I'd Fight A Sim For You | A.p.

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

Part 5: One night in Barcelona part 2 Other Parts

Word Count: 9.5K

The first thing you notice is the light.

It’s soft a buttery gold spilling across the ceiling, sliding warm fingers across the covers tangled around your waist.

The second thing you notice is the silence. Not heavy. Not empty. Full.

Full of the soft breath of the house waking up. Full of the quiet stretch of a day waiting to happen. You roll over, rubbing a hand across your face, blinking into the brightening room.

For a second, you forget where you are.

And then, the smell of fresh air through the open window, the distant hum of birds, the weightless feeling still sitting in your chest her house. Her world.

You smile before you even realise you are. You push back the covers, stretch lazily, toes curling against the cool floorboards, and pad barefoot toward the doorway.

Down the hall faint but unmistakable — you hear it. Soft clinking. The low hiss of a kettle. The quiet shuffle of bare feet against tile.

You follow it moving down the stairs, your heart already lifting.

The kitchen’s warm with morning light windows thrown open, a breeze slipping in, fluttering the edge of a dish towel hanging from the oven.

And there she is. Alexia. Hair messy, pulled up in a lazy bun, hoodie loose over shorts, feet bare on the tile.

She’s standing at the counter, fiddling with the coffee machine, one hand tapping a lazy beat against the counter.

She turns when she hears you, face lighting up with a slow, sleepy smile that nearly knocks the breath out of you.

"Bon Dia," she says, voice thick and rough with sleep.

"Bon Dia," you echo, rubbing the back of your neck, suddenly shy in a way you hadn’t been the night before.

She eyes you playfully, reaching for a second mug without even asking. “You sleep okay?”

You nod, stepping further into the room, letting the smell of coffee and something fresh — toast maybe? — wrap around you. “Best sleep I’ve had in weeks," you admit.

Alexia grins, pouring the coffee carefully, sliding one cup across the counter to you. “See? Spain’s good for you."

You take a sip, it’s perfect, rich and hot and a little too strong and sigh happily.

She leans her hip against the counter, crossing her arms lightly, mug cradled between her hands. “So,” she says, a spark flickering in her still-sleepy eyes, “you ready for your big day?”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. "Depends. What’s the plan, captain?"

She pretends to think, tapping her chin with one finger. “First,” she says, ticking off on her fingers, “good coffee.” She holds up her cup meaningfully.

You lift yours in silent salute.

“Then,” she continues, "beach walk? Breakfast near the marina. Maybe a stop at a market I like. Then..." She pauses, smirking.

"What?"

"You’ll see," she says, sing-song, clearly enjoying herself.

You laugh, head tipping back slightly. “Busy day," you tease.

She shrugs, looking unfairly beautiful in the soft morning light. "Can’t waste a second."

You sip your coffee, watching her over the rim of your cup. Feeling the truth settle in quietly beneath your ribs, Neither of you want to waste a second. Not today.

You leave the house with the last sips of coffee still warm in your mouths, sunglasses pushed up into your hair.

Alexia leads the way, casual, loose, shorts showing off strong, sun-kissed legs you couldn't help but stare at as you followed.

The air is already warming the kind of spring-summer heat that rises slow and easy, not heavy yet.

The beach is a short drive away, the Mediterranean stretched wide and glittering blue, dotted with early morning joggers, sleepy vendors setting up umbrellas, a few dogs sprinting wild, free along the shore.

You both kick off your shoes the second you hit the sand. The grains are cool and soft under your feet, the breeze tugging lightly at your clothes.

Alexia squints into the sun, one hand shading her eyes, and you see it, the soft, unguarded grin that only just tugs at her mouth.

“You gonna keep up?” she teases, nudging your hip lightly with hers.

You laugh, stepping around her, a fake competitive bounce in your step. “Race you to the water.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. "You’ll lose."

"You sure?" you call over your shoulder, already breaking into a jog.

Alexia’s laughter chases after you, low, delighted, and a second later, she’s running too, sand kicking up between you.

You’re not really racing. You both know it.

But you reach the shoreline first, your feet sinking into the wet sand, the surf rushing up to kiss your toes, cool and shockingly fresh.

You spin around just as Alexia skids to a stop beside you, breathless and laughing. “Victory,” you say, throwing your arms up dramatically.

She rolls her eyes, reaching out to flick a handful of wet sand lightly at your legs. “Only because I let you win.”

“Liar,” you shoot back, grinning.

She smirks, brushing her hair back off her face where the breeze has tugged it loose.

You both stand there for a moment. Feet in the foam. Shoulders brushing occasionally when the tide rocks you gently.

The city curves away behind you but it might as well be a thousand miles away. Here, it’s just sun and salt and her.

Alexia tips her head toward the boardwalk further down where the small breakfast spots are just starting to open, white umbrellas being pulled into place.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“Always,” you say without hesitation.

She grins, hooking two fingers lightly into your sleeve as she turns, tugging you toward the dry sand. “Come on. I know a place.”

You follow her, barefoot, laughing, sand sticking to your calves feeling lighter than you have in months.

The kind of lightness you can't plan. The kind you don't even dare hope for.

The café she leads you to is tucked right into the edge of the boardwalk, all pale wood, wide open windows, and the smell of coffee and warm bread floating out to meet you.

You snag a table outside, toes still sandy, sunglasses pushed up onto your heads, muscles loose and humming from the run and the laughter.

Alexia orders for you both without even asking remembering how you take your coffee, what you said yesterday about sweet breakfasts being your weakness.

You raise an eyebrow at her when she finishes, mock-impressed.

She just shrugs, smiling into her coffee cup. “I listen."

You don’t look away. Neither does she. And with the sea at your back, the sun at your faces, and her smile tucked like a secret between you your shoulders relax.

Plates arrive quickly, strong coffee, thick slices of bread still warm from the oven, bowls of fresh fruit glistening under the sun.

You dig in immediately into your waffles with a stupid about of Nutella over them, hunger from the beach walk sharpening everything.

Alexia watches you, one hand curled loosely around her mug, that lazy, half-hidden smile never really leaving her face.

"You enjoying that?," she says lightly.

You raise an eyebrow, mouth full of pancake.

"Don't judge me," you mumble around a bite, making her laugh. "At least I'm not boring with my fruit platter"

She shrugs, mock-innocent. "I have a reputation to maintain."

You swallow, grinning. "You mean the reputation where you're the best player on the planet and a food snob?"

Alexia leans back in her chair, sunglasses slipping down her nose a little, smiling properly now wide, unguarded. "I'm not a food snob," she protests. "I just know what’s good."

You spear a piece of chocolate covered waffle with your fork, waving it at her dramatically. "Exhibit A," you say, popping it into your mouth.

She laughs again, a warm, real sound that sinks deep into your chest and steals a piece of strawberry with chocolate on without asking, tossing it into her mouth with a smug little grin.

The easy rhythm between you builds with every bite, every playful nudge under the table. You brush your foot against hers once not meaning to. She doesn’t move away. So neither do you.

The breeze catches the corner of a napkin and sends it fluttering across the table. You both reach for it at the same time, your hands bumping, fingertips grazing, a tiny spark jolting up your arm.

You freeze for a half-second eyes locked. The moment stretches a breath, a heartbeat. Before Alexia smiles, soft and knowing, and lets her hand slide away first.

You tuck the napkin under your plate, swallowing a smile. "Smooth," you tease, your voice lower now, playful but full of something else.

She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her palm. "You have no idea," she says, soft enough that it could be mistaken for a breeze if you weren’t looking directly at her.

Your stomach flips. You don’t look away. You can’t.

And for the first time since you landed in Barcelona, since you sat shoulder to shoulder by the pool under the stars you feel it shift between you. Not just friendship. Not just admiration. Something tipping forward, slow and certain and real.

Alexia reaches for her coffee, eyes still on you. “So," she says casually, blowing across the surface of the drink, "after breakfast... market? Or do you want to beat me at another race first?"

You smirk. "I think you’re still recovering from losing the last one."

She mock-gasps, hand to her heart. "Such disrespect."

You chuckle, sliding your sunglasses back down onto your nose to hide the way you’re smiling like an idiot.

Alexia watches you over the rim of her cup soft, warm, sure. You finish the last bites of breakfast together, your legs still brushing under the table, your laughter still folding together easily.

And the whole time, you can feel it building. Slow. Bright. Unstoppable.

⚽️

Breakfast lingers in your body warm, heavy in a good way as you both leave the café, shoes back on, sunglasses shading your eyes from the rising sun.

Alexia tugs her jacket sleeves up over her elbows as you fall into step beside her. The streets are a little busier now not crazy, but buzzing in that Barcelona way, scooters weaving through traffic, cyclists darting between tourists, locals striding fast and sure like they own the sidewalks.

You’re walking close, close enough that your hands brush once, casual.

You’re laughing about something stupid she said at breakfast something about her being a 'culinary icon' for choosing the right melon, when she suddenly shifts.

It’s so smooth you barely register it until you’re already there. You feel her hand light but firm slide across your waist. Not possessive. Not rough. Just there.

Steady. Guiding.

She moves you gently to the inside, away from the curb where the street traffic rumbles past too fast, too close. No words. No big scene.

Just the easy, automatic instinct to put herself between you and everything else. Your breath catches tiny, unnoticeable to anyone but you but you don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

She keeps her hand there for a second longer than necessary fingers warm through the thin fabric of your top before letting it fall away, brushing lightly against your hip as she does.

You glance at her quick, sideways. She doesn’t look at you. Just keeps walking, hands back in her jacket pocket, casual like nothing happened.

But there’s a slight, unmistakable curve to her mouth. Like she knows exactly what she did. And exactly what it did to you. You swallow around the smile threatening to break free and match her stride.

The market is a riot of colour and sound when you arrive.

Rows of stalls spill into the street vibrant fruits stacked in messy pyramids, flowers bursting from buckets, the rich smell of roasting nuts and fresh bread curling through the air.

You drift between stalls together not rushing, not with any real plan just being.

Alexia stops to pick through peaches at one stand, lifting them gently, checking them like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

You wander a few feet away, caught by a table piled high with handmade jewellery rough-edged silver, worn leather bands, tiny delicate charms.

You’re reaching out for one when someone bumps into you not hard, not aggressive just the usual jostle of a busy street.

Still, before you even fully register it, Alexia is there. A step closer. A hand brushing your lower back. A glance sharp over her shoulder at the stranger, assessing, steady, before relaxing again when she realises it’s nothing.

She doesn’t say a word. Just stays close now half a step nearer than before, body angled subtly between you and the crowd. As if shielding you.

You look up at her, heart hammering stupidly. She catches your gaze, shrugs like it’s nothing. "Busy today," she says, voice low, easy.

You know she’s pretending it was casual. You know it wasn’t. And you don’t call her on it. You just smile, a little more than you mean to, and shift a little closer to her side. Where she clearly wants you to be.

Where you want to be.

You wander between stalls, the smells and colours thick around you citrus and flowers and bread still warm from the ovens.

Alexia stays close now. Not hovering. Not crowding. Just... there.

Every time you glance up, she’s within reach scanning the stalls casually, bumping your shoulder when she teases you about the size of the tote bag you picked up, tossing small, knowing glances your way whenever something catches your eye.

You stop by a table filled with little handmade necklaces and bracelets all simple, silver chains and tiny silver pendants shaped like shells and stars and suns.

You lean in, fingers brushing lightly over one, a tiny silver star, worn smooth from being handled so many times. You don’t pick it up. Just smile a little to yourself and step away.

You’re halfway down the next aisle when Alexia doubles back with a muttered, "Hang on."

You blink, confused, but stay where you are, pretending to study a crate of cherries while secretly watching her.

She speaks quietly to the vendor, quick, easy Spanish you don't understand, and tucks something small into her jacket pocket before rejoining you like nothing happened.

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “What was that?"

“Nothing," she says, breezy.

You narrow your eyes at her, smiling despite yourself. "Liar."

She grins, completely unbothered. "Trust issues."

You nudge her lightly with your elbow, and she laughs low, under her breath, the sound curling into your chest.

After another twenty minutes weighed down now by pastries and fruit and a tiny pot of local honey Alexia insisted you had to try you find a bench tucked between two buildings, half in the sun, half in the shade.

You both slump onto it like you’ve just finished a marathon.

Alexia stretches her legs out, one arm slung casually across the back of the bench behind you, fingers drumming an absent rhythm against the wood.

You sit there, catching your breath, letting the sounds of the market buzz lazily around you. She digs into the pocket of her jacket casual, like it’s no big deal and tosses something into your lap.

You catch it reflexively. It’s the necklace. The little silver star you’d been looking at earlier. You stare at it for a second before looking up at her.

She shrugs, smirking, trying and failing to play it cool. "You looked like you wanted it."

Your throat tightens, stupidly, around how simple and easy she makes it sound.

You turn the charm over in your hand small, worn, perfect. “Thank you," you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Alexia bumps her knee lightly against yours. "You're welcome." You thread the chain through your fingers hesitating and Alexia leans closer, dropping her voice so low it almost feels like a secret. "Want me to put it on you?"

You laugh breathless, caught off guard by the way she says it light, teasing, but full of something else too.

You nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah. Okay. Please"

You turn slightly, pulling your hair away from your neck. You feel the careful brush of her fingers soft, warm from the sun as she hooks the chains at the back of your neck.

Her knuckles graze your skin once. You shiver. When she’s done, you turn back around and she's close now. Closer than she's been all morning.

She tugs lightly at the star resting against your collarbone, smiling that small, soft smile that says more than she’s ready to put into words. "Looks good on you," she murmurs.

You smile shy and wide and helpless.

"Thank you," you whisper back.

⚽️

The heat of the day is starting to thicken now not heavy yet, but enough that the shade of the narrow streets feels like a relief.

You fall into step naturally close enough that your arms brush sometimes. Close enough that you’re aware of her in every movement. Neither of you says much at first.

It’s not uncomfortable. It’s easy. The kind of silence that feels like it belongs to both of you. Alexia glances over at you once, a small, sideways smile curling at her mouth and you feel it tug at something low in your stomach.

You smile back, helplessly. You can’t not.

At one point, a group of kids on scooters whip past too close, and instinctively, Alexia reaches out her hand finding your lower back, the same steady pressure from earlier, pulling you gently toward her, away from the chaos.

She doesn’t even seem to think about it. Doesn’t make it a thing. Her hand lingers a second longer than necessary.

You glance at her heart thudding but she’s already looking ahead again, cool as anything, like it’s just natural now. Maybe it is.

You keep walking. At some point, her knuckles brush yours. Not an accident this time. Slow. Intentional.

You glance down, see her hand swinging casually, deliberately a little closer to yours than before. Your pulse picks up. You bump your hand lightly against hers.

She bumps back playful, teasing. It’s a game now, almost. A dance neither of you quite want to end.

Finally , you let your pinky hook loosely around hers. Not holding. Not grabbing. Just touching. Testing. Alexia’s fingers twitch once, soft before curling back.

Her pinky loops around yours. Light. Secure. Barely there. But there.

You both keep walking like nothing’s changed. But everything has. The world narrows to the small, secret place between your hands. You don’t talk about it. You don’t need to.

By the time you reach the car, the sun is high and your heart feels impossibly full. Alexia unlocks it with a beep, tossing the bags into the backseat without letting go of your hand just yet.

She turns to you sunglasses slipping down her nose a little and grins. "Ready for part two?" she asks, voice low and teasing.

You laugh breathless, giddy, hers without even trying. "Always," you say. And you mean it.

⚽️

The drive after the market blurs past in the low hum of warm air through open windows and music playing softly from the speakers both of you riding that edge between playful and something more.

Alexia parks outside a little cafe tucked against the edge of a park one of those local places tourists never find, the kind where old men play cards and kids chase each other between the tables.

You grab seats outside again shaded by the wide arms of an ancient olive tree. She sits across from you, sunglasses perched lazily on her nose, ankles crossed under the table.

You sit back, sipping from your glass of cold lemonade, pretending not to notice the way her gaze keeps finding yours over the rim of her cup.

But you feel it. You feel everything. She’s smiling, a little sharper than before, like she knows exactly what she’s doing now.

And you’re not helping not with the way you keep tucking your hair behind your ear, or letting your knee brush hers under the table without pulling back.

There’s no rushing it. But there’s no hiding it anymore either.

She leans forward at one point elbows on the table, chin resting on the back of one hand, watching you with that lazy, lidded look that makes your skin prickle.

"You always do that?" she asks, voice low.

You blink, thrown. "Do what?"

Her smile curves, slow. "Tilt your head when you’re trying not to laugh."

Your face heats instantly. "I do not," you protest.

She shrugs, clearly amused. "You do. It's cute."

You kick at her lightly under the table half-playful, half-flustered. She catches your ankle between her feet, trapping it, smirking across the table.

You don’t pull away. You don’t want to.

You sit there, locked in a slow, simmering stare that says everything neither of you has said yet.

Alexia breaks the silence. Not with a joke. Not with a tease.

Just: "You drive me a little crazy, you know that?"

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s just true.

You blink, breath catching in your throat, heart hammering against your ribs. "You’re one to talk," you murmur, finding your voice somewhere down near your shoes.

She smiles not the big, showy one. The real one. Soft, certain.

She leans back, releasing your ankle with a casual nudge of her foot, and finishes her drink.

"Come on," she says, standing, tossing a few coins onto the table.

You stand too unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with your legs.

She waits until you’re close enough until the tiny space between you hums again then reaches out, casual but deliberate, looping two fingers into the waistband of your jeans belt loop for half a second, tugging you forward. It's a quirk of hers you're growing to adore more and more.

"You still owe me a rematch," she murmurs, voice low, words brushing against your skin.

"For what?"

"Race. Breakfast. Uno." She shrugs, smiling as she lets go of your waistband the touch brief but burning.

You laugh stunned and stupidly, wildly giddy. "I don’t think you’re keeping score very well."

Alexia tilts her head, that same tilt she accused you of, and grins. "I’m not keeping score anymore."

She starts walking easy, loose, confident in a way you hadn’t seen all morning.

You catch up to her without thinking. And when your hand brushes hers when her fingers curl loosely, briefly, around yours this time neither of you lets go.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You end up at a little tucked-away park one that’s mostly empty, a few stray families packing up picnics, some old men lounging under the trees.

There’s a worn goal painted onto a cracked stone wall no nets, just faint white lines and a dusty ball someone’s abandoned near the edge of the grass.

Alexia spots it immediately.

You can almost feel the shift in her the way she straightens, the way her grin sharpens.

"Oh no," you say, laughing as she jogs over to grab the ball.

"Oh yes," she calls back, dribbling it lazily with the side of her foot, toe taps quick and effortless.

You shake your head, walking toward her slowly. She traps the ball under her foot, raising an eyebrow at you with mock innocence.

"What, you scared?"

You bark a laugh, heart pounding with something that has nothing to do with fear. You drop your tote bag onto the bench nearby, tighten your shoelaces, and square up in front of her. "Bring it, capitana."

Her smile turns wicked. And you realise you might’ve just made a very beautiful mistake.

It starts simple light, teasing a game of keep-away more than anything else.

She dribbles in tight circles, flicking the ball from foot to foot like it's tied to her with a string.

You chase, laughing, trying to poke it away, but she spins out of reach again and again loose-limbed, smug, absolutely in her element.

"Come on," she teases. "You’re supposed to be good at this."

You lunge half-hearted, on purpose and miss by a mile. Alexia howls with laughter, head tipping back, the sound wrapping warm around your ribs.

You fake left, then dart right and this time, your toe catches the ball just enough to pop it loose.

You sprint after it, triumphant only to feel an arm snake around your waist, pulling you off balance.

You stumble, laughing so hard you can't breathe, as Alexia wrestles the ball back under her foot, grinning down at you.

"Foul!" you gasp, pointing at her accusingly.

"Play on," she says sweetly, nudging the ball back toward the goal painted on the wall.

You chase her again this time catching up enough to bump hips as you both fight for possession, laughing so much neither of you can keep proper control.

She finally kicks it a soft, lazy shot that thuds against the wall, missing the goal entirely.

You both collapse onto the grass a second later gasping, sweaty, beaming.

The ball rolls away lazily across the patchy grass. You lie there, shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the bright blue sky, hearts hammering.

Alexia nudges your elbow with hers. "Admit it," she says, breathless. "You stood no chance."

You turn your head, squinting at her against the sunlight. "You fouled me."

She grins — lazy, loose, beautiful. "You loved it."

You don't deny it. You can't. You just roll your eyes fondly and close your own, letting the sun soak into your skin, letting the warmth of her beside you settle deep under your ribs.

You could stay like this forever the low thrum of competition, the brush of her arm against yours, the weight of everything neither of you is saying yet hanging sweet and certain between you.

Alexia shifts a little her arm brushing yours again, her head turning lazily toward you.

For a second, she just watches you. Not intense. Not hungry. Just... watching. Soft. Certain.

Then, voice low and casual, she says "Next time you come... We’ll do all the tourist clichés.. like you did with me"

You turn your head slowly, raising an eyebrow at her, fighting the grin tugging at your mouth. "Next time?" you echo, teasing.

Alexia’s mouth twitches not quite a smile, not quite a challenge. She shrugs, playing it breezy even as her voice dips lower. "Assuming you survive this trip, yeah."

You laugh under your breath, tipping your head back toward the sky. "And here I thought I was just a one-time special guest."

Alexia hums a soft, thoughtful sound. "Never said that," she murmurs.

You feel her words like a warm, low tide pulling at your chest. You glance over again catch her looking at you, steady and sure. No teasing now.

You let the silence sit there for a moment — heavy in the best way — before you nudge her knee lightly with yours.

"Alright, fine," you say, pretending to sigh. "Next time, you're getting dragged to every cliche tourist spot possible."

Alexia grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sagrada Familia selfie?"

"Definitely."

"Boat tour?"

"Obviously."

She groans, covering her face with one hand, laughing into it.

You nudge her again, laughing too. "Too late to back out now, capitana. It was your idea"

She peeks at you between her fingers eyes bright, mouth soft. "I’m not backing out."

You hold her gaze for a second longer than you probably should.

After lying there long enough to feel the sun start to dip, Alexia pushes herself up with a soft groan, brushing grass off her shorts.

“Come on," she says, reaching down with one hand to tug you up. "Can’t let you get on that plane later without a real meal first."

You grin, letting her pull you to your feet hands lingering longer than necessary before brushing yourself off too.

You drive with the windows down again hair whipping into your face, the city folding itself into gold and long shadows as the sun sinks lower.

Alexia hums along to the radio, lazy and a little distracted one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lightly against her thigh.

You watch her out of the corner of your eye the relaxed set of her shoulders, the way her mouth tilts up slightly even when she's not smiling and you tuck the image away in your chest for later.

The restaurant she picks is tucked into a narrow side street a tiny place, no sign above the door, just the smell of grilled meat and fresh bread spilling into the warm evening air.

Inside, it’s all stone walls and low ceilings, candles flickering on every table, the air thick with laughter and the clink of glasses. Locals only. No tourists. No cameras. Just them.

The hostess greets Alexia like an old friend a clasp of hands, a few rapid words in Catalan that make Alexia laugh low and easy. You catch your name in there hear it said with affection and Alexia glances at you over her shoulder, giving you a look that’s soft around the edges.

You’re shown to a quiet table tucked into a corner, half-hidden behind a curtain of ivy hanging from the ceiling.

You sit across from each other knees brushing lightly under the table, neither of you bothering to pull away.

The food comes in waves small plates, things meant to be shared: marinated olives, grilled peppers, thin slices of jamón glistening under the candlelight.

You pick at everything, laughing when Alexia insists you try the weirdest-looking dish first, letting the easy rhythm between you carry the conversation.

It’s effortless now. All of it. The teasing. The glances. The touches that last a beat longer than necessary.

When she reaches for her wine glass, her fingers brush yours.

When you say something that makes her laugh really laugh, that low, throaty sound you’re addicted to now she leans closer across the table, close enough that you feel the heat of her even with the candle flickering between you.

And when the bill comes when she waves away your offer to split it without even looking she just smirks, lazy and sure. “My city," she says, voice low and warm. "My treat."

⚽️

The drive back is quiet. The low thrum of music, the soft rush of the road under the tires, the weight of everything you're both not saying yet thick between you.

Alexia pulls into the driveway slowly, headlights sweeping across the olive trees, the pool glittering faintly beyond the patio.

You follow her inside through the kitchen still warm with the memory of coffee, up the stairs where the evening sun pools in lazy puddles of light. You grab your bag from the guest room slowly dragging your feet without meaning to feeling every second of the ticking clock now.

Alexia leans against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, watching you. You sling the bag over your shoulder heavier than it should feel and step into the hallway.

Neither of you moves right away. Neither of you says what you're both thinking. She shifts slightly pushes off the frame, closing the distance between you without a word.

She reaches out slow, careful and tugs lightly at the strap of your bag, her fingers brushing yours.

"You sure you have to go?" she says, voice low and rough now.

You smile, small and helpless even as your heart aches.

"I'll be back," you say quietly.

She smiles too soft and sure and so much. “I’m counting on it," she says.

And for a second. one long, suspended heartbeat it feels like she might lean in. Like you might. But then the world creeps back in and there’s an airport to reach.

You follow her back out to the car your hands brushing once, twice and neither of you pulls away.

The drive to the airport is quiet. Not awkward, never awkward now but full of a kind of slow, heavy knowing. The kind that sits deep in your chest, tugging at every word you don't say.

You watch the city slip away outside the window golden and endless and hers and you already feel yourself missing it before you’ve even left.

Missing her.

When she pulls up to the departures curb, she puts the car in park but doesn’t turn off the engine. The hum of it fills the small space between you. You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. Reach for your bag. Fumble, a little.

Neither of you moves to open the door. Instead, you just... sit there. Breathing the same air. Trying to memorise each other in the dwindling seconds.

Alexia shifts first turning slightly in her seat, one arm thrown casually over the backrest, her fingers grazing your shoulder lightly.

"You’ll text me when you land?" she says, voice low and rough-edged.

You smile small, sure. "Promise."

Her mouth twitches, a smile that doesn’t quite reach full strength, too weighed down with everything unspoken.

You shift toward her the air suddenly electric between you. And for one suspended second, you’re sure. Sure she’s going to kiss you.

Sure you want her to. Sure you’re going to meet her halfway. You tilt up, breath catching. She leans in.

Closer.

Closer.

And at the last second instead of finding your mouth her lips brush the curve of your cheek.

Soft. Warm. Lingering.

Her nose grazes yours as she pulls back, just slightly.

Not an accident. Not a mistake. A promise. A next time.

You blink breathless, heart hammering and when you open your eyes fully, she’s still there, so close you can see the flecks of gold in her eyes.

She smiles a tiny, secret thing meant only for you and leans back, letting you go.

"Go before you miss check in," she says, almost teasing, almost not.

You laugh shaky, happy, undone  and shove the door open before you can forget how your legs work.

You sling your bag over your shoulder. You look back once catch her leaning against the steering wheel, watching you go with a look that makes your chest ache.

You lift your hand in a little wave. She taps two fingers against the side of her head in reply saluting you, awkward as ever, sending you off without ever saying it.

And then you turn. And walk into the airport.

⚽️

You step through the doors into camp boots slung over your shoulder, kit bag heavy at your side, sun still clinging to your skin from Barcelona.

And immediately, you know you’re screwed. The noise, the energy, the absolute full-force chaos of being back with England.

It’s loud. It’s familiar. It’s home.

You barely get two steps into the lobby before Georgia sidles up beside you shoulder bumping yours lightly.

"Alright, world traveler?" she says, grinning, tugging your bag out of your hand before you can protest.

You roll your eyes fondly. "Alright, stalker?"

Georgia laughs, slinging your bag over her shoulder like it weighs nothing. "Come on then. Spill. How was it?"

You glance around the lobby buzzing with players dropping bags, greeting each other, shouting across the space and lower your voice instinctively. "It was good," you say, keeping it casual.

Georgia narrows her eyes immediately suspicious. "Good?" she repeats. "That’s it? Good?"

You shrug playing it cool, playing it awful. Georgia bumps you again, harder this time. "You’re a terrible liar."

Before you can open your mouth to come up with something better before you can even blink Beth drops into step on your other side, sunglasses perched on her head, sipping a coffee like she owns the building.

"What’s good?" she asks breezily, looking between you and Georgia.

You freeze. Georgia, traitor that she is, grins way too wide.

"Nothing," you blurt.

Georgia, already revelling in it, bumps your hip again. "Just asking about Barcelona," she says, way too loud, way too innocent.

Beth blinks. Then squints. Then her mouth drops open. "Wait—" she says, half-laughing, half-horrified. "Barcelona?"

You glare at Georgia, but she’s too far gone now, practically vibrating with the joy of it.

Beth rounds on you immediately, wide-eyed. "Hang on," she says, coffee sloshing dangerously as she gestures wildly. "You went to Barcelona—"

Georgia, ever helpful, chimes in "After Alexia went to Munich to see her."

Beth actually staggers, hand clutching her chest dramatically. "Are you kidding me?!"

You bury your face in your hands. Georgia howls with laughter.

Beth recovers just enough to point accusingly at you, grinning so wide she looks like she might combust. "And you didn’t tell us?!"

You groan into your palms. "It’s not—" you start.

"It’s everything," Beth interrupts gleefully.

You peek at her through your fingers cheeks burning, heart pounding, but some part of you laughing too, because it’s Beth and Georgia and they love you and they’re not mad just thrilled for the gossip.

"And she went to Munich," Beth repeats, practically dancing now. "To see you."

"And this one went to Barcelona," Georgia adds, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

You let your hands fall, laughing helplessly. "Yeah, okay, fine," you mutter. "We’ve... seen each other. A few times."

Beth shrieks, full, delighted shriek earning a few curious looks from the others across the lobby.

"You’re in so much trouble when Leah finds out," she says gleefully, already pulling her phone out like she might text her right now.

You lunge for it half-hearted, laughing too hard to really care. Georgia slings her arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a tight, jostling hug. "We’re just saying," she says, voice sing-song sweet. "If you end up married to the Queen of Barcelona, we expect good seats."

Beth nods solemnly. "Front row. Confetti cannons."

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts but you’re grinning, wide and helpless and full.

⚽️

By the time you make it to the gym for the first session, you’re already regretting everything.

You walk in and before you even hit the first mat, Georgia and Beth are at it again.

Georgia strides ahead dramatically, dropping to one knee right in the middle of the entrance.

You don’t even have time to react.

She grabs Beth’s hand, exaggerated, way too serious, "Bethany Jane Mead, will you do me the honor of running away to Barcelona with me?"

The few girls near the squat racks snap their heads up instantly, like a school of sharks scenting blood.

You freeze hands on your hips, trying desperately not to laugh.

Beth covers her mouth with her free hand, fake-swooning in the most ridiculous way possible.

"Oh, Georgia," she gasps dramatically. "I thought you’d never ask!"

You glare at both of them, fond and furious, and shout without thinking, "Shut up!"

Your voice bounces off the walls, echoing across the gym. Everyone stops. Turns. Looks at you.

Silence, for about three seconds, before Leah, standing by the dumbbells, calls out, "Oi, what’s going on over there?"

Before you can even think of a lie, Beth the absolute traitor straightens up and shouts back, all singsong "Someone’s been keeping secrets!"

The gym erupts, players abandoning warm-ups to crowd closer like it’s feeding time.

Lucy jogs over, eyebrows high. "Secrets?"

Ella Toone, already halfway across the room, shouts "Who’s keeping secrets?!”

Georgia still riding the wave points directly at you, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

You bury your face in your hands, groaning as the teasing grows louder around you. Through your fingers, you hiss, "Georgia, I actually hate you."

But it’s weak. Empty. You don’t mean it. Not even a little. And when you peek out cheeks burning, pulse racing you’re smiling. Grudgingly. Hopelessly. Because for all the noise and jokes and fake proposals, it’s love.

Beth bounces beside you, looping an arm around your shoulders like she’s claiming you.

Georgia is no help — nudging Beth, both of them barely holding in their laughter as you fumble for a way out.

"You gonna tell them?" Georgia sing-songs.

You shake your head violently, cheeks burning. You stay silent. Absolutely silent.

Beth laughs — full, gleeful, bright. "Look at her," she tells the group, nearly doubled over. "She’s gone bright red!"

Georgia nods, clapping you on the back like you’ve just won a medal. "She’s crumbling. Absolutely folding."

More laughter spills across the gym Leah whistling, Lucy shouting "SUS!" at the top of her lungs, Ella Toone chanting,

"Tell us, tell us, tell us!"

You hold firm stubborn and suffering refusing to say anything. But your face is giving you away.

And Beth and Georgia, absolute traitors, are loving every second of it.

You mouth traitors at them as you yank your hood over your head and march toward the treadmill.

Behind you, you can hear Beth shout, grinning, "Not denying it though, is she?!"

The girls howl. And you hiding your face, heart hammering, skin buzzing can’t help the small, helpless smile that creeps over your mouth.

⚽️

You’re finally getting a moment to breathe.

The gym session’s behind you, your legs are heavy, and your tray is loaded with carbs you’re pretending not to be this excited about. You slide into your seat at the end of the long table, exhaling deeply, finally in peace.

You’re mid-way through demolishing a mountain of pasta when Leah and Keira appear across from you sliding into their seats with matching grins that immediately put you on alert.

Leah leans her elbows on the table, chin resting on her hands, eyes way too amused.

Keira just sets her phone down screen-up between them, sipping her drink, looking almost bored but her raised eyebrow gives her away.

You pause fork halfway to your mouth. “…What.”

Leah smiles slowly. Like a shark. “Lovely weather in Barcelona at the weekend, wasn’t it?”

You blink, heat rising in your chest instantly. Keira taps the screen with one finger and you glance down.

There it is. A photo. Blurry, zoomed-in, definitely from someone’s phone — but it’s unmistakably you stepping out of a car outside the gates of the Barcelona football ground.

No caption. No tagged companion. No evidence of anything. But it’s you. And it’s out there. You blink again. Then glance up.

Leah and Keira are both watching you like they’re on the edge of their seats at a theatre show.

You clear your throat. Slowly return to your pasta. “Could be anyone,” you mumble.

Leah nearly chokes on her water. Keira calmly pushes the phone closer toward you. “You’re wearing that exact hoodie,” she says dryly.

You glance down. Yeah. You are. You sigh, deep and dramatic, and shove another bite into your mouth. "Still. Not definitive."

Leah collapses into laughter, head in her hands. “You are so bad at this.”

Keira’s still watching you though not laughing now. Just thinking. Quiet. Then she leans back in her chair and says it, calm and certain, “So. Barca, huh?”

Your stomach flips for a whole different reason. You pause eyes flicking up and she raises her eyebrows slightly, still waiting.

“You know they’ve been after a out-and-out striker. That's a part of your game you can do very well”

You blink. Then realise what she’s saying. What she thinks this is. And you let out a breath that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sigh caught halfway between relief and something like regret. “No comment,” you mutter, shoving more pasta in your mouth.

Leah snorts. Keira smirks. Neither of them suspects Alexia. And you don’t correct them. Not yet. Because let them think it’s contracts and football and clubs. Let them think it’s negotiations.

The photo’s still sitting on Keira’s phone, face-down now on the table, like a loaded weapon no one wants to set off again just yet.

Leah’s still grinning, chewing thoughtfully. Keira leans back in her chair, arms folded, that look on her face like she’s just worked out a puzzle. You’re trying to act unbothered chewing way too slowly, staring far too hard at your food.

Then Georgia and Beth slide into the empty seats beside you, fresh from the food line, laughing at something you thankfully didn’t hear.

They don’t even clock the tension until Keira leans in and says, casually, “You two know anything about Barcelona?”

Beth and Georgia freeze just for a beat. Not long. But you notice. You feel it.

Beth shoots you a look. Georgia smirks.

Then Beth picks up her fork and says cheerfully, like she’s known this moment was coming “What about Barcelona?.”

Georgia sips her drink, eyes wide and way too innocent. “Why would we know anything about Barcelona?”

You whip your head toward them, trying not to glare. “Seriously?”

Beth shrugs, barely holding in her grin.

Keira leans forward again, eyes narrowing.

“So? What is it? Talks? Trial? Something in the works?”

Leah jumps in. “Is she leaving Bayern? Is it for January? Summer move? What’ve you heard?”

Georgia and Beth just... laugh. Loud. Joyful. Noisy. Georgia kicks your shin under the table, not gently.

“She’s gonna kill us later.”

Beth lifts her water bottle in mock toast. “Totally worth it.”

Leah and Keira look at each other. Then at you. Then back at them. But neither Beth nor Georgia offers another word. Just smiles

You sink into your seat, face in your hands, muttering, “Can't do anything without 15 rounds of questions with you lot. I hate you all”

Georgia pats your back. “No you don’t.”

Beth nods. “She loves us.” They clink forks and keep eating like they haven’t just lit a fire under the entire dinner table.

Leah and Keira. Still staring. Still suspicious. But getting nothing else. Playing detective across the table when your phone buzzes in your lap.

You glance down.

Alexia: You forgot to tell me you landed safely.

Your chest tightens instantly guilt and something warmer. You blink, then press your lips together already typing.

But before you can finish the reply, another buzz.

Alexia: I saw the England arrival pics. You looked fine.

Alexia: Actually more than fine. I liked your outfit.

You sit a little straighter, the words like a rush of heat against your skin.

You try not to smile. Fail miserably. Beth catches it immediately “Who’s got you smiling like that?”

You kick her under the table. Light. Helpless. “No one,” you mutter, barely above a whisper.

Georgia hears it anyway. Grins into her drink. You shift the phone lower, out of their eyeline, and type quick.

You: Sorry. Everything was busy the second I got here. It slipped my mind.

That’s all you send.

No flirting. No matching her compliment. Just honest.

You sit there for a beat longer, thumb hovering, wondering if you should’ve said more wondering if she’ll notice what you didn’t say.

Beth leans into your side.

“My guess is we know who. You’re sat here blushing into your pasta, it has to be”

You shove your phone back into your pocket, cheeks on fire. “Can we not,” you mutter.

Beth and Georgia laugh. Keira watches you eyes sharp like she knows something's there, but can't quite pin it down.

And Alexia? Still typing. Your phone stays in your lap, screen dark for a long moment. Too long.

You try to focus on the table Leah still picking at the Barcelona photo, Beth whispering something that makes Georgia nearly spit water across the table but your mind’s already gone quiet.

Then it buzzes again.

You check it quickly, heart in your throat.

Alexia: Don’t worry. I figured it was hectic.

Alexia: Just wanted to know you were okay.

Your chest tightens something warm and slow settling deep between your ribs.

Then, one more message. Shorter. Softer.

Alexia: Can't wait to see you again.

You stare at it not breathing for a second.

Because there it is. No flirting. No games. Just truth. A simple line that cuts through the noise around you like a thread pulling tight between two people on opposite sides of a continent.

You slide your thumb gently across the screen rereading it once, then again. And you don’t reply. Not right away. Not because you don’t want to. Because you want to too much.

You press the phone screen to your leg, hiding your face behind your water glass, and tell yourself to breathe.

Because she misses you. And the worst part is you miss her back. More than you can admit. More than you know how to say.

Beth is laughing, Georgia nudging your knee, Leah still trying to guess what’s going on.

But your thumb is already moving screen tucked low in your lap, head down, body leaning subtly away from the rest of the table.

You: Can't wait to see you again to.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t soften it. You don’t add an emoji to make it easier. You just send it. Plain. Simple. True.

A second later, the message goes blue.

Read. And then the typing bubble appears. Almost immediately. Your pulse stutters.

Alexia: When this camp’s over… can we talk about the next time?

You exhale a sound that’s part relief, part ache.

You type slower now.

You: Yeah. We should.

Alexia: Good.

Alexia: Sooner the better.

You smile one hand still under the table, the other gripping your glass to give it something to do.

"You're so weirdly quiet," Georgia mutters beside you. “You're not gonna eat your pudding?”

You blink, startled back into the present.

Keira leans in, squinting at you. “Why are you grinning like a teenager with a crush?”

You clear your throat. Sit up straighter. “Because,” you say flatly, reaching for your spoon, “my dessert’s better than yours.”

They don’t believe you. Not for a second. But they let it go. Sensing you don't want to talk about it.

⚽️

The hallway’s quiet as you pad down from your room hair up, tee abandoned somewhere upstairs, phone in your hand, screen still lit up from your last message.

You tug at your shorts on your hips, the waistband sitting comfortably snug, sports bra fitting like second skin bare midriff, sun-kissed abs still faintly marked from training.

You don’t really think about it. Not until you push through the doors to the indoor pitch. The lights are lower in here, soft and warm. There’s music playing low, vibey and the far corner’s full of bean bags and snacks, girls half-curled into piles as they lounge post-dinner.

On the pitch, a few are mid-intense badminton rally Ella shrieking with laughter as Lucy dives dramatically and misses.

You step in barefoot, casual, phone still in hand just meaning to slip in, but the moment you appear, the vibe shifts. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... noticed. Conversations falter. Eyes flick over.

Leah, from her bean bag throne, lets out a low whistle without looking up from her packet of crisps. “Well,” she drawls. “Someone’s feeling herself.”

You roll your eyes too used to it but you do smile. Beth lifts her head from Georgia’s shoulder just long enough to smirk. “She’s been glowing since she got back here,” she says, not even trying to whisper.

Georgia, grinning, just nods and mutters, “Have an interesting weekend?”

You walk over slowly, shaking your head, but not exactly rushing to cover up either. You toss your phone onto a nearby cushion and drop down onto the turf, stretching your legs out, leaning back on your hands.

“Did I miss the invite to Badminton Wimbledon or…?”

Ella jogs past with a racket in hand and a headband on like she’s in the final of her life. “You’re late. We’re already through the group stages,” she shouts, missing her serve by a mile.

You laugh, watching her spin in a circle. Beth shifts over to make space for you on a bean bag, patting the spot beside her. You stay where you are for now comfy, loose, soaking it all in.

The music. The laughter. The energy. You really did love your time on England camp.

You’re still laughing at Ella’s terrible serve when you catch the weird glint in Beth’s eyes. That smirk, the one she does when she’s holding onto something explosive. Georgia’s not helping, she’s biting the inside of her cheek, leaning way too far into her drink like she’s trying not to howl.

You frown. “What?” They don’t answer just exchange a look, a delighted one. Your heart skips, just once. “…What?”

Beth lifts her chin subtle like she’s motioning behind you. “You might want to turn around.”

You turn immediately. You feel it in your spine, in the way your skin tightens across your shoulders, in the way your heart starts thudding despite you being totally still.

That feeling like someone’s watching. Like she’s watching. Your eyes scan the pitch, gaze flicking to the far side and that’s when you see it.

A sea of red training kits, across the pitch on the viewing stands a quiet pocket of the Spanish national team.

Coaches. Staff. Players a few talking, half-watching the chaos of the English group across the floor.

And in the middle of them calm. Still, exactly where she always is. Alexia. She’s not talking. She’s not laughing. She’s slowly turning her head away as if she had been watching and was trying to subtle pretend she wasn’t.

You don’t let your eyes stay on her when you spot a few of her Barcelona teammates watching you watch her, Patri leaned in mumbling what you were probably sure was ‘She’s looking at you’

But your body your posture, your breath, the way your stomach flips before your brain catches up gives you away on just what was going through your brain.

You drop your gaze and scrub a hand down your face like you’re just tired, then reach for your phone, like it’s a shield.

Beth snorts quietly beside you. “Soon as you looked away she looked again”

Georgia grins. “I think someone has a crush on you” she quietly spoke in a sing song voice at you,

You try to keep your voice neutral. “Why are they here?”

Beth shrugs. “If you weren't down here late you would know, Sarina called a meeting.”

Your ears go hot. "No one thought to come get me no?" You turn to glare at her.

Georgia shrugged “Sarina said she'd catch up with you another time”

"Can you not just tell me?"

Gee laughed, "Airport systems have gone down, they're stranded here, the FA said they could come here, so looks like you may be bunking with your new little friend"

You get to your feet with a sigh as they laugh loud and obnoxious, you walk away, "Ay! Less" you hollered, "Want a friend?" you ask as she's digging a ball out of a bag. Less smiles looking to Beth and Gee, "Dumb and Dumber are pissing me off"

"Sure" Alessia gave you her bright smile, "They've been teasing you all day, is something going on?"

You were painfully aware you were in ear shot of the majority of the Spain girls now, "They just think they're funny" You got a smile as you sucked your teeth when Ed Sheeran's Barcelona suddenly began playing, as Beth and Georgia were cry laughing. You looked over your shoulder, "You're not funny" you hollered

You’ve slipped into a rhythm now two-touch with Alessia, passing the ball lightly between you as the chatter from the beanbags fades into background noise.

It helps. The movement. The distraction.

You trap the ball under your foot, flick it up with ease, and Alessia volleys it back. Smooth, easy, familiar.

But your skin still hums. The awareness hasn’t left. Alexia's presence lingers behind you like a shadow not seen, but felt.

You keep your back to the far benches, keep your eyes down, but she’s still there.

Alessia jogs to the side to collect a stray touch, laughing. As she passes the ball back, she says it completely offhand, completely unaware of what it lands on, “She keeps watching you, by the way.”

You freeze not noticeably. Just... enough. You raise your head slowly, “Who?”

Alessia nods toward the benches as she traps the ball. “Alexia. Every time you touch the ball, her head goes with it. It’s actually kinda intense.”

Your mouth goes dry. Alessia doesn’t notice. She shrugs, smirking. You try to keep your expression neutral, cool, casual, you flick the ball up again, letting it bounce off your thigh.

Alessia laughs. “I mean, fair. You’ve got that whole ‘mysterious quiet confidence’ thing going.”

You volley it back, maybe a little too hard. She lets it roll past her and jogs after it. She doesn’t press. Doesn’t guess but she’s not wrong. Alexia is watching and you're not sure you can take much more of it.

YES! ❤️👀

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

Part 9 Other Parts

Word Count: 8k

You’re still curled on the corner of the sofa, a blanket tossed over your knees. The TV is still on, the volume low something forgettable playing while your focus drifts elsewhere.

You glance toward the clock. She’s been gone longer than fifteen minutes. You smile, faint but fond, and call out toward the hallway with raised eyebrows, “Did you get lost?”

The front door opens almost exactly as the words leave your mouth.

Teddy barrels in first, nails clicking across the tile, tail wagging wildly. He goes straight for you like he missed you after ten minutes of freedom, launching his head into your lap and letting out a triumphant huff. You laugh, fingers immediately threading through his fur. “Hey, bud. You give her a hard time?”

Then you look up and the smile flickers, because there she is, standing with flowers. Wrapped in soft brown paper, a little loose around the edges like she carried them carefully but not nervously. The colours are muted, warm. Kind.

Alexia looks like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself, she clears her throat. “Teddy got these for you.”

Your brows lift. “Oh, did he?”

She steps closer, still holding them like she might change her mind. “Yeah. Saw them. Thought of you. Made me carry them.”

You try not to smile too big. You fail. “Wow,” you say, taking them gently as she crosses the room. Your fingers brush hers. “He’s very emotionally intuitive for a dog.”

“Unbelievable instincts,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to your face just once before sliding away again.

You look down at the bouquet. It’s perfect, thoughtful, soft. Intentional, you bring it to your nose, breathing in. “Ranunculus,” you murmur, impressed.

She shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I liked the name.”

You glance up. “Liar.”

She huffs, rubs the back of her neck. “The woman in the shop said they mean charm.”

You blink. “They mean you’ve been reading into flower meanings?”

She gestures to Teddy. “He asked.”

You laugh, holding the flowers against your chest. “Well he has incredible taste.”

Alexia sits beside you now not too close, but close enough. One leg tucked under her, fingers fidgeting slightly at the hem of her shirt.

You shift the flowers to one side, still smiling. “Thank you,” you say, voice quieter now.

She nods, doesn’t look at you just yet. “You’ve had a hard week.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, looking at her profile, “I’m glad it ended here.”

That makes her glance at you properly, her voice drops to a whisper. “Me too.”

Teddy sighs between you both loud, satisfied and neither of you moves.

You’re both half-watching the screen, the opening whistle just blowing for Bayern vs Hoffenheim. The stadium is loud through the speakers, commentary layered with the low hum of crowd noise.

Alexia stretches out slightly on the other side of the couch, her head resting back, one leg bent beneath her, the other stretched toward the edge.

She shifts, wincing faintly, you glance over. “You alright?”

She exhales through her nose. “My new boots are a nightmare.”

You turn your head toward her. “Blisters?”

“Worse. Pressure. They’re too narrow across the midfoot. I can’t feel my toes after 30 minutes.”

You frown. “Why didn’t you switch them?”

“I’m stubborn.”

You smirk. “No kidding.”

She kicks lightly in your direction. “Shut up.”

You nod to her foot. “Want me to rub it?”

She blinks, scoffing softly. “What?”

“Your foot. If it’s sore. I’ll rub it.”

She laughs short, dismissive. “You don’t have to—”

“I didn’t say I have to,” you cut in, turning toward her. “But I can do?”

She opens her mouth to protest again, but you’re already reaching forward gently taking hold of her ankle, shifting her leg into your lap.

“Wait” she says, more startled than offended, but your hands are warm and sure, thumbs already pressing into the arch with practiced pressure. She goes quiet, her head tips back against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

You glance sideways, your tone smug but affectionate. “That’s what I thought.”

She mutters something in Catalan under her breath you've quickly learnt 'Annoying' in Catalan she says it multiple times whenever you're around, but she doesn’t pull away.

In fact… she melts, bit by bit, minute by minute.

The longer your thumbs work along the arch of her foot, your fingers tracing gentle circles along the pressure points, the more tension leaves her body like you’re unplugging something at the source.

At one point, she sighs not soft, not hidden and lies fully back against the couch, stretching out with her arm over her eyes.

You keep going, you’re not really watching the match anymore. “Still want to argue?” you murmur, thumb sliding along the curve beneath her ankle.

She doesn’t lift her arm, just shakes her head once.

“Didn’t think so.”

You smile, not because you’re winning but because she’s letting you in like this. Letting you take care of her, even in the small ways.

Your thumbs are working slow circles into the arch of her left foot, the pads of your fingers easing tension like it’s what you were born to do. Every time she exhales, you feel it the way her body settles deeper, the way her edges soften.

Then she mutters, eyes still closed, head still tipped back against the cushion, “Don’t stop.”

You don’t answer at first. Just slow your movements, then lift your hands away entirely.

She whines, actually whines, the softest, most involuntary sound from the back of her throat.

You tilt your head, grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah?” you say, voice low, lazy. “Beg me.”

Her eyes snap open. “What?”

You tap her thigh twice, grinning. “Give me the other foot. Bring it up.”

She glares at you but it’s all performance, because she does it. Shifting with a groan, stretching the other leg out and settling it in your lap like she hates herself for giving in. “I’m not begging.”

You raise an eyebrow, already starting to knead at her heel. “No? Sounded like you were getting close.”

Alexia groans, draping her forearm across her face. “Cállate…”

You laugh quietly. “That’s not a denial.”

Her voice comes muffled from beneath her arm. “You’re impossible.”

“Comfortable, though.”

She doesn’t answer, but she does lower her arm a second later, peeking at you with a reluctant smile. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You meet her gaze, and this time, your voice softens just a little “Maybe. Or maybe I just like making you feel good.”

That does get her, you can see it in the shift of her throat, the way she swallows, the flicker in her eyes, but instead of answering, she mutters, “Just focus on the foot.”

You smirk. “As you wish.”

And you do thumb sliding gently along the bridge, fingers pressing into the ball of her foot with care and purpose.

Her eyes close again but that smile it stays. You shift your fingers up her sole with another long, slow press and then glance at her with mock curiosity. “I wonder if Mateo would like a foot massage…”

She freezes, then pulls both feet out of your lap instantly, curling them protectively beneath her as she sat up like you’ve just committed an unforgivable sin. You burst into laughter. Her jaw drops. “You did not just say that.”

You grin, unrepentant. “I mean, he’s very emotionally intuitive—”

That’s all you get out before she lunges. One moment, she’s glaring at you, and the next she’s on you, hands going straight for your sides like she knows exactly where to strike. “Take it back!” she laughs, her fingers merciless at your ribs.

You squirm, gasping through your own laughter. “Never!”

“You’re the worst!” she says, laughing too hard to sound truly angry, and you grab for her wrists, trying to defend yourself and failing spectacularly.

She’s on top of you now, completely, your back against the couch cushions, her weight warm and steady, hair falling over her face as she grins down at you, breathless.

And then without warning the mood shifts, your hands are still wrapped around her wrists. Her laughter softens, her gaze catches on yours and stays there. Neither of you moves for a beat, then her smile fades into something else and you’re the one who leans up.

Her mouth meets yours in a kiss that starts soft a question, an answer then deepens quickly, all heat and relief and too many held-back moments finally spilling forward.

She tastes like mint and something sweet from earlier, her hands threading into your hair now, your fingers sliding up her back as you shift beneath her, anchoring her to you like this is where she was always meant to be.

Her body presses down into yours, slow and certain.

You sigh against her mouth, hand sliding under the hem of her shirt just to feel her skin warm, smooth, real.

She hums softly, mouth never leaving yours.

When you finally pull apart barely her forehead rests against yours.

Her voice is breathless. “No more Mateo jokes.”

You grin, tugging gently at her shirt. “Noted. Only adult massages from now on.”

She kisses you again, laughing into your mouth and this time, it lingers, it deepens quickly. No trace of teasing now.

Her weight is settled fully on you, one hand still twisted gently in your hoodie at your chest, the other sliding up to your jaw, fingers resting lightly like she wants to feel every inch of this moment.

You tilt your chin slightly, meeting her with a slow kind of urgency not rushing her, just matching her intention.

It’s not messy. It’s not loud. Every press of lips, every brush of breath between you, every shift of her hips over yours, you can feel her smiling against your mouth now and then small, involuntary things that make your stomach tighten and your chest ease all at once.

She pulls back only slightly, her eyes heavy-lidded, warm.

“Come here.” You whispered, you weren't any near done with this yet.

She kisses you again slow, warm, her mouth parting under yours now, her hands sliding beneath your hoodie, fingertips exploring the skin at your waist like she’s been thinking about this too long not to remember it.

You sit up slightly, enough to push the hoodie over your head, her gaze following every motion, eyes catching at the hem of your shirt riding up.

Then her lips are back on yours before you can say another word, and it’s closer now hands moving with purpose, mouths syncing, breath hitching with each shift.

Your hand slides under her shirt, slow, reverent and she lets you, her stomach twitching under your touch, her breath catching in your mouth.

The match on the TV is long forgotten.

All that’s left is the warmth of skin under fabric, the gentle gasp she makes when your thumb brushes just beneath the curve of her ribs, the way she sighs your name like a secret she’s finally allowed to say aloud.

And when she pulls back again hair mussed, lips swollen, flushed she looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s made sense all night.

And then the buzz, a low, persistent vibration on the coffee table, neither of you moves at first. You groan softly, tilting your head toward the sound, reluctant, when it keeps going.

Alexia does it for you shifts just slightly, propping herself on one elbow, squinting at the screen.

Then she says, calmly, but not without interest, “Abby”

Your heart skips a beat, "My agent" You explain, “Shit,” you mutter.

She moves off you gently, giving you space, as you sit up her hand brushing yours once before letting go.

You grab your phone, the name staring up at you. Unmissable. You glance back at her once. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Alexia nods, softly. “Take it.”

You walk barefoot through the open bi-fold doors, out onto the cool tiles by the pool. The night air hits your skin crisp, welcome, grounding. You swipe to answer. “Hey,” you say, trying to steady your voice, trying to hold on to what just happened with her.

There’s no delay. No warm-up, your agent’s voice is all urgency. “I know it’s late, but I didn’t want you finding out from the press.”

Your stomach tenses. “What happened?”

“They’ve made a decision,” she says. “Your club. They’ve told me you're being released at the end of your contract.”

Silence. Just you, and the still water at your feet. You don’t say anything at first. “But I have a year and a half left yet?”

“They’re not extending. They’re making room. New signings, different direction. They’re spinning it as a mutual decision.”

You stare into the water. Your reflection isn’t clear too many ripples. “They’re done with me.”

Your agent hesitates. “They’ve moved on. But you’re not done. That’s what matters.” You nod slowly, not trusting your voice. “You knew this might happen,” she adds gently.

You swallow hard. “I didn’t want to be right.”

A pause. “I’ve already had a few calls,” she says. “Clubs asking what’s next. You’ve still got options.”

You exhale slowly. “Okay.” You need a second. Maybe more than that, but it's time you haven't got. “Are there any options to leave now?” you ask. Your voice is low, tight. “Loan, even. Buyout, if someone bites. I can't stay there knowing they don't want me for all that time”

Your agent doesn’t hesitate. “That’s what I’ve been checking since I heard.”

“I can’t sit on a bench for another year and a half.” You run a hand down your face. “By then, no one will want me.”

“They already do,” she says calmly. “There are clubs watching. But they’ll want clarity. They’ll want minutes.”

“I don’t have any minutes,” you mutter.

“But you have history. Presence. Reputation. That’s something especially if you can go now, I can blame the Portugal match for lack of minutes right now but that can only ride for so long.”

There’s a pause. You press harder, “If it’s loan or nothing, I’ll take the loan. I just—” You stop yourself. Lower your voice again. “I need to play. That’s it.”

Your agent exhales softly on the other end. “Okay. Then that’s what we go for.”

You nod, mostly to yourself. “No press release. Not until we know where I’m going.”

“I’ll control the timing,” she assures you. “And I’ll push.”

Another silence. But this one has more oxygen in it. A plan is forming now, the kind that keeps you standing when everything else tries to shrink you down. “Thanks,” you say. “Call me if anything changes.”

“I will.”

You end the call and let the phone drop into your lap. You’re sitting on the edge, legs stretched out in front of you, phone limp in your hand, eyes fixed somewhere that isn’t the water anymore. Behind you, soft footsteps on the tiles. No rush. Just presence. Then her voice quiet, but sure. “You’re going to tell me you have to go home, aren’t you?”

You don’t look at her right away. Just breathe. Then glance sideways, “Says the woman flying off tomorrow for international camp.”

She lets out a short, low laugh and comes to sit beside you, her legs crossing beneath her. “Fair,” she murmurs. Silence slips between you, but it’s not sharp. It’s soft around the edges. Then barely above a whisper. “Be here when I get back?”

You look at her now. She’s not smiling. She’s not pushing. She just looks at you with something open in her eyes not desperate. Just hoping.

You search her face for a second, the quiet honesty of her question wrapping around you like a thread you didn’t expect. You nod, once. Steady.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Ok.”

She nods too, slowly, like she’s folding that answer away somewhere private. Then she leans just slightly, her shoulder brushing yours, her voice closer now. “Good.” You smile faintly, fingers curling around the edge of the pool tiles. She leans her head gently onto your shoulder, and neither of you says anything more.

⚽️

You wake slow, the kind of sleep that leaves your body heavy and your thoughts scattered. For a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Then you do.

The bed is warm, but the other side is empty.

You blink against the pale morning light seeping through the open window, the distant sound of traffic barely audible under the chirp of birds and the occasional shuffle of Teddy’s tail against the hallway floor.

You pull on one of Alexia’s hoodies, the first thing within reach, and pad barefoot down the hall. The kitchen is quiet.

The coffee machine is on, half-full pot waiting like she knew you’d wake up slow. The blinds are half-open, and Teddy’s already curled in the sunspot by the sliding doors.

And then you see it, propped against the side of your mug. A small folded note. Her handwriting, neat but unhurried. You pick it up, fingers brushing the edge of the paper.

It simply says:

Didn’t want to wake you. Behave yourself I’ll call when I land. — A 🐾 (Teddy's in charge)

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then press it flat to the countertop with your palm.

You pour the coffee, lean against the counter, hoodie sleeves falling over your hands. Teddy stretches and pads over, nosing your shin before plopping down at your feet.

You run a hand absently over his head, sipping quietly. “She left you in charge, huh?” He doesn’t move, neither do you, because in this silence, you can feel it, serenity.

⚽️

At Spains international camp the common area is buzzing in the low, distracted way it always does before a double training session players sprawled on beanbags and sofas, water bottles half-drained, music playing softly through a speaker in the corner.

Alexia’s cross-legged on the floor, back against a sofa, phone in one hand, a pair of boots beside her she still hasn’t started re-lacing. Jana’s flipping through a playlist, Olga and Aitana talking quietly near the windows.

“Oye, have you seen the gossip about Y/N?” Misa says suddenly, screen raised, eyes wide in half-shock, half-entertainment.

Alexia’s head snaps up. Her tone is immediate, too sharp to hide, “What?”

Misa blinks, surprised. “It’s just online. People are talking.”

Alexia is already moving rising to her knees, tossing her phone on the cushion behind her. “Where?”

Misa scrolls quickly, tapping open a football blog post clearly being passed around. “Here,” she says. “I didn’t think it was—”

Alexia leans over her shoulder, jaw tight.

Misa reads aloud, frowning slightly, “Sources close to the club claim the relationship between Bayern’s head coach and their star forward Y/N has soured, becoming strained over the past few months. Once a fixture in both club and country starting elevens, Y/N has now fallen from both, failing to make England’s most recent camp. With a year and a half still on her contract, insiders question whether Bayern’s top goalscorer might now be seeking an early exit, or risk sitting out the season and losing her spot in any international contention completely.”

Silence. No one laughs. Not even Misa. Alexia stands properly now, arms folded, eyes fixed on the screen like she could burn it.

Only the Barça girls glance up, Patri, Mapi, Aitana, they know. The rest just wait, curious. Alexia’s voice is quiet, but firm. “She’s not gossip."

Misa looks up, taken aback. “I didn’t mean—”

“She’s still the best forward in Germany if not the world. I don’t care who wants to spin what.”

Aitana shifts closer, her voice low. “They’re just trying to fill space before the transfer window opens.”

Alexia nods once, jaw still clenched. “They don’t know anything.”

She doesn’t say but I do. She doesn’t have to. Misa softens. “Sorry, Ale. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Bayern are fumbling hard,” Laia says, shaking her head. “You don’t sit a player like her unless something serious went down.”

“Yeah, but with who?” Olga chimes in. “The coach? Management? She’s been everywhere and never had issues before.”

“They’ve got the best scorer in the league and they’re benching her?” Jana snorts. “What kind of manager does that?”

Mapi leans forward, hands clasped between her knees. “She’s done it all though, hasn’t she?”

Aitana hums in agreement. “WSL titles with Chelsea and Arsenal. Then Lyon the whole sweep, quadruple twice with them.”

“Champions League,” Olga adds, holding up a finger. “Coupe de France. Trophée des Championnes.”

“And now in Germany too,” Patri says, glancing up. “Bundesliga. Pokal. Supercup.”

They all go quiet for a beat. Then Misa says it half-laughing, half-serious, “Maybe it’s time she conquers Spain.”

A low whistle from someone near the back. “If she comes here, that’s history. No one’s done it across all those leagues.”

“She’d change everything,” Laia murmurs. “Again.”

Alexia stays completely still, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t react. Just stares quietly at the screen, then down at the floor, but her mind is full.

She knows how you feel about sitting out. About being silenced, and she knows, with sudden clarity, what Spain would look like with you in it. Next to her. Wearing the same colours. The others keep talking, but the noise fades at the edges for her. Because that one sentence echoes louder than all the rest,

“Maybe it’s time she conquers Spain.”

Alexia doesn’t say anything, but she’s thinking maybe it is.

⚽️

The water glimmers, warm and lazy, as you float on your back. The day has been quiet, just sun, silence, and Teddy passed out in a shady patch with his paw twitching in a dream.

You’re stretched out on a lounger, sunglasses sliding down your nose, droplets still clinging to your skin. Bikini straps low on your shoulders, hair damp, a book open across your stomach but forgotten pages ago.

Your phone vibrates once.

You lazily reach for it, barely glancing until you see her name.

Alexia 🖤 calling…

You smile immediately, swiping to answer as you sit up slightly. “Look who remembered I exist,” you tease, voice low and warm.

Her voice comes through with a soft laugh, a little static in the background. “I always remember you exist,” she says. “Even when my coach is yelling and Misa’s playing DJ badly.”

You chuckle, adjusting your sunglasses. “Sounds like a dream. What made you call?”

“I don’t know,” she says, and it’s honest. “Wanted to hear your voice.”

You pause at that. Let it settle. “Miss me already?”

A silence. Then, quieter, “Yeah.”

You pull your knees up slightly on the lounger, resting your chin on top. “I’m in a bikini, just so you know. Really missing out.” You were joking but Alexia definitely pauses. “Cruel.”

“Just setting the scene.”

“I already hate this camp,” she mutters, and you laugh.

“Go on, then,” you say. “Tell me about your day.”

She does, the drills, the heat, how she nearly tripped over Laia in a possession game. You listen, smiling, eyes closed, soaking in the sound of her, the rhythm of her voice. “Did you see the stuff online?” she asks eventually, softer.

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now,” you admit.

“Okay.”

You love that about her. No push. Just space. Just her.

“I’m proud of you, by the way,” she adds. “For not letting them decide what happens next.”

You smile, lips pressed together. “Thanks. That means more than you probably realise.”

You can almost hear her smile. “Are you going to swim after this?” she asks, tone lighter.

“Maybe. Why?”

“I just want the image. You know… for morale.”

You laugh, leaning your head back, full-bodied this time. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re distracting,” she fires back, smirking through the line.

“Good.”

“So… Misa said something earlier,” she starts, tone casual but laced with a thread of something else.

“Oh?”

“She was reading stuff online about you, and she said—” Alexia clears her throat. “She said maybe it’s time you conquered the Spanish league.”

You lean back again on your lounger, stretching, the sun warm on your chest. “Well,” you drawl, “I do love a new challenge.”

“I told her to shut up,” Alexia says quickly, but there’s a smile behind it.

You smirk, one eyebrow raised. “Why? Because she was right?”

“No,” Alexia deadpans. “Because I didn’t want her scouting you.”

You let the silence hang, playful. “Should I text my agent? See if Real Madrid are in the market?”

There’s a pause long enough to make you grin, “Don’t you dare,” she mutters, but her voice is light the edge of a laugh tucked behind every syllable.

“You’d fall out with me?” you ask, feigning innocence.

“I’d block your number.”

“Oh, ruthless.”

“But I’d still be checking your Instagram every morning.”

You laugh, tipping your head to the side, eyes closed. “I mean… you could have me closer,” you tease. “If someone else around here was bold enough to say what she really wants.”

Alexia’s quiet for a moment. Not heavy just… considered. “Maybe I am.”

Your stomach does a flip, but you don’t rush the silence. “Yeah?” you say finally.

“Yeah.” And then “But just for the record… if you ever wear white and gold, I’m fouling you every time i play you.”

You grin, biting your lip. “What about a little red and blue?”

This time, she laughs properly, low and delighted. “Now that’s more like it.” Alexia’s voice hums through the speaker, warm and unhurried now. “I’m just saying,” she murmurs, tone deliberately casual. “If you ever… happened to get the opportunity to play for Barcelona…”

You pause, one eyebrow raised, lips tugging into a grin. “Oh?” You tilt your head, biting your lip. “Wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“No,” she says, soft and sure. “I wouldn’t.”

You laugh gently, tapping the rim of your glass. “That sounds dangerously close to recruitment.”

“If I were recruiting,” she says, “I’d be way more convincing.”

You stretch your legs out, heart thudding just a little louder under your grin. “This isn’t convincing?”

She sighs, dramatic. “I’d buy you flowers.”

“You already did.”

“I’d take you for long walks along the training ground.”

You laugh. “Okay, romantic and tactical.”

“I’d promise to pass you the ball,” she adds.

“Oh, now we’re talking.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Unless you annoy me. Then I’ll ghost you on the pitch.”

“You already do that off it” you shoot back, after she apologised for next texting you like she promised when she got to camp.

“Lies.”

“Evidence-based truth.”

You’re both smiling now the kind of smiles you don’t need to see to feel. The kind that live in the quiet between words, in the softness under the jokes, then Alexia exhales, voice lowering again. “But really…” A pause. “If it ever happened… I wouldn’t just not mind. I’d… like it.”

You close your eyes. Let it settle. “Good to know,” you say quietly.

She’s quiet on the other end. Then, “You’d look good in blaugrana.”

You smirk, hand resting lightly over your chest, “You just want to steal my goals.”

She laughs, low and warm. “I want to keep you close.”

You let that sit there for a moment. It’s not a suggestion. Not a push. Just her giving you a piece of truth. You shift the phone to your other ear, voice dropping a little, grounding. “I told my agent to start asking around,” you admit. “If I can be bought out. Or loaned.”

The quiet on the other end changes not silence. Just focus.

“I can’t…” you sigh, thumb brushing your eyebrow. “I can’t sit on the bench for a year and a half. Or worse not even make it there like now. That’s not who I am. I’d rather fight somewhere new than fade where I am.”

Alexia doesn’t rush to answer, when she does, her voice is steadier than you expect. Warm. Clear. “I don’t want you to fade either. You're world class you should be playing”

You exhale, slowly. “I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t even know what’s possible. But I know I’m not waiting around to be treated like I’m done.”

“You’re not done,” she says immediately. “You’re not even close.”

You smile again smaller this time, “I miss feeling like myself.”

“I see her,” Alexia says, quiet but full. “Every time I talk to you. Every time I think about you.”

That one makes you still, your fingers curl slightly against your leg, “Don’t,” you say softly, teasing edge still there, “make me cry in a bikini.”

Alexia laughs gently. “Then don’t cry. Just get ready.”

“For what?”

“For your next move,” she says. “For whatever’s coming next, because something is.”

You let out a breath that feels easier now. “Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” she echoes.

⚽️

The sun’s dropping low, casting long shadows through the trees as you walk slowly along the gravel trail. Teddy’s off leash, bounding through dry grass like a creature reborn. Johnny, Ellie’s squat little Frenchie keeps closer to the path, snorting like a tiny engine every few steps.

Kika’s walking ahead with Ellie, her injured leg braced, but she’s keeping pace well enough. They’ve been swapping stories for the last ten minutes mostly nonsense until Ellie slows a little and drops back beside you.

“So,” she says, tossing a look over. “Everyone’s talking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

She grins. “You. Bayern. The whole silence-followed-by-transfer-window frenzy. Just wondering if we should be refreshing woso gossip Twitter.”

You exhale a laugh, but it’s tight. You don’t answer right away.

Kika glances back, curious. “Is it true? You’re getting iced out by the coach?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

Ellie whistles low. “Shit.”

You kick at a stone on the trail. “It’s complicated,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. “I… may have gone on a date with her daughter.”

Both their heads whip around.

“What?” Ellie says, loudly enough to make Johnny bark once.

Kika freezes in her step.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “We went for drinks. It was fine. But we didn’t click. She made a big deal of it. Or… maybe I did. Doesn’t matter now.”

“And?” Ellie asks, narrowing her eyes. “That’s not worth getting benched over.”

You hesitate. “I still went back to hers. After. We had sex. And I left while she was asleep.”

Silence. Even Teddy seems to pause. Kika’s jaw drops. Ellie groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh, babe…”

You shrug again, arms crossed now. “I didn’t mean to ghost her. I just… didn’t want to stay.”

Kika finally lets out a soft laugh. “Well. That explains it.”

“Yeah.” You exhale, glancing at the sky. “Now her mum doesn’t speak to me directly. Everything’s through assistants. I haven’t started a match since.”

Ellie bumps your shoulder lightly. “For what it’s worth, still a dumb reason to tank a player’s career.”

You nod, grateful. “Tell that to her.”

“She’s bitter,” Kika says. “And clearly threatened.”

You don’t say anything to that. You don’t have to, because somewhere behind all that regret, the quiet truth is you understood your coaches decision. Even it came from a personal perspective not professional.

⚽️

You, Ellie, and Kika settle at a small terrace café tucked into the curve of the walking trail. Johnny, Ellie’s French bulldog, pants happily beneath the table, while Teddy curls beside him with quiet, golden indifference.

You’re picking at the last of your sandwich when your phone buzzes.

Alexia 🖤 Boarding now. See you soon.

You smile without even thinking thumb hovering over the screen then you pause and breathe.

You glance up. “Alright,” you say. “Before I reply to this, you both need to promise not to say anything.”

Ellie looks immediately intrigued. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Kika, quiet but curious, lifts an eyebrow. “Secret agent stuff?”

“Something like that.” You lean back in your seat, eyes flicking between them. “Promise?”

Ellie lifts a hand like she’s swearing into court. “I swear. Unless it’s illegal. Then I’m out.”

“It’s not illegal.”

“Then go on.”

You exhale. The words come slower than expected, but they come. “So… you remember that Champions League quarter-final? The one against Barça?”

Ellie nods. “Of course. You were ridiculous in that second half. Alexia was tracking you the whole time.”

You half-smile. “Yeah. So… it started there.”

Ellie leans forward, her face already lighting with disbelief. “Started?”

“I don’t know what it was,” you admit. “We were just… close the whole game. Flirty, almost? Lots of looks. Touches. Corners. I thought I imagined it.”

Kika’s watching you carefully now, quiet but focused.

“But then after the match,” you continue, “she asked to swap shirts. I didn’t think it’d go further.”

Ellie’s eyes widen.

“But we started messaging. DMing. Then texting.” You glance down at your drink. “She came to see me in Munich. Just for a few days and then I went to Barcelona stayed at her place. Met her sister who took me to a game”

Ellie’s hand slowly lifts to her forehead. “You’ve seen her house?”

You nod. “Twice.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And then,” you continue, softer now, “we kissed. A couple times. Nothing rushed. And this time? She said she wanted me here when she got back from camp.”

There’s a long pause.

“I’m here… for her.”

Ellie stares at you, mouth parted. “And you’ve been telling everyone you’re just having time off?”

“Technically true.”

“But you’re sleeping at her place.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Ellie stares. Then bursts out, “This is huge! I thought you were just, like, walking the dog and brooding.”

“I am walking the dog and brooding.”

“With Alexia Putellas on the side!”

You laugh. “It’s not that serious, we share a bed but nothing happens”

Kika chimes in finally, voice thoughtful. “But it’s also… not nothing.”

That lands. You glance back down at your phone, rereading the message. “She’s on her way back now,” you say softly. “And I don’t know what it is between us, really. She doesn’t either, I think. But I like her.”

Ellie whistles low. “Yeah, I’d say you do.”

You smile, but it’s cautious. “It feels like friendship… but sometimes it’s more. I don’t know.”

Ellie nudges your arm. “Whatever it is, you look lighter talking about her.”

You glance sideways. “Do I?”

Kika nods. “Yeah. You really do.”

⚽️

The front door swings open, keys clinking into the ceramic bowl by habit. Alexia exhales, the quiet of the house greeting her like a warm tide. She drops her gym bag just inside the threshold and kicks off her shoes.

“Hola!” she calls, voice casual, unsure if you’re upstairs or out with Teddy still.

She’s halfway through tugging off her sweatshirt when she hears the soft sound of bare feet padding down the stairs.

She glances up and freezes, because there you are.

Hair still damp from the pool, hoodie slung loose over your shoulders and unzipped all the way revealing your bikini. Legs bare. Skin kissed golden by the sun. And that easy, slow smile playing at your lips, like you know exactly what you're doing.

Alexia’s hand falters in her sleeve.

“Hey,” you say, leaning lazily into the bannister.

Alexia stares for a heartbeat too long. Then blinks. Then forces a smile that’s a little too tight around the edges. She goes to say something, anything, but instead, the keys slip right out of her hand and clatter to the floor.

“Hi,” she says, voice about half an octave higher than usual.

You smirk. “You okay there, champ?”

“I—yeah, I just…” She gestures vaguely toward her gym bag, like that explains anything. “Didn’t expect you to be home.”

You tilt your head. “Would you rather I wasn’t?”

Her eyes do a quick circuit, collarbone, boobs, abs, the line of your thigh, back to your face. She tries to act like she didn’t just get caught, but her ears are pink. “No,” she says, too fast. Then clears her throat. “I mean, no, it’s nice. You're here. That you're… here. I did ask you to be here after all”

You step down another stair, slow and deliberate. “Want to join me out back? The water’s cool.”

Alexia looks at you like she’s buffering, a blink, a small nod that doesn’t lead anywhere. “I should probably shower first,” she mumbles, eyes absolutely not dropping to your chest again.

You lift a brow. “Or… skip it. You look clean to me.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, like it might help her focus. It doesn’t. She meets your gaze and tries for something casual, something easy, but it comes out breathy and a little too soft, “Are you trying to distract me from something? Did you break something?”

You’re at the bottom step now, in front of her, hands tucked into your hoodie pockets, gaze locked with hers, calm, unreadable, dangerous, “Only if it’s working.”

Alexia exhales a short laugh caught somewhere between flustered and surrendering. Then, helplessly warm, “I'll meet you out there, I'm going to grab a drink” ⚽️

You’re stretched out on a lounge chair by the pool, sunglasses on, skin still damp from your last swim, a glass of iced water balanced on your stomach.

The patio door slides open behind you, and you hear the sound of her sliders before her voice follows.

“Did you paint the gym?”

You look up over your glasses to find Alexia standing there, one brow arched, arms crossed, clearly trying to sound neutral but there’s something else behind it. Surprise. Maybe even something a little softer. You push your glasses up and sit up on your elbows. “Yeah.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “You painted it.”

“Sure did,” you say, a little grin tugging at your mouth.

“Why?”

You shrug, glancing out at the water. “Because you’ve been talking about wanting to for weeks and haven’t had the time. And the paint was just sitting there.”

She takes a step closer. “So you just… did it?”

You nod once, then pause, voice quieting a little. “You let me stay here. You fed me. You don’t complain when I eat the last of the cereal or hog the shower or accidentally steal your hoodie for three days.”

That earns a small smirk from her, but she stays quiet.

“And you help more than you realise with everything. So I figured painting a room was the least I could do.”

There’s a beat of silence between you. Just the faint sound of pool water lapping at the edges and a bird somewhere in the garden. Then she huffs, soft and amused, and you catch the way her mouth fights back a smile. “You’re such a pain,” she says, but it sounds suspiciously like thank you.

You flash her a lazy grin. “You love it”

She rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t reach her because her gaze lingers on you, warm and full of something you don’t need to name. “…You missed a corner,” she says eventually, turning to head back inside.

You laugh. “Liar.”

Her voice drifts back over her shoulder.

“Come see for yourself.”

Your phone buzzes against the glass table beside you. You reach for it lazily, expecting some nothing text and freeze for half a second when you see your agent’s name lighting up the screen.

You sit up straighter in the lounge chair, slide your finger across the screen.

“Hey,” you answer, trying to sound casual, but your stomach’s already tightening.

“Got a minute?” she says, already brisk. “Just came off two more calls. Offers are still coming in.”

"Ok, what we working with?"

“…Yeah, I got the email from Chicago. Loan only, same salary. Portland’s offering more, but it’s still a temp deal,” she says, voice clipped with focus. “Roma wants a full contract, salary’s solid, but the clause structure’s messy. Wolfsburg’s interested but nothing concrete. PSG’s trying to be flashy. Again.”

The sliding door opens, and Alexia steps out. You glance up briefly and your words stall at the back of your throat for half a second and you forget all together what you were doing to say.

Because there she is, again this time in her bikini, low-cut top, sleek black bottoms, hair pulled back just the way you liked. She’s not looking at you, not saying a word just walks over quietly and sinks into the lounger beside yours with her water bottle, like she hasn’t just turned the sun up another twenty degrees.

You clear your throat and try to pull your brain back into the conversation. “Sorry. Right. Yeah. I’ve got… options then.”

Your agent laughs softly on the other end. “You’ve got the whole map of Europe and half the NWSL at your feet.”

You give a dry huff. “That’s not stressful at all.”

There’s a pause. Then your agent says, voice more serious now, “Best offer so far is from Barcelona.” You blink. “They’re not the highest-paying,” your agent continues, “but the fit, the team, the project, it’s strong. They want you long-term. You’d actually play. And they’re being real about it no fluff, they want a meeting with you. I feel what they've offered isn't there best theres room to haggle with them for sure”

You chew your lip, eyes flicking toward Alexia without turning your head. She’s still looking ahead, unreadable behind her sunglasses, but her fingers tighten just slightly on her water bottle like she can hear every word.

“And then there’s Lyon,” your agent adds. “They’ve upped their offer twice already. Crazy money. They want to win Champions League again, and they want you there for it, they think you could be the deciding factor to get there again.”

You lean back against the chair, letting the weight of it all settle over you for a second. The choices. The change. The future.

Your agent’s voice comes steady through the line. “So… want me to book the meeting with Barcelona? They’re asking for a sit-down. Nothing formal, just a talk. See where your head’s at.”

You pause, the silence stretching just a little too long.

Beside you, Alexia still hasn’t said a word. But you can feel her eyes on you now not directly, but in the way her body has gone still. Listening more closely. Waiting, for any clue to what was going on.

You exhale, sit forward, elbows resting on your knees. “Yeah,” you say quietly, but firm. “Set it up.”

“Tomorrow works?”

“Anytime,” you say. Then, without really thinking about it, “I’m here already. Visiting friends.”

Alexia doesn’t react. Not visibly, but you catch the tiny shift in her breath. The twitch of her fingers where they brush the condensation on her water bottle. That faint tightening around her mouth just for a second before it smooths out again.

“Alright,” your agent says. “I’ll confirm and send you the details. You’ll kill it, wherever you go.”

You murmur your thanks, and the line goes dead.

You set the phone down slowly, the buzz of decision still humming through your chest. Then you lean back again, turning your head just enough to glance at Alexia.

And then, softly, without looking at you Alexia asks, “What did she say?”

You glance over. She’s still facing forward, sunglasses on, but her voice gives her away casual on the surface, but too careful. Too not curious to be anything but.

You take a breath. “She ran through all the offers,” you say, watching her. “The best one so far’s Barça, Lyon seem very keen but overall the best ones Barca” Alexia doesn’t move, but something in her shoulders shifts then you add, gentler, “She’s setting up a meeting. Tomorrow.” You study her a second longer, then nudge her foot with yours. “I didn’t say yes.”

She finally turns her head toward you, expression unreadable behind the lenses. “But you didn’t say no either.”

“No,” you admit. “I didn’t.”

The silence between you lingers not awkward, but charged. Then Alexia shifts beside you, pulling her phone into her lap and unlocking it with a swipe of her thumb.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just taps a few times, then angles the screen toward you.

“Pere sent something,” she says quietly.

You lean over slightly to read. It’s the team group chat a flood of messages, emojis, a few memes but right in the middle is a message from Pere:

🔔 Important — for tomorrow. Need a few of you to come in for a club meeting. Nothing mandatory, just a presence. Volunteers only. Won’t take long. Let me know.

Below it, a trickle of responses. A thumbs-up from Aitana. A quick "I can" from Ingrid and Mapi. A few others.

“Pere messaged me directly,” she says after a beat, voice low. “Said there’s an important meeting tomorrow. Asked if I could make myself available.”

You glance at her. Her tone’s different now careful. Like she’s testing the water before stepping in. You tilt your head. “The meeting with me?”

She nods once. “Looks like it.” A pause. “I can make an excuse,” she adds quickly. “Say I’ve got physio or something. If it’s weird. If you don’t want me there.”

You study her the way she won’t quite meet your eyes, the way she’s trying to give you an out even if she doesn’t really want to. You let the silence stretch just long enough to make her start to squirm. Then you smirk. “Oh, so they’re bringing out the big guns for me now?”

Alexia lets out a short laugh, shaking her head, but you catch the small exhale of relief that slips out with it.

“I’m just saying,” you add, nudging her leg with yours, “if this is your club’s strategy to win me over, it’s not subtle.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not strategy, it’s… logistics.”

“Uh-huh. Logistics in a bikini.”

She laughs again, then quiets. More softly now, “Seriously, though. Are you okay with me being there?”

You look at her for a long second and nod. “Yeah,” you say. “and i'm intrigued how they’re going to use you to woo me”

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

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

You walked into the locker room for a home game, you eyed Maya and Liv in the corner giggling away as you walked through the locker room to your spec. They were scrolling through Twitter reading comments, laughing at posts, and occasionally shoving their phones in your face.

“Oh, this one’s gold,” Liv snickered. “‘Alexia Putellas watching from the gym window like a Disney princess longing for her forbidden love.’”

Maya nearly choked on her drink. “They did not say that.” Liv turned the screen so she could see. “Oh, they definitely did.”

You shook your head, suppressing a smirk. “You two have way too much free time.”

“And you have way too much restraint,” Liv shot back. “I mean, come on, you could really mess with her right now.”

Maya nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! She’s already halfway to losing her mind over you, might as well push her the rest of the way.”

You leaned back, sipping your drink. Liv nodding “Oh, 100%. You should’ve taken your shirt off sooner.”

You smirked. “I like to keep things interesting.”

Maya and Liv exchanged a mischievous look before both leaning in closer, eager to fuel the playful tension between you and Alexia. “Alright, alright,” Maya grinned. “But you have to admit, you’re making her suffer a little. Just imagine, if you gave her just a little more…” she trailed off, letting her words hang in the air like an open invitation.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your cool. “I’m not here to make anyone suffer.”

Liv gave a playful snort. “Sure, sure. Just don’t pretend you don’t enjoy the game. I mean, she’s practically dying to get you alone.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe, but she’s gotta work for it.”

Maya leaned back, eyeing you with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. “You know, you’re playing this way too well. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or worried for her.”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s all about balance. Can’t let her think she has it all figured out.”

Liv raised her eyebrows, leaning back on her chair. “Well, if she’s watching through the gym window like some Disney princess, you might want to start acting like Prince Charming soon.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Maybe I’ll just let her keep guessing.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the teasing atmosphere fading as you settled back into your spot. But as you glanced across the locker room, your gaze lingered for just a moment longer than usual, wondering if this game was really just a game at all.

This wasn’t basketball. This was a warzone disguised as a game.  

Madrid came to hurt you tonight. Not just with the score but with every shove, every elbow, every late hit the refs somehow missed. And if you hadn’t already known how dirty they played, you would’ve thought they had a personal vendetta against you.  

The first quarter set the tone.  

A hard screen blindsided you, knocking you off balance before you even had a chance to see who hit you. The impact rattled your chest, but you bit down on the sting and kept moving, refusing to give them the reaction they wanted.  

Then came the second quarter, and it only got worse.  

You went up for a rebound, body fully extended, only to get yanked backward mid-air. Your feet never landed properly, someone made damn sure of that. Your back hit the court with a thud, a sharp pain shooting up your spine. The whistle blew, but the damage was done.

By the third quarter, you were seething.  

Another drive, another cheap shot, this time, an elbow straight to the ribs just before you went up for a layup. The contact knocked the wind out of you, the sharp ache in your side lingering as you lined up for the free throws. You exhaled slowly, ignoring the burn in your lungs.  

Madrid played dirty.  

You played harder.  

By the fourth quarter, your body was screaming at you to stop, but there was no chance in hell you were letting them win. You pushed through, ignoring the bruises, the sore ribs, the stiffness in your back. You were tired. You were pissed off. But you weren’t done.  

And when the final buzzer rang, the only thing louder than the cheers from the crowd was the sound of your own heartbeat, still hammering in your chest.  

Your team had won. Just.

But you’d paid for it.  

You stormed off the court, ignoring the lingering stares from reporters, the murmurs from the coaching staff. You didn’t even wait for the post-game team talk. Right now, you didn’t care about anything except getting the hell out of there.  

You were beaten up, bruised, and exhausted.  

But more than anything, 

You were angry.

The locker room was dead silent.  

Your teammates had come and gone, the post-game celebrations cut short by the bruises littering your body and the tension still sitting heavy in your chest. The only sound was the distant echo of the arena outside, fans still lingering, reporters still chasing interviews.  

You sat on the bench, head resting against the cool metal of your locker, trying to breathe through the dull, aching pain radiating from your ribs. Madrid had done a number on you tonight. Every muscle in your body felt tight, sore, overworked.  

You needed ice. You needed a shower. You needed—  

A knock on the door.  

You didn’t move.  

Another knock, firmer this time. Then—  

"Are you decent?"  

You recognised the voice instantly.  

Your jaw tensed as you straightened up, wincing slightly at the sharp pull in your ribs. "Come in."  

The door pushed open, and there she was.  

Alexia.  

In casual clothes, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her sharp eyes scanning the room before locking onto you. For a second, she just stood there, her expression unreadable.  

“You alright?”

You let out a slow exhale, wiping a hand over your face before tilting your head at her. "Why do you care?" She didn't deserve your attitude but she seemed to take it in her stride.

Alexia scoffed, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing shut behind her. "Because I saw what they did to you out there. Looked like they were trying to take you out."  

You smirked, though it lacked your usual confidence. "Yeah? Well, they failed."  

Alexia didn’t look amused. She took another step closer, eyes flickering down to where you were still absentmindedly pressing a hand to your ribs. "That bad?"  

You rolled your eyes. "I’ve had worse."  

She didn’t seem convinced, crossing her arms as she studied you. "You sure? Because you don’t look too good."  

"Wow, thanks," you deadpanned, shifting slightly but instantly regretting it when a sharp pain shot through your side. You gritted your teeth, and Alexia noticed. Of course she did.  

"Let me see," she said, already moving forward.  

"I’m fine."  

"You’re stubborn," she shot back, unfazed.  

You leaned back slightly as she crouched in front of you, closer now, her presence filling the space between you. Her gaze flickered up to meet yours, something unreadable in her expression. "Just lift your damn shirt."  

Your breath hitched.  

Not because of the request because of the way she said it. Low. Firm. With that no-nonsense authority she carried so naturally.  

You hesitated. Then, with a quiet sigh, you relented, slowly lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the bruising already forming across your ribs.  

Alexia’s jaw tightened.  

She didn’t say anything at first, but her expression darkened, her fingers twitching at her sides like she wanted to do something but wasn’t sure what. "They really went after you."  

You simply hummed in response.

Alexia shook her head, muttering something under her breath in Spanish before exhaling sharply. "And your staff just let you sit here like this? No medics?"  

"I told them I’d deal with it."  

"Right. Because that’s smart," she shot back, sarcasm dripping from her voice.  

You smirked despite yourself. "You’re really this concerned?"  

Alexia met your gaze, unflinching. "Yes."  

The air between you shifted.  For the first time all night, you weren’t thinking about the game, the bruises, or the way your body ached. All you could think about was her. The way she was looking at you. The way she had showed up for you.  

Your voice came quieter this time. "Why?"  

She didn’t answer immediately.  

Instead, her gaze softened—just slightly, just enough for something unspoken to pass between you. "Because I don’t like seeing you like this."  

You swallowed, your heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the game.  

Alexia stood up slowly, taking a step back like she needed to put distance between you. "Go home, get some rest. And don’t be stupid about your recovery."  

You watched her, searching her expression for something—anything—that would tell you what this really was.  

But before you could say anything, she was already turning toward the door.  

"Alexia."  

She paused, glancing back at you over her shoulder.  

You held her gaze. "Thanks."  

She nodded once. "See you around."  

And then she was gone, leaving you alone in the locker room and with a whole new problem.  

Because now, you weren’t just pissed off about the game. Now, you were thinking about Alexia.

The locker room felt colder after Alexia left. You weren’t sure if it was because the adrenaline from the game was finally wearing off or if it was something else entirely—something to do with the way she had looked at you, the way she had shown up after a brutal game like this.  

You let out a slow breath, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees, staring at the floor as you tried to process it all.  

Alexia cared.  

She shouldn’t, not like that, not enough to show up in your locker room unannounced, demanding to see your injuries. But she did. And now, she had left just as quickly, leaving behind an unmistakable tension that wouldn’t leave your chest.  

With a shake of your head, you finally forced yourself up, wincing at the stiffness in your ribs. You needed ice. A long bath. Sleep.  

You also needed to get your mind off Alexia.  

Easier said than done.

You woke up sore.  Your ribs ached, your back was stiff, and every bruise Madrid had gifted you last night throbbed as you sat up in bed. You groaned, running a hand over your face before reaching for your phone on the nightstand.  

Notifications flooded your screen—texts from teammates, messages from your coaching staff checking in, and, of course, social media blowing up with reactions to last night’s game.  

One unread text from Alexia.  

You stared at it for a second before swiping it open.  

Alexia: You alive?

A smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned back against the pillows, thumbs hovering over the screen before you typed a reply.  

You: Barely. You gonna keep checking on me like this?

The message was delivered, and almost instantly, those three little dots appeared.  

Alexia: If you keep playing like you don’t care about your body, sí.  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the amused grin that formed.  

You: I do care. I just have a high pain tolerance.

Alexia: Or you’re stubborn.

You: You sound like my coach.

Alexia: Maybe your coach is right.

Your smirk grew.  

You: Didn’t know you cared this much, Capitana.  

This time, there was a longer pause. You could practically see her debating how to respond, which only made you more entertained.  

Finally, the dots reappeared.  

Alexia: Don’t get used to it.

You chuckled to yourself, locking your phone and tossing it onto the bed beside you. She could say that all she wanted.  

But after last night, you weren’t sure you believed her.

The bruises from the Madrid game were still fresh, but they didn’t stop you from hitting the gym first thing in the morning. If anything, they only fuelled you more. Pushing past the ache in your ribs, you increased the speed on the treadmill, jaw tight as you focused on each stride. The game still replayed in your head, every hard foul, every shove that went uncalled. It pissed you off all over again.  

Your phone vibrated on the bench next to you, but you ignored it.  

Another buzz.  

And another.  

With a frustrated sigh, you finally hit the stop button on the treadmill and grabbed your phone. Three notifications.  

Two from your teammates.  

One from Alexia.  

You swiped them open, starting with the first one from Maya.  

Maya: You cleared for the training session later?  

The second was similar.  

Claudia: You good after last night?  

Then, Alexia’s message.  

Alexia: Did you actually rest, or are you already being stupid? 

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head.  

You: Define stupid. 

Her response was instant.  

Alexia: If you have to ask, you already know.  

You bit back a smirk.  

You: You’re really keeping tabs on me now?

The dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Alexia: Someone has to.  

That one made you pause. The air between you both was changing, and neither of you had acknowledged it directly. It had been playful before, just online flirting and teasing. But now she was showing up at your games. Calling you out. Checking in.  

And you liked it. Maybe too much.  

Shaking your head, you typed back.  

You: Good to know I have Barcelona’s finest watching my every move. 

Her reply was just as quick.  

Alexia: Don’t flatter yourself.  

You chuckled, tossing your phone back onto the bench before grabbing a towel and slinging it around your neck.  

She could deny it all she wanted.  

You weren’t fooled. You weren’t the only one who noticed the shift. The fans had picked up on the lull in online interactions, but now that Alexia had subtly made her presence known again, you figured it was time to really give them something to talk about.  

After finishing your gym session, you took a mirror selfie drenched in sweat, muscles tense from the workout, towel draped around your neck. Muscles black blue and prominent on your torso and arms. You stared at the picture for a moment, debating, before typing out the caption:  

“Apparently, I need supervision. Any volunteers?” 

You hit post and locked your phone, moving on with your day, but it didn’t take long for the internet to explode.  

Thousands of comments flooded in within minutes, fans tagging Alexia, demanding a response. It took her a while, but when she finally caved, her reply was short.  

Alexiaputellas: Your decision-making is questionable. Supervision is necessary. 

That was all it took. The fans lost it, and your notifications became a never-ending stream of chaos.  

You smirked, leaning back in your chair as you typed back.  

Yourusername: Didn’t realise Barcelona offered those kinds of services.  

Her reply was instant.  

Alexiaputellas: We don’t. You’re a special case.  

That made you laugh.  

The comments kept rolling in—your teammates jumping in, her teammates fueling the fire.  

vickyylopezz._: Alexia, just admit you’re obsessed. 

MayaSmith: At this point, either date or shut up!

Random Fan: JUST DATE ALREADY! 

The engagement skyrocketed. Articles started circulating again. Even the club's official page liked the interaction, which you were excited to point out the to the PR director when you next saw him.

And you just sat back and enjoyed the show. Alexia wanted to play this game. You were more than ready to match her move for move.

Later that evening, you posted another photo—this time, a clip from your latest training session. Mid-shot, arms tense, expression sharp. The kind of picture that made it clear you weren’t just messing around.  

The caption  

“Still waiting on that supervision. Thought Barcelona was reliable.”  

You barely had time to blink before Alexia responded.  

Alexiaputellas: Some of us have actual jobs.

Your smirk grew as you fired back.  

Yourusername: Right, right. Must be tough sitting in the gym watching me train.

It was a bold move—one that let her know you saw her earlier in the day. That you knew she had been watching, even if she thought she was being subtle. And judging by the pause before her next response, you had definitely caught her off guard. She tried to hide at the back but by wearing a cap and sunglasses she stuck out like a saw thumb.  

When she finally replied, it was much simpler than you expected.  

 Alexiaputellas: Watch yourself.

It wasn’t her usual witty comeback. It was more like a warning. Which only made you push further.  

Yourusername: Or what? You’ll come supervise me yourself?

Again, the pause. The fans were losing their minds in the comments, but all you cared about was whether or not Alexia was going to take the bait.   

Alexiaputellas: Try me.  

Your breath caught for a second, but you covered it with a smirk.  

She was getting bolder. You were definitely not backing down now.

Alexia’s last message sat on your screen, daring you to make the next move.  

Try me.  

It was bold, even for her. You weren’t sure if she meant it as a challenge, a warning, or something else entirely. But one thing was clear—this game you had been playing wasn’t just harmless flirting anymore.  

You were both toeing the line. So, naturally, you decided to see just how close you could get.  

You typed back.  

Yourusername: Careful, Alexia. People might start thinking you actually want to supervise me.

The fans were already running wild with speculation, so you figured you might as well fuel the fire.  

For a while, there was nothing. No reply.  

Then, a notification popped up.  

Not a text.  

Not a comment.  

A like.  

Alexia had liked your message but said nothing.  

Which only made it worse. The internet exploded again, theories running rampant in your mentions. Was she ignoring you? Was she flustered? Was she plotting her next move? Had you taken it offline like the fans already speculated you had with the interactions fewer and further between.

Then, finally, a response. Privately

Alexia: Some things don’t need to be said.  

Your stomach did something it definitely shouldn’t have, but you ignored it. You refused to be the one caught off guard.  

You: So you’re admitting it?

Alexia: Admitting what?

You huffed a laugh. She was good.  

You: That you want to supervise me. Personally.

The three little dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again.  

Then, finally—  

Alexia: You talk too much. 

That one hit differently. Maybe because you could almost hear her saying it, almost see the way she’d look at you if this conversation was happening in person. Maybe because, for the first time, it wasn’t just playful. There was something else underneath it now.  

And for the first time, you weren’t sure who was actually winning this game. You had her cornered.  Or at least, that’s what you thought.  

Alexia’s last message sat on your screen, just taunting you.  

You talk too much. 

It wasn’t playful like before. It was something else. Something heavier.  You weren’t sure why it made your skin feel warm or why your mind kept replaying it as if it meant more than just shutting you down. You could answer right away. Keep the back and forth going, keep the fans screaming, keep playing this game where neither of you admitted anything but made sure everyone knew something was happening.  

But instead, you waited. For the first time since this whole thing started, you made Alexia wonder what you were thinking.  

An hour passed.  

Then two.  

The internet had already dissected every interaction from earlier, debating what it all meant. But you said nothing.  

Then, late that night, a message appeared.  

Alexia: Cat got your tongue?  

A slow smirk tugged at your lips. She had cracked first. Now you had the upper hand.  

You: Just making you wonder. Seems like it worked.

The typing bubbles appeared immediately. Stopped.  

Started again.  

Alexia: Dangerous game you’re playing. 

Oh, this was fun.  

You: Good thing I like danger. 

This time, she didn’t reply right away. You imagined her staring at the message, deciding whether she wanted to take this further or let it settle.  

But Alexia had never been one to back down from a challenge.  

Minutes later, a new notification popped up. Not a text. A picture.  

You clicked on it, and—

It was a picture of her.  

A post-training one, similar to yours from before. Alexia was in a sports bra, abs tight, sweat glistening along her skin.  

No caption.  

No words.  

Just that.

Just to you.  

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.  

You had started this game, but now she was playing by her own rules.  

And for once…  

You had no idea what to say.

🩷🩷

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

You and Alexia try to start a family

The honeymoon phase of marriage is supposed to be blissful. And in many ways, it still is. But beneath the laughter, the lazy mornings wrapped in each other, the quiet home you’ve built—there’s a weight neither of you can quite shake.

The kind that lingers in the silence after another negative test. The kind that makes Alexia pull you tighter against her at night, even when neither of you speak about it. The kind that makes every hopeful what if? turn into not yet. It’s been months now—long, hopeful, painful months.

The first round of IVF started on your first wedding anniversary had been a whirlwind of emotions excitement, nerves, the belief that surely, surely, it would happen right away. That you’d see the two lines on the test, that Alexia would pick you up and spin you around, that you’d call Eli and Alba with tears of joy instead of frustration.

But the first round had ended in disappointment.

The second? Worse.

Because this time, you’d convinced yourselves that the first was just bad luck. That this time would be different. That this time would be the one. But it wasn’t. And now—now it’s just hard.

You’re in the bathroom, staring down at the test on the counter. Another single line. Another no. Another month lost. Your throat tightens, your hands gripping the sink as you swallow back the sting of disappointment. You knew it was a possibility. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t get your hopes up this time. But hope is a dangerous thing. A small knock on the door makes you tense. You already know who it is.

“Mi amor…” Alexia’s voice is soft, hesitant. She’s been waiting outside since you’d taken the test, giving you space but also aching to know. You can’t bring yourself to answer. The door opens slowly, and then she’s there, your wife, the love of your life, the person who always seems to hold you together. Except—she’s struggling too.

You see it in the way her eyes flicker to the test on the counter, in the way her shoulders drop, in the way she exhales too slowly, like she’s forcing herself to stay strong. She meets your gaze, and for a moment, neither of you say a word. You break. A soft, strangled sob slips out before you can stop it, and in an instant, Alexia is there, wrapping you up in her arms, holding you so tight it’s like she’s trying to physically keep you from shattering.

“I—I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” you whisper against her shoulder, voice trembling. “I don’t—”

“Nothing,” she cuts in, her own voice thick. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You clutch onto her, burying yourself in her warmth, her safety. “Then why does it feel like I’m failing?”

Alexia squeezes her eyes shut, pressing a firm kiss to your hair. “Because it hurts, mi amor.”

And that’s the truth.

It hurts.

More than you ever thought it would. You don’t know how long you stay like that, wrapped in each other, breathing through the ache. Eventually, Alexia leans back, her hands coming up to cradle your face. “We keep trying,” she murmurs. “Because this isn’t the end. This isn’t where our story stops.” You nod, sniffling, pressing into the touch. She tilts her forehead against yours. “One day, we’re going to look back on this and know that every step, every tear, every heartbreak led us to them.” You let out a shaky breath. Because you believe her. Because despite everything, despite the no’s, the failed rounds, the disappointment, one thing remains unshaken. Hope. And as long as you have that, as long as you have her, you know you’re going to get through this. Together.

The third round felt different. You tried not to let yourselves believe it too much tried to temper the hope, to not let it bloom too fully in case it got crushed again. But when you saw that second line on the pregnancy test, everything else disappeared. The breath left your lungs. Your hands trembled as you held the test in front of you, staring at it, disbelieving.

A positive.

You laughed, you sobbed, you dropped to your knees on the bathroom floor, clutching the tiny plastic stick like it was the most precious thing in the world. Alexia wasn’t home she was away with Barcelona, an away game in Madrid. You ached to tell her in person, to see her face when she realised what this meant, so you decided to wait, to surprise her when she got home.

For 48 hours, you carried this secret like a treasure, your hands instinctively resting over your belly, whispering to the tiny life growing inside you, promising them that they were already so loved.

Then came the blood.

At first, it was just a little. Barely anything. You told yourself it was normal, that implantation bleeding happens, that some women experience spotting in early pregnancy. But by the next morning, it was more. Too much. And suddenly, that hope you had tried so hard to hold onto was slipping through your fingers like sand. Alexia wasn’t home yet. You didn’t tell her. Not yet. Instead, you called the clinic, booked a scan for when she’d be back. You spent the hours alone in quiet dread, curled up in bed, one hand pressed over your stomach, whispering desperate prayers to someone, anyone, please let this be okay.

Alexia came home exhausted, jet-lagged from travel, but thrilled to finally see you. The moment she stepped through the door, she grinned, pulling you into her arms. "Mi amor, I missed you so much."

You let yourself melt into her warmth, gripping her tightly, so tightly it made her pause, her hands moving to cup your face.

“What is it?” she asked softly, her brows furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

You inhaled sharply, blinking back the tears. “Alexia, I—” Your voice cracked. And instantly, her entire demeanour shifted. Concern, fear, flickered in her eyes as she guided you to the couch, hands never leaving you.

“What happened?”

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to look at her. “I… I took a test whilst you were away”

Her breath hitched. Her lips parted, eyes widening, searching your face for confirmation. “You—” Tears welled up in her eyes before she could even form a full thought, her hands trembling as they moved to your stomach.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” you whispered. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Alexia’s throat bobbed, her smile so tender, so full of love, it broke your heart all over again.

“It was positive, but, Lex… I—I think something’s wrong.”

The words shattered the moment. Her face dropped, hands freezing over your belly. You told her about the bleeding, about the appointment. Her hands gripped yours, her jaw tightening, the familiar fire of her determination burning behind her eyes. “Then we go,” she said, already reaching for her keys.

The clinic was cold. You sat in the exam room, Alexia’s hand gripping yours tightly, her thumb stroking over your skin, grounding you.

“I’m so sorry.” The words cut through you like a blade. The doctor’s voice was gentle, but the words were brutal. Final. “There’s no heartbeat.”

Silence. You felt Alexia tense beside you, felt the way her breath hitched, but you couldn’t look at her. You couldn’t look at anything except the blank screen where there should have been life. The tears came fast. Unstoppable. Your whole body trembled as the weight of it crashed down on you, pressing against your chest, making it impossible to breathe. Alexia was instantly pulling you into her, arms tight, like she could physically hold you together as you crumbled. “Mi amor, mi amor,” she whispered against your temple, her voice breaking.

You sobbed into her shoulder, hands gripping the fabric of her hoodie so tightly your knuckles ached. It wasn’t fair. You’d done everything right. And still—still, it wasn’t enough.

That night, you didn’t leave your bed, you got home skipped dinner and went straight to bed. Alexia stayed with you, her body wrapped around yours, arms keeping you pressed against her chest as you cried yourself raw. And the weight of letting her down, it left unsaid.

She inhaled sharply, like the words physically wounded her. “Baby…”

Her hand cradled the back of your head, her lips pressing desperately against your hair. You squeezed your eyes shut, the ache in your chest unbearable.

Alexia swallowed thickly, her grip on you tightening. “I know,” she whispered. “I know, mi amor.” You felt her shake against you, felt the silent tears dampen your hair as she held you, as she broke with you. And then, through the thick silence, she whispered, “Whatever you need… however we move forward… I’m with you.”

You buried yourself further into her, needing her warmth, her strength. Because in this moment, you weren’t sure how to move forward. You weren’t sure if you could. All you knew was the pain. The loss. And the arms that held you through it.

Grief changes people. For you, it made everything feel heavy. The world moved on, but you felt like you were stuck, stuck in the loss, in the what could have been, in the endless questions you asked yourself every night when Alexia was fast asleep beside you. And for Alexia? It made her watch you.

She didn’t smother you, didn’t overwhelm you with empty reassurances. But you saw it—the way her eyes lingered on you when she thought you weren’t looking, the way she held you just a little tighter at night, the way she flinched when she woke up to find you staring at the ceiling, lost in your own mind.

She was waiting for you to break. And that’s what hurt the most. Because you knew she was hurting too. You knew she wanted this just as much as you did, but she never let herself be selfish about it. She never asked if you wanted to try again. Never brought up doctors or options or hope. Because she had heard you that night without you evening saying a word.

She had listened and instead of pushing, she had chosen to protect you. Even when it broke her. But you couldn’t live like this. Not with the weight of guilt pressing against your ribs, not with the way Alexia dimmed in a way you had never seen before. And so, you made a choice.

One last time. If it worked—if the universe was finally kind—then you both got everything you wanted. And if it didn’t? Then Alexia never had to know. She never had to relive the pain. The decision settled in your chest like a secret you had to keep. 

You were going to try again for your wife, for everything she always wanted, the thing it seemed you couldn’t give her.

You booked the appointments quietly, slipping out on days when Alexia was at training or away for matches. Every injection, every test, every agonising waiting period—you went through it all alone. It was terrifying. Without her. But more than that it was hopeful. For the first time in months, you felt like you were fighting for something instead of drowning in loss.

You imagined what it would be like to tell Alexia. Imagined her face when she found out. Imagined how it would feel to finally say, ‘It worked. We did it.’

Then, one morning, standing in the bathroom, hands trembling as you held a test between your fingers

Two lines.

A positive.

Your breath caught, your vision blurred, your whole body shook. It had worked. It worked. You pressed a hand over your mouth, choking back a sob as the realisation slammed into you.

You were optimistic with a realism that you had been here before.

Alexia comes home later than usual. You hear the sound of the front door unlocking, the familiar shuffle of her boots as she kicks them off in the hallway. The deep sigh she lets out, the kind she always does after an exhausting training session.

But you don’t move. You can’t. You sat on the couch, staring at the TV, trying to look natural while your heart hammered in your chest.

She was still in her training gear, her hair slightly damp from her post-session shower, her bag slung lazily over one shoulder. And as always she came to find you and when she did. A soft smile pulled at her lips, tired but full of love, as she crossed the room toward you.

She had dropped her bag somewhere near the door, leaned down, and kissed you once. Then again. Then once more for good measure. “Hola, mi amor,” she murmured against your lips. “Missed you.”

You smiled, your stomach twisting with nerves. “Missed you too.”

Alexia hummed, straightening up as she ran a hand through her hair. “I’m starving,” she groaned, already heading toward the kitchen.

You still feigning nonchalance. “Food in the fridge for you, I ate earlier i was hungry”

She grinned, disappearing into the kitchen. And then you waited. The familiar sounds started, the fridge opening, the scrape of a cup, the soft clatter of cutlery and then silence. Your heart skipped a beat. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, slow, deliberate footsteps. When Alexia stepped back into the living room, she wasn’t holding her food. She was holding the five pregnancy tests you had left for her on the counter, all lined up neatly, undeniable in their results.

Her expression was unreadable—her brows slightly furrowed, her lips parted, her eyes wide with disbelief. She looked from the tests to you, then back to the tests.

“Mi amor…?” Her voice was so soft, so shaky, as if she wasn’t quite sure if she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. Your stomach twisted, your breath catching. You tried to speak—really, you did—but all you could do was nod, your throat tight with emotion. Alexia blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, as if she needed to be sure, she slowly lifted one of the tests closer to her face, rereading the little plus sign, as if the result might somehow change.

Her breath shuddered. Her fingers trembled. She looked back at you. And in the softest, most disbelieving whisper “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded, “I took five to be sure” As Alexia sits down, her fingers still curled around the positive test, you see the shift. The happiness spreads to raw emotion as she swatted away at her tears as you moved to put her arms around her, her hand ran up and down your thigh, “I don’t know how to feel either” You whisper

“I’m happy. I’m so happy but.. I don’t want to get ahead of myself”

You nod, “We’ve been here before”

Alexia looked to you her eyes scanning over your face, “If this wasn’t positive, would I of ever known you’d done another round of IVF?” Your silence told her the answer, “Never do that again, please. I want to be involved not for the baby for you, I meant my vows mi amor I want to be there for the good and the bad, and the thought of you going through another loss alone tears me apart”

You peck her lips, “I’m sorry, I can see your hurting, I can see your breaking Lex and you’re trying to be strong for me, and I just.. I want to make you happy. And I feel the only thing I can give you is a baby and I can’t even get that right”

“Hey” Alexia turned her body fully to you, “No. Baby or not. I love you. You are my wife. I didn’t fall in love with you and marry you for you to give me a baby Y/N. Don’t ever think I think or feel less of you because this isn’t working for us.” You nodded and she cupped your face, “We stay cautiously optimistic ok? You’re pregnant” she let herself smile, “And that’s incredible, but we don’t get ahead of ourselves”

You nodded, pecking her lips, “Don’t call me Y/N again” Alexia chuckled you put your finger over her lips, “It’s Mi Amor or silence”

“Yes Mi Amor” You kissed each other lips moving in perfect synchronicity, “It’s positive”

You both giggled, “I know.” You looked to your stomach, “There’s a little baby in there”

“We’re doing what we literally just said we wouldn’t”

—

The drive to the clinic is quiet. Not because you and Alexia don’t have anything to say, but because neither of you can find the words. You sit in the passenger seat, hands clasped tightly over your stomach, trying to steady your breathing. You can feelAlexia glance at you every few seconds, her fingers twitching on the steering wheel like she wants to reach for you but doesn’t want to take her eyes off the road.

When she finally speaks, her voice is soft. “You okay?” You nod, but your throat is too tight to answer properly. Alexia sighs, her free hand reaching over to squeeze yours. “I know,” she murmurs. “Me too.” Because this moment—the space between knowing and really knowing—is the most terrifying part. You want to believe it. You want to let yourself hope. But you’ve been here before.

The clinic is just as you remember it—too bright, too clinical, too full of possibilities. Alexia never lets go of your hand as you check in, as you’re led down the hallway, as you settle onto the exam table.  

The nurse smiles warmly at you both. “You’re here for an early scan?”  

You nod, swallowing thickly. “We just… we just want to make sure everything’s okay.”  

She nods in understanding, her smile never wavering. “That’s completely normal. You’ve been through a lot to get here.”  

Alexia shifts beside you, her grip tightening on your fingers. “Is it too early to see anything?” she asks, her voice steady but her eyes uncertain.  

The nurse shakes her head. “At this stage, we won’t see much, but we will be able to check for a heartbeat.”  

A heartbeat. You exhale shakily, your chest tightening. 

The nurse prepares the ultrasound, and Alexia presses a kiss to your forehead, whispering, “I’m right here.”  

The cool gel on your stomach makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the way your whole body tenses as the probe moves across your skin. The room is silent for a moment.  

You hold your breath. Alexia holds you.  

And then—  

A sound.  

Faint at first. A soft, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.  

Your chest cracks open. Alexia sucks in a breath, her eyes going wide.  

“There it is,” the nurse says gently. “A very strong heartbeat.”  

You don’t realise you’re crying until Alexia lifts your hand to her lips, pressing a firm kiss against your knuckles. She’s crying too. The nurse adjusts the screen slightly, pointing to a tiny, barely visible speck. “There’s your baby.”  

Your baby.  

You let out a soft, shaky laugh, your free hand instinctively moving toward your stomach. “They’re so small.”  

Alexia breathes out a choked laugh. “They’re there.”  

The nurse nods, smiling at you both. “Everything looks good. Strong heartbeat, early signs are all positive. I know it’s still early, but this is a great start.”  

A great start.  

You turn to Alexia, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. “We did it.”  

She swallows thickly, her forehead pressing against yours. “You did it.”  

For the first time in a long, long time you let yourself believe it.

At first, neither of you spoke about the future much just one day at a time, one quiet milestone at a time. But then things kept going well. Your symptoms came on strong, morning sickness, exhaustion, all the usual things, but you welcomed every wave of nausea, every sleepless night, because it meant the pregnancy was progressing.

And then, around 12 weeks, a tiny bump started to show. Only noticeable in the mornings and evenings, but it was there, signs of growth. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Alexia noticed immediately. From that moment on, she was obsessed. Every morning before she left for training, her hand would drift under your shirt, fingers ghosting over your stomach, a tiny, unconscious smile playing at her lips.

Every night before bed, she’d lie beside you, palm resting just below your navel, warmth seeping through your skin. She touched you like she needed to. Like every moment she wasn’t touching you, she might forget this was really happening.

But it wasn’t just your stomach she was obsessed with. Your body was changing in more ways than one. And Alexia noticed. Of course, she knew your body better than you did.

One evening, as you changed into pyjamas, you caught her staring in the mirror. Her arms were crossed, her lips slightly parted, very clearly focused on something other than your stomach.  

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so obvious.”  

She smirked, stepping behind you, her hands immediately cupping your breasts from behind, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I’m just… appreciating,” she murmured, lips pressing against your neck.  

You groaned, swatting her hands away halfheartedly. “They hurt, Lex.”  

She hummed, not even remotely deterred. “They’re just bigger” she mused, her hands lingering, her thumbs brushing over you lightly. “And sensitive.”  

You shot her a glare through the mirror. “Exactly. So hands off.”  

She pouted but finally let go, sighing dramatically. “I don’t know if I should be honoured or offended by how unfair pregnancy is to me.”  

You turned in her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you think you have it tough?”  

She nodded, lips twitching. “Yes. I have to suffer through your boobs getting bigger and not getting to enjoy them.”  

You smacked her arm, laughing. “You’re impossible.”  

She smirked, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “But you love me.”  

You sighed against her, already melting. “Unfortunately.”  

She grinned, hands sliding back down to where your bump was showing, but it could have been the biggest bowl of paella Alexia gave you. “And I love you.”  

You hummed. “And my boobs.”  

“That too.” 

Alexia’s hands remained firm on your stomach, fingers tracing gentle patterns over the slight curve of your stomach. Her eyes flickered up to meet yours in the mirror, full of mischief, adoration, and something else—something unmistakably hungry. You knew this look. You also knew that once Alexia decided she wanted something, she wouldn’t stop until she got it.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “You are impossible.”

She hummed against your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss there. “I just think,” she murmured, her hands moving just slightly under your shirt, her palms flat against your warm skin, “that we should celebrate.”

You arched an eyebrow, though your resolve was already crumbling. “Celebrate what, exactly?”

She smirked, her lips brushing against your jaw. “That you’re growing our baby,” she whispered, her voice low, reverent. “That I get to love you like this. That you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

A shiver ran down your spine at her words. Damn her. Damn her and her hands and her mouth and the way she could make you melt with nothing more than a whisper. You exhaled shakily. “Alexia—”

“Mmm?” She feigned innocence, but her fingers were already slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, grazing the underside of your breast. “Too much?”

You swallowed hard, your body betraying you as you leaned into her touch. She grinned, sensing your resolve slipping, her thumbs drawing slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

“I just want to touch you,” she murmured against your ear, her voice sending warmth flooding through your body. “Let me?”

And how could you say no when she sounded like that? When she looked at you like you were her entire world? You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment before finally turning in her arms, your hands moving up to cup her face. “I hate you,” you muttered, though there was no weight to it.

Alexia grinned. “You love me.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything else, she closed the gap between you, her lips capturing yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. It was different—slower, deeper, filled with something heavier than just desire. Love. Worship. Alexia kissed you like she was memorising you, like she needed to show you everything she felt because words would never be enough. And as her hands moved to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, you let her. You let yourself fall. Because no matter how impossible she was yours.

Alexia’s hands moved deliberately, reverently, over your waist, her touch slow and exploratory. There was no rush—just the warmth of her fingertips, the way she cupped your body like she was memorising every new curve, every change, every part of you that had shifted since the pregnancy began.

Her lips trailed down your neck, lingering, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmured against your skin, her voice hushed, full of something almost worshipful.

Your breath hitched as her hands slid higher, her thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts, testing, waiting.

You exhaled shakily, biting your lip. “They’re sensitive,” you whispered, though you weren’t entirely sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

Alexia hummed in understanding, her gaze flicking up to yours as if asking permission. You swallowed hard, nodding once. That was all she needed. Her fingers curled gently around your curves, her thumbs pressing feather-light circles into the tender skin. The sensation sent a warmth rippling through you—too much and not enough all at once.

“Dios mío,” Alexia whispered, her voice thick with awe. “So full. So soft.”

A whimper slipped from your lips when her thumbs brushed over your nipples, the sensitivity making your breath stutter. She smirked at your reaction, her touch turning slightly firmer, her lips following, pressing kisses along the swell of your breast before flicking her tongue out, teasing, exploring. Your fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. “Alexia,” you gasped, your body pressing into her, already feeling consumed by her touch, her warmth, the way she devoured you without hurry, without urgency—just pure, unfiltered adoration.

She chuckled against your skin, her breath warm, teasing. “Mmm, I love hearing you say my name like that.”

You tugged her hair harder, making her groan. Her hands slid down to your hips, gripping, holding you steady as she continued her slow, intoxicating assault. Every flick of her tongue, every press of her lips, every gentle squeeze sent a new wave of pleasure washing over you, pulling you under with her. She wasn’t just touching you. She was worshiping you. Loving every new part of you. Every change. Every sign of the life you were growing together. And in this moment—wrapped in her arms, completely undone by her love, her devotion—you had never felt more cherished.

Alexia took her time, her touch slow, deliberate—like she was learning everything about you all over again. Her lips never left your skin, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your collarbone, down the curve of your breasts, her breath warm against your already sensitive skin.

You had always known her to be patient, controlled, but tonight she was reverent.

She whispered against your skin, her voice husky. “I love how your body is changing,” she murmured, her hands sliding along your sides, tracing every new curve, every inch of softness. “I love you.”

You gasped as her fingers brushed over your already sensitive peaks, her thumbs circling, teasing, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight through you. Your body reacted immediately—back arching, breath catching, heat pooling low in your stomach. She smirked at the effect she had on you, her hands steady, her eyes dark with something intense, something undeniable.

You whined softly, your grip on her tightening. “Alexia—”

She hummed, dipping her head lower, her lips brushing over the swell of your breast before capturing you fully. The sensation sent a deep shiver through you, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming. She knew you were sensitive, knew exactly what it did to you, and yet—she didn’t stop. She worshiped you, her touch, her mouth, her hands moving in perfect rhythm, coaxing soft, breathy moans from your lips. Every flick of her tongue, every teasing squeeze, every gentle pull sent you spiralling, climbing. And she knew. She could feel it. The way your breath hitched. The way your fingers tangled in her hair, holding her close. The way your body arched into her, desperate for more. She smiled against your skin, her voice full of heat. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, nodding, the pressure coiling impossibly tight inside you. She didn’t stop. Didn’t rush. She just stayed with you, guiding you, coaxing you, until the tension finally broke—pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense it left you shaking in her arms. She held you through it, whispering soft, soothing words against your skin, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheeks, your lips.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured, her hands never leaving you. “Always.”

And as you slowly came down, body still tingling, heart still racing, you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You’re so smug right now.”

Alexia grinned, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips. “Of course I am,” she teased. “I made you come by playing with your boobs.”

You sighed, melting into her, completely boneless. And in that moment, wrapped in her arms, her warmth, her love You knew. You were hers. Completely.

You thought morning sickness meant… well, mornings. You were wrong.

It’s relentless—unforgiving in the way it rolls through you in waves, taking with it your appetite, your patience, and any desire to even look at food. It hits you the hardest first thing, the moment you open your eyes. But it doesn’t stop there. By mid-afternoon, it circles back, and by evening, you're utterly drained, your body heavy with fatigue, your stomach rebelling against anything you try to keep down.

Even water feels like a gamble some days. And it’s starting to wear on you. Alexia tries to keep things as normal as possible, but you know she’s worried. She hovers without hovering, always within reach—bringing toast in the mornings, holding your hair when things get bad, Googling every possible morning sickness remedy known to mankind.

You’re curled on the couch today, blanket wrapped around you, a half-finished cup of ginger tea sitting cold on the coffee table.

Alexia pads in from the kitchen, holding a small plate with dry crackers and a hopeful expression.

“They said plain is best,” she offers gently, crouching down beside you. “Want to try?” You stare at the crackers like they’ve personally wronged you. She smirks, brushing your hair back from your face. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

You let out a soft groan, burying your face in the blanket. “I hate this. I hate this part.”

Alexia’s fingers trail lightly along your forehead. “I know, mi amor. I wish I could take it from you.”

“I wish anyone could take it from me.” She sits on the edge of the couch, gently pulling you into her lap until your head rests against her shoulder, her arms wrapping tightly around you.

You sigh heavily, your voice muffled in her shirt. “I’m so tired of throwing up. I can’t even smell toast without wanting to cry.”

Alexia laughs softly, rubbing your back. “You did cry yesterday. Because of a banana.”

“It was rude,” you mutter.

She kisses the top of your head. “You’re growing a human. I think you’re allowed to be dramatic about fruit.”

You smile faintly, eyes fluttering closed as you rest in the safety of her arms. “I just… I didn’t expect to feel this bad.”

Alexia tightens her hold on you, her cheek resting against your temple. “You don’t have to be strong through all of it, you know? You’re allowed to hate it. You’re allowed to complain. You’re allowed to feel everything.”

You nod slowly, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “I just feel useless.”

“You’re the opposite of useless,” she says immediately, without hesitation. “You’re doing something I can’t. You’re carrying our baby. That’s everything.”

You let the words sink in, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes—but this time not from nausea. “Okay,” you whisper. “But if I ever eat again, it’s going to be something deeply unhealthy.”

Alexia chuckles, nuzzling her nose into your hair. “Done. Ice cream for dinner. As soon as your stomach stops being an asshole.” You laugh softly—tired, aching, but loved. Because even when your body is rebelling against you, even when all you’ve managed to keep down today is a cracker and three sips of tea, Alexia holds you like you’re doing the most incredible thing in the world. And deep down… you know you are.

Dinner with Alba and Eli had sounded like a great idea when Alexia suggested it. Something warm, something normal—just the four of you, catching up, laughing, letting the world feel simple again, if only for a few hours. But as you stand in the kitchen, clinging to the edge of the counter, willing yourself not to vomit from the smell of the garlic sizzling in the pan, you're starting to deeply question your judgment.

Alexia catches your pale, sweaty reflection in the glass oven door and immediately steps in. She slides a hand across your back, firm and grounding, her other hand moving to take the wooden spoon from your fingers. “Go sit down,” she murmurs gently. “I’ve got this.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You’re already lightheaded by the time you curl up on the couch, clutching a glass of water like it might save your life. Just as you let your head rest back, the doorbell rings.

You and Alexia lock eyes for a moment. She gives you a soft, knowing look—a we’ve got this kind of look—before she wipes her hands and goes to let them in. Alba is the first to storm in, dramatic as ever, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a baguette in the other. “Hola, família! I brought carbs and chaos!”

Eli follows with a softer smile, always warm, always perceptive. But the second they both spot you on the couch—pale, tired, wrapped in a blanket like you’re clinging to the edge of consciousness—their moods shift.

Alba slows to a stop, narrowing her eyes. “Whoa. Are you okay? You look like… shit.”

You muster the weakest smile you can manage. “Thanks, Alba.”

Eli, more gently, sets her bag down and moves closer. “Mi amor, you’re so pale. Are you sick?”

Alexia walks in quickly, too casually, drying her hands on a towel. “She’s okay. She’s just had a stomach bug all week. It’s been rough, but she’s getting through it.”

You nod, adding, “It’s the worst flu I’ve ever had. Won’t go away.”

Alba makes a face. “You’ve had it for a week? That’s not normal. Have you gone to a doctor?”

Alexia sits beside you, sliding a subtle hand over your knee under the blanket. “She’s been seen. They said it just has to run its course.”

“Well,” she finally says, smiling as she moves to the kitchen, “then you sit and rest, and we’ll take care of everything else.”

Alba follows her, still suspicious. “If I catch this mystery flu, I swear…”

As soon as they’re out of the room, you turn to Alexia and whisper, “Do they know?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“She was watching me like I was hiding a second head.”

Alexia leans in, brushing her nose against your temple. “You are hiding something. A very tiny someone.”

You smile faintly. “I hate lying to them.”

“I know. But it’s just for now. Until we’re sure everything’s ok.”

You nod slowly, laying your head on her shoulder. “Okay. Just a little longer.” And as Eli and Alba clatter around in the kitchen, making dinner, laughing like nothing is amiss, you sit quietly on the couch—tired, nauseous, nervous— But wrapped in your wife’s arms. And still full of the quietest kind of joy.

obsessed 😍👀

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

Part 2: You meet again whilst on International Duty

Word Count: 9.6K

⚽️

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

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

Until it buzzes.

Ellie 🧤: What have you done to Alexia?

You blink. Frown. Sit up a little straighter.

You: What? Why? What have I done?

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

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

You stare at the screen.

Still holding her shirt in your lap.

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

You: Stop.

Ellie 🧤: No. I think she likes you. 😏

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

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

She packed yours.

Kept it.

Chose it.

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

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

⚽️

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

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

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

Until now.

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

alexiaputellas11 sent you a message.

You stare at it for a beat. Then tap.

The message is short.

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

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

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

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

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

You inhale through your nose, deep, slow.

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

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

Alexia: I know. So let’s settle it.

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

It’s you and her again.

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

And for the first time since the miss…

You’re itching for kickoff.

⚽️

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

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

You don’t notice the buzz.

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

Just a flick.

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

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

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

Beth raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Nope. Didn’t say Poppy.”

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

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

Your stomach flips. Just a little.

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

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

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

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

Beth gives you a look that says sure it is.

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

Beth leans closer. “Friendly how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You type back, careful and quiet.

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

A moment passes. Then the dots appear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia: Good. I want your best.

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

You’re trying to be subtle. Really.

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

And of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

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

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

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

Keira raises her brow. “That look.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Georgia’s getting louder.

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

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

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

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

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

You bump her knee under the table.

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

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

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

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

And Beth. Apparently.

⚽️

You’re the first one out.

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

Except, you’re not alone out here.

Spain’s already out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, innocent. Too innocent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beth leans in again, lower this time.

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

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

She groans. “So there was a look”

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

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

⚽️

You’re in the rhythm now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Don’t flatter her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m begging you.”

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

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

And she’s looking again.

⚽️

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

Kickoff is minutes away.

You’re locked in.

Hands flexing. Boots shifting weight. Eyes forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m focused,” you murmur back.

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

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

The players start to move. Boots echoing against concrete.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now comes the walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that electric opening burst, the game turns.

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

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

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

And you’re good. You show it.

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

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

The 29th minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2–1. Game on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

The scoreboard reads 88:17.

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

It’s 2–2.

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

But it’s not over. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Draw.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're still catching your breath.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when your breath actually catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia smirks. “Just the important ones.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another one for the collection, huh?”

Beth. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer her.

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

⚽️

It’s past midnight.

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

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

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

Then you check.

AlexiaPutellas11 sent you a message

You swipe it open.

Alexia: Still awake?

You stare at it for a moment. Then reply.

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

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

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

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

You pause. Then:

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia: You started it. You winked.

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

Then she sends another.

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

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

You type slowly.

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

Alexia: Only if you keep giving it to me.

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m ignoring it.”

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

Alexia arches an eyebrow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cata shrugs. “You’re trending.”

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

⚽️

You’re out early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to think. “I do.”

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

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

Alexia shrugs. “Preparing.”

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

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

You glance sideways. “That a compliment?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Millie shrugs. “Dunno.”

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

⚽️

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

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

You can’t stop watching her.

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

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

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

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

You don’t reply.

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

You sigh.

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

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

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

You swear she glances at the bench again.

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

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

Not from the sideline. With her.

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beth grins. “She’s watching you.”

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

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

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

⚽️

You’ve been flying.

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

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

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

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

Then everything stops.

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

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

Pain. Real pain.

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

The whistle blows. Everything stops. Wembley falls silent.

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

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

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

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

Not for the game. For you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you—”

“I’m taking the free kick.”

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

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

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

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

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

But this is your moment. Another Wembley moment.

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

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

Cata dives. Too late. The net ripples.

GOAL.

1–0.

Wembley erupts.

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

The bench clears. Coaches shouting. Crowd losing it.

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

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

She knew.

The pace slows. Just for a breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

The whistle blows.

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

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

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

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

And then you see Alexia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

You smirk.

You: What, jealous?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia: We did.

Another pause.

Alexia: And now we wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: You serious?

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

Then — another one.

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

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

You: I’d have you.

🤣🤣

Top of the League, Bottom of the Class

Summary: Y/n’s got energy for days, jokes for every occasion, and zero patience for schoolwork. Too bad Alexia and Leah are determined to make her study, even during international break.

Warnings: Alexia is a bit...stern at the beginning, but I swear she softens up to our girl y/n!!

Word count: 7.4k

Notes: This was based on a request

Masterlist

..

The sun was setting over Barcelona's training ground, it was late already–too late for a certain player to be on the pitch. But Y/n was there, happier than ever, with her headphones on while she trained some dribbling skills with one of the dummies.

The training had ended one hour ago, but some players were still at Barcelona’s training ground, although most of them were having physiotherapy sessions or late gym hours–meaning they were far away from the pitch, so there weren’t any chances Y/n would be caught.

Y/n had a whole thing planned out. After training, she took a shower in the changing room, talked a bit with Jana and Vicky before taking her gym bag and saying goodbye, walking through the door as she rambled about how much homework she had to do when she got home.

But when Jana and Vicky took a left in the corridors, Y/n told them she had forgotten her water bottle–again, so she had to go back and get it. Jana and Vicky watched as Y/n walked. The two girls had no idea that their friend was actually planning yet another training session on the pitch.

Although no one could know about Y/n’s late-night rendezvous, because she actually wasn’t allowed to stay in the training center past 6 pm, Barcelona’s team had created this rule because Y/n got so caught up training after-hours that she didn’t do her homework.

Y/n had to balance school, in between being professional players for Barcelona and England, but the girl couldn't care less about school.

Football was her life. It wasn’t just her passion; it was the one thing that made her feel truly alive. 

She was a star on the pitch, but when it came to school, she was a different story. Books? Boring. Homework? A waste of time. For her, the only subject that mattered was football.

Her grades were slipping…badly. The headmistress at her school had to call Barcelona’s office to talk about it because Y/n’s parents weren’t in the country, and she had no one to take care of

Of course, Barcelona thought it would be a good idea to assign someone to assist and look over Y/n. A normal club would have hired a teacher, or even a babysitter, but since Barcelona had this weird "Som una família" [we’re family] vibes, they assigned no one less than La Reina, Alexia Putellas herself, to be the one to help her with geometry homework.

At first, Y/n thought Alexia wouldn't take it seriously, maybe just to go to some parent-teacher meetings when necessary. But no, Alexia had made it one of her life responsibilities to get Y/n through math classes.

And that’s why she was hiding from Alexia now. She had told the captain that she was going home just before she met with Vicky and Jana. Alexia just nodded and kissed her on the cheeks as she–very weirdly–was the first to go home.

Y/n could easily fit in another hour or two of training before the center actually closed. What if she had history homework? Barcelona had a big game coming up, plus, international dates were just a few weeks away, and she had been called up to the senior squad again–she had to be in top shape.

So Y/n stayed on the pitch. Her headphones on. 

She flicked the ball between her feet to the rhythm of Young Hearts Run Free, lost in the music and movement. She didn’t even hear the footsteps approaching. She only noticed when…

Yank.

A sharp pain ran through her ear as her headphone was pulled out of her head.

"Ouch"! Y/n turned around, rubbing the sore spot. "What the fuck?! That’s child abuse–"

Her eyes found a very, very angry Alexia. Her throat felt dry, as if she couldn't speak.

She was in so much trouble.

Alexia was right in front of her, arms crossed, looking very unhappy. Her hair was down,  her make-up was done, and…wait. Was she wearing…a dress? Huh?

"Ale? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, nena," Alexia said sternly. "How many times have I told you to go straight home after training?"

Y/n looked down, playing with the ball on her feet, feeling her cheeks blushing for getting caught.

"I asked you a question," Alexia said– before kicking the ball from y/n’s feet, sending it rolling into the net.

Goal..yay?

"I just need to train more, Ale!" Y/n said exasperatedly, pointing towards the goal as if to prove her point. “International break is c–”

"International breaks do not matter if you fail school!" Alexia said. "You know you need to present a clean school report to play for the senior squad, right?"

"Yes, I know that," Y/n muttered. 

"It doesn't seem like you do," Alexia said, casually pulling her phone from her purse and holding it up to Y/n’s face.

Oh no, Y/n knew what that meant.

"You got a 2/10 on your biology test, and then a 3/10 on your math test," Alexia said. "First of all, why am I finding out about it through an email? Why didn't you tell me?

"Because you’d get mad at me just like you’re now!" Y/n shot back

"I'm not mad!" Alexia said, voice tight. "I'm disappointed."

Y/n froze and stared at Alexia.

Y/n felt a cold rush go through her body, setting a weight on her chest.

Disappointed? She could handle being yelled at. She could deal with Alexia being frustrated or angry. But disappointment? Y/n didn’t know what to do with this. It felt wrong.

"I make time on my schedule to help you study," Alexia said, her finger counting off each point. "I buy things you need for school projects, I read the same books you need to read for Spanish class to try and motivate you, and this is what I get in return? Slack?’

Y/n felt her eyes fill with tears. She tried to find something to say, but her usual funny and witty comments that would normally get her out of any serious situation were nowhere to be found.

Alexia was looking at her, her eyes and lips tight, her foot tapping on the grass restlessly. She missed the usual gentle and patient Alexia right now more than anything.

"I know you love football, Y/n, but this," Alexia pointed towards the pitch. "Is only a small part of what your life will look like in the future; you need to be ready for more."

Y/n swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, trying not to let Alexia see her tears, but she failed. She quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of her barça hoodie while looking away.

“You need school to move forward, you can be the very best players on the pitch, but if you don’t give the same effort off of it, you’re not going to make it very far,” Alexia’s voice softened just slightly.

Alexia’s words hung in the air as she watched the girl standing in front of her.

“Sorry,” Y/n said quietly, “I shouldn't have hid it from you.”

"Have I ever made you feel like you needed to hide things from me?" Alexia said, taking a step closer and placing her hand on Y/n’s shoulder as she leaned just slightly to be the same height as her eyes.

Y/n shook her head.

“Exactly," Alexia said,  putting a hand on Y/n’s shoulder. “This is the first time I’ve been stern with you, isn’t it?”

Y/n nodded, looking away.

“Will it be the last?” Alexia asked.

Y/n wished she could easily nod along without a second thought, but she also knew how much of a hard time she had with school. But still, she couldn't let it happen again, and couldn't let Alexia get this upset with her.

So she forced the word out. “Yes.”

“Okay, good,”  Alexia said. “Let's go. It's late.”

Without another word, Alexia turned toward the exit, and Y/n followed her.

They didn’t talk on the way out, but the silence wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable. 

The steady weight of Alexia’s hand on her shoulder, and the way she effortlessly picked up Y/n’s training bag and slung it over her own–it was enough.

Y/n didn’t need to hear the words to know that she was forgiven.

They walked through the car park, the night cold and the postlight brightening the way they made Alexia's black car.

Y/n was already thinking of what to expect from the car drive as she rubbed the sting on her ear from where Alexia had oh-so-graciously removed her headphones and tugged at her ear.

They would probably be in a quiet, awkward ride–just her and Alexia’s disappointing sight and, very occasionally, passive-aggressive grips on the steering wheel as Alexia made sure to put on the worst songs ever known to humankind.

Alexia had given Y/n a bunch of rides, so Y/n followed the usual routine of going to the passenger seat, but to her surprise, there was a woman sitting there,

One Y/n had never met. 

Y/n tilted her head, trying to think of every single player of every single women's team in La Liga. No, she wasn’t in any team. Then she thought of the staff of Barcelona… also no.

Yep, Y/n had no clue who this person was.

Y/n slowed her steps, eyebrows furrowing as she took in the unfamiliar woman sitting there. 

She was pretty. Dark hair, and soft features, a warm smile was on her lips as she watched Y/n and Alexia approaching.

Y/n stopped right outside the car, looking between her and Alexia with suspicion. "Uh, Ale? Who is this?"

Alexia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as if already exhausted by the interrogation she knew was coming.

"Y/n, this is Olga. Olga, this is Y/n." Alexia said simply. "You go there," Alexia pointed at the back seat.

Olga turned fully in her seat, extending a hand out the window.

"So you’re the famous nena, huh?" Olga said, smiling genuinely. "Alexia talked a lot about you."

"Oh yeah? She did?" Y/n shook her head before immediately nodding. "I like you already… Olga."

She pulled open the back door and climbed in as Alexia slid into the driver’s seat.

Silence settled over the car as Alexia started driving. Y/n had expected her to be better at small talk, but apparently, she wasn’t.

"So…" Y/n leaned forward, poking her head between the front seats. "Who even are you, Olga?"

"Get back to your seat and put on your seat belt," Alexia said sharply. "And…we were having dinner."

"Having dinner?" Y/n asked.

"Sí"

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"It’s that Italian place near Carrer de Pàdua," Olga finally explained, noticing how Alexia seemed to only give the young girl vague answers. "It’s great!"

"Wait–did you guys go to L'Italiano Perso?" Y/n asked

"Sí," Alexia said again. "We were on a date–"

Y/n’s eyes widened. "Wait. What?" She stopped buckling herself up, being too shocked by Alexia’s revelation.

"A date, Y/n," Alexia said in exasperation, a heavy voice. "You know, when two people who like each other go out…u might not know much about it, but–"

"Since when do you date?!" Y/n interrupted. "And excuse me? I go on plenty of dates! Thank you!"

"Drop it." Alexia sought, tying her hands around the wheel, Y/n could even see the blush of her cheeks

"Oh bloody hell!" Y/n exposed, putting her hand on her own cheeks. "Does your mom know about it? Your sister?"

"If you don’t shut up, I’m stopping at the England embassy to have you deported," Alexia said, deadpanned.

"Ok, that was rude," Y/n said, finishing buckling her seatbelt and leaning her back into her seat. "I can think of a few English people who would love to have me back."

"Let’s get you back to then, maybe this way I can have a proper date once"

The drive was mostly silent after that, Y/n noticed that Alexia's awful music taste was replaced by cool, modern songs. After a few minutes thinking why Y/n saw that it was Olga’s Spotify that was connected to Alexia's car.

Hm. Good piece of information. 

That meant that it wasn’t their first date…

Wait. Fuck

Y/n’s stomach sank.  Alexia was on a date. 

A date that she had to interrupt because of Y/n's stupid irresponsibility

“Oh no!” Y/n said.

“Oh no?” Olga turned to look at her, and then at Alexia, as if the blonde could decipher everything that came out of Y/n’s mouth. “What happened?”

“I ruined your date.” Y/n’s eyes widened. “I'm so sorry, Ale!”

“Nena," she sighed as she held the wheel with one hand and rubbed her temples with the other. “You didn’t ruin anything, don’t worry.”

“No, seriously, I totally ruined your date." Y/n looked between them, horrified. “That’s why you look… so put together all of a sudden! That’s why you were in a dress! I thought that was weird! I’m so–”

“Y/n." Alexia’s voice was sharp, a blush growing into her neck as she avoided making eye contact with Olga, who was biting down a laugh. “Shut. Up.”

Y/n pouted. “But did I really ruin it?”

Alexia sighed. “We were having dinner, and then I got that email about your grades, and I got mad. So I drove to your house, and when you weren’t there, I knew exactly where you’d be.”

"Uh…oops?." Y/n cringed.

Y/n realised she could never be captain. Imagine being on a date and receiving an email from a kid–that wasn’t even your kid– saying they went bad on a test about cell division and having to drop everything to go look for them? Nope.

Olga turned in her seat again, resting her chin on her palm as she looked at Y/n. “You know, if you wanted to sabotage Alexia’s love life, there are easier ways.”

Y/n quickly caught Olga’s teasing tone and smiled at her.

"I wasn’t trying to sabotage, I was just training, I swear!" Y/n laughed, loving watching how Alexia’s eyes rolled.

"Instead of doing your homework," Alexia added, making a U-turn.

Y/n groaned, dramatically. "I get it, I get it, I’m a disappointment, bla bla bla"

"You’re not a disappointment," Alexia rolled her eyes. "Stop being dramatic, you’re just–"

“An academic disaster?” Y/n offered an awkward smile on her face.

“A headache.” Alexia finished.

“You two are fun," Olga said, placing a hand on Alexis's thigh. "It makes me laugh.”

Y/n grinned. "Does that mean I can be the third wheel all the time?"

"No," Alexia said

"We’ll see," Olga said at the same time, winking at Y/n.

Y/n sat up quickly, having a bright idea. "Well, if that’s how it’s gonna be, I might as well ask… Olga, do you know anything about mitosis and meiosis? I’ve got a test coming up..."

Alexia immediately shot a glare at her. "Y/n, no. Stop bothering Olga."

Y/n put her hands up defensively. "Hey, I’m just trying to help my education!"

"Maybe you should help yourself first," Alexia mumbled.

"You know, you should listen to your captain before she strangles you," Olga said, laughing. 

Y/n watched as Alexia smirked at Olga…Smirked!

"Okay, ew!" Y/n said, "Was that…flirting? Please stop the car so I can throw up."

"Oh Déu meu, nena, calla!" Alexia snapped.

Y/n squinted her eyes. "I have no idea what you just said, Alexia, but I bet it was rude!".

But then, Y/n noticed something strange.

Y/n leaned forward, confusion in her eyes. "Wait a minute...why aren’t you driving me home?"

"I’m going to school with you tomorrow," Alexia said casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all. "It’s easier if you sleep at mine, I’ll drop by your house in the morning so you can get your school bag and then we can head out from the..."

Y/n raised her eyebrows. "What? Why are you going to school with me?"

“They want to talk about your grades and about the next international break –you’ll be three weeks out of school, they want to see how we can organize your school work.”

"Okay, but they can talk to me about it," Y/n said. "Why do they want you there

"Why do they want me there? Nena, did I  give you an earful for nothing?" Alexia glanced at her, impatience in her voice. "I’m responsible for you! They want to make sure you’ll have an actual adult looking out for your education."

"So you’re coming with me—" Y/n said carefully.  "Like, as a parent?"

"Sí," Alexia replied, completely unfazed. 

"Oh, come on, Ale! This is so embarrassing!"Y/n threw herself back into her seat, groaning. "Don’t you have training or something better to do?"

"Sí, I do actually," Alexia simply said. “And I’ll be very happy at training tomorrow if I didn’t have to go talk to the headmistress, but since someone needs to keep an eye on you, I’ll be the one to do it."

Alexia paused for a second, then added, "Also, you’re benched for the next two games."

"What? No!" Y/n yelled.

"Sí."

"You can’t do that!"

Alexia turned to her with a calm expression. "I just did, nena.”

Y/n ran her hands through her face dramatically. “You’re ruining my career, forever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexia waved off with one hand. “You’ll survive.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“We’ll see that.”

Y/n groaned again and rolled her eyes.

"You beware, Olga," Y/n mumbled, crossing her arms and looking out of the window. "She’s always this pain in the a–"

"You just won yourself another game on the bench," Alexia said. “Wow, that’s got to be a new personal record, huh?”

Looked at Alexia through the rearview mirror, indignation on her face. 

Olga raised her eyebrows, biting back a grin as she watched Y/n’s reaction. She gave her leg a light pat, offering no real support.

"Oh, rough amiga, but maybe you can study a bit while you’re on the sideline."

"You know what, Olga," Y/n said with a betrayed look in her eyes. "I don’t like you anymore."

..

When they finally reached Alexia’s house, Y/n was determined to get back at Alexia for being so… she wasn't actually sure. A responsible adult?A good guardian? It didn’t matter the reasoning, she just wanted to annoy Alexia.

But now, after meeting Olga, Y/n realized there were even better and more efficient ways to annoy Alexia.

As they stepped inside, Y/n noticed how familiar Olga seemed with the place, so she couldn’t help but smirk, and she formulated a plan.

"It’s your first time here?" Y/n asked, casually tossing her gym bag by the door.

"Nena," Alexia warned, making sure Y/n knew Alexia was very aware of what she was doing.

"Oh, no," Olga said, flashing Y/n a smile. "I’ve been here before… You know, movie nights and stuff like that."

"Oh yeah," Y/n said, dragging out the words with insinuation. "Movie night, I get it," she winked at Olga.

"So where am I sleeping?" Y/n asked, changing her attention from Olga to Alexia.

"Guest room."

"But you only have one guest room!" Y/n protested, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah? And?" Alexia shrugged, her tone casual. "You’re only one person."

"But where’s Olga sleeping?" Y/n pressed, leaning in with a teasing grin.

"In my room," Alexia replied nonchalantly, trying not to make a big deal about it so Y/n wouldn’t make a big deal about it. 

But of course, Alexia was wrong.

Y/n shot a playful glance at Olga, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, okay," she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone then…don’t wanna get in the way of more than just the date, you know."

Olga bit back a laugh, but Alexia turned to Y/n with a look that could kill.

"Go. Now." Alexia pointed toward the stairs. "And do all your homework for tomorrow. I’ll check in during breakfast."

All the playfulness drained from Y/n’s face.

"All my homework?” Y/n whined, “It’s a lot of stuff and it’s late already!”

"Should’ve thought of that before sneaking out to the pitch," Alexia said, her voice emotionless.

Y/n groaned dramatically. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah. It’s part of the job," Alexia said, waving her off like it was nothing. "Now go."

..

Y/n did what Alexia asked of her, or at least…she tried.

She had to do homework for basically every subject because she didn’t get any work done during the week, so it was all piling up. She grabbed Alexia’s notebook from her room before accessing her school website and logging in to see every assignment and reading she had to do, and it was a lot.

She began her while lying on the bed, reading slide presentations and watching some YouTube videos about the subjects. It helped a little, but everything was still so blurry in her head.

Why did she have to learn geometry? Or learn about the deep history of every country in Europe? 

The girl groaned and closed the notebook, putting it aside.

She was dumb. That's what it was.

Y/n was always the slowest in class, the last kid to learn how to read or to spell, the one you absolutely didn't go to if you had questions about school work. Y/ns teachers also made sure she knew how bad she was compared to other students.

She felt inferior and worthless whenever she was in school. But when she was on the pitch? She was good–one of the best, even!

That’s why she didn't like to do homework, it reminded her how much harder she had to work compared to others just to get a 6/10.

Y/n rolled her eyes and turned around, she turned around a lot before she was actually able to fall asleep.

..

Y/n woke up to the sound of her phone ringing and vibrating aggressively under her pillow. She barely had time to process what was happening, and she looked at the screen on the phone, confused, reading the name Leah Williamson.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes, knowing exactly why Leah was calling. She had barely survived Alexia’s lecture, and now she is going to have to hear through another one.

With a deep breath, Y/n clicked the green button on the screen. "If this is about the email, I–"

"What email?" Leah's voice came on, slightly confused.

"Hmm… this isn’t about the email?"

"No, this is about you not doing your homework–according to Alexia" There was a pause. "Should I be checking my email too?"

Y/n cursed under her breath before replying. "No! No email. Forget I said that…I just woke up, so I must have, hm, dreamed about…emails"

"Uhum,” Leah said sarcastically. "I’ll be asking Alexia about that later…Now tell me what the hell is going on with you? Sneaking to the pitch? Really?"

Y/n winced. "Leah, I’ve already talked to Alexia about it, I don’t need you too–"

"Yes, you do need me to talk to you because it seems like you think you’re your own person, but you are only sixteen.”

“Leah!” Y/n groaned.

"No, Y/n. You don’t get to complain. You promised you’d take school seriously." Leah said, and Y/n quickly remembered the numerous times Leah had also lectured her about it during camp. "And don’t try the ‘football is all I need’ argument, because you and I both know that’s not true."

Y/n pressed her lips together, knowing full well she wouldn’t win this one. She kept quiet, scared to say the wrong thing and make Leah even more mad.

"I’m serious, Y/n. You need to get your act together. Alexia’s worried!" Leah said. "She told me it wasn't the first time that you played football instead of studying! You need to learn your responsibilities."

Y/n muttered something that Leah couldn't understand..

"What was that?" Leah asked

"I said that Alexia is a snitch."

"She’s a snitch because you didn't tell me first," Leah said. "But since I need to have the Alexia Putellas on my phone giving me updates about your school life, we both decided to do things in our own way."

Y/n gulped, scared of whatever Alexia and Leah had planned together

"You can expect a lot, and I mean a lot of textbooks in your room when you get to camp," Leah said. "I’ll keep a close eye on you here in England, and Alexia will do the same when you’re in Barcelona; we won’t let you keep this on."

"Serious kid," Leah continued. "You moved to Spain on your own at sixteen, you have your own house, you’re talented, but you refuse to do a few math exercises? Come on, mate"

"I’m sorry," Y/n muttered. "I’ll be better, I’m just…"

"What?" Leah asked, her voice softer now.

"I'm dumb, okay!" Y/n blurted out before she could stop herself. "I don’t get things quickly, and it just—it doesn’t stick like it does with other people."

"Hey, don’t say that," Leah cut in, her voice sharp with concern. "Struggling with school doesn’t make you dumb, you’re smart, kid. You wouldn’t be where you are if you weren't."

"It doesn't seem like that most of the time," y/n said in a low voice.

"You might not see it," Leah said. "But the people around you certainly do, that’s why we keep pushing you, we know you can do much better."

"Look, I have to go," Y/n sighed. "Alexia apparently has to go to school with me today."

"Okay, kid, we’ll talk later, then," Leah said. "Good luck with that! Love you, bye!"

"Love you too," y/n said before she hung up the phone and put it aside.

Y/n rubbed the sleep off of her eyes, and that’s when she heard the door crack open.

"You’re not dumb, nena," Alexia said, firm but gentle.

Y/n’s head snapped up. "Ale! Were you…eavesdropping on my conversation?"

"Sí," Alexia replied without hesitation, crossing her arms. "You’re loud, and I was coming to tell you breakfast is ready."

Y/n groaned, sinking further into her seat. "Unbelievable."

Alexia didn’t waver. She leaned forward slightly, her expression serious. "Cariño, listen to me. You are not dumb. Don’t ever say that again, do you understand?"

Y/n hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. "I just have a really hard time with…school.”

“Then we’ll get you help,” Alexia sighed, stepping closer to Y/n and sitting on the bed by her side. “But first you need to try, you can’t give up like that.”

“We’ll figure it out, sí?” Alexia continued. “I’ll talk to your teachers today, and we’ll think of something.

Y/n nodded, a little more reassured. "Okay."

“Girls!” y/n heard Olga calling from downstairs. “Your breakfast is getting cold!”

“Breakfast, huh?” Y/n nudged Alexia with her shoulder. “Should I get used to seeing Olga around?”

Alexia rolled her eyes, ignoring Y/n and extending her hand, palm open. 

“Let me see your homework.”

“Oh come on, mate!”

..

When Alexia said she'd find Y/n some help, she really wasn’t joking.

She had created a whole schedule that balanced football, school, and dedicated study time. She even printed it out and made Y/n hang it in her room, so she’d always know what her day looked like.

Since she was a student-athlete, she only attended school for half the day, doing the rest online. Her schedule was packed—morning classes, lunch, training, online lessons, more training, and homework. That last part? She used to skip it. But now, with Alexia’s plan written out for her, she actually stuck to it.

At first, Y/n thought she’d hate it. That she'd never get used to it. But having a routine was so much easier than doing whatever came to her mind. Plus, her schedule included team study nights, and those turned out to be some of the most fun days of the week.

“I don’t get it,” Aitana said, holding her biology book close to her face, eyes squinted. “It looks so weird.”

Pina turned the book, which was upside down– for her. “Maybe this way is better.”

“No,” Aitana shook her head. “Still weird.”

Y/n was in the middle of writing an essay when their conversation caught her attention. She looked up and scooted close to Aitana and Pina.

“What are you guys looking at?” Y/n asked.

“This,” Aitana said, pointing at the page.

Y/n furrowed her eyebrows “Oh, that’s how the replication of DNA goes.” Y/n said casually, coming back to her work. “You know, double string, DNA polymerase, nucleic acids.”

There was silence.

“And since when did you know that?” Pina finally asked.

Y/n shrugged, getting back at her assay. “Just do.”

“Oh,” Aitana muttered, back to the books. “Alexia is for sure going to love that.”

“Please make sure to tell her,” Y/n sighed dramatically.  “So she can take me off the bench already,” 

..

Y/n had just finished a painfully online lesson when her phone rang. She barely glanced at the screen before answering.

“What?”

“Hello to you too, sunshine,” Leah's dry voice came through.

“I’m busy,” Y/m said, taking the pencil she was holding off of her mouth before taking a new textbook and putting it on her study table.

“Too busy for your favorite captain?” Leah teased.

“Oh, I didn’t know this was Alexia,” Y/n said, teasing Leah back;

“You’re awful.”

“Not as awful as school,” Y/n groaned, letting her head fall on the open textbook.

“That bad?” Leah hummed.

“I had to write a whole page about the First Carlist War, it took like an hour!”

“Wow, a whole page,” Leah snorted. “I’m impressed you survived that.”

“You said that because you aren’t the one having to write about dead people after an excruciating training session.”

“Yeah, if you actually did your work, maybe Alexia wouldn’t have to babysit you and make that schedule.”

“She doesn’t babysit me!” Y/n scowled. Offended. “I still live alone and-”

“Oh really?” Leah interrupted. “Then what’s that piece of paper in your room that tells you exactly when to eat, sleep, study… breathe.”

“It’s a routine, Leah.”

“Yeah, routines are like fancy for babysitting teens,” Leah said. “But seriously, though, I'm happy you're actually following it, keep it up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Y/n huffed, but her lips twitched in a small smile “Don't worry.”

“Okay, kid, gotta go now,” Leah said. “I’m looking forward to your thrilling Carlist War facts when you get to camp next week.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure you listen to them,” Y/n shot back, but it sounded more like a dare.

..

“Are you really sure this is a healthy way of studying?” Salma asked, eying the situation with doubt.

When Y/n had called her, Vick and Jana to her flat for a ‘Girl’s Night’, a Don Quixote quiz wasn’t something she was expecting.

“It seems like fun to me,” Vick said with a grin. “Go on, Salma, ask her already.”

Salma sighed but turned to Y/n, while Jana stood next to her, holding a pillow threateningly close to Y/n’s face. “Alright—why is the narrator of Don Quixote so different when compared to other books?”

Y/n groaned, “Ugh– okay! The narrator is different because the author itself is the one telling the story. But he, uh, kind of switches styles to first person sometimes to give some insight about the story, so it’s like he’s the narrator and a character,” she said quickly, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the impact,

Silence.

“Oh, come on,” Vick said, disappointed, glancing down at the little card in Salma‘s hand .“She’s right.”

Jana lowered the pillow dramatically. “Salma! Ask harder questions!”

“You guys are supposed to be helping me study for my literature test, not trying to beat me up with a pillow!” Y/n complained. “Give me some credit here!”

Salma flipped through the flashcards. “Okay, fine…Um, what does the character Dulcinea mean to the story?”

Y/n widened her eyes and opened her mouth. “Oh, hm, it’s like–”

Whack.

Jana didn't even wait for Y/n to say anything before hitting her on the face–hard.

“Jana!” Y/n complained, shoving the pillow away from her face and rubbing at the sore spot on her nose. “I knew that one! She exemplifies the emptiness behind Don quixote's quest for valor and virtue or some shit like that!.”

Salma hesitantly checked on her notes. “–Hm, yeah, she’s right.”

“See!” y/n said, pointing accusingly at Jana. “I was right, you shouldn't have hit me.”

“Oh, she should have hit you harder for being such a nerd,” Vicky mumbled

“Ok, that’s bullying,” Y/n said. “I'll report you to Aitana.”

...

A week later, Alexia stood with Y/n at the airport, arms crossed as she eyed her sternly. “Do your homework, Y/n. I’m serious. And if you have trouble, FaceTime me and we’ll do it together.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Last time you tried to help me, you didn’t understand it either.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Olga helped you, though, so FaceTime her if you need to."

"You’re just trying to find reasons for me to interact with Olga because we’re like.. your favourite people in the world," Y/n smirked. 

Alexia ignored the comment and continued, “And I’ll call Leah to make sure you’re keeping up with everything we agreed on.”

"Great. Two captains breathing down my neck. Love that for me." Y/n groaned, throwing her head back dramatically.

"You’ll survive, cariño,” Alexia smirked. “Now go before you miss your flight.

..

Y/n was a smart girl, so she made sure to finish most of her homework on the flight to England. That way, when she got to camp, she wouldn’t have to stress over schoolwork too much.

“Hey,” Aggie and Grace greeted as they walked into the room.

The three of them were sharing a room at camp, though Aggie had seriously considered complaining about it. 

Every night, Y/n sprawled herself and a ridiculous number of books and notebooks across the floor, creeping very closely to Aggie’s side of the room.

“Wanna go out with us?” Aggie asked, leaning in the doorway. “We’re all heading to that restaurant we talked about.”

Y/n immediately looked up from her book, grinning as she pushed herself up, kicking her books aside. “Yes! You know I’ll never turn down a night out–”

“Have you done your math homework?”

The voice came from behind Aggie and Grace. Both girls instinctively stepped aside.

Leah.

Y/n’s excitement disappeared in seconds. Her shoulders dropped, and her grin turned into a frown. “Le, come on! It’s halfway done. I’ll finish it when I get back.”

“No,” Leah said simply. “You finish it first, then you go out.”

There was no room for argument. Leah was already disappearing down the hallway before Y/n could even think of an excuse.

“I hate this.” Y/n groaned dramatically as she flopped onto Aggie’s bed, ignoring the judgment of the girl's eyes. “I hate school. I hate math. I hate Leah.”

“I think she’s still in the hallway,” Grace whispered.

“It’s alright,” Y/n groaned, “she knows how I feel.”

Y/n mourned her lost night out for a short thirty seconds before she had a brilliant idea. She turned around on the bed, facing the girls, her best puppy dog eyes on her face as she silently pleaded for help.

Grace and Aggie exchanged a look. They both sighted, already regretting it.

“Okay, fine,” Grace said. “We’ll help you finish it faster.”

Y/n happily got off the bed and picked up the math book she had so dramatically kicked under the bed earlier. She flipped to the exercises page and showed it to them.

Both Grace and Aggie squinted their eyes.

“Wait,” Aggia frowned, looking at it closer. “What is this? Where are the–numbers?”

“It’s algebra,” Y/n muttered. “It only has letters.”

“How are we supposed to calculate anything if it doesn't have any number?” Grace asked, despair on her face.

“I'm so not going out tonight,” Y/n said hopelessly.

“I mean..” Aggie began hesitantly. “What’s the worst that could happen if you just…didn’t do it?”

“Yeah,” Grace nodded. “It’s not like Leah would, I don’t know…punch you or anything.”

Y/n went still, but then, with a slow and heavy sigh, she closed the textbook, looking at the wall, as if she was staring into the void. “She’d do something much worse than punching me.”

Aggie and Grace shared another nervous glance. “Like–?” Aggie asked.

“She’d tell Alexia,” Y/n said, eyes full of dread.

“Oh,” Grace paled.

“Yep,” Y/n nodded. “And Alexia would definitely make me do some boxing classes with her just so she could punch me in a non-illegal way.”

Aggie swallowed. “Alright,” she said, trying to shake her fear. “Let’s, hm, do some…math.”

Y/n smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

Algebra wasn't easy. At all.

Aggie, Grace and Y/n tried very hard, but they took 30 minutes to do one exercise–and they weren’t even sure if it was right.

“This isn’t working,” Y/n groaned, staring down at the ruined page in front of her. The paper was ripped in half from how many times she had erased her answer. “We need another plan.”

“I know what we could do, actually,” Aggie announced.

Y/n and Grace perked up. “What?”  Y/n asked hopefully.

“Lucy,” Aggie said in a lower voice, leaning in. “She could do that in like… 20 minutes”.

Y/n blinked. “Lucy?”

“And since when does Lucy know anything about algebra?” Grace frowned.

“She doesn’t,” Aggie admitted. “But we don’t need her knowledge. We need her personality.”

“You better not make me regret it,” Y/n said, “If Leah knows about it I'm gonna be screwed.”

“Relax, leave it out to me.” Aggia waved a hand dismissively.

With that, Aggie confidently grabbed the textbook and walked out of the room, leaving Y/n and Grace apprehensive.

Half an hour had passed before Aggie finally walked back in, holding the textbook as if she had just stolen it somewhere.

“I did it,” Aggie announced happily.

Grace and Y/n got out of the bed they were sitting on. “No way,” Grace murmured.

“How the fuck did she do that?” Y/n asked, snatching the book from Aggie’s hand, flipping the pages in disbelief.

“She did them all?” Grace asked, peeking behind Y/n’s shoulder.

All forty exercises. All done.

In Y/n’s defense, she had made twenty-five of them before Aggie and Grace had come to the room, so technically Lucy didn’t do all the homework for her– Lucy just… helped.

“What did you do, Aggie?” Y/n asked, mouth slightly open from the surprise.

“I dared her,” Aggie said, shrugging casually.

“You…dared her?” Grace asked.

“Yep! Knocked into her room and said I dared she could do those,” Aggie pointed at the book with her chin. “Lucy’s very competitive, so of course she said yes without asking any questions–she just snatched the book out of my hand and went to work.”

“Oh wow,” Y/n Grace.

“You’re like an evil genius,” Y/n said, shaking her head in amazement.

Y/n sat back, flipping through the pages in awe. “Lucy actually did it. Oh. My. God.”

“Oh, yeah,” Aggie said casually. “And then she asked if there were more.”

Y/n and Grace exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“We have got to use this against her more often,” Y/n muttered. “I feel like we just discovered a gold mine.”

“Exactly,” Aggie smirked. “Now let’s get ready, we have a night out waiting for us.”

..

The rest of the camp was unfazed. Y/n actually did all of her homework–by herself–and she didn’t even have to ask Lucy to do it. A true miracle.

It was safe to say Y/n was learning something.

Leah and Alexia were proud of her–even though, technically, she hadn’t mentioned the whole algebra episode to either of them. 

But it only happened once…It wasn’t like they were going to find out.

She just needed to make sure Lucy would stay away from Leah, or else she would be dead.

Literally dead. Gone.

Football would lose one of ot’s brightest stars.

..

The flight back home was good. 

Y/n actually enjoyed her flight this time because she had no school work to do, a feeling she hadn’t felt in weeks. And the best part? Coming back to Barcelona after winning four games during the international break.

That feeling was great. But not having to take a cab home because Alexia was waiting at the airport for her was even better.

When Y/n spotted the blonde before waving and grinning. She ran to her and practically crashed into Alexia’s arm, her suitcase rolled somewhere behind her.

“I see you missed me,” Alexia teased, wrapping the girl in a hug.

“No, I didn’t,” Y/n mumbled, her face buried in Alexia’s hoodie.

Y/n loved England. It was her home–the place where she grew up, where her real family lived. It reminded her of her childhood, of play dates with her cousin and road trips with her parents.

But Spain was hers. The place she chose, surrounded by people she picked. It was different 

“Leah told me you were actually good,” Alexia murmured. “Did everything, didn’t skip any online school.” 

Alexia and Y/n walked through the airport.

“Yeah! What can I do? I’m actually smart when I want to be,” Y/n smiled..

Alexia hummed, but this time with a hint of amusement.

“So you imagine my surprise,” Alexia continued casually. “When Lucy texted me–something she hadn't done since she left Barcelona–saying she wanted to do more of your ‘exercises’, that they were cool.”

Y/n froze.

She felt her blood run cold, and she suddenly stopped. Alesia took two steps before realizing Y/n wasn’t by her side.

Alexia turned to look at her, eyebrow raised.

Fuck you Lucy, Texting Alexia? About algebra exercises?

“I, hm– well” Y/n’s brain short-circuited. “I can explain it?”

Alexia just stared.

Y/n’s mouth opened and closed. “So, technically, I did do my algebra homework.”

Alexia gave her an unimpressed, tired look.

“Like… twenty-five of them to be more exact.”

Silence.

“Which is most of them.” Y/n continued. “So you can’t be mad at me for that.”

“Does Leah know about it?” Alexia asked.

“Yes.”

Silence again

Alexia hummed and picked up her phone from her pocket. “So if I just called her right now and asked–”

“No!” Y/n blurted out, taking the phone from Alexia’s hand, “I mean–why bother her? She’s a busy woman! Euro winner and all, let’s not waste her time with…math.”

Alexia breathed through her nose, shaking her head as she calmed down. Then, the tiniest smirk appeared on her face.

Y/n was scared of what was coming.

“You’re helping clean the training center for a month.”

“No!” Y/n said dramatically.

“Sí

“Ale! Are you serious?”

“I am serious.”

“A whole month?!” Y/n rubbed her hands through her face.

“Sí.”

“Even the locker rooms?” 

“Especially the locker rooms, nena”

Y/n groaned and dragged her feet after Alexia.

“Will you tell Leah?” Y/n asked, her voice small, hoping it would make Alexia go softer.

Alexia paused for half a second–just enough to give Y/n hope. But then Alexia turned around, an annoyingly fond look on her face.

“That depends,” Alexia said. “Will you start taking your academic responsibilities more seriously?”

Y/n placed a finger on her chin, looking up. “Hmm…define ‘seriously’ first.”

Alexia sighed, already regretting giving the girl any choice.

..

Please let me know what u guys think!! Hope you liked it!!!

Masterlist

she's not wroooong 😂 also ✨LESBIANS✨

LMAO Christen 😂

this is the fluff i need i’m my life

Sleep? Never.

It’s so peaceful here. The sun is warm, wrapping around you like a blanket. The waves roll lazily in the distance, their rhythmic crashing blending with the occasional seagull call. You’re stretched out on your stomach, the sand soft beneath you, eyes closed, completely weightless.

Next to you, Alexia flips through a book, one hand resting on your lower back, tracing lazy circles. The food was incredible, the drinks even better. You could stay here forever, basking in the sun, in the quiet, in—

A cry.

A sharp, piercing cry slices through the tranquility. It sounds robotic, unnatural.

Maybe it’s not real.

Maybe the beach isn’t real.

The cries grow louder, like a personal concert—one you’d never pay to attend. Something tugs at your arm.

"Baby."

Is this real?

"Baby, wake up."

No, no, no, no, no.

"I don’t want to."

"She’s hungry."

"So go feed her."

"I physically can’t."

You groan, rubbing your eyes, and glance at the baby monitor. Alice’s face, red with frustration, fills the screen.

"Alexia, I’m so tired it’s not even funny."

"I know, baby," she sighs, already swinging her legs off the bed. "I’ll go get her."

You wave a lazy hand. "It’s the least you can do."

Alexia doesn’t dignify that with a response—smart move. She disappears down the hall, and a few moments later, returns with a very angry, very hungry Alice.

You blink, groggy. "Didn’t I just feed her?"

"It’s been four hours."

You’re already adjusting your pajama blouse, making room for the tiny milk addict currently squirming in Alexia’s arms.

Alice immediately wiggles toward you, desperate, latching on with the urgency of someone who has been completely neglected for decades. Her tiny fingers clutch at your shirt like she’s afraid you might disappear.

"I wonder where she gets it from," you murmur, narrowing your eyes at Alice’s sheer determination.

Alexia raises an eyebrow. "Gets what from?"

You gesture vaguely at the baby. "The dramatics. The belief that the world revolves around her."

Alexia scoffs, leaning against the headboard. "Wow. No idea where she could’ve picked that up, remember when you cried because someone at the store got the last bag you wanted?"

Your jaw drops. "That was a devastating loss, Alexia. That bag and I had a connection."

Alexia crosses her arms. "You never even touched it."

You throw your head back against the pillow. "Because I was savoring the moment! And then—boom—stolen from me."

Alexia rolls her eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. "Right. Just like how the universe ‘betrayed’ you when your favorite pen ran out of ink."

You scoff. "That pen and I had history."

Alexia shakes her head, but she’s smiling, fingers grazing over Alice’s back. "She’s cute when she’s not screaming."

You smirk. "So, like, ten percent of the time?"

Alexia huffs, nudging you with her knee. "Don’t be mean."

"I’m not! I love her. Even when she’s screaming in my face."

Alice sighs against you, her little body going limp, milk-drunk and utterly satisfied. Her tiny eyelashes flutter as sleep creeps in.

Alexia watches her, softer now. "She’s getting so big."

You hum, stroking Alice’s back. "She drooled in my mouth today."

Alexia snorts. "That’s disgusting."

"It was. I think I saw my soul leave my body."

Before Alexia can respond, Alice suddenly unlatches with a loud, unapologetic burp—straight onto your pajama top.

You freeze. Alexia claps a hand over her mouth, her whole body shaking with barely contained laughter.

You slowly look down at the damage. Then back up at Alexia. "Oh. My. God."

Alexia loses it.

She wheezes, wiping fake tears from her eyes. "I love her so much."

"You’re supposed to be on my side."

Alexia grins, already grabbing a clean pajama top for you. "I am. I just really enjoy watching you suffer."

She helps you change, pressing a kiss to your cheek as Alice gives a sleepy little sigh against your chest.

Once Alice is full, her tiny fingers unclench, her whole body relaxing. Alexia laughs under her breath before carefully lifting her from your arms. "I’ll put her back in her crib."

You nod, already sinking into the pillows, exhaustion pulling at you again. Alexia cradles Alice to her chest, murmuring something too soft to hear as she disappears down the hall.

But then—

Minutes pass.

And Alexia doesn’t come back.

You groggily peek at the baby monitor on the nightstand.

She’s still in there.

You watch as Alexia stands beside the crib, swaying slightly, her fingers brushing over Alice’s tiny back. Even after Alice has fully drifted off, she doesn’t put her down right away. She just stays, watching her with a quiet smile.

Through the baby monitor, you see her finally tuck Alice in. But instead of leaving, she lingers, adjusting the blanket, smoothing a hand over Alice’s hair.

You should sleep. You should take the chance while you can. But you can’t, because the bed feels too empty.

You roll over, rubbing your face, and press a button on the monitor.

"Babe."

A second later, the monitor crackles.

"What?"

"Come back to bed."

"She’s just settling, give me a second."

"She’s asleep. You’re just staring at her."

A guilty pause. Then, "Maybe."

You groan, rolling onto your back. "Alexia, I can’t sleep without you."

The monitor crackles again. "You are so dramatic."

"Says the person who’s been watching a sleeping baby for twenty minutes."

Silence. Then, "Okay, fair."

A minute later, the bed dips, and Alexia slides under the covers, immediately curling into your side.

"You’re obsessed with her," you mumble, half-asleep.

"She’s my child," Alexia deadpans.

You peek one eye open. "I was starting to think you were gonna move in there."

Alexia sighs, pressing her face against your shoulder. "And leave you alone in this state? You’d probably stage a protest."

You smirk, nuzzling into her. "I was already drafting a strongly worded letter."

Alexia chuckles, her arms tightening around you. "I don’t doubt it."

Your breathing slows, warmth settling over you.

And just like that, with Alexia beside you, sleep finally comes.

I-I don't know what to say anymore... so good🔥👀

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

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

Alexia had just flipped the game on you.

The picture sat on your screen, daring you to respond.

No words. No caption. Just her.

And now, for the first time, you were the one caught off guard.

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck as you stared at the image, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. She knew exactly what she was doing. The sweat, the sports bra, the way her abs were tensed just enough to make sure you noticed.

You inhaled deeply, refusing to let her see that she had won.

Slowly, deliberately, you typed out a response.

You: Now who’s playing a dangerous game?

The dots appeared almost instantly.

Alexia: I don’t play games.

Oh, she was good.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

She had turned the tables completely, and now the ball was in your court. So, you did what you did best. You pushed back.

You opened Instagram, swiped through your camera roll, and found a picture you had taken after your last game—a locker room shot, post-win, your jersey off, muscles still tight from the effort.

Then, with the most casual audacity you could muster, you posted it to your story with a simple caption:

"Game on."

It didn’t take long for the internet to notice.

Your notifications exploded within seconds, fans losing their minds, digging up your previous interactions with Alexia, connecting the dots. Then Alexia’s name popped up in your story views. She had seen it. But she didn’t comment. Didn’t like it. Nothing. You waited.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Then, just as you were about to assume she wouldn’t bite, a new notification appeared.

Alexia: Careful. You might not like what happens next.

Your heartbeat kicked up a notch.

Because suddenly, this wasn’t just fun anymore.

It was something else entirely.

Alexia’s message sat on your screen, taunting you.

Careful. You might not like what happens next.

Your pulse ticked up a notch. Was that a warning? A threat? Or something else entirely?

You weren’t sure, but you weren’t about to back down.

You: That a promise?

You watched the typing bubbles appear, disappear, and then appear again.

Then nothing.

She left you on read.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. She wanted you to sit with it, to wonder, to wait. Fine. Two could play that game.

The next day, you were locked in, throwing yourself into training like you had something to prove. Your team had a huge matchup coming up, and if you were going to make a statement, it needed to be on the court, not just online.

But even as you ran drills, lifted weights, and took shot after shot, your mind kept drifting back to her.

And then, as if the universe was playing along, you got a text.

Not from Alexia.

From a teammate.

Teammate: Thought you’d want to know—Putellas is here.

You froze, gripping the water bottle in your hands.

Alexia was where?

You: At our training?

Teammate: Nah. She’s just hanging out in the facility. Not even trying to be subtle about it.

You swallowed, quickly typing back.

You: Alone?

Teammate: With a couple of her teammates, but she keeps looking toward the court. 

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped. Alexia wasn’t just watching from a distance anymore. She was here. You exhaled, running a towel over your face before heading back onto the court. If she wanted a show, you’d give her one.

For the next hour, you went off. Pushing harder. Playing sharper. Draining shots like it was second nature. The energy was different today, and your teammates noticed. And every time you stole a glance toward the sidelines, you caught her watching. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. But her eyes never left you.

So, at the end of training, still buzzing with adrenaline, you decided to test her. As you walked off the court, towel slung over your shoulder, you let your gaze find hers steady, unflinching. And then, with deliberate ease, you pulled your jersey off, wiping sweat from your face, making sure she saw. You didn’t look back as you left. But you felt her eyes on you the entire time.

You didn’t check your phone right away. Not because you weren’t curious—because you knew she would text. You took your time. Showered. Changed. Hung around in the locker room longer than necessary, letting the anticipation build.

By the time you finally picked up your phone, there it was.

Alexia: That wasn’t very subtle.

A smirk tugged at your lips.

You: Neither was showing up to my training.

The dots appeared immediately.

Alexia: Didn’t realise I needed permission to be there.

You: You don’t.

You: But let’s not pretend you were there for anything other than me.

She didn’t deny it.

Instead, another message came through.

Alexia: Is that what you think?

You leaned back against your locker, debating your next move.

Then, you went for the kill.

You: I don’t think, I know.

You sent it. Watched the screen. And for the first time, Alexia didn’t have an immediate response. You laughed quietly to yourself, tossing your phone into your bag. Maybe, just maybe, you’d finally flipped the game on her again. But as you made your way out of the facility, the sound of footsteps approaching behind you made you slow down.

You already knew who it was before you turned around. Alexia stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t even wait to text back?”

Her lips twitched, like she was trying not to smirk. “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”

You shrugged, playing it cool. “I think you like the chase.”

Alexia took a step closer. “And what if I do?”

The tension stretched tight between you, charged, almost unbearable.

You didn’t move. Neither did she.

Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she murmured, “Careful. You might not like what happens next.”

The same words she had texted you before. Your breath caught for half a second.

But you didn’t back down. You leaned in slightly, just enough to make her wonder if you’d close the distance.

Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, you whispered “Try me.”

Alexia’s breath hitched, just barely, but you caught it.

You saw the flicker in her eyes, the way they darkened, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips like she was considering it—like she was fighting it. For a second, you thought she might pull away. She didn’t. She moved.

Or maybe you both did, drawn together like magnets finally giving in to the pull that had been there for weeks.

Her hands gripped your hoodie, fingers digging in as your lips crashed together, hot and desperate. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was everything unsaid, everything built up, everything you’d been daring each other to do spilling over at once. Alexia kissed like she played—controlled, purposeful, but with a fire underneath that threatened to burn through all of it.

Your back hit the nearest wall before you even realised she was pushing you, pressing into you, her body flush against yours like she needed to feel every inch of you, like she had something to prove. You let her. Let her take, let her press harder, let her hands slide down your sides and grip your hips like she wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

Your fingers tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to make her groan into your mouth, and the sound sent a spark down your spine, heat pooling low in your stomach. She nipped at your bottom lip, teasing, testing, and you answered by flipping the dynamic, spinning her so her back hit the wall this time.

She let out a soft gasp, but it melted into a smirk. Like she had expected nothing less. Like she wanted this. The tension, the fight for control, the way neither of you were willing to be the first to break. Your lips met again, harder, deeper, both of you pushing, pulling, matching each other with every move, hands exploring, gripping, learning.

You felt her exhale against your mouth, shaky, like she was finally giving in to something she’d been trying to hold back. And for the first time since this whole thing started—you both stopped pretending.

Stopped pretending this was just a game.

Stopped pretending you didn’t want this.

Stopped pretending you hadn’t already lost to each other.

When you finally pulled back, your breath mingling with hers, Alexia’s eyes searched yours, still heavy-lidded, still burning.

She swallowed, voice rough. “You gonna run again?”

You smirked, brushing your thumb over her jaw. “Not this time.”

Alexia’s fingers curled around the front of your hoodie like she wasn’t ready to let you go just yet—not that you were going anywhere. Your breaths were heavy, mingling in the space between you, both of you still pressed against the wall, still tangled in the tension neither of you had any interest in easing.

You could feel the heat of her body, the way her chest rose and fell rapidly, the slight tremor in her hands where they clutched at you. You knew you had her. But the problem was—she had you too.

Your thumb brushed against her jaw again, slow, teasing, but you could feel the way her pulse raced under your touch. You tilted your head, voice low, daring. “So what now, capitana?”

Her grip on you tightened slightly at the nickname. Her gaze flickered, sharp and unreadable, before her lips quirked into the kind of smirk that promised trouble. Alexia leaned in, her lips just barely grazing yours, her breath warm against your skin. “That depends…”

You swallowed, your own breath hitching. “On?”

Her fingers traced down the front of your hoodie, slow, deliberate, like she was making a decision in real time. Then, she leaned into your ear, voice like a damn challenge. “…how badly you want me.”

Your restraint snapped. Your hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her into you again, lips crashing together, hotter, hungrier this time. She met you with the same intensity, her body moulding into yours as your fingers dug into her hips, pulling her impossibly closer.

There was nothing careful about it.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Just hands and lips and the kind of desperation that came from weeks of pushing and pulling and daring each other to break first. Alexia’s hands slipped under your hoodie, palms skimming your sides, nails dragging lightly over your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your lips parted just enough for her to deepen the kiss, and the way she took it—like she had every right to—had heat pooling low in your stomach.

She had always played with control, but right now, you weren’t sure who was controlling who.

And for once? You didn’t care.

The sound of a door opening down the hallway made you both freeze. Reality crashed back in, hard and unwelcome, but neither of you pulled away completely.

Your lips were still inches apart, breaths still heavy, fingers still gripping onto each other like neither of you wanted to be the first to let go. Alexia swallowed, her eyes flickering between your lips and your gaze, like she was debating whether or not to just say screw it and pull you back in.

Your own pulse thundered in your ears, your body screaming at you to ignore whatever was happening outside this bubble and just take her. But then the moment shattered further when a voice called out, closer this time.

“Alexia?”

You recognized it immediately—one of her teammates.

She cursed under her breath, closing her eyes briefly before finally stepping back, the loss of her warmth making your skin prickle. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to do the same. She looked at you, something unreadable in her expression, something unfinished lingering between you.

Then, she smirked—just slightly, just enough to let you know this wasn’t over. Not even close. And as she walked away, leaving you standing there, pulse still racing, body still burning, one thing was painfully clear you had just crossed the point of no return.

The drive home felt eternal. Every red light a punishment, every car in front of you moving at a glacial pace. Your fingers drummed restlessly against the steering wheel, your body still humming with unresolved tension.

You could still feel her—the pressure of her lips, the drag of her nails, the way her body had melded against yours like she'd been designed to fit there. The phantom sensation of her hands gripping your hoodie haunted you, made your skin burn where she'd touched.

When you finally reached your apartment, you barely remembered closing the door behind you before collapsing onto your couch, exhaling a breath you felt like you'd been holding since she walked away.

Your phone burned a hole in your pocket. You wanted to text her. You needed to text her. But what would you even say?

So about that kiss...

When can I see you again?

I can't stop thinking about your hands on me.

None of it felt right. All of it felt desperate. And you weren't about to let her know just how completely she'd unraveled you.

You tossed your phone aside, running your hands over your face. This wasn't just about winning anymore. This wasn't even about the game you'd been playing. This was about the way she'd looked at you right before her lips touched yours—hungry, determined, like she'd been fighting this for as long as you had.

Your phone buzzed, the sound cutting through your thoughts like a knife. You reached for it, heart hammering, expecting—hoping—it was her.

It wasn't.

Just a notification from the team about tomorrow's training schedule. You sighed, dropping your phone back onto the couch. She was making you wait. Again. But this time, it felt different. This time, it wasn't just teasing. It was calculated. She was letting you stew in it, making you replay every moment, every touch, every taste.

And it was working. You couldn't focus on anything else. Not the upcoming game, not your training, not even the fact that your apartment was a mess and you hadn't eaten since lunch.

All you could think about was Alexia. Finally, just as you were about to give in and text her first, your phone lit up.

Alexia: I’m at Red, come see me

Not a question. A statement. Your pulse quickened, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Still so damn bossy. You waited a moment, letting her experience the same anticipation she'd put you through, before typing back.

You: Is that an order, capitana?

The dots appeared immediately.

Alexia: Would you prefer if it was?

Heat crept up your neck. She was good at this. Too good.

You: I'll be there soon.

Alexia: I know.

The club was packed, bodies pressed together, music pulsing through the air like a heartbeat. You scanned the crowd, searching for her among the sea of faces, the dim lighting making it harder to spot anyone specific.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Alexia: VIP section. Left side.

we are the only team in europe to have won the champions league on both the men and women's side, and now both teams are into the semis! 💙 ❤️