s neck, one hand firmly rooted in her hair like she was personally in charge of keeping it down.

“She’s obsessed with your hair,” Y/n said as she walked into the nursery.

“She has taste,” Alexia replied, swaying slowly with Clara in her arms.

“She has control issues.”

“She gets that from you.”

Y/n shot her a glare, but was too tired to keep it up. Instead, she leaned against the doorway, watching the two of them. 

Clara was slowing down now, her lids heavy as Alexia quietly hummed a lullaby in Catalan, her hand rubbing soft circles on Clara’s back.

It was quiet for a moment, just the gentle and occasional creak of the floorboards under their feet. 

Y/n felt something melt in her chest.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmured.

Alexia glanced over at her, surprised. “At what?”

“Being her mom.”

Alexia’s mouth tugged into the smallest, most fragile smile. “Only when my hair’s down, apparently.”

“She just missed you,” Y/n said, crossing the room to stand beside her. “You’re her favourite, you know.”

Alexia looked down at Clara, whose tiny hand was still tangled in her hair, her face finally tucked into her mom’s neck. “She’s my favourite, too–well, you and her.”

Y/n leaned her head on Alexia’s shoulder, both of them swaying now in the half-lit nursery. Clara let out a soft sigh–peaceful this time–and went limp in Alexia’s arms, fully asleep.

“Victory,” Y/n whispered.

“Don’t jinx it,” Alexia whispered back.

They waited another few minutes, just to be sure, then moved into the quiet routine that every young parent had. 

Alexia laid Clara in the crib. Y/n pulled the blanket up. Neither of them breathed until they were sure she was down for real.

Back in the hallway, Y/n pulled Alexia into a long, slow hug, burying her face in the damp hair. “I vote you never wear a ponytail again.”

Alexia chuckled, kissing her temple. “Deal.”

They padded off to their bedroom, tired and tangled in each other, both grateful that Clara had finally called it a night.

Y/n flopped face-first onto the bed with a groan. “Okay, but we both agree we’re too tired for sex, right?”

There was no answer.

Y/n turned her head slightly. Alexia was already on her side, eyes shut, breathing deeply, completely out cold.

She snorted. “Okay. Guess that’s a yes.”

She reached out blindly, grabbed the blanket, and yanked it over both of them, grumbling softly as she burrowed in beside Alexia. 

“You better be dreaming about me,” she mumbled into the pillow.

..

Hope you guys enjoyed it!

🥂❤️

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

You and Alexia's wedding Day

The sun is just beginning to rise over Barcelona when you wake up. Soft, golden light filters through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room. Your heart is already racing before you even fully open your eyes, the realisation hitting you like a tidal wave.

It’s today.

Your wedding day.

You turn your head slightly, expecting to find Alexia beside you, but the bed is empty. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips. Of course, she’s already gone. You had promised each other, no seeing one another before the ceremony. She must have snuck out in the early hours, letting you have one last morning as an almost before you officially become hers forever.

There’s a soft knock at the door before it creaks open slightly. Carla peeks her head in, eyes full of excitement. “Buenos días, future Mrs. Putellas.”

You groan, throwing a pillow at her. “Shut up.”

She laughs, dodging it effortlessly. “Nope, not happening. Get up. We have a wedding to get ready for.”

You sit up slowly, the nerves mixing with the sheer thrill of knowing by the end of the day, you’ll be married to the love of your life.

Carla walks in fully now, setting a cup of coffee on your nightstand. “How are you feeling?”

You exhale deeply, stretching your arms over your head. “Honestly? A little nervous.”

She plops down on the edge of your bed, crossing her legs. “That’s normal. But also kind of ridiculous because let’s be real, you and Alexia have been married in every sense of the word for years now.”

You laugh softly because she’s not wrong.

The next few hours blur into a whirlwind of activity. Your bridal party, Carla, Ingrid, you got Ingrid Alexia got Mapi that was the deal, and a few of your closest friends from work flit around, making sure everything is perfect. There’s music playing in the background, champagne being passed around, laughter echoing through the air.

At one point, Eli arrives, her eyes already glassy with emotion as she cups your face. “You are so beautiful,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “She’s going to cry when she sees you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I think I’m going to cry first.”

Eli chuckles, wiping away the tear that slips down your cheek. “That’s what I brought tissues for.”

The dress is waiting for you, hanging by the window, its fabric catching the morning light in the most breathtaking way. As you step into it, as the zipper is carefully pulled up, as your hands smooth over the delicate fabric, it hits you, this is real.

This is happening.

Ingrid lets out a dramatic sniffle as she watches you. “Okay, yeah. I’m crying.”

Carla, ever the menace, smirks. “We should place bets on how long Alexia lasts before she starts crying at the altar.”

Ingrid snorts. “No way she makes it past five seconds.”

Eli shakes her head fondly. “She won’t even make it to when you walk down the aisle.”

You roll your eyes but smile, already picturing Alexia’s face when she sees you for the first time.

Then, as if on cue, your phone buzzes on the table. A message. From her.

Alexia: No seeing each other before the wedding. But just so you know, I already know you’re the most beautiful person in the world today. See you soon, mi amor.❤️

Your breath catches, your heart skipping a beat.

Carla leans over your shoulder, reading it before dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “She’s so obsessed with you. It’s disgusting.”

You just smile, warmth spreading through your chest. Yeah. She was.

By the end of today, she’s going to be your wife. Eli gave you big hugs and kisses and promises to see you soon but of course she was going to go be with Alexia.

The car ride to the venue feels surreal. The streets of Barcelona blur past the window, but you barely notice them. Your hands are clasped together in your lap, knuckles white as you try to keep your nerves at bay.

Ingrid sits beside you, her presence calm and steady, her hand resting gently on your knee, grounding you in the moment. In the front seat, Aitana is unsurprisingly arguing with Carla over something completely ridiculous.

“I swear, Carla, if you trip and take me down with you, I’m never letting you be in my wedding when it’s my turn,” Aitana huffs, arms crossed.

Carla scoffs. “First of all, rude. Second, you act like you wouldn’t be the one to trip first.”

“You’re literally the one who fell off a treadmill last week.”

“That was one time!”

You tune them out, heart racing as you glance down at your phone. No messages from Alexia this time. The next time you see her, it’ll be at the altar. Your wife-to-be.

Ingrid must sense your nerves because she squeezes your knee lightly. “Breath.”

You take a slow, deep breath, forcing yourself to relax.

“You’ve been ready for this for a long time,” Ingrid continues in that soft, reassuring voice of hers. “She’s waiting for you. That’s all that matters.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “I know. I just—” You exhale shakily. “It’s a lot.”

Ingrid gives you a small smile. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

The car finally pulls up to the venue an elegant villa nestled along the countryside, the perfect mix of intimacy and beauty. The moment you step out, the warm breeze carries the faint sound of music, guests murmuring softly inside, waiting.

Carla climbs out first, stretching dramatically. “Alright. Everyone still has their balance? No sudden injuries? No broken ankles?”

Aitana rolls her eyes. “Tú eres un caso.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but thenyour breath catches as your gaze drifts toward the grand double doors leading inside.

This is it. The nerves come rushing back tenfold.

Ingrid notices immediately, stepping close. “Babe” she murmurs. “She’s just on the other side of those doors, waiting for you.”

You nod, trying to swallow the wave of emotions building in your chest.

Carla and Aitana exchange glances before stepping away slightly, giving you a moment.

The doors are still closed, but you can feel it, the anticipation, the weight of this moment. Behind them, Alexia is standing at the altar, waiting for you.

Your fingers tighten around the bouquet in your hands. Your heart is pounding. Then, the music shifts.

Your cue.

Carla grins, winking at you. “Showtime.”

Ingrid presses a kiss to your temple. “Go to her,”

You take a deep breath, steady yourself, and the doors begin to open.

The doors swing open, and for a split second, everything is silent.

The music plays softly in the background, the gentle hum of a string quartet filling the space, but you can’t hear it, not over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your chest.

Your breath catches. Because there she is.

Alexia.

Standing at the altar, her hands clasped in front of her, looking like something straight out of a dream. She’s dressed in the most elegant suit, tailored perfectly to her frame, her hair swept back just enough to show the way her jaw tenses, the way her lips part slightly as she takes in the sight of you.

You barely make it two steps before you see it, her eyes are glassy, her chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths like she’s trying desperately to keep it together.

Then, she blinks, and a single tear slips down her cheek. And that’s when it hits you. You were never going to make it down the aisle dry-eyed.

The emotions well up too quickly, your vision blurring as you take your first step forward. Your fingers tighten around the bouquet, your breath shaky, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Not when she’s standing there looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Not when she’s wiping away that lone tear, smiling so softly, so tenderly that it makes your knees weak. Not when every step forward is a step closer to forever.

Carla walks beside you, her usual playful demeanor softened by the significance of the moment. Aitana and Ingrid follow just behind, but you barely register anything beyond the way Alexia’s eyes never leave yours.

You can see the way she’s gripping her hands together, her fingers fidgeting slightly like she’s stopping herself from running down the aisle and meeting you halfway.

And God, you kind of wish she would.

The distance feels too long, the anticipation too much.

When you reach the halfway point, another tear slips from your eye, and before you can even think about stopping it, Alexia exhales sharply, her face completely crumbling for a second.

Her lips tremble, and she sniffs, wiping at her face almost angrily, like she can’t be breaking down right now—but she is. Your cool calm collected poised partner of four years, totally is.

You let out a breathy laugh through your own tears, shaking your head. She does the same. You both do.

By the time you reach the front, you can’t hold back anymore. Your free hand reaches instinctively for hers, breaking the traditional etiquette of waiting, but you don’t care.

And neither does she.

The moment her fingers touch yours, she squeezes so tight you think she might be holding on for dear life.

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, a silent message, a whispered I love you without saying a word.

You sniffle, laughing softly, and whisper, “You’re crying.”

Alexia lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking her head. “Tú también.”

The officiant clears their throat gently, and you realize that technically, you’re supposed to let go of her hand right now.

But neither of you move. Neither of you want to. This is it. The moment before everything changes, before every promise you’ve ever whispered to each other in the dead of night is spoken out loud for the world to hear.

And as you stand there, with the love of your life holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping her grounded, you know—

You’d walk down this aisle a thousand times over. As long as she’s always waiting for you at the end. Everything feels like a blur an overwhelmingly beautiful blur.

The ceremony, the vows, the way Alexia looked at you like you had just hung the stars in the sky every moment is burned into your memory, but it still doesn’t feel real.

Not until you hear it.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you wife and wife.”

A pause.

A heartbeat.

“You may kiss—”

But Alexia doesn’t wait. She moves before the officiant even finishes the sentence, her hands cupping your face, her lips crashing against yours with a desperate, almost relieved kind of urgency.

And you melt into it. The sound of your friends and family erupting into cheers barely registers. The only thing you can focus on is her, the way her hands shake slightly against your skin, the way she breathes you in between kisses like she’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment.

When she finally pulls away, your forehead rests against hers, both of you grinning so wide it almost hurts.

“You’re my wife,” you whisper breathlessly.

Alexia laughs softly, her thumb brushing over your cheek. “Say it again.”

You beam, tightening your grip on her. “My wife. Mi Esposa”

She kisses you again, short, but full of so much love it makes your knees weak. Then, together, hand in hand, you turn to face the crowd. A shower of white flower petals rains down around you as you make your way back down the aisle, both of you laughing, wiping at your damp eyes, unable to let go of each other’s hands for even a second.

It’s perfect.

But as soon as you step inside the quiet hallway leading toward the garden, away from the noise, the guests, the cameras, Alexia pulls you to the side.

Just the two of you. Finally.

She exhales sharply, as if she’s been holding her breath this entire time, before she wraps her arms around you, burying her face in your neck.

Your hands immediately slip into her hair, holding her close. “Hey,” you whisper softly, “we did it.”

She nods against you, breathing you in. “We did it.”

For a long moment, neither of you move.

You just exist in the silence, in the warmth of each other’s arms, in the weight of everything that just happened.

Then, she pulls back slightly, her hands settling on your waist, her eyes roaming over every inch of your face like she’s memorising you all over again.

“You are so beautiful,” she murmurs. “I still can’t believe you’re mine.”

You smile, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “Forever.”

Alexia closes her eyes briefly, letting that word settle in before she nods. Then, without warning, she lifts you off the ground, spinning you in a slow, dizzying circle. You squeal, laughing as you grip onto her shoulders.

“Alexia!”

She grins up at you. “I had to. I just married you, I get to do whatever I want now.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but you know she’s right.

Because this is forever now.

Your forever.

Your wife.

The wedding reception is everything you could have dreamed of, laughter, music, love filling every inch of the space. The venue glows under the golden evening light, fairy lights strung above the tables creating a soft, intimate atmosphere. Everywhere you turn, there’s someone smiling, someone dancing, someone toasting to you and Alexia and the life you’ve just promised to share.

Alexia is currently caught up in conversation with some of her teammates, her hand still very much attached to yours like she can’t quite let go yet. It’s been like that all evening small touches, quiet glances, the occasional kiss when she thinks no one is looking.

But there’s something you still need to do before the night fully takes over. You catch Alba’s eye first, then Eli’s. A silent understanding passes between you, and they both follow as you gently squeeze Alexia’s hand in reassurance and slip away from the crowd.

Eli is quiet as you lead her toward the top table, where the two of you wives now will soon take your seats. Alba follows closely, her usual energy subdued, sensing the weight of whatever it is you’re about to show them.

And then, they see it. An extra chair. A place carefully set, just like every other. And, resting in the middle of the plate, a framed picture of Alexia’s father. Eli stops abruptly, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands fly to her mouth as she takes in the sight before her, eyes instantly glassy with unshed tears.

Alba stands frozen beside her, blinking hard, her jaw clenched like she’s trying to keep it together.

You swallow past the lump in your throat, stepping forward gently. “I—I wanted to make sure he was here with you tonight,” you whisper. “With her. With all of us.”

Eli exhales sharply, shaking her head as a tear slips free, but her lips curve into the softest, most grateful smile. “Mi amor…”

You reach out, taking her hands in yours, squeezing them tightly. “I know how much she wishes he was here.” Your voice is barely above a whisper now. “And I know how much he would be, if he could.”

Alba finally moves, running a hand over her face before huffing out a shaky breath. “She’s—she’s going to lose it when she sees this.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, nodding. “I know.”

Eli reaches out, brushing her fingers over the picture gently, her touch lingering as she takes a slow, deep breath. Then, she looks at you, her expression soft, full of so much love that it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

“She chose well,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “So, so well.”

You sniffle, squeezing her hand. “I’m just lucky she chose me.”

Alba finally cracks, letting out a teary chuckle as she nudges you lightly. “You’re gonna make me cry again,” she mutters.

You laugh softly, wiping at your own eyes. “I think that was inevitable.”

Eli lets out a small, watery chuckle, shaking her head before she pulls you into a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers into your hair. “For this. For loving her.”

You cling to her tightly. “Always.”

As you step back, Alba clears her throat, clapping her hands together to break the emotion swirling in the air. “Okay,” she says, sniffling one last time before straightening her shoulders. “How long do we give her before she notices?”

You smirk, glancing over at Alexia, who is still deep in conversation, completely unaware.

“Not long,” you murmur.

Alexia was in the middle of a conversation with Mapi and Ingrid when she caught something out of the corner of her eye—Eli wiping at her cheeks, Alba shifting awkwardly beside her, both of them standing near the top table where you had just been.

Her stomach instantly twists. She excuses herself without a second thought, her mind racing as she crosses the room.

“Mami?” Her voice is laced with concern as she reaches them, her gaze flicking between her mother and sister. “What’s wrong?”

Eli quickly shakes her head, still dabbing at her eyes. “Nada, mi amor,” she assures softly. “Just… come with me.”

Alexia frowns, not entirely convinced, but Eli reaches for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before leading her toward the table.

Alba doesn’t say a word—just steps aside, swallowing hard as she watches her sister move closer. And then Alexia sees it. Her breath catches instantly, her entire body going still as her gaze lands on the extra chair, the carefully set place, the framed photo staring back at her.

The picture of him. Her father.

A soft, shaky exhale slips from her lips as the weight of it settles in her chest. She doesn’t move at first—just stands there, eyes darting over every detail. The chair tucked in like he really belongs there. The glass set, the plate, the tiny flower laid beside the photo.

Her throat tightens.

Her hand instinctively grips Eli’s, and when she finally finds the strength to glance at her mother, she sees nothing but understanding in her eyes.

“She did this for you,” Eli whispers, squeezing her fingers. “Because she knew.”

Alexia lets out a breathy, broken laugh, blinking rapidly. “Of course she did.”

Eli smiles through her own tears. “She always knows.”

Alexia sniffs, shaking her head as she wipes at her face, trying to pull herself together, but it’s useless.

Because he’s here. He’s with her.

Alba clears her throat beside her, nudging her gently. “She didn’t want to tell you. She wanted you to just… see it.”

Alexia swallows hard, nodding slowly, her eyes locked onto the framed photo.

Her father’s eyes. His smile.

Her heart aches, but it’s a different kind of ache, softer. Lighter.

It doesn’t feel like a loss. It feels like love.

And suddenly, she needs to find you. Her head snaps up, scanning the crowd frantically until finally she spots you, standing off to the side, caught in conversation with a few of her distant cousins.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she moves. She needs you. She crosses the room in quick strides, barely giving you a chance to react before she’s there, wrapping her arms around you from behind, burying her face in your shoulder.

You let out a soft gasp, instantly placing your hands over hers. “Lex?”

She exhales against your skin, nodding before she murmurs, “I saw.”

And just like that, you know. You turn in her arms, tilting her face up gently, and when you see the tears in her eyes, the overwhelming emotion threatening to spill over, you don’t say anything.

You just hold her. She melts into you, tucking her face into your neck, letting out a small, shaky breath.

“I just wanted him to be here with you,” you whisper, running a soothing hand down her back.

Alexia sniffles, pressing her forehead against yours. “He is.”

Your chest tightens as she pulls back just enough to cup your face, her thumb brushing against your cheek.

“I love you,” she whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I love you so much.”

You smile softly, pressing your lips against hers in a kiss that says everything words never could. And as she holds you close, with the sound of laughter and music still carrying through the night, Alexia knows her father is here.

And you are her home.

The reception is in full swingwine glasses clinking, laughter echoing through the villa, warmth filling every corner of the room. You can feel the buzz of happiness in the air, wrapping around you like the soft golden glow of the fairy lights strung above the tables. And then, as the music fades slightly, Eli stands up.

The room hushes instantly, all eyes turning to Alexia’s mother as she clears her throat, her expression soft but full of something deeper something unbreakable.

She glances at you and Alexia, her daughters sitting side by side, hands intertwined under the table. Then, she smiles.

“Buenas noches a todos.”

A wave of quiet chuckles spreads across the crowd as she smirks. “I will not take too long because I know everyone is eager to get back to the dancing, especially Alba, who has already had three glasses of wine and keeps trying to challenge Aitana to a dance battle.”

Laughter ripples through the room, breaking any lingering nerves Eli might have had.

She turns back to you and Alexia, her gaze softening. “Today is a day full of love,” she continues. “Not just because of the two incredible people we are here to celebrate, but because love is what brought us here in the first place. And love is what will keep us together for the rest of our lives.” Alexia’s grip on your hand tightens. “I don’t have to tell you all who my daughter is,” Eli says, glancing toward her eldest child with a twinkle in her eye. “The world knows who she is. A leader, a fighter, the most determined person I’ve ever met. But before she was that before she was the Alexia Putellas that people chant for in the stadium she was just my little girl.” Alexia shifts in her seat, blinking rapidly. Eli exhales, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “And then you came along.” She turns to you now, her eyes filled with something deeply maternal. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I knew immediately that you were the one for her. The very first time I saw her with you, there was something different. Something softer in the way she spoke, something lighter in the way she moved.” A lump forms in your throat. “I have never seen her happier than she is with you.” Eli’s voice wavers slightly, but she holds strong. “And as a mother, all you ever want is for your children to find that kind of happiness. That kind of love.” You don’t even realize you’re crying until Alexia reaches up and wipes a stray tear from your cheek. Eli smiles warmly, lifting her glass. “So, let’s raise a toast to my daughter, to my new daughter, and to a love that will last forever.”

The room erupts into applause, glasses clinking as everyone cheers. You turn to Alexia, her face a mixture of quiet emotion and pure love. She leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your temple.

Then, before the room can settle, Alba slams her hands on the table and stands up.

“Alright, my turn!” she announces dramatically.

Carla groans. “Oh no.”

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is already a disaster.”

You chuckle, watching Alba pick up her glass and hold it high. “First of all, let’s acknowledge the real MVP of this wedding me because without me, I’m not sure Alexia would have ever admitted she was in love.”

Alexia glares. “That is absolutely not true.”

Alba winks. “Not saying I’m responsible, but I’m also not not saying it.”

Laughter ripples through the room again. She turns to you now, and suddenly, her usually playful demeanor shifts. “I joke a lot, but I need to be serious for a second.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve spent my whole life looking up to Alexia. Not just because she’s my sister, but because she’s my best friend. And I always wondered if there was anyone out there who could match her who could truly be what she needed.” She glances at you, her eyes shining. “And then you came along. And suddenly, my sister wasn’t just my sister anymore. She was herself in a way I had never seen before. And I knew. I knew you were her forever.” Alexia swallows hard, looking away briefly like she’s trying to compose herself. Alba grins now, raising her glass. “So, as the official bestower of blessings, I give my very important stamp of approval to this marriage. Not that you needed it, but still.”

The room laughs, raising their glasses again. Alexia groans but reaches for her sister’s hand, squeezing it briefly in gratitude.

As the laughter settles, you take a deep breath and stand up. Alexia’s head snaps toward you, her brows furrowing slightly.

“Wait,” she whispers. “I thought—”

You smirk. “You hate public speaking, so I figured I’d do it for us.”

A few amused chuckles ripple through the room. You stand, feeling the weight of Alexia’s gaze settle on you instantly. She wasn’t expecting this. You hadn’t told her. But she hates public speaking, and there’s no way you were going to let her suffer through this part alone. So here you are, standing in front of a room filled with all the people who love you both, your heart pounding as you look at your wife—the woman you are lucky enough to spend forever with. You clear your throat, letting the soft hum of quiet settle over the room before you begin.

“I wasn’t supposed to give a speech tonight,” you admit, smiling slightly as a few chuckles ripple through the crowd. “But I figured since Alexia hates public speaking almost as much as she loves me, I’d do this one for us.” More laughter, but Alexia just shakes her head at you, eyes already shimmering. You take a deep breath. “I don’t really know how to put into words what today means. What she means,” you say softly, glancing at Alexia. “I could stand up here for hours and still never fully explain what it feels like to be loved by her. What it feels like to know that every morning I wake up, she’s going to be there. That every bad day, every hard moment, every time I start to doubt myself she’s there, looking at me like I’m the best thing in the world.” Alexia sniffs, blinking rapidly, but you continue. “She is the strongest, most determined person I have ever met. She puts her whole heart into everything she does whether it’s football, or family, or making sure I never leave the house without a jacket because she swears I always get cold.” Laughter fills the room again, and you pause, letting it settle before continuing. “But more than anything, she is home to me,” you say, voice quieter now. “Loving her is the easiest, most natural thing I’ve ever done. She is my best friend, my greatest love, my everything. And today, I got to promise to love her forever. A promise I would have made a thousand times over.” Alexia wipes at her cheek now, and you reach out instinctively, squeezing her hand before continuing. “There’s someone missing today,” you say, and the room falls completely silent. You feel the shift, feel the way Alexia’s grip tightens around yours, feel the way Eli’s breath catches. “I never got the chance to meet Alexia’s father,” you say softly. “But I wish I could have. Because if the way his daughters turned out is any reflection of the kind of man he was, then I know, I know, he was an incredible man.” Alexia’s chest rises and falls in a deep, steady breath, but her eyes are locked onto yours, unblinking, feeling every word you say. “I’ve heard many stories seeing many videos and many pictures and I see him in Alexia every day. In the way she loves, in the way she fights for what matters, in the way she never gives up. And I see him in Alba, too. In her fire, in her passion, in the way she refuses to do anything quietly.”

That earns a watery chuckle from Alba, and you smile.

“I know that if he were here today, he would be so unbelievably proud. Not just of the woman Alexia has become, but of the family she has built around her. The love she gives. The way she makes the people in her life better just by being in it.” You take a deep breath.

“And I promise you, mi amor I will spend every single day making sure you feel that love. That pride. That safety. Because you deserve nothing less.” Alexia blinks rapidly, her lips pressing together tightly, her free hand lifting to wipe at her cheek again.

You glance around the room then, your heart racing, and then you take a deep breath, and you switch.

“Avui és el dia més bonic de la meva vida.”

(Today is the most beautiful day of my life.)

The entire room gasps.

You hear someone slap the table probably Carla. Someone else mutters “No way.” Alexia’s jaw drops.

“I wanted to take a moment to say something important,” you continue, in perfect Catalan, watching as her eyes fill with even more tears. “Today has been perfect in so many ways, but what makes it truly special is all of you. This family. The people who have welcomed me into their hearts, who have loved me as one of their own.” Her grip on your hand tightens—desperate, overwhelmed. You smile, speaking directly to her now.

“Et prometo que sempre et cuidaré, sempre estaré al teu costat i sempre estimaré cada part de qui ets.” (I promise I will always take care of you, always stand by your side, and always love every part of who you are.)

Alexia makes a choked sound, a tear slipping down her cheek. You take a deep breath, blinking through your own emotions before finishing.

“Gràcies per donar-me la teva vida, el teu amor i la teva família. Sempre seré teva.” (Thank you for giving me your life, your love, and your family. I will always be yours.)

A beat of stunned silence.

Then absolute chaos.

People are cheering. Clapping. Carla is banging the table, half screaming. “WHAT THE HELL?! WHEN DID YOU LEARN THAT?!”

You laugh, cheeks burning, looking back at Alexia only to yelp as she grabs your face and kisses you senseless. The room erupts.

Alexia’s hands are cradling your jaw, her lips fierce against yours, like she can’t hold back. Like she has to kiss you or she might actually explode. She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours, her eyes wild with love.

“You, you just” she stammers. “How?”

You grin, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Secretly learned it. Just for today.”

She laughs, breathless, shaking her head. “I cannot believe you did that.”

You smirk. “I’d do anything for you.”

Her hands tighten on you, her lips brushing against yours again. “I love you so much it’s ridiculous.”

You chuckle. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me forever.” And as the entire room celebrates, as Alexia kisses you again softer this time, like a thank you whispered into your lips you know.

You know. This moment, this love, this life it’s yours.

Forever.

The wedding had been everything you had dreamed of—maybe even more.

It had been filled with laughter, with love so thick in the air you could feel it, with the warmth of everyone who mattered most. But now, the music had faded, the guests had gone home, and the two of you had finally stepped away from the celebration into the quiet intimacy of your wedding night.

Now, it was just you and her.

The hotel suite was bathed in soft, golden light, the glow of the city filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You turned slightly, catching your reflection in the mirror as you reached up to unclip your earrings, but before you could, a voice—low and full of something darker, something deeper—stopped you.

“Don’t.”

You froze, your breath catching in your throat, before turning to face her.

Alexia was leaning against the doorframe, still dressed in the suit she had worn for the wedding—the perfectly tailored black ensemble that had made your heart stop when you first saw her at the altar.

And now, as she stood there, hands in her pockets, eyes dark as they traced over your form, you felt that same breathless ache in your chest.

She looked at you like you were something precious.

Like she was trying to memorise every inch of you.

Her lips curled into something soft, but there was a hunger beneath it, a slow burn flickering in her gaze.

“God,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly. “You’re beautiful.”

Heat flared in your stomach.

She stepped closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she wanted to savor every second of this.

When she reached you, she reached up, her fingers barely ghosting over your waist.

Her eyes flickered over your dress—the same dress she had seen you in all night, the one she had struggled to take her eyes off of, the one that had nearly undone her at the altar.

Her voice was softer this time, almost reverent.

“You are stunning, mi amor.”

You shivered at the way she said it, at the way her fingers traced lightly over the delicate fabric.

Then she leaned in, her lips grazing your ear, her breath warm against your skin as she whispered,

“How does it feel?”

Your throat was dry. “How does what feel?”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing along your jaw, her expression pure adoration.

“To be Mrs. Putellas.”

A rush of heat shot through you, warmth curling in your chest and pooling in your stomach at the way she said it.

You loved the way it sounded.

The way it felt.

The weight of her name wrapped around yours, binding you forever to her.

You swallowed, barely able to find your voice. “Say it again.”

Alexia smirked now, a knowing, teasing thing.

“Mrs. Putellas,” she murmured, her lips pressing softly against the corner of your mouth.

You melted into her, your hands sliding up her chest, gripping the lapels of her suit as you tugged her closer.

She let out a soft chuckle, her hands settling at your waist, pulling you flush against her.

“I like the way that sounds,” you admitted breathlessly.

She hummed in agreement, her fingers tracing the outline of your dress.

“I like the way it looks on you.”

Your pulse hammered, your head spinning from the intensity of her gaze.

“Alexia…” you whispered, your fingers twisting in the fabric of her suit jacket.

She tilted her head slightly, studying you, memorising you, before dipping her head to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I love you,” she murmured against your skin.

Your breath hitched.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your heart full to bursting.

And as she took her time, loving you the way only she could—with soft whispers, tender touches, and an overwhelming depth of adoration—you knew one thing for certain.

Being Mrs. Putellas was the most incredible thing in the world.

rearrange my world | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: your whole world changes with one tiny person

notes: the one yall have been waiting for. also subtle name reveal for estrella 🙏🏾🙏🏾

The whistle blew and the stadium erupted. The final score flashed across the screen 6-0. Barça. Your name was still echoing around the stands from that absolute screamer you’d buried top corner in the 89th minute. Your teammates had tackled you to the ground in celebration, Jana had kissed your forehead, and Lucy had deadlifted you like a sack of potatoes.

After the chaos settled, you started doing your usual post-game rounds— signing shirts, posing for photos, throwing your sweat-drenched jersey into a sea of eager hands. You even took a baby for a selfie. Not with a baby. For a baby. The parents said she was a big fan. You didn’t ask questions.

Eventually, you made your way toward the stands where you knew they’d be, your people. Soleil was perched on the edge of her seat like she always was, practically vibrating with excitement. Olga was standing next to her, a hand on her baby bump and an oversized Barça hoodie draped over her shoulders. But there was already someone there, Alexia. Of course. She always managed to beat you when it came to Olga radar.

You jogged over, climbing the little divider with unnecessary flair, nearly tripping over your own feet. “Hey, move! It’s my moment!” you shouted as you flopped dramatically next to them.

Alexia rolled her eyes but smiled. “You scored one goal. Relax.”

“It was a screamer!” you huffed, looking to Soleil for backup.

“She screamed,” Soleil nodded solemnly. “But I think it was more about the knee slide into the cameraman.”

“Semantics,” you muttered, before turning to Olga. “Did you see it?”

Olga was mid-nod when she suddenly froze and hissed. Her hands flew to her stomach. You, Soleil, and Alexia all stopped speaking.

Olga’s face twisted. “Ah—wait—ah—ow—that’s not normal.”

You and Alexia instantly panicked in the most coordinated, unhelpful way possible.

“She’s going into labor!” you shrieked.

“She’s going into labor,” Alexia repeated, eyes wide.

“Call someone!” you both shouted at the same time, looking at each other like idiots.

“I’m someone!” Soleil said, already on her feet, completely calm. She helped Olga sit down on the nearest bench and pulled out her phone. “I’m calling the hospital.”

You were pacing in a circle, muttering things like “the baby is coming,” “I’m not ready to be a sister,” and “I don’t even have snacks packed.”

Alexia was frantically googling “What to do if your girlfriend gives birth in Camp Nou,” while also holding Olga’s hand and whispering “Breathe. Just breathe. Do people still breathe during this? Is that outdated?”

Meanwhile, Soleil had already flagged down security, arranged for the car to be brought around, and was now gently guiding Olga to the exit while both you and Alexia followed like panicked ducklings.

“I’M DRIVING,” you declared, keys in hand.

“You are absolutely not,” Soleil said, snatching them. “You don’t even know where the hospital is.”

“I know the vibe,” you argued.

“You once ended up in Andorra because you followed ‘the vibe,’” Alexia added.

The ride to the hospital was chaos. Olga was groaning dramatically, but still very much coherent.

“If either of you say push one more time, I will push you out of the car,” she warned.

You and Alexia sat in the back, both holding her hands, trying to out-comfort each other.

“Your breathing is perfect, amor,” Alexia whispered.

“Your aura is glowing, Mami,” you added, slightly louder.

Soleil drove like a saint, nodding along to Olga’s directions and occasionally muttering “we are literally the worst emergency support system in history.”

When you finally got to the hospital, the nurses rushed to take Olga in while you dramatically told the front desk that “a miracle is happening and it’s in that belly!”

Alexia followed closely, still googling things out loud. “It says here labor can last forty hours. Do you have snacks? Should I Uber snacks? Should we boil water? That’s a thing, right?”

Soleil rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might stick. “She’s not even in active labor. You two are embarrassing.”

After some monitoring and very unimpressed nurses, a doctor finally came out and said, “It’s just Braxton Hicks. False labor. You can take her home.”

There was a long pause.

You and Alexia blinked. “Braxton who?”

“Braxton Hicks,” the doctor repeated.

“That sounds like a Chelsea midfielder,” you whispered.

“It sounds made up,” Alexia said, crossing her arms.

But there was Olga, sitting on the hospital bed with a blanket wrapped around her and the most exhausted smile. “I’m fine. It was a false alarm.”

Soleil turned to you both. “Would you like to apologize now or in the car?”

You and Alexia looked at each other and said in perfect unison, “We panicked.”

Olga just shook her head, chuckling softly. “You two are lucky you’re cute.” Then she grabbed Soleil’s hand. “She’s the only one who didn’t add to my contractions.”

As you all left the hospital, Alexia put an arm around your shoulders. “We should probably take a birth class.”

“Can I bring snacks?” you asked.

“No,” Soleil muttered.

“Braxton Hicks,” you repeated quietly to yourself, like you still didn’t believe it.

“Sounds fake,” Alexia mumbled.

Olga just groaned. “You two are so not being in the delivery room.”

It started at breakfast, Olga winced slightly as she shifted in her seat, one hand settling on her belly.

You froze, mid-bite of your toast. “Mami…?”

Alexia, pouring tea, turned around instantly. “Are you okay?”

Olga let out a soft laugh. “Relax, it’s just Braxton Hicks again. False alarm.”

You and Alexia looked at each other like the world was ending. Alexia put down the kettle with a clatter. “That’s what you said last time and then you couldn’t stand for ten minutes.”

You stood up, already reaching for your phone. “Should we go to the hospital?”

“No!” Olga reached for your hand to keep you from spiraling. “It’s fine. I’ve got this.”

At the grocery store, it happened again.

You were helping her pick out snacks when she leaned forward against the cart and winced.

You gasped so loud the man in the next aisle turned his head. “Oh my god, is it time?”

Alexia, holding a bag of rice, dropped it. “Wait, did your water break? Should I call the doctor?!”

Olga rolled her eyes. “No! Just another one.”

You started Googling. “But what if it’s like… one of those stealth births?! Where the baby just like, pfft, slips out?!”

Alexia looked visibly pale. Olga just waddled away slowly, mumbling something about letting her finish her damn shopping.

After a routine appointment, you were all sitting in the car when she grabbed the side of her seat.

You screamed. “She’s in labor!”

Alexia dropped her keys. “I’ll drive! I’ll— Wait. Should I call Alba? Do we need reinforcements?!”

Olga groaned. “Stop yelling!”

You climbed halfway into the front seat. “Is she crowning?! I can’t see!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD, ESTRELLA.”

At bedtime, she was brushing her teeth when she hunched forward again.

You tripped over the laundry basket rushing to her. Alexia dropped her phone and fell off the bed in a panic.

Olga sighed, her face still calm. “It’s. Just. Braxton. Hicks.”

You and Alexia were shaking like leaves the rest of the night.

Finally, finally, it was a quiet afternoon. You, Soleil, and Olga were piled together on the living room couch, half-buried under blankets, watching the kind of cheesy, over-the-top romantic comedy you always pretended to hate but secretly loved. Soleil’s head was on your shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly tracing slow shapes on the back of your hand. Olga was curled against a cushion with one arm draped across her belly, her swollen stomach rising and falling as she chuckled at something on screen.

Everything was soft. Safe. Still.

“I’m getting more popcorn,” Olga said suddenly, shifting upright with a grunt.

You immediately sat up too. “No, no, I’ll get it for you!”

She shook her head with that little smile that always meant no use arguing. “I need to move, mami. You and Alexia have me bubble-wrapped. Sound familiar?”

You pouted dramatically. “You’re so stubborn.”

“Hmm.” She smirked as she waddled off toward the kitchen. “Wonder where I got that one from.”

You watched her go, then turned to Soleil with a playful nudge. “She’s gonna regret saying that when she realizes she can’t even reach the top shelf.”

But just a couple minutes later, a sharp gasp echoed from the kitchen. Then came Olga’s voice. Breathless. “Uhm… my water just broke.”

You froze. Soleil stood up slowly, calm already settling over her like a blanket. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. Estrella—grab the bag and start the car.”

You were already gone. Vaulted over the coffee table. Nearly ripped the front door off its hinges. You yanked the hospital bag from where it had been waiting by the entrance for weeks and sprinted outside.

Then you stopped dead. “THE KEYS!” you screamed into the void, whirling around like they’d magically appear in the driveway.

You thundered back inside, socked feet skidding across the tile. “WHERE ARE THE KEYS?”

“Estrella!” Olga groaned, half-laughing, half-dying. “Just get me to the car!”

Between frantic scrambling and Soleil keeping her steady, you finally got her down the steps and into the backseat. Soleil climbed in beside her, already dialing Alexia while murmuring soft instructions, “Keep breathing, that’s it, lean back, I’ve got you.”

You drove like an absolute menace. Ran a red light. Cut across a roundabout. Screamed at a Vespa. Soleil didn’t even flinch. She was in the back with Olga, voice gentle, fingers rubbing soothing circles on her arm while she gave Alexia a quick rundown of the situation.

By the time you screeched into the hospital’s emergency drop-off zone, Alexia was already there— hair still damp from the gym, shoes half on, worry written all over her face.

But things moved fast. Too fast. The doctors didn’t like what they were hearing from the monitors. The baby’s heartbeat was irregular. They said they had to assist with the delivery. It was go-time. You watched with bated breath as Alexia clutched Olga’s hand as she was wheeled away.

You were left behind. You and Soleil. Just sitting there in the sterile, humming quiet of the waiting room.

You couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe. You paced back and forth, chewing at your nails, bouncing your leg, running your fingers through your hair until it was sticking up in every direction. Soleil tried everything— held your hands, made you sit, tried breathing exercises, even offered to braid your hair to calm you, but nothing worked.

You were too afraid. Not just for the baby. But for Olga. Your mother. You couldn’t lose her.

Eli showed up first. She didn’t say anything. Just wrapped you in a massive, grounding hug and didn’t let go until your hands stopped shaking.

Then came Alba.

Alba, who took one look at your wrecked state, grabbed your shoulders, and pushed you down into a seat with a pointed stare.

“She’s going to be okay,” Alba said firmly. “You love her, right?” You nodded fast.

“Then trust her and the doctors. Olga is strong, you know this.”

That made something shift in you. Just a little. Just enough to take a breath. Just enough to sit still. And then, finally, Alexia came out.

“She’s okay,” she said, voice thick, tears glistening in her eyes. “The baby’s okay. Olga’s okay.” You nearly collapsed right there.

“She wants you,” Alexia added gently. “She’s asking for you.”

You ran. Through the doors, past the nurses, straight to the room. You didn’t go to the baby first. You couldn’t. You needed to see her.

You rushed to Olga’s side, cupping her face in your hands. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay,” you whispered over and over.

She nodded with tears in her eyes, her hand finding yours and squeezing tightly. “We’re okay, bebita. We’re okay.”

Only then did you turn. And there she was.

The tiniest thing you’d ever seen. Swaddled in soft pink blankets, wriggling gently in her bassinet. Her skin was flushed, her eyes blinking slow and curious. A head full of dark hair. Little fists that already looked ready to throw hands.

You stepped forward, breath caught in your throat.

“Can I—?”

Olga smiled. “Go on. Hold her.”

You picked her up like she was made of glass. And the moment she settled into your arms, your entire body broke open. Tears welled up instantly, your shoulders shaking.

“She’s so perfect,” you whispered.

Olga’s voice was soft, but sure. “Do you want to know her name?”

You looked at her, blinking through tears. Alexia smiled gently. “Valerie Celestina Putellas.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your legs gave out, and you sat in the chair next to Olga’s bed, clutching your baby sister like she was everything.

“You named her after me?” your voice cracked.

“Of course,” Olga said, her hand stroking your back. “So she always has a piece of her big sister with her. So even when you’re out in the world doing your thing, she’ll still have you close.”

You sobbed. Couldn’t stop. Could barely speak through the tears.

After everything. After the abandonments. After sleeping on couches. After courtrooms and broken promises and crying yourself to sleep wondering if anyone was ever going to want you. Now you had a family. And you had her. Valerie Celestina.

Forever.