In A Match Where The Scoreboard Tells Only Half The Story, A Fierce On-pitch Rivalry Between You And

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 3: 36 hours in Munich

Word Count: 8k

⚽️

You’re in the locker room, post-session. Freshly changed but, pulse still settling, water bottle half-drunk and rolling somewhere near your bench. Everyone’s moving slow — stretches, recovery gear, shower queues. Typical post-training lull.

But you’re pacing already packing away, quicker than normal, you normally linger for longer. You sit finally. Jacket half-zipped. Legs twitchy, breath short, heart doing sprints while your teammates are winding down.

You check your phone for the sixth time in two minutes. Still nothing. Still soon.

“Alright,” a voice cuts through behind you. “Who is it?”

You look toward the voice. Georgia. Leaning against the wall, towel over her shoulder, one brow cocked. You blink. “What?”

“You’re all… shifty.” She waves a vague circle around you. “Nicely-dressed, hair down. You keep checking your phone like it's gonna grow lips.”

You try to brush it off. “It’s nothing.”

Georgia doesn’t even flinch. “Liar. Spill it.”

You stare at her for a second. You weren’t going to tell anyone. But something about her tone — casual but not cruel — makes your chest loosen. And you need to say it out loud. Just once.

You sigh, grab your other boot, and sit. “She’s flying in.”

Georgia pauses. “She?” You assumed Beth would of blabbed by now.

You swallow. “Alexia.”

That name lands like a stone in a calm pool. Georgia blinks once. “Putellas?”

“Yeah.”

She’s staring now. Like full-body-turn, jaw-slightly-dropped, towel-falling-off-the-shoulder staring. “For… ?” she tries.

You sigh a hand going through your freshly washed hair. “For a day.”

Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “As in…”

You shrug, but you can’t help the way your face warms. “Yeah. As in that. She followed me after the home game against Barca, after the away game, that's when she first started DM'ing me" You smile at Georgia's mouth hanging open.

"Saying what?"

"Football stuff mainly, about the games, but after the last game at Wembley, she asked if she could come here to see me. I said yes.”

Georgia whistles low. “Bloody hell. You’re actually—” she stops herself. “Wait. Are you nervous?”

You nod, fast and helpless. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

She laughs, loud and bright. “You scored a free kick at Wembley in front of ninety thousand, but you’re sweating because the Queen of Barcelona herself is flying in for a sleepover?”

You put your hand out, "You say it like they're not both just as equally massive" You groan, head in hands. “Why did I tell you.”

Georgia grins. “Because you needed to.” She slaps your back once, warm and steady. “She’ll have a nice time I'm sure. And you're interesting when your social battery is full. Just don’t overthink it.” You look up. Georgia’s still smiling — not teasing now. Just sure. “Go get the girl from the airport,” she says. “Don't over think it, just take it for what it is, it's her idea to come here so let her lead what it is"

You roll your eyes. But you’re nodding too. Because yeah — it’s real now. She’s coming. And you have to be ready.

“Meado knows about mine and Alexia’s conversations, she doesn’t know about her coming. If you know, you need to freak out about this when I’m gone”

⚽️

The car is parked just beyond the pickup loop, engine idling low. Your hoodie’s half-zipped, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other drumming nervously against your thigh. You’ve been here twenty minutes early, but you’d never admit it.

Your phone lights up with a text.

Alexia: Just got my bag. Coming out now.

You swallow hard.

You glance in the rearview mirror, tug at your hair, check your reflection. You don’t even know why — it’s her, you’ve already been through matches and mud and bruises together — but somehow, this is different.

It’s real. And quiet. And outside the lines. The terminal doors slide open again. A few people walk out. Not her. Another group. Still not. Your fingers tap faster.

Then there she is. Alexia. Dressed in all black, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, duffel bag over her shoulder. She walks out calm, casual, that familiar captain’s posture in every step. But her eyes are already searching.

And the second she sees you, they soften. You watch her approach through the windshield, heart thudding so hard you’re sure she’ll hear it before she even opens the door.

She pulls it open and slides into the passenger seat with that impossible grace, dropping her bag between her feet. You look at her.

She looks at you. And for a second, neither of you says a thing.

“Hey,” you breathe, voice barely above the hum of the engine.

“Hey,” she says back, softer.

You both smile. It’s awkward and perfect and so much. “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” you say as you pull out into traffic.

She leans back in the seat, eyes still on you. “I told you,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want to miss you.”

The city rolls past in a blur of grey and gold. Low sunlight spills across the dashboard, and the soft thrum of music — something wordless and warm — fills the quiet between you.

You’re both a little awkward. Not painfully so. Just… cautiously new.

It’s strange, this version of her — in your passenger seat, seatbelt clicking into place, fingers drumming lightly on her thigh. She’s looking out the window, but keeps glancing at you when she thinks you won’t notice.

You notice. “Airport was easy, then?” you ask, just to fill the silence.

She nods. “Very. One person tried to sneak a photo. But I gave them the look.”

You smirk. “The full ‘Putellas Death Glare’?”

“Level three only,” she says, mock serious. “Mild warning.”

You laugh under your breath, relaxing a little. Her accent’s thicker in person, softer in a car. You don’t know why that makes your stomach twist the way it does.

She glances at you again, a little longer this time. “It’s weird,” she murmurs. “Hearing you talk without a crowd around us.”

You smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

You make it through another light, and the silence stretches — still easy, but expectant.

Then suddenly — you freeze. “Oh shit.”

Alexia blinks. “What?”

You wince. “I forgot to tell you something kind of… important.”

She turns in her seat, curious. “What did you forget?”

You drum your fingers on the wheel. “I have a dog.”

Alexia blinks again. Then a slow smile tugs at her lips. “That’s what you forgot?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, already cringing. “I just—I meant to tell you. I’m not one of those people who spring dogs on people. He’s sweet. I swear.”

She’s laughing now — full, rich, effortless. “You make it sound like you’ve got a bear waiting at the door.”

“He’s just… enthusiastic,” you say, biting your lip. “His name’s Teddy.”

Alexia tilts her head, teasing. “Named after?”

“Teddy bear. Don’t judge me.”

She holds up both hands. “No judgment. But I can’t believe you didn’t lead with that.”

You glance at her. “Still time to turn around, you know.”

She smiles wider, looking straight ahead again. “I came here to see you,” she says softly. “Teddy’s just a bonus.”

And just like that, the nerves quiet. Just a little.

⚽️

You pull into the parking spot in the street, heart suddenly faster than it was on the pitch at Wembley.

Alexia’s quiet beside you, seatbelt undone, hands folded in her lap. But you feel her eyes on you as you kill the engine and sit for a second longer than necessary.

“This is it,” you say, finally, looking up at your loft apartment on the third floor

She nods. “Cute street.”

You grin. “Cute flat.”

She smirks. “Cute dog?”

You shoot her a look. “He’s trying his best.”

You both laugh as you get out. The early evening air is cool, the sky dipping into that soft lilac blue. You grab her small bag from the boot, and as you unlock the door, you hesitate.

“He might bark.”

“I can handle it,” she says, smiling.

You push the door open. It takes exactly one second.

Teddy barrels around the corner, all paws and excitement, nails tapping on the floor like a drumroll. His tail is going wild, and he’s already launching toward you when he spots the new presence behind you.

Alexia steps in, closing the door behind her. Teddy freezes. Then bolts straight for her.

You open your mouth to intervene—“Teddy, no!”—but before you can, Alexia’s already crouching down, calm and soft.

“Hola, precioso,” she murmurs, holding out a hand. And Teddy melts.

Tail wagging, head pressing into her palm, tongue ready for her cheek like she’s his long-lost soulmate.

You blink. “Well,” you mutter, “traitor.”

Alexia looks up at you, grinning as she scratches behind his ears. “He has taste,” she says. “Clearly.”

You lean against the doorframe, watching her — hair falling into her face, Teddy now rolling onto his back like he’s never known loyalty — and something in your chest settles. Warms.

Alexia stands, finally, brushing dog fur from her knees.

“Welcome to Germany,” you say, quieter now.

She doesn’t look away when she answers. “Thanks,” she says. “It already feels like a good idea.”

And for the first time all day, you believe you can relax. Because she’s here. This is just the beginning.

You toe off your shoes by the door, glance back to find Alexia standing just inside, Teddy still sniffing reverently at her shoes like he’s found royalty. Her bag’s at her feet, her jacket draped over her arm.

You clear your throat. “Right—um. Tour.”

She smiles like she’s already charmed. “I’m ready.”

You lead her into the main space — open-plan living room and kitchen. The walls are clean, but lived-in. A few photos on a shelf — one of the squad after a cup match, another of you and Beth pulling stupid faces at the camera. A soft throw blanket is half-fallen off the back of the couch. A candle you forgot you lit earlier is still flickering on the coffee table.

“This is the, uh—living-slash-existing space,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Teddy thinks it belongs to him.”

Teddy immediately hops onto the couch, circles twice, and settles like you’ve just proven his point. Alexia grins.

You lead her into the kitchen, flicking on the under-counter light. “I don’t cook much, but the kettle works. Coffee pods are in here.” You tap a cupboard. “Mugs — there.”

She opens it, scans the shelves. “All mismatched.”

You shrug. “I collect them. Kind of.”

“I like it,” she says, softly. “It feels like someone lives here.”

You duck your head, smiling.

You show her the bathroom next — small, clean, stocked with too many hair ties and one towel you warn her not to use because it’s definitely Teddy’s now.

And then the hallway. Two doors.

“That one’s mine,” you say, thumb over your shoulder. “The other’s yours while you’re here.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Just peeks inside. A double bed, made neatly. Fresh towels folded at the foot.

She steps inside. Smiles softly looking around more.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t want it to feel weird.”

“It doesn’t,” she says. “It feels like you thought about it.”

“I did,” you admit.

It slips out quieter than you mean it to, but you don’t take it back.

Alexia meets your eyes. “Thank you. For having me.”

You nod toward the room. “Make yourself at home, yeah? My place is your place.”

She steps a little closer. Not much. Just enough that you feel her presence like a hum. “I already feel at home,” she says.

And the way she says it. It makes your chest ache. In the best way. You raise your eyes when they moved away from hers, "I'll um, leave you to unpack" you take a step back, "Teddy" you call, he appears around the foot of the bed, "Come" you give Alexia one final look and you walk back down the hallway.

She smiled opening her bag as she heard you chatting away to Teddy about getting him some treats, asking for various tricks from him.

⚽️

You tried to cook. You really did. But somewhere between boiling the pasta and burning the garlic, you gave up and ordered takeaway. Alexia didn’t mind. In fact, she looked almost relieved.

Now you’re both curled up on the couch, watching a show on a streaming app neither of you are paying attention to, warm plates in your laps and the soft, flickering glow of your fairy lights stretching across the ceiling.

She’s in one of your hoodies now. You hadn’t meant to offer it — just handed it over without thinking when she mentioned how cold planes make her feel.

It swallows her in all the right ways.

Teddy’s curled at your feet. Loyal again. For now.

“Okay,” she says mid-bite, glancing at you. “I need to know something.”

You look over, wiping your fingers on a napkin. “What?”

She gestures with her fork. “Do you actually like this pasta place, or is it just close?”

You fake a gasp. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” she says, trying to hide her smile. “I just—your face when you handed it to me said, ‘This is the best I’ve got, but I know it’s not the best in the world.’”

You laugh. “Alright, yeah. It’s proximity-based love.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Respect.”

The TV plays something forgettable in the background — neither of you are really watching it. The kind of background noise that just fills in the edges of something far more focused. Like the way she’s sitting. One leg folded beneath her, turned just slightly toward you. Or the way you’re watching her mouth more than listening to her words.

She puts her plate down on the coffee table, wipes her hands, then leans back. “You were nervous,” she says suddenly.

You blink. “When?”

“Earlier. At the airport. In the car.”

You roll your eyes. “Was it that obvious?”

She smiles, soft and real. “A little.”

You look down at your plate, then back at her. “I just… didn’t want it to feel weird.”

Alexia tilts her head slightly. “It doesn’t. You make it easy.”

That catches you off guard. You blink once, then set your plate down too. The silence stretches. But it’s not awkward. It’s warm. “I’m glad you came,” you say.

She leans her head back against the couch, eyes on you now in that slow, deliberate way she does everything. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” she says.

Alexia is fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie — pulling at the hem with her thumb like she doesn’t realise she’s doing it. She’s not really looking at you. Not often. Just quick glances. Then back down. Then away.

You’re talking about random things. Easy things. Football. Training. Travel. Things you are confident you have in common.

She tells you about a weird airport coffee she had in Zurich. You tell her about the time Teddy accidentally got locked in your bathroom for 20 minutes and emerged looking personally betrayed.

And every now and then, there’s a pause that lasts a little longer than it should. But neither of you fill it. You just let it be. Eventually, you nudge your leg gently against hers. “You’re quiet.”

Alexia shifts. “Am I?”

You smile. “A little. For someone who just flew here to hang out with me.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. It’s barely there. “I’m just…” She trails off. Shrugs. “I’m not good at this part.”

You tilt your head. “What part?”

She stares at the coffee table like it’s got answers. “The talking part.” You wait. She finally looks at you — really looks. “I know how to show up to a match,” she says, voice low. “How to lead. How to win. That makes sense to me. But this?” She gestures between you. “This is…” She doesn’t finish.

You finish it for her. “New.”

She nods. And for a second, you think maybe she’s going to stand up, shift away, hide behind something safe. But she doesn’t. She just sits there. Awkward. Present. Willing.

You offer a small, understanding smile. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight.”

She exhales, a little lighter now. “Good. Because I didn’t bring a tactics board.”

You both laugh. Softly. Easily. She doesn’t say anything else for a while — just leans back again, arms crossed over her chest now, head tilted slightly in your direction.

Eventually, she mumbles, almost like it’s for herself, “I’m glad I came too.” You nudge her foot with yours, with a gentle smile.

Alexia’s sitting sideways on the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out slightly, your hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. You’re close, but not quite touching.

The conversation’s slowed to a hum — soft music talk, playlists, half-confessions about guilty pleasure songs. She mentions a Catalan band you’ve never heard of, and while she’s scrolling through her phone to find a song, your eyes drift downward.

And then you see it. A couple of faint lines on her knee. Pale, clean, but unmistakable. The scar. You pause. Not out of shock — you knew. You remember the coverage, the months out, the comeback.

But seeing it? That’s different. It’s not just a story now. It’s her. She notices your eyes drop. And for the first time all night, she goes still.

“Yeah,” she says softly, not quite looking at you. “That’s… that.”

You meet her eyes again. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide. But there’s something guarded in her voice. Like she’s used to people staring at it, asking about it, expecting something from it. You don’t ask. You just nod once, gentle. “Looks like strength,” you say, matter-of-fact.

Alexia’s brow furrows, unsure if you’re serious. But you are. She shifts slightly — not closer, but more open somehow. Her hand moves instinctively toward her knee, fingers grazing the scar once, like she’s reminding herself it’s still there.

“Sometimes it feels like I left a part of myself in there,” she murmurs. “The version of me from before.”

You let that hang. Then, quietly, “The version of you now scored against me. Twice.”

She huffs a breath. “Only one actually went in.”

“Still counts.”

She glances at you — and her smile is tired, genuine, laced with something like gratitude. Not for the words. For the way you didn’t try to fix it. Just saw it. And stayed.

The playlist she queued has faded into a quiet acoustic hum — soft, wordless, like it knows it shouldn’t interrupt. The light in the room has gone warm and low, one lamp casting golden arcs over her face as she leans back into the couch, knee still bent, hand still ghosting near the scar.

You don’t speak. You wait. And eventually — slowly — she does.

“I didn’t think I’d come back,” she says, voice low, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it’s easier not to look at you. “Not really.”

You blink, still, letting her keep control of it.

“Everyone kept saying I would. That I’d be fine. That I was strong, that I’d be back in a year. But inside…” She swallows. “I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t even feel whole. I felt… like I’d been cut out of myself.”

You shift just slightly. Not closer — not yet. But enough to let her know, I’m here. She breathes, slow.

“I’d watch games and feel like I didn’t belong anymore. Like I’d already been replaced. And I didn’t want anyone to know how scared I was because… I’m not supposed to be scared. I’m her, you know?” She finally looks at you now. “La Reina” You meet her eyes, steady. She adds, barely audible, “But I felt like glass.”

The words hang in the room — fragile, but not broken. You nod once. Then say the only thing you really believe in this moment. “I think you’re better now.”

Her brow pulls, confused. “What?”

You lean back, resting your head on the couch, looking up like she did. “You’re smarter. Sharper. Your passes don’t just thread — they cut. You’ve got control most people don’t even understand. And there’s a weight to the way you move now, like you know exactly what it costs to step back onto the pitch.”

You turn your head to her again.

“I’ve watched you before. Really watched you. You were always brilliant. But now?” You shrug. “You’re something else.”

Alexia stares at you, mouth parted slightly — like no one’s ever said it that way. Not like that. Not to her. She doesn’t say thank you. She just shifts — this time closer. Not dramatic. Just enough. Her shoulder brushes yours. Her knee bumps your thigh. And she lets out a breath that sounds a little like relief. “Thank you,” she murmurs eventually, eyes back on the scar. And then, softer: “I’ve never said that stuff out loud.”

You nod. “I know.” The quiet returns — not heavy this time. Comfortable. Like something sacred just happened, and you both know it.

She’s close now. Arm resting lightly against yours. Your hoodie sleeves bunching at her wrists. The scar still visible — but no longer raw. You glance down at her, the way her gaze has softened since she spoke, how her edges feel less guarded, like your living room gave her permission she didn’t even know she needed.

You swallow once. Think. Then speak. “You know… when I moved to Germany, people said it was career suicide.”

Alexia turns her head slightly, brows faintly drawn. Listening now. Not out of politeness. Intention. You stare ahead.

“Agents stopped calling. Interviews dried up. One coach — someone I used to really trust — told me I’d disappear. That I’d ‘fade out quietly.’” You huff a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “I hadn’t even unpacked yet.”

Alexia is silent. Not interrupting. Just there.

“I’d scroll through social media and see all the squad updates, the camps, the conversations I wasn’t in anymore. And I thought… maybe they’re right. Maybe I peaked.”

You pause. Swallow.

“I started believing it. Like I was a mistake that was just waiting to happen.”

Alexia shifts slightly, her arm pressing into yours, grounding you.

“But then,” you continue, voice quieter now, “I played. I worked. And I kept showing up. And slowly… something changed. Not in them. In me.”

Alexia tilts her head. You glance at her.

“I stopped playing to prove people wrong,” you say. “And I started playing like they didn’t get a say.”

There’s a pause. And then—so soft you almost miss it—she says, “I noticed.”

You look at her. She’s watching you now — full on. Not blinking. Not shrinking. And when she speaks again, it’s steady.

“You didn’t disappear. You became better.”

You smile, but there’s a knot in your throat. Because you know she means it. And you never expected to hear it from her. Alexia leans her head back against the couch, her body still relaxed but her voice dipped low again.

“I know what that doubt feels like,” she says. “And I know how heavy it is to prove yourself to people who already made up their minds.”

You nod. “It’s exhausting.”

She murmurs, “And lonely.”

The room goes quiet again. But this time? Not lonely. Just two people sitting in a space neither of you were sure existed — honest, open, real. No spotlight. No pressure. Just you and her. And the ache you’ve both come back from.

⚽️

It’s late.

So late the playlist stopped a while ago. So late the city outside your windows feels like it’s on mute. You both stretch at almost the same time — that lazy, reluctant movement that means okay, maybe we should sleep but neither of you want to break the quiet just yet.

You stand first. Alexia follows. She’s still in your hoodie, tugging it down slightly, bare feet padding across the floor as you walk her to the guest room — side by side in a hush that feels warmer than anything words could’ve done.

You pause at the door.

She turns to face you, one hand on the doorframe. Her hair’s a little messy now, eyes slightly glassy with exhaustion. Her voice, when it comes, is soft and almost shy.

“Thanks for tonight.”

You smile, slow. “Thanks for coming.”

She nods, then looks down like she might say something else. But she doesn’t. You step back slightly, hands in your hoodie pockets, eyes flicking to hers.

“Goodnight, Alexia.”

She looks up at that. And for a second — just one second — the look on her face says everything else she didn’t say. Then she nods, once. Barely a smile. But it reaches her eyes. “Goodnight.”

She slips into the room. You don’t linger. Just turn toward your own — quiet footsteps down the short hall. You push the door open and Teddy. Right there, already curled up in the middle of your bed. One eye open, tail thumping lazily against the duvet like, about time.

You smile, rubbing the back of your neck as you sit on the edge of the bed. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You pick it up.

Alexia: Sleep well. You talk less than I thought you would. I liked it.

You stare at the message for a second, then type back:

You: You talk more than I thought you would. I liked it too.

Teddy sighs dramatically. You laugh under your breath. Then switch off the light. And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep not needing to prove anything. Because she’s here. And you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

⚽️

You wake to the smell of coffee. And the distinct sound of Teddy betraying you. You roll out of bed, hair a mess, hoodie tugged low over your hands, padding barefoot into the kitchen where—There she is.

Alexia.

Still in your hoodie. One sock on, one foot bare. Mug in hand, eyes still puffy with sleep, standing at your counter while Teddy leans against her legs like he’s never loved anyone else.

She glances up when you walk in, and her smile is soft. Unbrushed. Unfiltered. Real.

“Morning,” she says, voice husky.

You squint. “How’d you find the biscuits?”

She holds up the mug in salute. “I’m elite. And you left a post-it that said ‘left cupboard, top shelf, if teddy won't leave you alone'.”

You grin. “I knew past-me had potential.”

She turns back to the counter, pouring more water into the kettle, while Teddy attempts to wedge himself between her and the cabinets, tail sweeping the floor like a metronome.

“You realise he’s using you,” you say, grabbing a clean mug.

“He can use me all he wants,” she says, reaching down to scratch his ears. “He’s warm.”

You watch her — the way her fingers slide under Teddy’s collar, the way her mouth twitches when he tries to climb into her actual lap. It’s not a moment. Not a capital-letter Event. But something in your chest aches anyway.

Because she looks right here.

You grab the eggs, start cracking them into the pan. She pulls down two plates without being asked. Neither of you talks much. Just a few sleepy comments, heads bumping once as you both reach for the cutlery drawer.

When you sit across from her at the little kitchen table — plates steaming, dog underfoot — she catches your eye as you tuck your leg up under you. She doesn’t look away. Not for a while.

You hold it. You hold her. And the smile she gives you. It says I see this. I feel it. I’m here.

After breakfast, you throw a hoodie over your tee, pull on your trainers, and rattle Teddy’s lead. He loses his mind, of course — spinning, barking, pawing at the door like it personally wronged him.

“You wanna come?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at Alexia.

She shrugs. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She throws on a coat of yours on hook, slips into her trainers, and follows you out the door — hair tied up, sleeves rolled down, sunglasses perched on her head like she forgot the sun lives here too despite the cold.

You walk through quiet neighbourhood streets, Teddy darting side to side, nose in every hedge. You and her? Side by side. Not touching. Not saying much. But every now and then, you catch her watching you. And when you glance back— She doesn’t look away.

You loop around the quiet end of the park, the noise of the street fading behind you, and find your bench — tucked under a tree just starting to bloom, a little weathered, sun-warmed. Teddy bounds ahead, lead dropped loose in your hand, tail sweeping in wide arcs like a painter’s brush.

Alexia sits first, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying not to take up space but still wants to stay close. You drop beside her, leg stretched long, hands resting over your thighs.

For a while, you both just sit. Watching Teddy. Letting the quiet settle.

Then Alexia speaks, voice dry. “You really weren’t kidding about him being enthusiastic.”

You glance at her. She’s staring at Teddy, who’s currently rolling in something deeply questionable on the grass. You sigh.

“Yeah but he’s loyal.. until someone has better snacks anyway.”

She snorts. “I didn’t even have snacks.”

“Exactly,” you say, nudging her foot with yours. “He’s just shallow.”

She smirks, then leans back a little, adjusting the sleeves of your coat again. “He’s got taste, though. He likes me.”

You raise a brow. “Are you calling yourself a snack?”

“I’m not denying it.”

You laugh — sharp, sudden, surprised. And it makes her smile wider “You’ve got this whole mysterious captain thing,” you say, squinting at her. “But secretly, you’re kind of cocky.”

She tilts her head, smug. “Only when I’m right.” You roll your eyes, but your grin’s too soft to mean it. There’s a pause. Then, more gently “I like this,” she says, not looking at you now — just forward, at the dog, at the path.

You shift, the warmth of her words settling low in your ribs. “This?” you echo.

She nods. “The quiet. You. Teddy. This bench.” She pauses, then smirks again. “Even your coat.”

You laugh, quieter this time. “You make it look better than I do.”

“I know.” She meets your eyes then. And the silence that follows doesn't last long until you're leaning into each other laughing about it.

You clear your throat, picking at a thread on your sleeve, when the little old lady that you see everyday was eyeing you with annoyance, "So, um… are you always like this when you’re off the pitch?”

Alexia blinks. “Like what?”

You shrug. “A bit smug. Surprisingly funny. Secretly soft.”

She narrows her eyes, mock offended. “Secretly?”

You smirk. “I mean, the brand is very serious captain with cheekbones that could cut glass.”

Alexia hums. “Cheekbones and a scar. Very dramatic.”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re one trench coat away from being a Bond villain.” That gets a real laugh — full-bodied and sudden. She leans her head back against the bench, still smiling.

Then, “You make this easy,” she says, softer now. “Being here.”

You glance at her. And for a second, it’s all there again — the pitch, the free kick, the weight of it all.

But here, it’s light. You bump your knee gently against hers. “I’m glad you came, Alexia.” She doesn’t look away this time.

“I am too.”

You stretch your legs out in front of you, glancing sideways at her — Alexia, sitting there so casually now, one foot tucked beneath her, face tilted toward the sun like she’s been here a dozen times instead of just once.

You reach down to pat Teddy’s back as he wanders close.

Then glance at her.

“Do you like clichés?”

She lifts a brow. “What kind of question is that?”

You shrug, casual. “Like, romantic comedies. Grand gestures. Saying the same dumb things everyone else does. Standing on famous streets pretending you’re having an authentic experience.”

Alexia leans back, lips twitching. “You’re stalling.”

You grin. “Maybe.”

She squints at you now, playful. “Okay. Ask me properly.”

You turn toward her fully, arms folded over your chest like you’re about to deliver something serious.

“Would you like to do all the ridiculously cliché tourist things in Munich with me today?”

Alexia’s head tips slightly to the side, considering.

You keep going.

“I mean the whole deal — the Marienplatz selfie. Pretending to care about the Glockenspiel. Giant pretzels. A walk through the Englischer Garten where I’ll tell you lies about German history I definitely make up.”

Her smile creeps in slowly — then fully.

“I want lederhosen photos.”

You gasp, dramatically. “That’s advanced cliché.”

“I’m committed.”

You laugh. “God help us.”

She leans in slightly. “Only if you wear them too.”

You groan. “I’ve made a mistake.”

“You offered.”

You hold her gaze for a second, heart kicking a little louder now beneath all the lightness.

And she’s still smiling.

But there’s something genuine behind it.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long time, she’s just saying yes to a day that doesn’t come with pressure, or cameras, or expectations.

Just you.

She nudges your knee with hers. “So? We going or what?”

You whistle for Teddy. “Marienplatz, prepare yourself.”

⚽️

You start with Marienplatz. Because of course you do.

The crowds are already gathering under the watchful clock of the Neues Rathaus, phones out and necks craning toward the tower. You know the Glockenspiel starts at eleven. You’ve seen it a dozen times. It’s slow. It’s slightly underwhelming. But you still pretend like it’s sacred.

“People clap after this?” Alexia murmurs beside you, watching a small bronze knight rotate in a slow, juddering circle.

“Every time,” you whisper back. “It’s powerful.”

She gives you the driest look you’ve ever seen and it almost takes you out.

You snap a selfie right there — her unimpressed expression next to your exaggerated awe. It’s perfect. You don't even check it before saving.

From there it’s Viktualienmarkt — where you insist on finding the most absurdly oversized pretzel possible. Alexia watches you barter with a vendor and somehow ends up paying instead. She splits it with you anyway. You walk through the stalls like locals, even though you're both definitely not.

You buy her a little pin shaped like a beer stein. You stick it to her jacket pocket. “Souvenir,” she says.

You end up in the Englischer Garten by early afternoon, the kind of place where the trees stretch wide and people picnic like they’ve got nowhere else to be. Teddy loses his mind over a pigeon and nearly pulls Alexia into a fountain.

You don’t let that one go quietly. “Two time Ballon D'or, and you still couldn’t hold the line.”

“It was a very fast pigeon.”

You laugh until you’re leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder, catching your breath while Teddy runs victory laps around you both.

At the beer garden, you sit under the shade of chestnut trees, and Alexia orders something she can’t pronounce while you pretend to translate and definitely make it worse.

She tries white sausage and doesn’t hide her reaction.

You raise a brow. “Too real?”

“I can mark out midfielders. I can’t defend this texture.”

You toast anyway.

Later, you wander without purpose — through side streets with painted shutters and ivy-streaked balconies, past musicians playing under archways and little kids holding balloon strings tight to their wrists. Alexia keeps her sunglasses low on her nose, watching it all.

“I get why you like it here,” she says.

You glance over. “Yeah?”

She nods, then adds softly, “You fit here.”

It sticks.

You end up near the river as golden hour starts to take the edge off the buildings. There’s a stone ledge overlooking the water. You sit. She leans back on her hands, face turned to the sky.

“Okay,” she says finally. “This was... fun.”

You grin. “You sound surprised.”

“I am. I didn’t think cliché could feel like this.”

“Like what?”

She glances at you. Her expression doesn’t change much — but her voice does. “Easy.”

You don’t say anything for a second. Just smile. Then bump her knee gently with yours. “Think we earned ice cream?”

She tilts her head. “Is that part of the cliché package?”

“Obviously.”

You walk back into the city with cones in hand, Teddy leading the way again, tail wagging like a metronome keeping time with your steps.

And somewhere along that walk — maybe crossing a street, or brushing hands as you trade bites of each other’s flavours — something soft settles between you.

Not tension. Not expectation. Just understanding.

⚽️

You swing by the flat first — the front door barely closed before Teddy flops dramatically across the hallway floor like he’s survived something immense.

Alexia kneels down beside him, ruffles behind his ears, and says, “You’ll be alright without us.”

He sighs like he won’t.

You both change quickly — nothing fancy, just different hoodies, fresh faces, the kind of casual that looks better on her than it has any right to.

The bar you pick is a local one — tucked into a side street off the main square, part wine bar, part café, part 'we might have regulars but we won’t pretend to know your name unless you want us to.'

You take the corner table. The lights are soft and golden, the walls cluttered with mismatched frames and shelves of wine bottles. You order a bottle of white you’ve had before — one you hope she’ll like — and a snack board that arrives faster than expected: warm bread, cheese, olives, salted almonds.

She looks around, impressed. “You bring all your international friends here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Only the ones who knock me out the champions league.”

“Fair,” she says, hiding a smile behind her glass.

You’ve barely had a sip before you reach into your bag and pull out a battered Uno deck.

Alexia blinks. “You brought cards?”

“They have them as you walk in. I’m competitive,” you say, shrugging. “And brave.”

She laughs once, short and sharp. “You’re going to regret this.”

“I’ve already accepted that.” You deal. And it begins.

It starts civil. Friendly. Smirks over skips. Light jabs when she stacks draw twos. You both pick at the snack board between plays, hands brushing occasionally as you reach for the same olive.

But by the second game, It’s personal.

She slams down a reverse like it’s a tactical sub in a final. You pull a draw four from your hoodie pocket like a weapon of war. She narrows her eyes. You lift your brows, mock-innocent.

It’s deadly serious. It’s ridiculous. And you’re both grinning like you haven’t stopped since this morning.

The bar starts to fill in slowly, but your little corner stays quiet — like a bubble you haven’t noticed growing around you. Just you, her, your wine glasses catching the light, and a stack of discarded cards that tells a very messy, very entertaining story.

Somewhere between games, you pause — mid-sip, watching her draw her hand.

“Are you always like this?” you ask. “Lowkey evil under all that calm?”

She looks up, unbothered. “Only when provoked.”

You laugh, leaning back. “Remind me not to cross you again.”

She smirks, eyes flicking up at you over her cards. “You already did,” she says, laying down a wild card.

The round ends. She wins.

You groan dramatically and throw your cards onto the table. She raises her hands in mock celebration, then quietly steals another piece of cheese from your side of the board.

“You know,” she says casually, chewing, “This might be the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

You blink. She doesn’t look up right away — just flips the deck over and starts reshuffling it absentmindedly.

But you’re watching her. And there’s no doubt in your mind. She means it.

⚽️

The walk home from the bar is slow. No rush. No real conversation either. Just a lot of little smiles. Shoulders brushing sometimes. The city quieter now — streetlights pooling in soft circles at your feet.

When you reach your building, you both slip inside quietly, Teddy greeting you at the door with a sleepy grumble and a thump of his tail.

You toe off your shoes, hang your jacket, glance over at her — and then, impulsively:

“Wanna see something stupid?”

Alexia blinks. “Not usually the way someone convinces me to follow them, but… sure.”

You grin.

You lead her through the flat — past the living room, into your bedroom. Teddy hops onto the bed like he’s reclaiming his kingdom. You move to the window — the one you always leave cracked just a little — and unlatch it the rest of the way.

You glance back at her.

She’s standing with her arms folded, watching you like she’s bracing for something truly ridiculous.

You duck out first — onto the sloped bit of roofing just beyond the window, socks scraping softly against the tiles. You crouch low, then stand carefully, balancing with practiced ease.

You turn and beckon. Alexia just stares. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

She steps closer, looks out.

The drop’s not that bad. 22 feet, maybe. But the tiles are slick with dew, and there’s no railing, no barrier, no sensible adult supervision.

“This is wildly unsafe,” she mutters.

You just smile. “Come on. I’m not gonna let you fall.”

She glares at you, muttering something in Catalan that sounds very judgmental. But you can see it — the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s not really mad.

She’s just concerned. Which somehow only makes it better.

After a few more seconds of muttering under her breath, she sighs dramatically, steps up onto the ledge, and eases herself through the window with surprising grace — a little unsteady at first, reaching for your hand instinctively.

You catch it. Steady her. “See?” you say, squeezing her fingers lightly. “Easy.”

“Still stupid,” she mutters.

But she doesn’t pull away. You lead her a few steps up — careful, slow — until you both settle onto the slightly flatter part of the roof, side by side, legs pulled up to your chest..

She finally looks up the whole city stretches out in front of her.

The rooftops curve into the skyline, lights twinkling like fallen stars. The dark river cuts a lazy path through the buildings. A few stray sirens whine in the distance, but mostly it’s just quiet. Wide and open and impossibly still.

Alexia exhales — a soft, almost disbelieving sound. The corners of her mouth lift. And whatever worry she had before melts off her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says, voice lighter now. “Maybe it’s worth the risk.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Told you.”

You sit like that for a long time — no rush, no plan. Just the two of you, the city breathing around you, your hands close enough to touch if you dared.

Every now and then, you glance over and catch her watching the lights, the horizon, the night itself like she’s letting herself believe she could belong to something this simple.

The climb back in through the window is quieter than the climb out.

Alexia moves slower now, heavy with the kind of tired that comes after a day full of laughter and nowhere to be but here. She drops softly into your bedroom, feet padding across the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands again.

You follow behind, closing the window gently behind you.

Teddy’s already curled up on the bed, barely lifting his head to acknowledge your return. He gives Alexia one approving thump of the tail. You’re not sure if it’s for coming back safely or for still being here.

You rub at the back of your neck, eyes a little hazy, wine long gone.

Alexia stands in the doorway to the guest room now, hand on the frame. Her expression is soft — not sleepy exactly, just settled.

She looks at you. And it hits again — this moment. How simple it is. How much it means. You lean against the wall across from her, arms crossed loosely, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“I’ll make sure you don’t miss your flight in the morning,” you say.

She smirks faintly. “You better.”

“I’ll set three alarms.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Four.”

You laugh, quiet and tired. “Pushy.”

She shrugs. “Punctual.”

The pause that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Of all the things neither of you are saying right now. But it’s okay. You already said so much.

She shifts slightly, head tilting. “Today was…”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.

You step forward, and without thinking, you pull her into a light hug — not long, not heavy, but enough. Enough to feel the warmth of her hoodie, the steady beat of her breath, the soft slide of her hand as it rests briefly on the back of your head.

You pull back just a little. She’s still close. “Goodnight, Alexia.”

Her eyes flicker — tired and unreadable, but warmer now “Goodnight.”

She steps into the guest room and closes the door behind her with a gentle click. You exhale.

Teddy stretches across your bed with a groan like he just ran the city.

You flick off the hallway light, pad back into your room, and crawl beneath the covers.

The room is dark now. But your chest is full. And your alarms are definitely set. Tomorrow she leaves.

⚽️

The alarms buzz you awake just after six.

Teddy barely lifts his head as you stumble into the kitchen, yawning, the world outside still caught between night and day.

Alexia’s already up. You find her sitting on the edge of the couch, tying her sneakers — hair messy, hoodie slung loose over her frame, backpack by her feet.

She looks up when you walk in, and there’s a small, tired smile waiting for you. “Morning,” she says, voice thick with sleep.

You hum a reply, rubbing your eyes. Neither of you rush.

You load Teddy into the backseat. He whines a little, sensing something is different. The drive to the airport is quiet — warm coffee cups in the holders, the radio playing something soft neither of you bother to change.

She leans her forehead against the window once, watching the fields blur into concrete. When you pull up to Departures, you leave the car idling, glancing over at her.

She’s already unbuckling her seatbelt, but neither of you move right away.

The city is waking up outside. You’re wide awake here. Alexia shifts in her seat to face you. “This was…” She trails off, the words sticking again.

You smile, small. “Yeah. It was.”

She fiddles with the ring on her finger.

You grip the steering wheel lightly. “You’ll make your flight.”

She nods. “Thanks for not letting me oversleep.”

You bump your shoulder against hers gently. “Thanks for making it hard to say goodbye.”

That gets a real smile — tired, fond, a little crooked. She opens the door, stepping out into the sharp morning air. You get out too.

You meet her around the back of the car — not rushed, not dramatic. Just standing there, with a sea of taxis and early travelers moving around you like another current you’re not ready to step into yet.

She shoulders her bag. You jam your hands into your hoodie pockets.

Then — simply — she steps closer. You think she might hug you. You think you might need her to.

But instead, she reaches up — slow, careful — and hooks one finger lightly around your hoodie drawstring. Tugs it once. Soft. Playful.

“Text me when you get home,” you say, even though you’re already sure she will.

Alexia nods. “You too.”

And then — because she knows when to let things stay perfect — she turns and walks toward the entrance. You watch her weave through the doors. She doesn’t look back. Not until she’s just inside, bag slung over one shoulder, ticket in hand. Then she does. Just once.

She finds you through the glass — through the crowd and the noise and the press of the world. She smiles. Small. Sure. Enough.

You lift a hand. She does too. Then she’s gone, swallowed into the current of the airport.

You stand there a moment longer, breath fogging in the chill, Teddy’s nose nudging your hand.

You pat his head. Then you climb back into the car. And drive home, to grab a few more hours of sleep before training.

learning curve part 5

alexia putellas x reader [& r's nephew] after a hectic and rushed morning, will gets sick. r and alexia take care of him. later in the week, r and alexia lose to real madrid, and will tries to help. fluff + hurt comfort 🙂

—

It seemed as though for every obstacle overcome, another one almost immediately presented itself. Every time you were able to push some doubt you had about yourself out of your head, another one replaced it. And every time, Alexia was there to ground you back to reality. She had enough confidence in you that it was okay when you didn’t really feel it in yourself.

And as time passed, your own confidence grew, and it seemed like Alexia’s did too. Until it was shaken.

Mornings in your household were pretty routine. Alexia got up, giving you time to sleep in as she got Will up and ready for the day. At first, you’d felt bad that she was taking the morning with him and you weren’t doing anything. But, as Alexia argued, you did almost the entirety of his bedtime with him, while Alexia pretended not to fall asleep on the sofa. And Ale liked having time with him in the morning, and she was awake anyway.

The two of them had their own special little morning routine, which included a walk around the neighborhood and Will spending 10 minutes picking his outfit out. It was practiced, at this point; Will and Alexia moved through the morning with purpose while you moved through the morning practically half conscious until your coffee kicked in, normally just as you were leaving the house to drop Will at school and head to training.

This morning, however, was neither routine nor practiced. You and Alexia had been up later than you’d intended. Normally, her internal clock woke her up without fail. It seemed that not getting her 9 hours had messed with her internal alarm, and she was roughly shaking you awake just 20 minutes before you had to leave.

“Amor. Amor. We overslept, levántante!” Alexia was almost frantic.

You groaned, batting her hand away from your shoulder. She was usually much nicer when she woke you up, though the circumstances obviously wouldn’t allow for the few minutes she normally spent stroking your hair and kissing your face.

“If you do not get up right now, we won’t have time for coffee.” Alexia called over her shoulder, heading down the hall to get Will up.

And with that, you were scrambling out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom. What followed was a very chaotic and very rushed 20 minutes, but you managed to make it out of the house in time, travel mug of coffee in hand. Will was eating his breakfast quietly in the backseat on the way to his school, Alexia driving calmly like she hadn’t acted like a maniac to get everyone out of the house on time, and you were trying to make your hair look less like Alexia had very clearly had you on your back the night before.

Alexia pulled into the dropoff line, and you reached back to undo Will’s car seat buckles.

“Have a good day, buddy. We’ll see you later.” You told him, ruffling his hair as he gave you a small smile.

“Love you Tia, love you Ale,” he called, opening the door and carefully climbing down out of the car.

You only really had time to think once you were driving towards training, half your coffee already gone. It was more than a little odd that you and Alexia had been allowed to oversleep. Will woke up at roughly the same time everyday, and in the rare event Alexia didn’t get him up, he got her up. Today, though, he’d still been sleeping when she’d gone in to wake him, almost an hour and a half later than normal. It hadn’t struck you as odd until you’d thought about it for more than 5 seconds, but once you had… you were retroactively trying to analyze your nephew’s behavior in the short time you’d been with him that morning.

“Did something seem off to you? With Will this morning?”

Alexia hummed, thinking. “No. A little quiet, I guess. Maybe he didn’t sleep well.”

You nodded, going over Wil’s behavior that morning. Quiet felt like it was only part of it, but Alexia was always more observant than you.

“You’re right. He’s fine.”

“He’s fine.” Alexia echoed, reaching over to grab your hand and lace your fingers with hers. She glanced over with a reassuring smile. “You’re overthinking. He’s okay.”

You returned her smile, trying to convince yourself. There was just this nagging feeling in the back of your head, one you couldn’t get rid of. Will’s face as you dropped him off this morning kept popping into your head, and maybe you were imagining things, but it seemed different than his usual smile. His goodbye had been quieter, and you could have sworn he walked slower into the building than normal.

You shook your head, squeezing Alexia’s hand and trying to focus on her next to you before you began to freak out over nothing. Will was fine.

—

Will was not fine. He’d woken up feeling positively awful, like everything in his body wasn’t working right. His head felt cloudy and his brain felt slower than normal. He’d barely been able to eat even a few bites of his breakfast before he had to give up, his stomach turning. He was warm when he woke up, his dinosaur comforter and matching sheets pushed to the bottom of his bed, but so cold his teeth were chattering in the car on the way to school, even wrapped in his new Barcelona sweatshirt. [Alexia had brought it home for him two days ago, despite you telling her he didn’t need anymore clothes. Alexia was always bringing him home little things she saw that made her think of him, and those were his most favorite things. The brontosaurus ornament from the christmas shop she’d gone to with you, the glow-in-the-dark shoes she’d brought home from a nike photo shoot, the spiderman keychain to attach to his backpack she’d gotten in the airport on the way home from an away game.]

Will wanted nothing more than to go home and burrow under the knit blanket you kept on the couch. He didn’t even care if you didn't let him watch the TV, as long as the icky feeling that filled his entire body went away soon. He thought about saying something, telling you he didn’t feel well.

But then he’d remembered what Alexia had said the night before, about today being an important training session before you played Madrid over the weekend. Will wasn’t quite sure how long training was, but he assumed it was like school, and you’d be gone all day. And Will knew that football was your and Alexia’s job, and his Dad had always told him how important jobs were. When Will still lived with his Dad, he hadn’t been allowed to stay home sick, because his Dad couldn’t miss work.

If anything, your and Alexia’s job seemed even bigger and more important than his Dad’s job. If Will said he was sick, one of you might have to stay home with him and miss training. That would be making way too much trouble, Will had decided. So, he’d put on a brave face and gone to school.

Maybe, when he got home, he could say he was extra tired, and take a nap on the couch with one of you. Maybe you’d lay with him on the couch and scratch his back like you did when he had a bad dream. He had to get through the school day first, a task that was feeling more and more impossible with every passing second.

—

The call came after the gym session. You always kept your phone on you now, as the adult responsible for a small child. It was a beautiful day, the kind that you pictured when you’d signed with Barcelona. Sun shining, warm on your skin. Your muscles ached in the best way, and though your worry for your nephew persisted somewhat, Alexia had been very reassuring. You walked with her now, from the gym out to the pitch, chatting easily about some gossip her sister had told her on the phone. It was funny, how you spent practically all your time together but you never ran out of things to talk about. Your teammates teased you for it, how you were constantly together, attached at the hip.

Your phone rang, but Alexia kept going on about Alba’s horrible co-worker, assuming it wasn’t a call you’d need to take in the middle of training. Yet when you pulled it out of your pocket and saw it was Will’s school calling, and Alexia caught a glimpse of the caller ID over your shoulder, she cut herself off abruptly.

“Hello?” You answered, stopping just off the pitch. You motioned for Alexia to go ahead without you, as Pere was calling everyone to gather around him, but she just rolled her eyes, leaning her head closer to try to listen.

“Hello, is this Will’s guardian?”

“Yes. Is everything okay?”

“Well, we have Will here in the nurse’s office, and…”

You listened intently, as did Alexia, though there was something heavy now weighing on her mind. You’d told her that something wasn’t right with Will that morning. And she hadn’t listened. She’d been more focused on reassuring you and calming your anxiety, not pausing to think whether you might be worrying for a good reason.

The nurse explained that Will had gotten sick in class, and needed to be picked up right away. Alexia was telling one of the assistant coaches who had wandered over that there was a family emergency and you both had to go before you’d even hung up the phone. As soon as you did, though, you turned to Alexia, face pinched with concern.

“Ale, you can stay–”

“No.” Alexia said assuredly, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the building. “We will both go get him.”

Through your concern, your heart felt like it grew in size. Alexia never missed training voluntarily. Never. But now, she was rushing out with barely any notice to go with you to get Will, and you were reminded of how lucky you were to have her with you in this.

Even if she wasn’t thinking the same thing about herself in that moment.

—

The two of you rushed into the nurse’s office, panicked to a level that the nurse was not unfamiliar with. It was always the same with first time parents, when they had to come get their sick kid from school for the first time. The panic was always the same, you and Alexia practically breaking down her door in your haste to get to your nephew.

“Will,” you sighed, some of the stress and anxiety leaving your body at the sight of him in front of you. He was curled up on his side, tears still falling, pale and shaky, yet you were with him now, and that made it a little better.

“I’m sorry.” Will whimpered, sitting up shakily and wiping at his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay, mi amor, don’t be sorry.” Alexia cooed, crouching down in front of the small cot and leaning in to kiss Will’s temple. She followed up with her hand right after, pressing it to his forehead and feeling the heat of his skin. He had a fever. How had she missed this?

Carefully, you pulled Will into your arms, lifting him easily.

“Please don’t be sorry, Will. I’m sorry we didn’t realize you weren’t feeling well.” You told him, slowly rubbing his back as he cried.

“I threw up in class and everyone saw.” He sobbed, burying his face in your neck. Your heart broke, and one look at Alexia told you hers was doing the same.

“I’ll sign him out.” Alexia murmured, resting one hand on Will’s back for a moment before heading to the desk, Will’s dinosaur backpack comically slung over her shoulder. You began to walk with your nephew out of the building and to the car, hearing his cries begin to slow.

When you finally got him buckled into his seat, after some convincing required to get him to let go of you, you felt his forehead just as Alexia had.

“Oh, buddy, you’re burning up.” You murmured.

Will’s lip was still trembling, but he tried to smile at you. “I’m… I’m okay.”

You could have laughed at how visibly untrue that statement was, but nothing about this was funny. Not even Alexia wearing Will’s backpack out to the car, much too small on her back.

You just kissed the top of his head, shut his door and headed around to the passenger seat. The car was quiet for a minute as Alexia backed out of the parking lot, only just noticing how poorly she had parked in her haste to get to Will.

“Are we going to football?” Will piped up quietly from the backseat. He’d come a few times, when he hadn’t had school, and he was hoping you and Ale would just bring him there so you wouldn’t miss work.

You and your girlfriend exchanged confused glances, Alexia studying him in the rearview mirror.

“No, bud, we’re going home. You’re sick, you need to rest.” You replied.

You weren’t expecting Will to start crying again, but the sound of his sniffling soon filled the car.

“But… but work is important. You can’t miss just for me!”

You twisted around in your seat to look at him, reaching out a hand to rest on his knee. His little face was flushed red, from sickness or emotion you weren’t sure. It shattered your heart that he would ever presume that football was more important than him.

“Will, you are much more important than work. So much more important.” You told him, tilting your head slightly to make eye contact with him.

“Cariño, did you feel ill this morning and not tell us because we had training?” Alexia cut in, the question practically burning on the way out.

A moment passed before your nephew nodded slightly. You half wanted to tell Alexia to stop the car so you could get into the backseat and pull Will into your arms, and half wanted Alexia to just run you over. You weren’t sure where he’d gotten the idea to lie about being sick, but it felt like a massive failure on your part.

“If you’re sick, baby, you have to tell us so we can take care of you. You don’t need to worry about football or training or anything; you come first, okay?”

“Will, you are the most important to us. More than football, do you understand?” Alexia asked, her voice shaking slightly with emotion.

Will nodded, his brown hair flopping into his eyes as he did so. “Okay.”

—

Alexia felt like the guilt could crush her. She never never wanted you or Will to think that football was more important to her. Yet here Will was, so sick his little body was shaking, but he’d tried to power through so he wouldn’t interrupt training.

It was with this guilt in her mind that she hovered uncertainly over the sofa, watching as you tucked Will under her favorite knit blanket, the one she preferred when she was sick, too. Alexia assumed neither you nor Will would want her around in that moment. You, because she’d talked you out of being rightfully worried for your nephew. And Will, for making him feel like he came second to her.

She was minutes away from offering to go to the grocery store and get the ingredients to make soup, just so she could have an excuse to call her Mami in the car and tell her how badly she messed up.

Well, how badly she thought she messed up.

“Okay, buddy. What can I get you? A snack? Soup? Anything?” You wondered, brushing his hair out of his face.

Alexia’s thoughts were still racing as Will’s gaze flicked over to her.

“Pancakes?” He wondered quietly, giving you a half smile. You chuckled, not sure why you thought he’d ask for anything else.

“Of course. I’ll go make them.” You stood, freezing when Alexia cleared her throat and spoke shakily.

“No, I can. You stay here with him.” She said quietly.

You raised your eyebrows, something about your girlfriend’s demeanor throwing you off. She seemed miserable and close to tears, somehow. Frowning, you opened your mouth, ready to ask her to join you in the kitchen for a minute so you could figure out what was wrong.

Will beat you to it, though. “Tia, sit with me?”

Will wasn’t looking at you, though. He was looking at Alexia. Her gaze flickered between yours and Will’s for a moment, completely dumbstruck.

“M-me?” Alexia asked, wringing her hands together. It had been a while since you’d seen her like this, so visibly upset when she was normally the picture of composure.

It didn’t seem to push Will off, though, because he just nodded. “Tia Ale sit with me. Tia go make pancakes.”

Will had called Alexia… Alexia the entire few months he’d been here. Sometimes Ale, but never anything else. You were Tia, and Alexia was Alexia. Until now, apparently.

Alexia could have sobbed, truly. Just when she’d been thoroughly convinced she was a horrible.. guardian or whatever she was, Will had innocently asked for her to sit with him, and fixed every doubt that was gripping her heart.

And you… you were looking at her with tears in your own eyes, a smile on your face. There was no annoyance on your face, no blame in your eyes. You just looked happy.

Maybe she hadn’t messed up as bad as she thought.

Without another word, Alexia sat on the couch, sliding under the blanket with Will and tucking him into her side. He snuggled right against her, his face still slightly pinched with discomfort, but seeming a lot more comfortable now.

After a minute of silence, Alexia now beaming at you from the couch, Will looked away from the TV back to where you were standing, watching the two of them fondly.

“Tia? Pancakes? Please?” He reminded you.

You nodded with a small laugh, leaning down to kiss his temple, and Alexia’s before heading into the kitchen.

You really loved your little family.

—

Will admittedly didn’t know much about football. He knew that you and Alexia were very good, knew that you both worked very hard. He knew Barcelona wore the blue and red colors, and he’d learned the numbers that appeared on the back of your kits. Though he’d yet to attend a match, he’d watched most of them from Eli’s couch while she gave him all the snacks he could ever want.

Will was watching when you and Alexia lost to Real Madrid, and Eli tried to explain to him the significance. All he really took away from that conversation, though, was that you and Ale would be sad, and he should probably give you hugs to make it better.

He’d done so when you picked him up from Eli’s, allowing Alexia time to head home and decompress. Will hugged you tight, Alexia even tighter once he got home and saw the frown on her face. It was late in the evening, already past his bedtime, and the two of you were very quiet.

Will thought he sort of knew how you felt, because he didn’t like losing the games at recess, either. There wasn’t much he could think to do, though. He’d barely been home 10 minutes before you were asking him to go get his pajamas out, so he could start getting ready for bed. You and Alexia walked in a few minutes later, after having a tense whispered conversation in the hall, one that Will did not miss.

He could tell you were both upset, but you tried your best not to let it show that you were somewhat upset with each other. It always happened after a loss, especially one like this. You and Alexia would be tense, snap at each other. It was a different situation entirely now that Will was here, his little face gazing up at the two of you, wide eyed, where he sat tucked under his covers.

He’d put his pajamas on himself, and both you and Alexia cracked smiles when you noticed his shirt was on backwards. He smiled back, wordlessly holding out his favorite book for one of you to read.

You took it, perching on the edge of his bed while Alexia leaned in the doorway, exhaustion causing her eyes to droop. Will looked between the two of you as you opened the book.

“Are you fighting?”

Alexia’s eyes were on you, you could tell, waiting for you to take the lead. You didn’t quite feel like looking at her, so you smiled softly at your nephew, running a hand through his brown curls.

“No, bud. We’ve just had a long day.”

Will looked dubious, even as Alexia nodded along.

“It sounded like you were fighting. In the hall. When you said Alexia was being mean and Alexia said you didn’t care about her feelings.”

You froze at that, not quite sure what your response was supposed to be. You were so tired, too tired to figure out how to explain that you and Alexia were just having a small argument to Will. Every part of your body ached from the physical match that had been played, and you swore you still felt as cold as if you’d stepped out of the rain just a minute ago and not several hours ago.

Just before you were about to stumble your way through some explanation, Alexia cleared her throat.

“We aren’t fighting, cariño. Your Tia and I just care a lot about football, and when we lose, it makes us sad.”

“That’s what Eli said, that you would be sad, and I should give you a really big hug.”

Alexia smiled softly, stepping further into the room, but not quite approaching you. You still wouldn’t look at her.

“She’s right, your hug made me feel so much better. Your Tia and I hate losing, and sometimes we aren’t very nice to each other after we lose. But we aren’t fighting, just… disagreeing.”

Will thought for a moment, his fingers fiddling with his navy blue spiderman pajama top.

“You should be better at losing.” He said finally.

You snorted, and Alexia laughed. Will smiled proudly, even as you shook your head in mock disbelief.

“Says the little boy who flipped the board over when he lost at checkers yesterday!”

Will giggled, and the tension was broken. Mostly.

Neither of you wanted him to carry the weight you were feeling, feel sad just because you both were. You kept his nighttime routine as normal as possible, reading his book and tucking him in, both of you kissing his forehead before heading out.

Alexia didn’t say anything as you headed to your shared bedroom, but to be fair, neither did you. It was a bit early for the two of you to head to bed, but after the day you’d had, both of you knew sleep would be the best thing.

Pajamas on, you and Alexia slid into bed, the room still silent. It only took a minute after you flicked the light off for the bed to shift, Alexia’s warm body sliding closer until she was pressed up against you.

Tired of being mad, you turned into her, resting your head against her chest as her arms encircled you. A deep sigh escaped you, and you felt like it was the first real breath you’d had since the full time whistle had blown.

“I’m sorry. I was harsh, and I shouldn’t have been. I love you.” Alexia murmured, lips pressing a kiss to your hair.

You snuggled closer, inhaling again the scent of her. “I’m sorry too. You’re allowed to be upset, I shouldn’t have tried to fix it when you just needed to feel it.”

“And we both need to get better at losing.” Alexia replied. You could hear the small grin in her voice, feel her chest shake slightly as she chuckled.

“Apparently.” You agreed.

“Goodnight, mi amor.”

“Goodnight my Ale.”

And just like that, everything was fine again. Everything was fixed.

—

Will woke early the next morning. As was his routine, he got up and headed for your room to wake Alexia up. She was an early riser, didn’t mind getting up with him and letting you sleep in. Most of the time, she was already kind of awake, scrolling on her phone.

This morning, though, when Will pushed the door open and peaked his head in, Alexia wasn’t awake. She was out cold, head practically shoved under her pillow, while you slept completely on the other side of the bed, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. You both looked very comfy, and Will remembered last night, how tired Alexia had seemed. She’d practically fallen asleep in his doorway standing up.

Thinking for a moment, Will turned around and headed back to his room. He grabbed his ipad out from his backpack, the one he took with him for the car trip to Eli’s. He wasn’t technically supposed to have it now, but he figured that you wouldn’t mind if he let you sleep. He grabbed his headphones, too, his favorite blanket and his most favorite dino, Robert. As quietly as he could, he crept back down the hall and into your room. Climbing up on the bed, he took advantage of the ample space between the two of you, settling back against the pillows under his blankie. He plugged his headphones in, tucked his dino under one arm, and pressed play on his favorite dinosaur show.

This way, you both could keep sleeping, and he didn’t have to play alone somewhere by himself.

—

You awoke to small, insistent hands pulling at the comforter so it covered more of you. Before you could open your eyes, little hands pushing into the blanket, tucking it in nice and tight around you. Groggily, you cracked an eye, finding Will’s face just a few inches away. He looked… guilty, like he’d looked when he broke the vase on the coffee table, and you were immediately alert.

“What’s up bud?” You whispered, conscious that Ale was still asleep on the other side of your nephew.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean t’wake you.” Will whispered back. “You looked cold.”

“What are you doing in here, hm? You should be in your bed.”

Will pulled a face, tugging his headphones off his head. “But it’s late and I was bored.”

You clocked the sun peaking in between the curtains, startled to realize it was much higher in the sky than it should have been. It was at least 10, and Will always got up before 7:30.

“Oh, buddy, it is late. I’m so sorry, why didn’t you wake one of us up?”

By one of us, you meant Alexia.

Will just shrugged, shyly smiling at you. “You were sad last night. And when I’m sad, you tell me it makes my body tired and that’s why I’m more sleepy. So you needed more sleep too, you and Tia Ale.”

Your heart melted and you pulled the small boy down into your arms, squeezing tight.

“You are the sweetest boy.” You told him.

Will beamed, squeezing you back. “I got my ipad even though I wasn’t supposed to.”

Leaning back, you brushed his messy hair off his forehead. That was what the guilty look was for. As if you’d be upset with him for wanting to let you both sleep, but also not wanting to be by himself. As if you’d be mad he brought his ipad in here and put on his Dino show and wore his headphones and tucked the blankets around you because you looked cold.

“That’s okay, buddy.” You replied. “You are so thoughtful to let us sleep in.”

“Tia Ale says it’s important to be thoughtful and kind.” Will said, echoing something you knew Alexia told him every morning before he left for school. It was something her Mami had always said to her, Alexia had told you once.

“Alexia is right.” You nodded, settling back into the pillows with Will now laid in your arms. Next to him, the mattress shifted, and a raspy voice piped up.

“Alexia is always right.” Ale said sleepily, not even opening her eyes as she blindly reached to pat Will on the head. Will laughed, a sound that was quickly becoming one of your favorites in the world.

For a few minutes, the room stayed silent, Will laid between the two of you, for the moment content to sit still. You were still waking up, and Alexia could probably barely be considered awake.

“Hey, Tia?” Will murmured, breaking the quiet peacefulness of the morning. You hummed for him to continue. “Can I call my Daddy?”

Sometimes you forgot. You shouldn’t forget, but you did, and you knew Ale did too. Sometimes things just went so well, Will fit so perfectly into your family that you forgot the circumstances under which he was here. And when you remembered, you were instantly filled with guilt. Like you were stealing something from your brother. You should be talking more about Leo, calling Leo more often.

Will wasn’t yours, but he was. It was a difficult line to walk, a difficult thing to balance. Will wasn’t your son but you felt like a parent. Alexia felt like a parent, had taken to being one so easily. But Will wasn’t your son. He was your nephew, and the last thing you wanted was to try to take the place of Leo.

As you pulled your phone out, dialling the number for the prison, you wondered if you’d ever figure out how to fit into Will’s life without feeling like you weren’t doing enough, were doing too much. You wondered if you’d ever feel like you were doing right by your brother, and right by Will.

You were torn from your spiral when the call connected. Instead of the usual robotic voice stating you would soon be connected through to Leo, it was the same robotic voice, telling you the call had not been accepted. There were plenty of reasons for Leo not to pick up the phone, plenty of real, valid reasons. For some reason you couldn’t explain, though, your stomach had dropped. Something about it felt wrong, especially knowing that Leo knew Will liked to call Sunday mornings.

You glanced over to where Will was poking at Alexia’s face, where she was pretending to be going back to sleep. He was laughing, and you could see Ale fighting a small smile herself. With a deep sigh, you forced a tense smile onto your face.

“Will?” The boy turned towards you, face lit up with excitement as he reached for the phone. “I’m sorry, baby, your Dad couldn’t pick up. He’s… he’s busy.”

The smile fell from Will’s face, the room suddenly feeling a few degrees colder. Alexia’s eyes flew open, fixed on Will’s face as he tried to hide his disappointment.

“Oh. Okay.” He whispered, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap.

It was like the life had been sucked out of him. You thought hard, trying to think of anything you could offer him or promise him that would lift his mood again. Alexia beat you to it.

“Hey, cariño? Do you want to go out for pancakes?” She suggested, resting a hand on Will’s back.

Still staring at his hands tightly clasped in his lap, Will slowly shook his head, much to your astonishment. Will never turned down pancakes, especially at his favorite breakfast place. You didn’t go often because it was a ways away, and normally, the suggestion would have had him skipping around the room with joy.

“No thank you.” He mumbled, sniffling. His small fist came up to rub at his face and your heart broke even more. Alexia looked like she was in physical pain, fighting the urge to pull Will into a bone crushing hug.

Carefully, you shifted back down in the bed, opening your arms for your nephew. He practically lunged forward, wrapping his arms tight around your neck and shoving his face into your shoulder.

“Oh, buddy.” You murmured, wishing there was something you could say to make it better.

There wasn’t.

Alexia ran a hand through her disheveled hair and moved closer, wrapping her arms around you both as she kissed the top of Will’s head. One of Will’s hands unwrapped itself from around your neck, moving to grab a fistful of Alexia’s sweatshirt. Like he was trying to be as close to the two of you as possible, as if you could protect him from what he was feeling. You wished you could, more than anything.

The three of you sat there in silence, all deep in thought, and you knew neither you nor Alexia would move until Will moved.

What you didn’t know, though, was that this was the first of many unexplained declined calls from Leo. Just the beginning of a sudden complete silence you couldn’t begin to explain to yourself or to Will.

—

:) cranked this out in between studying. hope you enjoyed ❤️‍🩹

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justareader7

1 month ago

Dreaming in Blaugrana

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

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

You were good at it. Almost too good.

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

And now, annoyingly, the players did too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

It started with a dare.

Something stupid—classic Mapi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

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

The air hit your face like a wave.

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

“No way,” she whispered. “You?”

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

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

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

You nodded, heart pounding.

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

“Guilty.”

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

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

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

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

You were just… you.

The new girl.

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

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

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

“Lighting’s too harsh.”

“Where do I stand?”

“Let me know when this is done.”

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

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

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

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

And it hurt.

Even though it shouldn’t have.

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

But still…

It was strange. Jarring, even.

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

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

Cat Culer was allowed into her world.

You weren’t.

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

It still felt personal.

But in the suit?

She looked for you.

She laughed with you.

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

Something you wanted to be real.

It was confusing. Unfair, even.

Because outside of the suit, you were no one.

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

The one taking up space but not attention.

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

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

Not until you stopped being you.

And yet you kept coming back.

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

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

You could’ve gone home. Everyone else had.

You should’ve.

Instead, you suited up.

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

When you wore the suit, no one judged.

No one asked questions.

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

And they loved you for it.

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

Alexia.

In the suit, you were someone worth walking toward.

Someone worth talking to.

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

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

But how could you not?

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

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

And still, you pulled the head over your face.

Still, you zipped it up.

Because the truth was…

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

The suit was hot. Suffocating, even.

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

You couldn’t.

Not yet.

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

At you.

At Cat Culer.

Not the girl inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it never failed to catch you off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you knew that feeling.

More than you wanted to admit.

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

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

You slowly shook your head.

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

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

She paused.

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

You went still.

There it was. The part that always hurt.

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

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

And you couldn’t say a single word back.

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

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

Something smaller. Warmer.

“You’re not so bad, gato.”

You wanted to tell her it was you.

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

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

But the words stayed trapped inside the costume.

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

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

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

Added, more gently:

“Don’t work too hard.”

And then she walked off. Just like that.

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

The stadium was quiet again. Empty. Still.

She didn’t know you.

Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

“Camera’s in the way,” she said.

Not cold. Not cruel. Just… indifferent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were just… staff.

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

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

You did your job. You blended in.

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

But it did.

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

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

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

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

It was always like that with Alexia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just real.

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

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

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

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

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

She paused.

Then added, offhand—but too easily:

“Even me.”

Your whole body went still.

Even me.

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

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

And worse—you wanted it to.

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

Just here. Just with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia.

Not hovering. Not orchestrating.

Just… present. Just there.

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

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

And then the cameras arrived.

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

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

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

You froze for half a second.

Then nodded.

What else could you do?

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

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

You were the mascot she liked.

Not the girl she didn’t see.

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

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

But you weren’t asleep. Not even close.

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

Alexia, in the background.

Her eyes.

Tracking the mascot.

Not once. Not twice. Over and over.

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

You paused the clip.

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

It wasn’t in your head.

It wasn’t.

She saw you.

Just not… you.

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

“Yo,” came a familiar voice.

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “You mean… Cat Culer?”

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

“Obviously.”

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

You felt your smile slip. “What?”

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

Your heart tripped over itself.

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

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

Careful.

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

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

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

Your hands stilled on the keyboard. “Who?”

She gave you a look. “The gato.”

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

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

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

But it was.

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

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

She liked the suit.

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

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

“That's something,” Mapi had said.

It was.

And it wasn’t.

Because you knew how this story usually went.

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t.

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

Maybe it was habit.

Maybe it was something lonelier than that.

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

So you came here instead.

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

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

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

You just… couldn’t not be there.

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

Then she walked in.

Alexia.

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

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

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

But really, it was gravity.

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

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

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

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

She never looked in your direction. Not once.

And that should’ve been okay.

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

But the silence where her smile used to be?

It echoed.

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

Especially because she didn’t see it.

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

Never leaned into your shoulder.

Never whispered, “Even me.”

But she had.

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

Because she saw the suit.

Not you.

Not yet.

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

But she had. And it did.

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

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

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

Mapi jogged over.

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

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

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

Mapi didn’t buy it.

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

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

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

That hit harder than you expected.

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

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

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

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

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

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

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

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

Your eyes followed the motion.

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

She looked once.

Then again.

Slower this time.

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

Your pulse stuttered.

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

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

You swallowed hard.

Didn’t answer.

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

Later that afternoon, you suited up.

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

But deep down, you knew.

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

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

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

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

And then there was Alexia.

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

And she smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia snorted. “Coward.”

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

It worked.

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

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

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

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

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

You stilled.

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Maybe I do.”

Your heart stuttered.

Because maybe she did.

And maybe she didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

But really—you were hiding.

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

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

Mocking you.

You stared back at it like it had betrayed you.

Because in a way, it had.

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

It was that maybe she never would.

The door creaked open.

You froze.

Footsteps. Light. Familiar.

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

Your stomach dropped.

You turned just as Alexia stepped into the room.

She paused instantly.

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

Your real face.

Exposed.

Still flushed. Still damp from the heat.

The room shifted. The silence tightened.

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

Her expression flattened. Neutral. Guarded.

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

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t have to.

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

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

She lingered there for one breath. Then another.

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

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

The door clicked shut behind her.

And just like that, the silence returned.

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

584 notes View Post

justareader7

2 months ago

"Porto l'escut al pit"

Le esta compitiendo a Claudia quien es la más culé

A mi lo de manifestar no se me da. Pero que hoy sea un buen partido para ella y se cae un golito de sus botas mas que feliz.

🥹❤️‍🩹

43 notes View Post

justareader7

2 months ago

she's not wroooong 😂 also ✨LESBIANS✨

LMAO Christen 😂

135 notes View Post

justareader7

2 months ago

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.

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.

240 notes View Post

justareader7

1 month ago

Bebita - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Turns out the captain’s toughest rival isn’t on the pitch-it’s her own baby, who smiles for the squad but not for her.

Warning: One adorable baby, one jealous Alexia, and two exhausted parents who are definitely too tired for anything even remotely sexy.

Word count: 2.7

a/n: This is a scheduled post, I'm sleeping.

MASTERLIST

The VIP area sat a few rows up–quiet except for the distant thump of the ball and the soft murmur of the crowd. Y/n settled into the seat, baby Clara balanced on her lap.

Clara’s tiny brunette pigtails bobbed as she wriggled against Y/n’s chest, her hazel eyes fixed on the green pitch below. She was always like that, always trying to move away from Y/n and Alexia, even though she had barely learned how to stand on her own.

Out on the field, Alexia knelt on one knee, cycling through her familiar pre‑match stretch, every motion precise and powerful.

Clara watched, leaning forward as though she understood that the woman in the Barça kit was her other mama.

“Look, mi amor,” Y/n whispered, angling Clara so she could see. “Do you see Mami?”

Clara squealed happily, reaching out to point. In her other hand, she clutched the battered cat‑culer teddy Vicky had given her.

It had been a gift for Clara’s first birthday, which had happened just weeks ago. How did a one-year-old manage to take off the cat's tails, bite down its ear and unsew its eyes? Y/n wasn’t sure, but she was sure that Clara loved the thing dearly.

Y/n brushed a strand of hair from Clara’s forehead. “She’s getting ready to play for you today.”

Clara shifted, trying to stand. Her little legs wobbled, and she toppled onto Y/n’s thigh with a surprised giggle.

“You’re going to fall,” Y/n laughed, scooping her daughter, sitting her on her lap. “You just learned how to do that–be patient.”

Clara patted Y/n’s cheek, then lifted Cat, pressing it against her cheek as if comforting herself–and everyone else too.

Through the railing, Y/n watched Alexia rise and take a final glance toward the stands, her eyes briefly meeting Y/n’s.

Alexia gave a single nod, smiling shyly.

Y/n smiled and took Clara’s small hand and waved at Alexia. “Say hi to mami, Bebita.”

Clara babbled excitedly, watching her mom.

Y/n pressed her lips to Clara’s pigtail. “Ready to see Mama in action? The game’s starting.”

Clara kicked her legs and clutched Cat tighter.

Y/n put earmuffs on Clara, and they both waited for Alexia’s first touch of the ball.

Y/n stepped down onto the pitch, Clara cradled in her arms, the roar of the crowd fading into a soft hum now that the final whistle had blown.

Alexia jogged over from midfield, still in her game‑worn kit, sweat-slick hair plastered to her forehead, a smile on her face, both from seeing her little family and from winning the game as well.

Clara’s hazel eyes gleamed–not at Alexia, but at the Cat teddy Y/n held.

Y/n had just pried it away to stop Clara from yanking out its last button eye, but the little one was too quick; she snatched it back, buried her face in its floppy ear, and squeezed it as if it were the only thing in the world.

“Hey, mi amor–where’s my big winner's smile?” Alexia called softly, holding out her arms for Clara.

Clara peeked over the teddy.

Y/n wasn’t sure, but somehow Clara has mastered the deadpan face at only one year and two weeks.

Alexia’s brow furrowed.

Alexia’s brow creased in confusion. “Why so serious, bebita?” she asked, reaching to lift Clara into her arms—but each time she tried, Clara twisted away.

“She didn’t even give me a single grin,” Alexia said, casting a pleading glance at Y/n. “Do you think… is she mad at me?”

Y/n chuckled, rocking Clara gently against her. “She’s not mad, amor. I think she’s just tired.”

“Tired?” Alexia scoffed. “I saw her napping from the pitch.”

“Sleeping surrounded by thousands of people isn’t the same as snoozing at home,” Y/n replied, stepping closer. “But now, can the captain give me some attention?”

Alexia grinned, leaning in for a quick kiss, only to feel something wet against her cheek. Clara was pushing her face away,

“Okay, wow,” Alexia said, feigning offence. “What’s put you in such a mood, huh? Did Mama not breastfeed you today?”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “Of course I did.”

Before Y/n could even get a word out, Vicky and Jana appeared at the edge of the pitch, grinning like they’d just won the lottery.

“Bebita!” they called in perfect unison, spotting Clara from a distance.

Clara’s deadpan expression shattered instantly into a bright, gummy grin–her two little teeth front and centre like she was showing them off.

As the two girls jogged over, she actually started to wiggle in Y/n’s arms, arms flailing in excitement.

Vicky scooped her up with practised ease, plopping Clara into her lap like they were old besties.

Jana was already fussing with her pigtails, smoothing them down and cooing sweet nothings that had Clara giggling, soft and high-pitched, the kind of sound that made everyone around them melt.

Y/n and Alexia shared a long, stunned glance.

Alexia crossed her arms, deeply offended. “Wow. Amazing. My own filla [daughter] ignores me but loses her mind for these two.”

Y/n patted her shoulder with exaggerated sympathy. “Don’t pout, campeona. She does love you–just maybe not right now.”

Alexia sighed deeply, leaning over to tousle Clara’s hair in an attempt to salvage her dignity.

But Clara, nestled happily in Vicky’s arms, gave her a very unimpressed wave–one lazy, pudgy little hand–and turned right back around to cuddle her beloved teddy and friend.

Y/n could swear she saw her daughter frown at Alexia. A warning frown.

Alexia looked wounded. “Did… did she just glare at me?”

Y/n bit back a laugh. “Maybe. A little. You might have messed with her giggling privileges.”

“I hope she doesn’t expect me to pick her up from parties when she’s older,” Alexia muttered, arms wrapped lazily around Y/n from behind.

Y/n snorted. “Oh? So you’re already planning to let her go to parties now? Because last I heard, you said she wouldn’t be out of our sight until she turned 23 and a half.”

“Shut up,” Alexia grumbled, chin on Y/n’s shoulder, eyes narrowed as more players started to swarm their tiny queen. “She’s supposed to be obsessed with us, not… them.”

Clara, meanwhile, was thriving. Surrounded by teammates, she sat like a baby monarch on Vicky’s lap, accepting all compliments and forehead kisses.

Alexia checked her Samsung watch. Fifteen minutes.

“That’s ridiculous,” she huffed. “I carried her for nine months!”

Y/n said grumpily. “No, you didn’t. I did.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. “Fine. But I’m the one who wakes up every night to change her diaper.”

Y/n gave an exaggerated shrug. “Yeah… that’s fair.”

Alexia had already had enough. She pulled away and marched toward the huddle of players, determined to reassert her maternal dominance.

By then, Clara had migrated from Vicky to Patri, who had Pina crouched in front of them playing peek-a-boo with the intensity of a professional entertainer.

Every “boo!” sent Clara into high-pitched giggles, her tiny arms flailing like she was trying to fly.

Off to the side, Salma had somehow gotten hold of the Cat Culer plush and was cradling it like a kitten, complete with exaggerated ‘mrow-mrow’ sounds and purring noises.

Clara was enchanted. She squealed and reached both hands toward Salma.

She swivelled from Patri to Salma, a wide smile spreading across her face. It was a deadly combo: Patri’s over-the-top silly faces and Salma’s soft, ridiculous lullaby cat impressions.

Alexia barely made it back to the group before Clara let out a delighted squeal.

Too much. That was too much joy for one player circle.

Without warning, Alexia swooped in and plucked Clara right out of Patri’s arms.

“Come on, Clara,” she muttered, hoisting Clara onto her hip like a protective mama bear. “You’re ours.”

“Noo!” Patri gasped, hands dramatically outstretched. “Our amiga!”

“She was smiling!” Jana chimed in from seemingly nowhere.

Alexia blinked. “Where did you even come from?”

Jana just pouted and pointed. “She likes me more than you.”

Alexia raised her brows. “She drooled on your shoulder last week.”

Alexia ignored them all, bouncing Clara gently on her hip and muttering like a dramatic villain, “Your amiga needs to sleep in one hour, chicas. Back off.”

And that’s what did it.

Clara’s big eyes blinked once… twice… and then her lip wobbled.

The betrayal hit her in full force.

She let out a wail so dramatic, so raw and heartbroken. How did a baby have so many emotions? Who knows?

Alexia’s face fell in real time.

“Oh, come on, bebita…” she cooed, trying to adjust her hold, bouncing Clara with expert panic. “Don’t cry. Mama’s sorry–”

“Give her back,” Vicky said, deadpan.

“No!” Alexia turned, spinning away like she was protecting Clara, “She’s mine. I made her.”

“You did not!” Y/n called after her. “I made her, remember? Forty-three weeks?”

Alexia didn’t turn around. “Fine, but I clipped her nails yesterday. Let me have this!”

Y/n stepped forward without a word and plucked Clara from Alexia’s arms.

“Shh, what’s going on with you today, huh?” she asked, settling Clara against her chest. Instantly, Clara melted into her, the cries slowing as she rooted for the breast like nothing had happened.

Alexia folded her arms and watched the scene unfold, tapping her foot. “She hates me today.”

Y/n leaned in and kissed her cheek, still swaying with Clara. “She doesn’t hate you. She just wants to party with the girls.”

Alexia’s pout softened. “Next time, she should save a giggle or two for me.”

Clara was nearly asleep by the time Alexia guided them toward the locker room, collecting her things so they could finally go home.

The walk to the car was slow, careful not to wake the tiny diva—but Clara, ever the drama queen, cracked her big hazel eyes open as Y/n buckled her into the car seat.

“Hi, Neneta,” Y/n cooed in a baby voice. “I bet you're gonna stay up the whole drive and absolutely not fall asleep at bedtime, huh? Yeah, of course you will.”

Clara giggled, like she was absolutely planning to sabotage their night.

Y/n frowned, struggling with the seatbelt–it wasn’t going over the right way, and it looked like it was pressing into Clara’s belly.

“Ale, I need help,” she called, glancing over her shoulder.

Alexia appeared behind her, now in a soft, oversized shirt, hair down and still damp from her shower. “What, amor?”

She leaned in to take a look–and that’s when it happened.

Clara smiled. Not just any smile. A big, two-toothed, gummy grin, arms shooting up toward Alexia.

Alexia gasped. Literal tears sprang to her eyes.

“Oh, el meu tresor, has tornat a estimar la mameta, eh?” [Oh my treasure, have you come back to loving mommy, huh?]

She scooped Clara out of the car seat with no hesitation, kissing her all over while Clara giggled and wrapped a chubby hand in Alexia’s hair.

“Alexia, put her back!” Y/n scolded. “It’s cold! She’s gonna catch a cold!”

“My bebita,” Alexia crooned, ignoring her. “Mine.”

Y/n squinted. Something wasn’t adding up. Then her eyes narrowed in on the baby's fist, twisted lovingly in Alexia’s damp hair.

“Alexia,” she said slowly.

“What?” Alexia asked, still too busy baby-cuddling to notice the growing danger.

Without another word, Y/n stepped forward, gently took a handful of Alexia’s hair, and lifted it up into a mock ponytail.

Instantly–cry. A full-body, soul-deep shriek from Clara that echoed off the parking garage walls.

“What the-?”

Before Alexia could finish, Y/n let her hair fall back down. Clara stopped crying on a dime. She blinked twice, then went back to calmly playing with Alexia’s nose.

“She doesn’t like your hair up,” Y/n deadpanned. “She’s been mad at you all day because you put it in a ponytail. Diva behaviour.”

Alexia stared at her daughter in disbelief. “Is that true, bebita? I’m gonna have to figure out how to play football with my hair down, huh?”

Clara gave her a sleepy little grunt and patted her cheek, as if to say, finally, someone’s catching on.

The car ride home was full of Clara's babble–her favourite form of post-bedtime rebellion.

“She’s giving a full concert back there,” Alexia mumbled, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Y/n’s thigh.

“She’s practising for her world tour,” Alexia said with a small yawn.

From the backseat came a joyful “DA! and “MA!” followed by a long, dramatic sigh…Clara’s version of a mic drop.

Y/n twisted in her seat to look at her. “Clara, it’s sleepy time.”

Clara kicked her feet.

Alexia glanced at her in the mirror. “Bebita, no kicking mami.”

“Maybe she just needs to wind down,” Alexia offered. “You know, like a little story, some quiet time…”

“She just yelled at her own toes,” Y/n said hopelessly. “We’re not sleeping today.”

By the time they pulled into the garage, Clara was still going strong, waving her arms as if she was saying hi to a crowd, but Alexia didn’t care because she was giving her a gummy grin every time she looked back.

Y/n unbuckled her with a sigh.

“We have ten minutes before she realises she’s a baby and not a woman in her twenties at a club,” she muttered.

Inside, Alexia took Clara while Y/n dealt with the diaper bag and Alexia’s game bag.

Clara was clinging to her again, arms tight around Alexia’s neck, one hand firmly rooted in her hair like she was personally in charge of keeping it down.

“She’s obsessed with your hair,” Y/n said as she walked into the nursery.

“She has taste,” Alexia replied, swaying slowly with Clara in her arms.

“She has control issues.”

“She gets that from you.”

Y/n shot her a glare, but was too tired to keep it up. Instead, she leaned against the doorway, watching the two of them.

Clara was slowing down now, her lids heavy as Alexia quietly hummed a lullaby in Catalan, her hand rubbing soft circles on Clara’s back.

It was quiet for a moment, just the gentle and occasional creak of the floorboards under their feet.

Y/n felt something melt in her chest.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmured.

Alexia glanced over at her, surprised. “At what?”

“Being her mom.”

Alexia’s mouth tugged into the smallest, most fragile smile. “Only when my hair’s down, apparently.”

“She just missed you,” Y/n said, crossing the room to stand beside her. “You’re her favourite, you know.”

Alexia looked down at Clara, whose tiny hand was still tangled in her hair, her face finally tucked into her mom’s neck. “She’s my favourite, too–well, you and her.”

Y/n leaned her head on Alexia’s shoulder, both of them swaying now in the half-lit nursery. Clara let out a soft sigh–peaceful this time–and went limp in Alexia’s arms, fully asleep.

“Victory,” Y/n whispered.

“Don’t jinx it,” Alexia whispered back.

They waited another few minutes, just to be sure, then moved into the quiet routine that every young parent had.

Alexia laid Clara in the crib. Y/n pulled the blanket up. Neither of them breathed until they were sure she was down for real.

Back in the hallway, Y/n pulled Alexia into a long, slow hug, burying her face in the damp hair. “I vote you never wear a ponytail again.”

Alexia chuckled, kissing her temple. “Deal.”

They padded off to their bedroom, tired and tangled in each other, both grateful that Clara had finally called it a night.

Y/n flopped face-first onto the bed with a groan. “Okay, but we both agree we’re too tired for sex, right?”

There was no answer.

Y/n turned her head slightly. Alexia was already on her side, eyes shut, breathing deeply, completely out cold.

She snorted. “Okay. Guess that’s a yes.”

She reached out blindly, grabbed the blanket, and yanked it over both of them, grumbling softly as she burrowed in beside Alexia.

“You better be dreaming about me,” she mumbled into the pillow.

Hope you guys enjoyed it!

945 notes View Post

justareader7

2 months ago

this fic lives in my mind rent free

Pitch Invader

summary: barça’s twelfth (wo)man

warnings: nothing

a/n: thank you for the request !

word count: 1.6k

There are certain truths universally acknowledged: gravity exists, toddlers are irrational, and the Putellas genes are a force of nature.

Today’s a big day: Alexia is playing one of the most important games of the season, and you’re in the stands with your two-year-old daughter, who, despite being the tiniest human in the stadium, possesses the energy of a thousand deranged squirrels. You are, in a word, nervous.

Your daughter, however, is anything but nervous. She’s strapped into her tiny jersey with Putellas scrawled across the back in letters that are nearly as big as she is. Her hair’s up in a ponytail, more like a pineapple sprouting out of her head, but you know that’s the only way she likes it. You’ve brought snacks, water, an iPad loaded with Paw Patrol, and a collection of those little rubber animals she’s obsessed with. You are prepared for every disaster except, apparently, the actual one.

The game kicks off. Your daughter’s glued to the action, her eyes tracking the players with a focus you wish she’d bring to bedtime. She’s screaming "Mami!" like she’s the head of the Alexia Putellas fan club. Which, let’s be real, she probably is.

You, meanwhile, are half-watching the game, half-watching her, and half-wondering when you’ll get the time to sleep ever again. The maths doesn’t add up, but then again, neither does the toddler logic you’re about to encounter.

In the 30th minute, the snacks run out. Which, you should have known, is a harbinger of doom. Your daughter, little genius that she is, finishes her juice box and immediately hurls it to the ground. She gives you the wide-eyed innocent look that usually precedes a request for more snacks or a sudden need to use the bathroom. But not this time.

This time, she leans in conspiratorially, whispering, “Mami!” It’s a statement, a question, and a declaration of war all at once.

“Yes, baby,” you say, patting her hand, thinking she’s just expressing her undying adoration for Alexia. You know what’s coming, but you’re oblivious. Blame it on the lack of sleep or the adrenaline of the match.

“Mami!” she repeats, louder, with more urgency. You’re too busy trying to figure out if she’s got another juice box somewhere in the black hole that is your nappy bag to notice that she’s been scoping out her escape route. You’ve taught her well: always look for the exits. You just never expected her to take that lesson so literally.

“Mami!” And before you can register what’s happening, she’s off like a shot, little legs pumping with the determination of someone who’s just discovered that the world is a lot more fun when you’re not stuck behind bars. Literally. Because she’s somehow squeezed through the railing and is now sprinting toward the field like she’s got the ball and is gunning for the goal.

There’s a split second where time stops. The crowd noise fades, the players blur, and you’re left watching your tiny daughter make her bid for freedom. Then, the panic sets in.

“Oh my God, she’s on the pitch!” you scream, leaping to your feet. Your heart's in your throat, and your legs feel like they’re made of concrete, but you move. You have to. Alexia is going to kill you. No, worse, she’s going to tell your mother.

This is it. You’re going to die. Not because your daughter’s about to get trampled by a bunch of world-class athletes, but because Alexia Putellas is going to murder you on the spot for letting this happen.

“Don’t move!” you yell, as if your two-year-old is going to suddenly develop a sense of self-preservation and stop in her tracks. You leap over seats with a grace you didn’t know you possessed, and suddenly, it’s you versus the grass, a race you never wanted to be a part of.

The security guards, bless them, are as stunned as you are. They’re used to dealing with rowdy fans, not rogue toddlers. One of them starts to move, but you’re faster. You vault over the barrier like an Olympian, not caring that you’ve just flashed half the stadium. Your brain is a mess of conflicting priorities: get the child, avoid the cameras, don’t trip, for the love of God, don’t trip.

“Mami!” Your daughter’s scream pierces the air as she beelines for Alexia, who, by now, has spotted her and is having her own heart attack on the pitch. Alexia freezes, eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless yell. You can see her future flash before her eyes: headlines like “Star Player’s Toddler Takes Over Match” or “Tiny Terror Halts Game, Becomes Internet Sensation.”

The ball is at the far end of the pitch, and most of the players haven’t noticed yet. But one of the defenders has. She’s staring, and then she starts laughing. You can’t blame her. You’d be laughing too if you weren’t about to faint from the sheer absurdity of it all.

Finally, you reach your daughter just as she reaches the center circle. You scoop her up, her little legs still kicking as if she’s going to make a break for it again. She’s giggling, thinking this is all the best game ever, and honestly, you’re too relieved to be mad.

Alexia, however, is sprinting toward you like she’s about to dropkick someone, probably you, into the next century. You flash her an apologetic smile, holding up the wriggling toddler as if to say, “I found her! Look, I’m a hero!”

Alexia doesn’t look like she agrees. Her face is a mix of horror, relief, and something that might be love if you’re lucky. She reaches you, breathless, eyes still wide as saucers. “What… the… hell…?”

“I took my eyes off her for two seconds!” you pant, defensively. “You try keeping up with her!”

Your daughter, oblivious to the chaos she’s caused, throws her arms around Alexia’s neck and says, “Mami, I won!”

Alexia softens instantly, her expression shifting to one of pure adoration. She holds your daughter close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, you did, mi amor. You won”

The crowd, which had been holding its collective breath, erupts into cheers and laughter. You’re pretty sure you see a wave of camera phones aimed in your direction. Great. You’ll never live this down.

But then Alexia grins at you, and it’s that grin—the one that says she’s both exasperated and completely in love with you—that makes all of this worth it.

“I’m going to kill you,” she whispers, but she’s smiling, and you know you’re in the clear.

“Totally fair,” you agree. “But can we do that after the game?”

With a resigned laugh, Alexia turns to walk you both off the field, your daughter still happily babbling about how she’s the best player ever, better than even Mami. And you? You just can’t wait to tell her how this day was 100% her fault when she’s old enough to understand the concept of consequences.

As you reach the sidelines, you catch the eye of the commentator, who’s openly laughing now. “And that, folks, is what you call a family affair!”

You wave awkwardly, knowing you’re going to be a meme by the end of the day. But as you hand your daughter back to her seat, watching Alexia return to the pitch with a look of determination that’s all business now, you can’t help but feel a rush of pride.

Sure, you almost derailed an entire match. But on the plus side, you just might have discovered a new sport: Toddler Sprinting, with a side of Parental Panic. Gold medals all around.

633 notes View Post

justareader7

1 month ago

picture perfect | blue stars

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader, barca femeni x teen!reader

summary: you and estrella will NOT ruin this media day for alexia

notes: ITS A CROSSOVER YALL!! it’s a play on the first fic i did for estrella!

Alexia had one goal today. Just one. A perfect media day family picture with the two teenagers in her and Olga’s life. In a normal household, it wasn’t too much to ask. In the Putellas-Rios household, it was like asking someone to carry an elephant.

Because one of them lived to spread chaos like glitter in a carpet, and the other was a stubborn little rock who would rather wrestle a bear than smile for a camera.

The morning was already off to a cursed start. Alexia blinked awake, slowly registering the bright sunlight pouring into the room. A glance at her phone made her bolt upright.

“¡Mierda! I slept through all my alarms!” (Shit)

Olga, beside her, stirred groggily, still in dreamland. But before Alexia could fully panic, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen.

“JESUS CHRIST!”

Then came the shrill wail of the fire alarm.

The two women bolted out of bed like soldiers under attack, Olga yanking on a hoodie as they sprinted toward the chaos.

They arrived to find: the blender on literal fire, Estrella curled in the corner of the kitchen, screeching like a banshee, you covered in foam, wielding the fire extinguisher like a warrior in a war zone.

“What in God’s name made you put a SPOON into a blender?!” you yelled, wheeling around on Estrella once the fire fizzled out.

“I didn’t mean to!” she shouted back, still not meeting your furious eyes. “It was an accident!”

Alexia looked between the two of you, the smoke, the foam, the utter state of the kitchen, and let out the most exhausted sigh in history.

“Okay,” she began, rubbing her temples. “What. Happened.”

“She wanted a smoothie and told me to do it because she was ‘too tired to function,’” you snapped, still glaring.

“She pushed me out of the way and said I was too dumb to blend fruit,” Estrella snapped right back, standing up now with her arms crossed.

“You put a metal spoon into a blender—”

“I didn’t know it was in there!”

“You didn’t check?!”

And just like that, it devolved into a full-on mimic war.

“‘I’m sooooo serious all the time,’” Estrella mocked, lowering her voice and hunching her shoulders in a perfect (and wildly offensive) imitation of you. “‘I wake up scowling and I eat cereal like it wronged me in another life.’”

“‘Oh look at me,’” you fired back, flailing your arms around dramatically. “‘I get yellow cards for sass and call it performance art. I’m an artist, okay, not a menace.’”

“Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

“Both of you SHUT UP!” Alexia finally roared, voice bouncing off the walls. “Silencio. Ahora.” (Silence. Now.)

The silence that followed was immediate and terrified. Olga stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes narrowing like a mother hen about to throw hands.

“Couch. Now.”

Both of you shuffled over like guilty toddlers, still occasionally shooting glares at each other. You sat stiffly, arms crossed. Estrella kicked her feet and tried to whistle, failing miserably.

“I want you both to listen carefully,” Olga began, voice calm but absolutely terrifying. “You are not to go near the kitchen again today. Do you hear me?”

You both nodded.

“You are going to your rooms. You are going to get ready for media day. You are going to wear what we laid out for you. And you are going to behave like normal human beings who don’t set things on fire. ¿Entendido?” (Understood?)

“Yes, ma’am,” Estrella muttered. You grumbled something that vaguely resembled a “yes.”

“Go.”

Estrella skipped off like she’d won a prize. You groaned loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

As soon as the two of you disappeared down the hall, Alexia dropped into Olga’s arms with the grace of a dying swan.

“I just want one photo,” she moaned. “One. One where Azulita’s not scowling like she’s at a funeral and Estrella’s not making jazz hands in the background.”

“Good luck with that,” Olga chuckled, stroking her back soothingly.

“They’re impossible.”

“Our girls are… special,” Olga said, trying not to laugh.

Alexia groaned louder. “That’s the problem.”

Olga kissed her head with a grin. “You picked them, cariño.”

“No, I picked one, you brought the other, and somehow they both got your attitude.”

Olga laughed as they both turned to look at the blender wreckage.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing the cleaning supplies. “Let’s try to make the kitchen look like it wasn’t ground zero.”

Meanwhile, in Estrella’s room, the chaos was far from over.

She had a white T-shirt on the bed with black stripes drawn on it, a whistle, and a pocket full of red and yellow cards.

“I’m going as a referee this year,” she declared proudly.

You stared at her like she had grown three heads. “You’re actually insane.”

“It’s a protest.”

“A protest?”

“Yeah. Against injustice. Like all the cards I got last season. I was targeted,” she said dramatically, holding a hand to her chest. “Like a political prisoner.”

You snorted. “You told the ref she should be banned from the sport and then clapped in her face.”

“She deserved it.”

You rolled your eyes.

Estrella smirked. “What about you? Gonna smile this year? Maybe try not to look like someone just punched your cat?”

You gave her a glare so deadly it could’ve been listed as a weapon. “Say that again and I will hide all your cards before we leave.”

“Try me, stoneface.”

You lunged at her with a pillow.

She shrieked.

And down the hall, Olga and Alexia exchanged a long, knowing look as they wiped down the counters.

“Ten bucks says they ruin the group photo again,” Alexia muttered.

“Twenty,” Olga grinned.

The drive to the training facility was…tense. Alexia sat in the driver’s seat, one hand clutching the wheel, the other pinching the bridge of her nose like it was the only thing holding her sanity together. In the passenger seat, you had your hoodie pulled up and arms crossed, glaring out the window like someone had personally offended your bloodline. In the backseat, Estrella was humming a suspiciously upbeat tune, kicking her feet and clearly up to no good.

Alexia knew that tune. It was the same one Estrella sang before trying to convince their team physio she’d developed narcolepsy to get out of fitness testing. This was not a good sign.

“Okay,” Alexia began, her voice tight with the kind of hope only a truly desperate parent has. “Please. I’m begging you both. Just this once. Can we have a normal media day? Please.”

“Define normal,” Estrella said innocently from the back.

“One where no one ends up banned from the press area, no one photobombs every teammate’s headshot, and no one fake-cries on camera for attention.”

“You told me to be authentic,” Estrella shot back with a grin. “Those tears were real. Real artistry.”

“You got into a fake argument with the mascot last year,” Alexia reminded her, voice rising. “It ended with you giving him a yellow card and yelling, ‘Read the rulebook, rat!’”

“He was offside!” Estrella protested. “Mascots should play by the rules too!”

Alexia closed her eyes. Counted to ten. It did nothing.

She turned to you next. “And you. Please don’t scowl in every photo like we’re at a funeral. You’re beautiful. Just smile.”

You huffed, still staring out the window. “I’ll smile when Estrella stops breathing.”

“Oh my God,” Alexia groaned.

“Fair,” Estrella muttered.

“Please. I’m serious. I just want one nice family picture,” Alexia pleaded, eyes darting between the two of you. “One. That’s it. For my desk. For the wall. For my sanity.”

“Fine,” you both mumbled at the same time, in the same tone of someone agreeing to do chores under duress.

The moment she pulled into the parking lot, you both flung the doors open and bolted like escaped zoo animals.

“I didn’t even park yet!” Alexia yelled after you. “WE TALKED ABOUT EXITING LIKE HUMANS!”

But you were gone. You’d vanished into the building like media day goblins. Alexia stared at the empty seats, her soul slowly peeling off her body. She laid her head against the steering wheel and let out a groan so deep it echoed into another dimension.

A few cars down, Fridolina Rolfö paused mid-sip of her smoothie and turned to Lucy Bronze, who was leaning against the hood of her car.

“…Did you hear that?”

Lucy nodded slowly. “Sounded like someone just got their soul crushed.”

They exchanged a look before making their way over. Frido tapped on the car window. Alexia lifted her head just enough to look like a haunted Victorian ghost.

“Are you… okay?” Frido asked gently.

“No,” Alexia mumbled into the steering wheel.

“What happened?” Lucy asked, already smirking.

Alexia sat up and pointed a dramatic finger in the direction you both had disappeared. “They happened.”

“Which one?”

“Both.” Alexia threw her hands up. “Estrella has something hidden in her backpack. I know it. She’s got that face. The ‘I’m planning chaos’ face. And you—” She gestured vaguely in the direction you had stomped off. “—are in a mood. And I have six interviews today. I cannot babysit two menaces and pretend to be a media darling at the same time. I just want one nice picture. ONE. And I’m gonna end up with Estrella dressed up as god knows what and her sister looking like she’s on her way to commit arson.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Did she actually bring a costume?” Lucy asked, trying not to laugh.

“She claims it’s a protest,” Alexia muttered. “Against… being carded too much. I don’t even know anymore.”

Frido smiled sympathetically and patted Alexia’s shoulder. “I’ll get her to smile.”

Lucy grinned and cracked her knuckles. “And I’ll wrangle Estrella.”

“You would do that for me?” Alexia asked, looking up like she’d just seen angels.

“Absolutely,” Frido said. “But I expect baked goods in return.”

“And I want to be in the good Christmas card this year,” Lucy added.

“Done,” Alexia said, already digging into her glove compartment for emergency thank-you snacks. “There’s chocolate in here if you survive.”

Lucy grabbed a mini Snickers. “I’m going in.”

Frido cracked her neck like she was preparing for battle. “Operation: Smile Like You Mean It begins now.”

As they walked off toward the facility, Alexia stayed behind just a moment longer, staring out the windshield.

“They’re lucky they’re cute,” she muttered, before finally exiting the car to deal with the mess her life had become.

Little did she know, inside the building, Estrella was already putting the whistle around her neck and practicing her best “foul!” voice, while you sat next to a very confused makeup artist silently radiating “do not touch me” energy.

This was going to be a long day.

“Leave me alone, Frido.”

Frido gave you a look. Not a mad look. Not a disappointed look. No, it was worse. It was her “I’m gonna smile at you until you cave” look. The one that had defeated many before you. But you were made of stronger stuff. Hardened by teenage angst, Estrella’s nonsense, and the agony of being dragged to media day against your will.

“I need a smile, kärlek. Captain’s orders,” Frido said, sitting down beside you as the camera crew finished setting up. (Love)

“Leave me alone,” you repeated, staring straight ahead like a statue in witness protection.

“Don’t worry,” the media manager chirped. “We’re just gonna play a fun little game of ‘Who’s Most Likely To?’ Should be quick, easy, and full of laughs!”

Frido beamed. You blinked. Slowly.

“Let’s start with an easy one,” the interviewer said, chipper as ever. “Who’s most likely to oversleep and miss training?”

“Estrella,” you and Frido said at the same time.

“Because she sets seven alarms and sleeps through all of them,” you added flatly.

Frido nodded. “It’s like a symphony of chaos. Honestly impressive.”

“Not when she drags me down with her.”

The interviewer laughed nervously. “Okay! Next one… Who’s most likely to cry during a sad movie?”

“Frido,” you answered immediately.

Frido gasped, clutching her chest. “What? I am not—”

“You cried when the dog in that commercial found his way home.”

“That dog had resilience!”

You stared at her, deadpan. “It was a detergent commercial.”

“HE SMELLED HIS FAMILY.”

The interviewer was losing it. “Okay, next, who’s most likely to get in trouble on media day?”

There was a beat. Both of you said, “Estrella.”

At that exact moment, as if summoned by the sheer force of your mutual exasperation, Estrella leapt into frame like a caffeinated raccoon, launching herself onto your back with an obnoxiously gleeful “WHEEEEE!”

Your soul left your body. Your expression didn’t change, but your eyes said, ‘I am about to commit a crime on camera.’

You stood up, Estrella clinging to your back like a koala, and in one clean motion, threw her off.

“Unhand me, chaos demon,” you said, brushing yourself off.

Estrella hit the bean bag beside the set, bounced up like it was a trampoline, and tackled you to the floor. The camera was still rolling and the media team was thriving. One guy was nearly in tears from laughter.

“Get OFF!” you yelled, grabbing Estrella in a headlock. “You smell like glitter glue and Red Bull!”

“You love it here!” she screamed back, wrapping her legs around your waist like she was practicing jiu-jitsu.

Enter, Lucy and Frido, both with the resigned energy of babysitters at a sugar-fueled sleepover.

“Why is she always on her back?!” Lucy barked, grabbing Estrella by the collar and yanking her off you like she was pulling a cat off a curtain rod.

Frido tried to help you up, only for you to swat her hand away. “I got it,” you muttered, smoothing your slick back with a grumble. “I’m already emotionally injured.”

Estrella was still kicking in Lucy’s arms like a rabid possum. “I had a whole monologue prepared!”

“No,” Lucy said, deadpan. “No monologues.”

“No more caffeine,” Frido added. “And no more sneaking onto interviews!”

The Barca media crew was thrilled. The whole scene went viral within the hour. Clips of your dead-eyed glare as Estrella launched herself onto you were already trending. Fans were obsessed.

“Me when my sibling breathes.”

“She’s fighting for her life.”

“Barça should make a reality show of just these two.”

You were not amused.

The media room at Ciutat Esportiva was packed. Journalists buzzing, cameras flashing, a Barça banner perfectly centered behind the long table where four chairs sat.

In those chairs was, Fridolina Rolfö, poised and smiling. Lucy Bronze, polished and charming. You, arms crossed and already three minutes into regretting everything. And Estrella, practically vibrating in her seat with chaotic energy, legs swinging, sunglasses on indoors, and what looked like a whistle clipped to her collar.

“Thank you all for coming to this special Barcelona Femení media panel,” the moderator began, chipper like they hadn’t just walked into a lion’s den. “Let’s start with a fun one, who on the team brings the best vibes to training?”

Frido leaned into her mic, smiling softly. “I think Patri always brings calm, but also a lot of joy. And Vicky too, she’s young, but she lights up the room.”

Lucy nodded. “Agreed. And obviously, Jana. She’s hilarious even when she doesn’t try to be.”

Estrella threw her hand up like she was in class. “I bring vibes too. Not good ones, but definitely powerful ones.”

The room chuckled. You stared at her, unimpressed.

“My vibes,” she added, leaning forward, “are disruptive. Unfiltered. Deliciously unpredictable.”

Frido let out a nervous laugh. “Yes, Estrella certainly… brings something.”

The moderator pivoted quickly. “Let’s move on. What’s one personal goal you’ve set for the second half of the season?”

“Win the Champions League,” Frido said confidently.

“Stay healthy and keep building our defensive chemistry,” Lucy followed.

Estrella leaned back in her chair. “I would like to… not get carded for saying someone’s haircut looks like a crime.”

You slowly turned your head to her. Glared.

She burst out laughing.

The moderator, barely keeping it together, turned to you. “And you?”

You leaned into the mic, monotone. “Stay out of trouble.”

Estrella wheezed.

You didn’t blink. Just turned to her again with the slow, soul-piercing glare of an older sibling who’s so over this.

“Okay,” the moderator said, definitely enjoying the growing tension, “If you weren’t footballers, what do you think you’d be doing?”

Frido thought for a second, “I’d probably still be in something athletic. Maybe coaching or sports science.”

Lucy nodded. “I always liked kids, so maybe something in education.”

“I’d be a DJ-slash-Instagram-meme-page admin.” Estrella answered, getting scattered laughs.

You blinked. “So…unemployed.”

She slapped the table, laughing so loud a camera wobbled. “YOU’RE JEALOUS.”

You turned to her fully now. “Jealous of what? Your TikTok addiction or your suspension record?”

“Those cards were political!”

“No, they were because you told a ref, ‘Your eyebrows are uneven and so is your judgment.’”

“It was accurate!”

The moderator was now wheezing behind their cue cards. The media room was eating it up. Phones were out. Recordings were on. Journalists were openly laughing.

Frido and Lucy exchanged slow, exhausted glances like they’d rehearsed this before.

“Girls,” Frido said, her voice cutting through the chaos like a disappointed kindergarten teacher. “Can we not fight in front of fifty journalists?”

You and Estrella froze like you were being told off by your mom in public.

Simultaneously, you both muttered, “She started it.”

“I literally didn’t,” Estrella hissed.

Frido gave you both the look— the one that promised consequences if you didn’t reel it in. So you sat back in your chair, arms crossed, your expression once again returning to emotionally bankrupt.

Estrella slumped in hers with a dramatic sigh, muttering something about “oppression.”

The moderator looked like they wanted to kiss Frido’s feet for regaining control.

“Well then! Next question… which of your teammates would survive a zombie apocalypse?”

Frido blinked, considering. “Caro.”

Lucy nodded. “Definitely Caro. She’d build a bunker.”

You leaned in. “I’d feed Estrella to the zombies.”

Estrella, without missing a beat, “I’d taste delicious.”

The entire room lost it. Even Frido laughed, despite herself, while Lucy shook her head, fully regretting ever agreeing to this.

The hallway outside the Barça media photo room was tense. Frido and Lucy stood in front of you and Estrella like two parents about to deliver the most intense heart-to-heart of their lives. You were slumped in your chair, chewing gum like it had offended you. Estrella had her feet propped on a stool and was flipping a whistle around her finger like she was about to cause a security lockdown.

Frido clapped her hands once, loud and sharp.

“Okay. Listen up.”

Estrella blinked, “Yes, coach.”

Frido narrowed her eyes. “Don’t test me.”

Lucy stepped in, folding her arms. “We need to talk about what this day means. To Alexia.”

That made Estrella pause. You looked up briefly, suspicious.

“She’s been planning this media day for months,” Frido said, softening a bit. “You two are all she talks about. She’s been telling everyone how good these pictures are going to be. She’s picked out spots in the house. She has frames ready.”

“She has a Pinterest board,” Lucy added grimly. “A Pinterest board, guys.”

“She rehearsed her smile,” Frido said. “In the mirror.”

“She’s printed reference poses!” Lucy said, scandalized.

Estrella’s mouth parted slightly. “Wait, for real?”

Frido nodded solemnly. “And she said and I quote: ‘These are going to be the kind of pictures that make me feel like my little family is complete.’”

You and Estrella exchanged a slow, loaded look. Your brows furrowed. Her whistle stopped spinning. The hallway went silent.

Lucy whispered to Frido out of the corner of her mouth, “What’s happening?”

Frido whispered back, “I don’t know. Should we stop them?”

“Are they communicating telepathically?”

“What if they’re plotting our demise?”

“Then it was a good run.”

Then you both stood up simultaneously. You, cracking your knuckles. Estrella, cracking her neck.

Frido and Lucy both took a cautious step back.

You looked Lucy dead in the eyes and said, “Fine. For Alexia.”

Estrella adjusted her oversized sunglasses. “Let’s go take these damn pictures.”

Inside the photo room, Alexia stood near the backdrop, nervously checking her phone. She was already in her kit, hair done, looking every bit the Captain of Chaos Control. She had asked the photographer three times if he had enough battery. She was two seconds away from pacing a groove into the floor.

Then the door opened. You strolled in, hands in your pockets, chewing gum with purpose. Estrella followed behind, uncharacteristically calm, not a single whistle in sight.

Alexia blinked like she was hallucinating.

You stopped in front of her. “Let’s get this over with.”

Estrella patted her shoulder. “Let’s make history, Mami.”

Alexia looked behind them, expecting Frido and Lucy to jump out and yell ‘Surprise! They’re AI clones!’ But nothing happened.

Then, miracle of miracles: you and Estrella took your places on either side of her. Smiling. Genuinely.

The photographer blinked in disbelief.

“Alright, let’s start!” he said.

You didn’t groan. Estrella didn’t pull out a clown nose. Nobody shoved anyone off a stool.

The three of you smiled like a perfectly coordinated little football family. Estrella rested her head on Alexia’s shoulder for one. You put your arm around her waist in another. There was even one where Alexia turned to kiss the tops of both your heads while you pretended not to be touched by it.

When it was done, Alexia just stood there, blinking like she was going to cry.

“You guys…” she said softly. “You actually…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Estrella said, waving her off, “don’t get emotional. That’s your job.”

You rolled your eyes. “This better get me out of the next five interviews.”

Alexia was already pulling you both into a hug. “I love you guys.”

Estrella mumbled, “Whatever.”

But she didn’t pull away.

Two weeks later, the framed photo sat proudly above the fireplace in Alexia’s house, perfectly centered, with the caption “My Girls” etched underneath.

Another copy hung right at the entrance of Eli’s house, where no one could miss it. Eli cried when she saw it. Alba teased her for days.

Alexia pointed to it every time someone walked in. “Look at them. Look at my beautiful, normal family.”

Meanwhile, you and Estrella walked by it every day like you didn’t plan the whole thing telepathically.

“Should we tell her?” Estrella once whispered.

You deadpanned, “Let her believe in miracles.”

And Alexia still smiled every time she saw it. Even when Estrella was banned from two training sessions for trying to ref a scrimmage again. Even when you got another warning for telling a La Liga photographer to “crop your face out or else.”

Because no matter what, that picture existed. And to her, it was perfect.

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