😭❤️‍🩹

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

Part 5: One night in Barcelona part 2 Other Parts

Word Count: 9.5K

The first thing you notice is the light.

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

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

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

For a second, you forget where you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lift yours in silent salute.

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Liar,” you shoot back, grinning.

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

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

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

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

“Hungry?” she asks.

“Always,” you say without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You enjoying that?," she says lightly.

You raise an eyebrow, mouth full of pancake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

Steady. Guiding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where you want to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing," she says, breezy.

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

She grins, completely unbothered. "Trust issues."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile shy and wide and helpless.

"Thank you," you whisper back.

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, thrown. "Do what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For what?"

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

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

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

Alexia spots it immediately.

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

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

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

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

"What, you scared?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Definitely."

"Boat tour?"

"Obviously."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missing her.

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

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

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

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

You smile small, sure. "Promise."

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

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

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

Closer.

Closer.

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

Soft. Warm. Lingering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you turn. And walk into the airport.

⚽️

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

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

It’s loud. It’s familiar. It’s home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing," you blurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It’s everything," Beth interrupts gleefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

You don’t even have time to react.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy jogs over, eyebrows high. "Secrets?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell us, tell us, tell us!"

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

You’re finally getting a moment to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beth shoots you a look. Georgia smirks.

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

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

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

Beth shrugs, barely holding in her grin.

Keira leans forward again, eyes narrowing.

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

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

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

“She’s gonna kill us later.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance down.

Alexia: You forgot to tell me you landed safely.

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

But before you can finish the reply, another buzz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all you send.

No flirting. No matching her compliment. Just honest.

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

Beth leans into your side.

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

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

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

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

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

Then it buzzes again.

You check it quickly, heart in your throat.

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

Alexia: Just wanted to know you were okay.

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

Then, one more message. Shorter. Softer.

Alexia: Can't wait to see you again.

You stare at it not breathing for a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A second later, the message goes blue.

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

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

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

You type slower now.

You: Yeah. We should.

Alexia: Good.

Alexia: Sooner the better.

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

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

You blink, startled back into the present.

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you not just tell me?"

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

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

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

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

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

It helps. The movement. The distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

🙌🏼❤️

putellas vs. putellas | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader

summary: usa and spain play each in a friendly, making it the battles of the putellas

warnings: none

notes: enjoy!

You sit in the locker room, legs crossed and eyes closed, breathing steadily as the music pulses through your Beats headphones. You’ve been in this position for nearly half an hour, unmoving and silent, a sharp contrast to your usual chaotic energy. The tension is electric. You’ve been counting down the days to this game, but now that it’s here, you’re trying to keep yourself grounded. You can’t afford to lose focus. Because today, you’re facing Spain. And not just Spain. You’re facing Alexia.

Your jaw tightens. You’ve gone against her before, in practice, in pickup games at the park, even in one-on-one battles in your backyard. But this is different. This is for real. On the world stage, with fans watching and commentators ready to analyze every move. It’s Putellas versus Putellas.

Your stomach twists. You know how she plays. You’ve studied her since you were a kid. You’ve learned from her. Hell, you probably mirror her more than you care to admit. Which means she knows exactly what to expect from you too.

“Wow,” Alex Morgan says, leaning against her locker and staring at you. “I’ve never seen her this quiet.”

Megan Rapinoe slips on her jersey, raising an eyebrow. “I know. It’s unsettling.”

“She’s in the zone,” Crystal Dunn observes. “Leave her alone.”

Tobin Heath chuckles from across the room, watching you with curious eyes. “Apparently she’s been playing with some of them since she was a kid.” She jerks her chin towards Emily Sonnett, who’s standing awkwardly in front of you, waving a hand to get your attention. You don’t budge.

“Hey, Estrella!” Emily calls out, voice cheerful. “You good?”

You don’t even blink.

“Wow,” Emily mutters, shaking her head. “She really is ignoring me.”

“It’s weird,” Megan comments, eyes wide. “She usually never shuts up.”

You take a deep breath, the music in your ears pounding rhythmically, blocking out the noise of the locker room. You’re in your own world, visualizing the game, running through scenarios in your head. You’re going to mark Alexia. You’re going to defend against her, attack her, beat her. Because for ninety minutes, she isn’t your family, she’s not your mother. She’s your opponent.

The tunnel buzzes with energy as you step onto the pitch, shoulders squared, face set. The Spanish national anthem plays, and you sneak a glance down the line. Alexia stands tall, hand over her heart, eyes fixed straight ahead. A chill runs down your spine.

She looks different. Not the warm, caring Alexia from home. Not the one who nags you to clean your room or sneaks extra food onto your plate when she thinks you haven’t eaten enough. This Alexia is cold, focused, every bit the captain and legend the world sees her as.

Your chest tightens, but you refuse to let it shake you. The whistle blows. The game begins.

The first time you encounter her, it’s in midfield. You step up to intercept a pass, only for her to sidestep with effortless grace, flicking the ball past you like it’s nothing. You spin around, chasing after her, teeth clenched. She’s fast, faster than you anticipated.

She glances over her shoulder, smirking. “Too slow, Estrelleta.”

Your blood boils as you double your efforts, pressing hard every time she gets the ball. She spins away, shielding it like she’s done a thousand times in your backyard battles. But this isn’t home, and you aren’t backing down.

You shoulder into her, disrupting her balance just enough. She stumbles, and you steal the ball, sprinting down the field.

She’s fast, but you’re faster. You hear her footsteps behind you, feel her breath on your neck as she tries to close the gap. You drop your shoulder, feint right before cutting left, leaving her a step behind. The crowd erupts as you whip a cross into the box, inches from Cata’s head.

Alexia glares at you, eyes blazing. “Really?”

You grin, cocky. “What? Can’t keep up, vieja?”

Her jaw drops and you take the opportunity to bolt down the field before she can retaliate.

The game is brutal. Every time you touch the ball, she’s there: marking you, blocking your path, using every trick in the book to throw you off balance. You shove back just as hard, elbows digging in, shoulders colliding. Neither of you hold back, each challenge fiercer than the last.

You swipe the ball from her again, twisting sharply, but she’s on you like glue. No passing lanes. Nowhere to go. You struggle for control, twisting and turning, and then she leans in, voice low and smug. “You’re predictable.”

Your vision goes red. “Shut up.”

She laughs, and you can hear the satisfaction in it.

You dig in, using your body to shield the ball. And then, with a quick backheel nutmeg, you slip the ball through her legs. She freezes and the US bench erupts.

Sonnet’s cackling reaches you over the chaos. “OH MY GOD, SHE JUST DID THAT TO HER OWN MOM!”

Alexia recovers fast, chasing after you, her voice sharp. “That was dirty.”

“You’re just mad I got you.”

She shoves you as she runs by, not enough to foul, but enough to make her point. You laugh, knowing you’ve gotten under her skin.

The game is a war of attrition. You get fouled, hard, and before you can even react, Alexia is towering over you, hands on her hips. “Get up.”

You smirk. “Worried about me?”

“Not even a little.”

When she falls, you stand over her, offering a hand. She slaps it away, getting up on her own.

“Nice try.”

You laugh. “Still stubborn, huh?”

“You’d know.”

The match drags on, intensity never dropping. With ten minutes left, Spain equalizes, and you curse under your breath. 2-2.

You and Alexia battle until the very last second, neither willing to concede an inch. The final whistle blows. A draw.

You’re drenched in sweat, bruised, exhausted. You turn to Alexia, expecting a glare, but instead, she walks over and slings an arm around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Good game, Estrelleta.”

You roll your eyes, shoving her off. “I hate you.”

She laughs, ruffling your hair. “Sure you do.”

Tobin jogs over, shaking her head. “That was insane. You two are menaces.”

Alexia grins, eyes softening. “She’s worse.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, she pulls you into a hug, tight and warm.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, voice quiet against the noise of the stadium.

Your chest tightens, the fire in your belly fading.

“I’m proud of you too,” you mumble into her shoulder.

Alexia guides you towards the stands, neither of you say anything, just exchanging a glance before scanning the crowd for the three people you know will be waiting.

Eli stands near the barrier, wearing a jersey, stitched perfectly down the middle. One side is the deep red of Spain, ”PUTE” written on it and part of the number eleven proudly displayed. The other is white, “LLAS” on the top and the rest of eleven emblazoned across it. It’s ridiculous, it’s dramatic, and it’s so Eli.

You grin. “Dios mío, you actually wore it.”

“I had to,” she sniffs, eyes suspiciously shiny as she tugs it tighter around herself. “My girls, both of you, playing on this stage, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime moment.”

Alexia sighs, shaking her head. “You’re getting sentimental.”

“Of course I’m getting sentimental!” Eli huffs, grabbing Alexia’s face with both hands, ignoring her protests as she presses a loud kiss to her forehead. “My little alegría captaining Spain! And you—” She turns to you next, gripping your face just as tightly. “My estrella, playing like you were born for this.”

You groan but lean into it anyway. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

Alba and Olga stand just behind her, both of them grinning. Olga crosses her arms, nodding toward Alexia. “You got cooked by a teenager, mi amor.”

Alexia scowls. “I did not—”

“Nutmegged,” Alba chimes in, biting back a smirk.

“That was one time!”

You preen, puffing your chest. “And I’ll never let you forget it.”

Alexia turns to Eli, desperate for backup, but Eli just sighs dramatically, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t even care about the score,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “Seeing you two out there, fighting, giving everything, I am just so, so proud.”

You glance at Alexia, expecting another eye roll, but she just nods, quietly accepting the words.

Eli pulls both of you into a crushing hug, and for once, neither of you resist.

You’re barely settled in your chair when Alexia, sitting beside you, nudges you with her knee.

“Try not to embarrass yourself,” she murmurs, just low enough for you to hear.

You scoff. “That’s your job.”

The interviewer, clearly amused by the dynamic already, starts with the obvious question. “Estrella, this was your first time facing Alexia on the international stage. What was that experience like?”

You lean forward, resting an elbow on the table. “Terrifying. She’s so serious when she plays, I thought she was gonna disown me on the spot.”

Alexia rolls her eyes. “That almost happened after you nutmegged me.”

“Nutmegged?” The interviewer’s eyebrows shoot up, and you grin as Alexia groans.

“Oh yeah,” you say smugly. “Clean through the legs. The bench was losing it.”

Alexia shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe I have to deal with this publicly now.”

The interviewer laughs. “Alexia, what was it like playing against someone you’ve practically raised?”

Alexia exhales, glancing at you before answering. “It was… strange. I’ve seen her grow up, seen her train, so I knew she was good. But today, I realized just how good she is.” She pauses, then smirks. “Still reckless, though.”

“Reckless?” you echo, affronted. “You fouled me like five times!”

“You were running straight at me like a bull! What was I supposed to do?”

The interviewer can barely contain their laughter. “It was a very physical game between you two.”

You cross your arms, mock-offended. “She’s mean.”

Alexia scoffs. “And you called me vieja on live television.”

“Can I plead the fifth?”

“This isn’t America.”

The interviewer shakes their head, thoroughly entertained. “Final question, what was said between you two after the game?”

Alexia glances at you, something softer in her gaze now. “I told her I was proud.”

You clear your throat, suddenly feeling warm under the attention. “And I said the same.”

For a moment, the playful banter is gone, replaced by something genuine, something real.

The interviewer smiles. “That’s beautiful.”

Then Alexia turns to you. “But I’m getting you back for that nutmeg.”

“Oh you wish.”

obsessed 😍👀

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

Part 2: You meet again whilst on International Duty

Word Count: 9.6K

⚽️

The engine hums beneath your seat. Your bag is stuffed into the overhead rack. Your boots still stink faintly of grass and adrenaline. Everyone around you is quiet — headphones in, eyes closed, half-asleep grief stitched across their post-match faces.

You’re sat by the window, forehead leaned lightly against the cool glass, her shirt folded in your lap. You’ve run your fingers along the seam a dozen times already. Number 11. You haven’t looked at your phone since you sat down.

Until it buzzes.

Ellie 🧤: What have you done to Alexia?

You blink. Frown. Sit up a little straighter.

You: What? Why? What have I done?

A typing bubble flashes. Then disappears. Comes back again.

Ellie 🧤: Irene told me. Apparently Alexia NEVER asks to swap shirts. Like, ever. And even when she ends up with one, she usually hands it off to staff. But yours she folded and packed straight into her own bag. Shrugged off one of the trainers when they reached for it. Just… packed it like it was gold.

You stare at the screen.

Still holding her shirt in your lap.

Your stomach does that thing — the shift. Like the drop before a fall, but slower. Deeper.

You: Stop.

Ellie 🧤: No. I think she likes you. 😏

You roll your eyes, but your heart flips anyway. You glance around the bus like someone might be watching your reaction — but no one’s paying attention. Everyone’s too tired, too sore, too wrapped in their own silence.

You look back down at the shirt in your lap. Thumb tracing her name along the back.

She packed yours.

Kept it.

Chose it.

And for some of the things she didn’t say on that pitch… maybe that said everything.

You lean your head back against the seat, letting your lips pull into a slow smile — the kind no one else on the bus gets to see.

⚽️

The familiar rhythm of international duty clicks into place the second you arrive — the crisp white kit, the echo of boots in hallways, the early morning call times, the sting of cold water recovery tubs. Different energy. Different badge over your heart. But your body knows the routine.

You’ve shaken the Champions League loss off publicly. But privately… parts of it linger. The ache in your calves. The phantom touch of her hand on your back. The shirt — hers — still tucked away, folded carefully like it’s something sacred.

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

Until now.

You’re sitting in your room, freshly showered, scrolling half-mindlessly through your feed, when you see it — a notification that pulls your breath short.

alexiaputellas11 sent you a message.

You stare at it for a beat. Then tap.

The message is short.

Alexia: So I hear we’re doing this again soon… 🇪🇸🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

Your lips twitch. That subtle stir in your chest kicks up again. You type back.

You: Afraid so. Home and away. Still time to switch sides though if you fancy it. We’ve got good biscuits in camp.

There’s a pause — a long one — like she’s reading it slowly, maybe smiling at it. You hope she is.

Alexia: Tempting. But I think I’m exactly where I need to be. Besides… I quite like chasing you around.

You inhale through your nose, deep, slow.

That’s not just banter. That’s loaded. That’s deliberate.

You: Chasing me? Bold of you to admit it. We’re 1–1, by the way. Just saying.

Alexia: I know. So let’s settle it.

Three words, and suddenly the fixture means more than points, more than friendlies, more than form.

It’s you and her again.

But this time, it’s in the sunburned air of Seville. Or the rain-soaked grass of Wembley. New battlefield. Same electricity.

And for the first time since the miss…

You’re itching for kickoff.

⚽️

The dinner hall’s a soft hum of laughter and plates, steam rising from trays, conversations criss-crossing down long tables. You’re in training kit, hair still damp from the post-session shower, hunger gnawing at your focus. You leave your phone face up on the table next to your water bottle, already halfway turned toward the food line.

Behind you, Beth Mead’s dropping into the seat next to yours, tray in hand, chatting with someone at her shoulder.

You don’t notice the buzz.

Not until you’re halfway back to the table, plate full, when you spot her eyes flick down to your phone — then up at you.

Just a flick.

Then, as you sit, she leans in slightly, lowering her voice.

“Your phone lit up,” she says softly, like she’s saying something far more dangerous than she is.

You shrug. “Ok, will look later, probably just my sister.”

Beth raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Nope. Didn’t say Poppy.”

She tilts her head, voice still low, barely above the clink of cutlery.

“Saw the name. Alexia Putellas Dm'ing you on Insta.”

Your stomach flips. Just a little.

You glance down at the screen — already faded to black again. But you know what it said. You felt it. Her name alone carries heat.

Beth’s watching you now, her grin subtle but sharp.

“Anything I should know?” she whispers, nudging your foot under the table.

You keep your voice steady, casual. “Just football talk.”

Beth gives you a look that says sure it is.

You shrug, eyes back on your plate. “She’s… friendly.”

Beth leans closer. “Friendly how?”

You smile into your fork. “The international rivalry kind of friendly.”

She smirks, shakes her head, and whispers, “You’ve got game, also a sly one, wouldn't think that of you” before returning to her food like she didn’t just poke a hole through your cool exterior.

You glance once at your phone, then again. Still dark. But it might as well be glowing. Because her name is still there. You wipe your fingers on a napkin. Eyes down. Discreet.

Beth’s still next to you, half-eating, half-smirking like she’s not paying attention. But you angle the screen away from her line of sight and unlock your phone, heart giving one subtle stutter as the screen lights up.

Alexia: Montse’s worried about you for next week.

You blink. Of all the things she could’ve said.

You stare at it, a slow smile tugging at the edge of your mouth. Beth, ever-curious, leans in slightly — not enough to be rude, just enough to let you know she’s very aware of your shift in posture.

You type back, careful and quiet.

You: Should you be telling me that? Bit of inside info, no?

A moment passes. Then the dots appear.

Alexia: It’s not a secret. She said it in a press conference this morning. Said you’re dangerous. That you know how to hurt us. She used the word clinical.

You stare at the screen for a moment, heart thudding — just a little heavier. Beth eyes you sideways.

“You okay?” she mumbles, poking a green bean with her fork.

You nod without looking up, thumb tapping the screen again.

You: Montse has good taste. I take it you didn’t correct her?

Alexia: No. I just smiled and pretended I wasn’t already picturing you breaking through our backline again giving me a headache.

Your eyes snap to the screen — heart officially off the rails. You swallow hard, and try — fail — not to smirk.

Beth whispers under her breath, “You’re so blushing.”

You shove a bite of food into your mouth just to distract yourself, eyes glued to the words glowing softly in your hand.

You: Tell her she’s right. I’m feeling a little dangerous this week.

Alexia: Good. I want your best.

And even though the dining hall is warm and full and noisy… You feel suddenly, completely alone with her again.

You’re trying to be subtle. Really.

Your phone’s tucked low in your lap, screen tilted just enough for your eyes only. You're answering slowly, carefully, but every few seconds, a ghost of a smile keeps tugging at your lips — you can feel it there, betraying you.

And of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

You hear the first one from across the table — Keira, of course.

“You’ve got that look,” she says, pointing a fork at you like it’s a truth detector. “That soft smile, eyes-down, texting someone you shouldn’t look.”

You blink up from your food. “What look?”

Keira raises her brow. “That look.”

Millie Bright leans in next. “Yeah, it’s giving ‘new crush’ energy.”

Ella adds through a mouthful of food, “I bet it’s someone in camp. That’s why she’s all hush-hush.”

You roll your eyes, trying to shrug it off. “It’s just a message.”

But the smile’s still there. And it’s not going anywhere.

You glance at Beth beside you. She hasn’t said a word. Just chewing, casually sipping from her water bottle, eyes low, completely unbothered.

Except… she knows. You can feel it in the side-eye she sends you — that quiet, satisfied smirk that says, I saw the name. I know exactly who you're smiling at.

But she doesn’t say a thing. Not to the team. Not to anyone.

Just meets your eyes for half a second, mouth twitching, and then goes back to her food like she’s never heard the name Alexia Putellas in her life.

You make a mental note: Beth Mead, queen of chaos and loyalty.

Meanwhile, Georgia’s getting louder.

“I’m starting a sweepstake,” she announces. “Whoever figures out who’s got her smiling like that first wins my snack stash.”

“Tenner says it’s the physio,” says Ella.

“It’s not the physio!” you groan, trying to hide your laugh. There was a new physio on this camp and you apparently blushed profusely when you first met her.

Across the table, Beth leans in slightly, voice low, only for you to hear.

“You’re welcome for me keeping your little secret by the way,” she mutters, a quiet grin playing on her lips.

You bump her knee under the table.

And you go back to your phone — where her name still glows.

Alexia: I'll pre-warn my keepers and defence you're feeling dangerous.

You smirk — openly this time. Yeah. Let them guess. Let them wonder.

Because this whatever it is. That’s just between you and her.

And Beth. Apparently.

⚽️

You’re the first one out.

Track jacket zipped halfway up. Head down, earbuds in, taking slow steps onto the pitch as the stadium breathes around you — quiet, clean, still holding its breath.

Except, you’re not alone out here.

Spain’s already out.

Clustered near the halfway line, talking lowly in little spin off groups. You don’t look directly at them — not right away. You keep to your side of the line, walking the perimeter like it’s habit, trying to stay in your bubble.

But you feel it. That stare. Her. You don’t need to look to know, Alexia’s watching.

You keep your head down a second longer than necessary before finally giving in — lifting your eyes just enough to glance across the pitch.

And there she is. Jacket undone, hands on her hips, speaking to no one in particular. But her eyes? Locked. On. You.

You quickly look away — too quickly. Cheeks warming, heart knocking against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape.

You take a breath. Try to shake it off. Stretch a little more, try not to smirk.

Then you hear footsteps behind you — fast ones. “Oi.” Beth.

Jogging ahead of the rest of the England girls, warmup jacket flapping behind her, face already halfway between outrage and disbelief.

She slows beside you and gives you a look. The kind of look that demands answers, no escape. “I’m sorry,” she starts, voice sharp and low, “but what the actual hell was that look she just gave you?”

You blink, innocent. Too innocent.

Beth crosses her arms. “Don’t do that. Don’t go all wide-eyed ‘who me?’ on me. That girl was burning holes through you. Like, not even subtle. I thought she was gonna sprint across the halfway line.”

You try to play it cool. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not!” she hisses. “I literally had to slow down just to watch it happen in real time. It was charged. Like, capital ‘C’ Charged.”

You laugh under your breath, brushing your hands down the sides of your thighs, trying not to let the blush hit your ears.

Beth steps in closer. “You’re not telling me something. And I’ve let you get away with it until now, but no. That look? That look was not casual. That was not football. That was something else.”

You raise a brow, amused. “Bit obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

Beth snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m obsessed with drama. And you’re clearly serving.”

She glances back across the pitch, where the Spanish team is still gathered — Alexia no longer staring, but definitely aware.

Beth leans in again, lower this time.

“Just tell me this,” she says. “Do I need to buy a hat?”

You grin. “Oh fuck off” You laugh as the other girls catch up, "You're so fucking dramatic, it was a look. It's just a respect thing, professional"

She groans. “So there was a look”

You just laugh, finally letting yourself glance across the pitch again.

Alexia’s already turned away. Talking with teammates. Calm, collected. But you know what you saw. And Beth knows it too.

⚽️

You’re in the rhythm now.

One-touch passing drills. Sprint bursts. Finishing patterns. The kind of movements your body knows by muscle memory — but today, your mind isn’t cooperating.

Even without looking, you know where she is. You know the timbre of her voice when she calls for a ball. You know the way her ponytail flicks over her shoulder when she checks a run.

Spain’s warming up on the other half of the pitch, but somehow it feels like she’s still beside you. Not talking. Just… watching.

You’re doing a terrible job of pretending you haven’t noticed. Beth, of course, has noticed.

She’s jogging beside you during a passing drill, jogging backward now just so she can stare at you while you try to stay focused. “You’re being so obvious,” she mutters between touches.

You don’t even look at her. “I’m literally doing the drill.”

Beth gives you a look. “You’re doing the drill like a lovesick teenager hoping your crush sees you execute a textbook give-and-go.”

You snort. “Don’t flatter her.”

Beth grins. “Oh, I’m not flattering her. I’m mocking you.”

A stray ball rolls across your path from Spain’s half, and you instinctively jog over to knock it back. Just as you look up to return it-

She’s there. Alexia. Jogging to meet the same ball. You reach it before she does, as your eyes lock. And suddenly the air feels thinner.

She gives you a look — unreadable, but charged. Not a smirk. Not playful. Something steadier. Like she sees everything you're trying not to say.

You pass the ball and it falls right to her feet, she looks impressed, "Gracias,” she says lifting a hand, and you swear her accent clings to the word just for you.

You jog back to where you're supposed to be, immediately regretting the flush crawling up your neck.

Beth is waiting. “Oh my God,” she groans dramatically. “The tension. You could cut it with a bib.”

“Please stop,” you mutter, trying — failing — to keep your face neutral.

“She literally just thanked you and I felt like I needed to leave the stadium.”

“I’m begging you.”

Beth jogs ahead of you now, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t worry! I’ll let Wiegman know you’re emotionally compromised!”

You glare, but it’s no use — she’s too far gone, laughing now, looping into the next drill. You catch a few of the girls asking whats going on she simply shakes her head as you glance back across the pitch one last time.

And she’s looking again.

⚽️

The tunnel in Seville is narrow, warm with tension and humming from the speakers overhead — a thudding bassline pulsing through the concrete, vibrating in your ribs. Somewhere out there, just beyond the mouth of the tunnel, the crowd is already buzzing. You can feel it. Taste it.

Kickoff is minutes away.

You’re locked in.

Hands flexing. Boots shifting weight. Eyes forward.

The lineups are tight. Players shoulder to shoulder. You’re not near her — not today. She’s toward the front of the Spanish line, talking quietly to their keeper, shifting side to side like she’s been here a thousand times. Her captain’s armband gleams even under the fluorescent tunnel lighting.

You keep your eyes down. Focused. You’ve done everything right this week — prepped, trained, run drills until your legs begged you to stop. You’re here to play. To win.

But then, you feel it. You don’t even know why you glance up. But you do. And she’s looking. Alexia’s head is turned, speaking over her shoulder in quick, quiet Spanish — something clipped and serious. Probably tactical. But her eyes don’t leave yours.

Not for a beat. Not for a breath. You don’t look away either.

Your pulse skips. The music blurs behind the moment. You feel something like static in your spine — not nerves. Not quite.

Just her. And then a hand on your back. Light. Teasing. Beth. Of course it’s Beth. She leans in from behind, voice just low enough that only you can hear. “Saw that.”

You let out the softest exhale through your nose, barely a smile, still trying to keep your head in the game.

“I’m focused,” you murmur back.

Beth grins. “Oh yeah. Tunnel vision, clearly. Just with a little… detour through the Spanish lineup.”

You elbow her lightly, eyes back ahead. You have to be locked in now. The official’s whistle sounds from just beyond the tunnel.

The players start to move. Boots echoing against concrete.

You step out into the roar of the stadium, lights burning above, thousands of eyes fixed on the field. But the only eyes you’re still thinking about are hers.

The night air is warm, thick with the buzz of thousands of voices bleeding into one. Flashbulbs blink through the stands like fireflies. The stadium is alive, pulsing. But when your boots touch the grass, everything slows.

Your place in the lineup is already marked — far side, second from the end. You walk the stretch in a line of lionesses, shoulders square, chin high. The England anthem will come second. You know the rhythm of this.

You take your place. Hands behind your back. Chest lifted. Head steady.

The Spanish anthem begins. You don’t usually watch the opposing team during this part. But tonight… you do.

Your gaze slides — carefully, subtly — until it finds her

Standing at the beginning of the Spanish line. Armband snug around her bicep. Shoulders straight. She doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t look at the flag. Her eyes are straight ahead, at nothing in particular. And you can’t stop looking.

The music plays. Unapologetically proud. Fierce. And she embodies it — calm, resolute, carved from something stiller than the storm that surrounds her.

She doesn’t move her eyes until the final notes fade. And when she does, she leans forward clapping, her eyes glance down the England line and find yours. Just for a moment. Not a glance. A connection. Then it's your turn.

“God Save the King” rises from the speakers, strong and sure. Your teammates belt it out. You sing, but quieter — not out of nerves. Not even distraction.

Just focus. Just weight. Just her, still there on the edge of your vision.

When the anthem ends, applause breaks out. Whistles. Cheers. A brief burst of fireworks somewhere in the distance.

Now comes the walk.

Your team moves — captain first, then the line trailing behind, handshakes down the rows. You start forward, your body moving through routine, but your eyes scanning ahead.

You’re doing well — composed, steady, locked in.

Until it’s her. You reach her first. Alexia.

She’s half a step in front of you now, offering her hand before you even lift yours. Her grip is firm — not aggressive, but certain. Familiar.

Her eyes hold yours just a second longer than they should, your head having to move to maintain the gaze as you move by.

You try to read them — but you don’t have time to. Your lips twitch — the faintest smile, gone before anyone else can catch it.

You move on, heart pounding in your ears like a second anthem.

Beth’s behind you. As you get past Alexia, Beth mutters, not even looking at you, “You two need to get a room.”

You elbow her gently, but don’t stop walking. Not now. Because kickoff is coming. And you’ve never felt more ready. You however caught the look on one of the Spanish players had on there face before leaning forward catching Alexia's attention.

"I'll kill you" you mutter to Beth as you headed into your half to the huddle Leah going to the coin toss.

⚽️

The whistle blows. You don’t ease in. You explode.

From the second the ball rolls, you're in motion — a flash through the midfield, one-two pass with Georgia, touch out wide, then slicing through Spain’s line before they can blink.

The crowd barely has time to register what’s happening before you’re in the box, the ball bouncing kindly, keeper surging out—

You strike it. Not perfect. But close. Too close. It brushes the outside of the post.

The net ripples just enough to make half the crowd rise in anticipation — only to fall back with collective breath held.

You exhale hard, adrenaline pounding, hands on hips for a half-second before you’re already jogging back into shape. That was twenty seconds. Twenty seconds into the game and you nearly ripped it wide open.

You hear the crowd murmuring. And then you feel her. Alexia.

You pass her around the halfway line. She's turning, resetting, face unreadable — but her eyes flick to yours and don’t leave. There's a flicker there, something caught between admiration and awareness.

You hold her gaze. Then you wink. Not cocky. Just a little too casual, it borderlines cocky. Intimate even.

Her lips twitch. The smirk blooms slowly — like she wants to hide it, but couldn't. She shakes her head slightly, just enough to say you're unbelievable and keeps jogging.

You glance over your shoulder, smirk still playing at your mouth, and mouth one word, “Dangerous.”

She catches it. The cameras catch all of it. Somewhere, a commentator clears their throat. Somewhere else, a hundred phones clip the moment in real time. You fall back into shape, heart still racing — not just from the near goal. But from her.

After that electric opening burst, the game turns.

Spain take the ball. And they don’t give it back.

One pass, two passes, five — they’re stitching threads of movement like embroidery, pulling you left, then right, then back again. It’s beautiful football. If it weren’t being used against you, you might admire it.

But right now, you’re defending like your life depends on it.

And you’re good. You show it.

You press. Track. Intercept. You drop deep and slide clean, clipping the ball off boots before they can even load a shot. You shield with your back to goal, swing possession out wide, and sprint to recover before Spain recycles their shape again.

You feel Beth behind you, shouting, organising. You feel Keira lunging, Georgia grinding. You’re all under siege — but you’re holding. Until you don’t.

The 29th minute.

You know the build-up before it’s even complete. You see the triangle form between midfield and the wing. You sprint to cover — too wide. They slip inside instead.

Ball into the box. A flick. A stumble. A shot. 1–0. Not from her. Not yet. But she played her part.

You reset. Jaw tight. Breathe loud in your ears. No panic. Just work. The pressure builds. Spain push again. Tighter now. Crisper.

And this time… you see Alexia coming. Floating at the edge of the box like she’s not even part of the play. Hands down. Face calm. You should’ve known.

You close the gap, just as the cross starts to curl in.

You’re there. You think you’re there. But she’s already moving. One touch. One turn. Left foot. Back of the net. 2–0.

The crowd erupts — red flares of noise across the stands. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t celebrate wild. Just lifts her arms, turns, and welcomes her team into her.

You’re frozen. Not in awe. Not in defeat. Just frustrated. Because you know better. Because you read the play. And she still found the space.

You shake your head, hands on your hips, and breathe deep — trying to focus, trying not to look at her as she passes you again on the jog back to her half.

But she glances. Just once. Not smug. Not showy. Just knowing.

⚽️

You step back onto the pitch after half time with your heart in your mouth and fire in your legs.

Down 2–0. But you’re in it. You feel it in your chest — that tight, magnetic pull of unfinished business.

She scored. But now it’s your turn to answer.

Spain press high again, confident, sharp — but this time, you don't just absorb it. You counter.

49th minute. You pick up the ball on the right side, deep. Alexia is drifting to cover — late, wide. You feel her shift in behind you, ready to close off the inside lane.

So you show it to her. You drop your shoulder — once, left — and she bites. You flick it right. Gone. You hear her boot slide across the turf as you vanish down the flank, leaving her weight shifting the wrong way.

The space opens. You take three touches. Look up.

One clean pass across the box. Perfect weight. And Alessia Russo buries it.

2–1. Game on.

The away end roars. You don’t celebrate hard — just turn back upfield, nodding once, jaw set.

But your eye find hers. Alexia is already repositioning, breathing hard, lips pressed tight. Before shouting orders to her team as the defence hold a mini meeting.

She meets your gaze. Just for a second. Then looks away. You grin — just barely.

56th minute. It happens again. Different side. Same instinct.

You receive the ball near midfield. She's tighter this time, right on your hip. You can feel her reading, adjusting, trying to anticipate the same movement.

So you switch it. This time, a little half-touch with the sole, then a cheeky back heel into space. Gone. She’s turning the wrong way again.

You don’t even hear the crowd anymore — just the rush in your ears, the snap of the ball, the clean crack as you find your teammate’s feet.

This one’s even sweeter. Low shot. Bottom corner.

2–2. Bedlam. Your team swarms you — but all you’re doing is scanning across the pitch. And there she is. Hands on hips. Breathing heavy. Watching you. This time, you smirk. She shakes her head.

But there’s that flicker again — behind her eyes. Admiration. Frustration. Something else. You're even now. On the scoreboard. And in the story between you.

⚽️

The scoreboard reads 88:17.

You’re soaked in sweat, shirt clinging to your back, every muscle in your legs screaming for a break you’re not going to give them.

It’s 2–2.

Spain are pressing again, but not as crisp now. Not as sure. Your team has clawed its way back into this — you have clawed it back. One pass at a time. One feint. One drive. One stolen breath.

But it’s not over. Not yet.

Alexia is moving deeper now, floating like she always does, finding spaces that barely exist. You feel her near you again — not marking, not chasing, just there. Orbiting.

You intercept a pass in midfield. Ball sticks to your boots like it knows where to go.

She steps forward. You see her coming — read the angle, the pressure, the attempt to funnel you wide.

You cut inside instead. Your shoulder brushes hers. It’s not intentional — not fully — but it’s enough.

For half a second, your eyes meet in the tangle. And she knows.

She can’t stop you this time. You surge forward. The stadium rises with you.

You drive. Cut right. Another defender dives in — too late. You glance up. One teammate is peeling wide, calling for it.

But the angle is wrong. You take it yourself. Shot. Rising. Clean.

And— The keeper stretches. Fingertips. Just enough. The ball clips the bar. Over. The crowd gasps. So do you. Not out of disappointment — out of proximity to glory.

You fall to your knees for a second, hands on your head. 90:05.

No stoppage miracle. The ref’s whistle blows. It’s over.

Draw.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

You stay on your knees for a moment, the world spinning, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break out.

Then — footsteps. Quiet, close. You lift your head, already knowing.

It’s Alexia. Not smiling. Not smug. Just… there. Hands on her hips. Hair damp and sticking to her forehead.

She looks at you like you’re both made of the same breathless moment. “That was close,” she says softly, Spanish accent curling around the words.

You rise slowly, chest still heaving. “I don't like your keeper,” you murmur back. Cata struck again.

She tilts her head, just a little. That same smirk tries to rise — but it’s tired now. Honest.

She steps in close, as you both move in sync towards the post match handshakes. Just enough for her hand to brush yours. And this time, you don’t pull away.

You don't move apart more than a few centimetres milling around making sure to connect with each player on your team and hers.

You're still catching your breath.

Hands on your hips. Boots heavy with grass. The bar's clink still ringing in your ears like a cruel echo. You barely feel the ache in your legs anymore — just the weight of what almost was.

Then, there's a tap back on your back, Alexia steps in front of you, already tugging gently at the hem of her shirt.

“Again?” you ask, voice quiet, eyes narrowing slightly.

Her brow arches, but the corner of her mouth lifts. That same look — not a smirk, not a smile, just hers. Under the stadium lights, with the noise behind her and the heat between you.

She doesn’t answer with words. She just pulls her shirt over her head in one smooth motion.

And that’s when your breath actually catches.

Not just because of who she is. But how she looks in this moment, collarbones slick with sweat, and beneath all of it, the sharp definition of abs that look like they’ve been carved with care and discipline.

She holds the shirt loosely in one hand, like it’s nothing at all — like the moment doesn’t hang heavy in the space between you.

You try to keep your face neutral, try not to let your eyes linger too long. But you know she sees it, and she says nothing. Just steps a little closer.

You pull your own shirt off in return, matching the silence, feeling the night air hit your skin as you fold it and hand it over.

She takes it gently. No words. No fuss. Her fingers brush yours, intentionally.

And for the first time all match — for the first time in weeks — she lets her gaze drop. Just for a second. Down. Over you.

Then back up. “I like collecting things,” she says, her voice quiet enough that it barely survives the wind.

“Two now,” you say, nodding toward the first shirt you know she kept.

Alexia smirks. “Just the important ones.”

And just like that, she’s turning — shirt slung over her shoulder, hair pulled free, walking away with your shirt bold across her shoulder.

And you're left there — shirtless, heartbeat thudding, her sweat still warm in your hands.

The crowd is still thick with noise — cheers, whistles, music blaring faintly over the tannoy — but for the first time since kickoff, the tension has lifted.

It’s just noise now. Not pressure. Just atmosphere.

You’ve got her shirt in your hands, soft and damp, clutched loosely as you make the slow walk toward the away end where the travelling England fans are still singing. Still clapping. Still holding up flags like they’re proud of you — because they are.

You glance at her name stitched across the back Alexia. And with a quick glance around, you slip it on.

It fits looser than yours — hangs differently. But there’s something grounding about it. Like the match isn’t really over yet. Like some part of it is still here, wrapped around you.

You’re only a few steps in when you hear the softest voice beside you.

“Another one for the collection, huh?”

Beth. Of course.

You glance sideways to find her at your shoulder, arms crossed, trying — and failing — to suppress the grin on her face. “I didn’t say a word,” she adds, lips twitching. “But this?” She gestures vaguely to the shirt now draped across your body. “This says everything.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you keep walking. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m observant,” she corrects, feigning innocence. “You’ve swapped shirts with her twice now. That’s basically flirting”

You glance over at her with mock exasperation. “Do me a favour and don’t bring this up in front of anyone.”

Beth laughs, loud and sharp. “Oh please. They've definitely clocked it.”

You’re nearly at the away end now, pulling the sleeves straight, waving up at the crowd.

Beth leans in one last time. “You can’t keep pretending these swaps are 'football friendly'”

You don’t answer her.

You’re too busy turning toward the fans, hand raised, smile soft, Alexia’s name warm against your back.

⚽️

It’s past midnight.

The room is dark except for the soft blue glow of your screen. One arm behind your head, your hair still a little damp from the shower. Your suitcase half-open across the floor. Boots drying in the corner.

You’re tired. But not enough to sleep. You’ve watched your assist three times. Rewatched her goal twice as many. The cameras caught too much — the wink, the look, the shirt swap — and your name’s already trending in two languages.

You close Instagram. You close your eyes. Your phone buzzes. You don’t move — not right away. Just let it sit there on your chest for a second, until the screen fades to black again.

Then you check.

AlexiaPutellas11 sent you a message

You swipe it open.

Alexia: Still awake?

You stare at it for a moment. Then reply.

You: Obviously. You scored on us. I’m traumatised. Can’t sleep.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

Alexia: It was a beautiful goal though. Admit it.

You: Fine. It was very annoying how beautiful it was.

You pause. Then:

You: You meant it, right? The run, the finish. You knew I’d be half a second late.

There’s a pause. Long enough for your heart to notice.

Alexia: Of course I meant it. You’re the one I timed it for.

You sit up slowly, your heart suddenly louder than the quiet around you.

You: That’s unfair. That’s like psychological warfare.

Alexia: You started it. You winked.

You grin, can’t help it. Thumb hovering over the screen.

Then she sends another.

Alexia: You looked good in my shirt, by the way. I like the way it fits you.

You exhale through a smile, cheeks warming even in the dark.

You type slowly.

You: You going to keep asking for mine after every game?

Alexia: Only if you keep giving it to me.

And then one more message follows — this one simpler, quieter.

Alexia: I liked today. Even if it wasn’t a win. I liked being across from you again.

You lie back down. Let the silence settle. You stare at her words. You don't reply right away. Because you're thinking the exact same thing.

⚽️

The bus is rolling slow through the city streets — lights flickering across windows, the low hum of Spanish voices rising in bursts of laughter. Kit bags rustle. Boots thud softly against the floor. Headphones hang loose around necks.

They won the moment — didn’t lose the match, but they saw it happen. And they’re not letting her off easy. Alexia’s sat in her usual spot, third row from the back, by the window. Hoodie up. Arms crossed. Staring out like she’s untouched by the chaos around her.

But her teammates they’ve clocked everything. “Did anyone else see that wink?” Irene says, loud enough for the whole bus. “I nearly asked the ref if it counted as a foul as that was bold.”

The girls burst into laughter. Patri nearly chokes on her water. Alexia doesn’t move. She’s still gazing out the window.

Cata Coll leans over from the seat across the aisle, grinning like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment. “She’s not denying it.”

Alexia finally sighs, turns just enough to glance at her.

“I’m ignoring it.”

“Are you ignoring this too?” Cata says, holding up Alexia’s phone, where she’s clearly got your message open. “Just casually got her DMs open. Apparently your girl’s teammate can see it all too.”

Alexia arches an eyebrow. “What?”

Cata grins wider. “Beth Mead. Said it right there in the lineup — told her she needed to ‘get a room.’ You were staring too hard, apparently.”

The bus howls. Alexia lets her head fall back against the seat with a groan, covering her face for a second with her hand. “I was not staring.”

“Yes you were,” Salma sings from a few seats up.

“You stared,” Mariona confirms, practically bouncing in her seat.

“You telepathically confessed your feelings,” Irene adds. “And then swapped shirts. Again.”

Alexia’s face is pink now. Not quite blushing — but for her, it’s obvious. She lowers her hand slowly. Looks at Cata.

Cata shrugs. “You’re trending.”

Alexia shakes her head. But she’s smiling now — quietly, under it all. Because even with the teasing… Even with the firestorm they’re stirring up…She’s thinking about you. In her shirt. Wearing her name on your back. Smiling at your phone the same way she just did. And somewhere, in that space between the window and the chaos… Alexia wonders if you're thinking about her too

⚽️

You’re out early.

Wembley feels massive beneath your shoes — open and echoing in the way only the biggest stadiums can be. The arch curves high above, slicing the sky. The lights are already warming up. Cameras tracking movement. The first fans are filtering into their seats, waving flags, holding signs.

You’re in your jacket, headphones slung around your neck, doing your usual slow pitch walk — clearing your head, steadying your breath.

Trying not to think about her. But then you feel it. Before you even see her. That shift in the air. You glance up. And there she is. Alexia. Walking casually across the halfway line, her warmup top zipped halfway, sleeves pushed up. She moves like she’s done it a thousand times — comfortable, quiet, composed. But she’s coming straight to you.

You stop walking. Pull your headphones off, let them hang loose around your collar. She reaches you with no preamble. “Big stadium,” she says softly, glancing around, eyes sweeping over the empty seats.

You nod. “Feels like it stretches forever when you’re chasing the ball.”

Alexia smiles faintly, but doesn’t look at you right away. Just takes in the expanse — the history hanging in the air, the roar that’s not there yet, but soon will be.

“I’ve not played here for years,” she says. “Feels different.”

“It is,” you reply. “It swallows you up a little. In a good way.”

Finally, she looks at you. “You love it here?”

You don’t have to think. “I do.”

She nods once, like she already knew that. Her gaze lingers on the pitch. “I watched film from your last game here,” she says. “You played higher. More aggressive. You broke the press with one run.”

You glance at her, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Studying me?”

Alexia shrugs. “Preparing.”

You walk a few steps together in silence, shoes crunching against the turf. She breaks it again, voice softer now.

“I like how you move. You see things before they happen. Wembley suits that.”

You glance sideways. “That a compliment?”

She meets your eyes. “It’s the truth.”

There’s a pause — a long one. Then she adds, “Not going to make it easy for us today are you?.”

You grin, looking down at your boots. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Alexia smirks. “Good. Montse’s already nervous.”

You laugh lightly, the tension in your shoulders easing — just slightly. She doesn’t say anything else. Just gives you a small nod, then turns back toward her half of the pitch.

And as she walks away — sleeves pushed up, hair pulled tight, name already echoing in the stadium speakers — you watch her for a second longer than you should.

Wembley is big. But somehow, with her in it… It feels smaller.

⚽️

The tunnel is loud in that weird, hollow way — boots echoing against concrete, staff voices layered under stadium music thudding from above. The lineups are forming, captains already briefing with officials. The buzz is rising like a wave about to crest.

You’re not in line. You’re a sub tonight. Track jacket zipped, shin pads tucked in place, heart beating somewhere between frustration and focus.

You keep your head down as you walk the length of the tunnel, weaving between your teammates. Focused. Calm. Trying to look like this was always the plan. Then you feel a hand.

Fingers on your arm. Light. Just enough to make you stop. You look back, it’s Alexia.

She's already in position with her team, but she’s turned to face you, brow furrowed just slightly, eyes searching your face.

“You’re not starting?” she asks, voice low, confusion laced into the syllables of her accent.

You blink. You weren’t expecting her to notice. Weren’t expecting her to care. “Not this time,” you say quietly, shrugging.

She nods — slowly, eyes flicking down your body, like she’s double-checking, like maybe she’s trying to figure out why. There’s a pause, something uncertain in the way she presses her lips together.

Behind you, Beth slides in close and nudges your back gently. “Keep walking,” she mutters under her breath with a smirk, you roll your eyes and keep walking, pulse pounding harder now for entirely different reasons. Before following Beth turned to Alexia and adding sweetly, “Don’t miss her too much.”

Alexia’s lips twitch. Just slightly. Behind you, the confusion spreads. Leah turns her head just enough to whisper sideways to Mary Earps and Millie Bright. “What am I missing?”

Millie shrugs. “Dunno.”

Mary just raises her brows, clearly intrigued but out of the loop. They all look after you like you’re a puzzle piece they haven’t been handed yet. Meanwhile, up ahead, you glance back once — quick, quiet — and find her eyes still on you. She doesn’t look away. Not until you move out of sight.

⚽️

You’re sat on the bench, jacket zipped to your chin, legs bouncing lightly as you try — and fail — to still the restlessness coiling inside you. You’ve always hated watching. Always. Especially games like this. Big. Tight. Pulsing with energy. And she’s out there.

Already dictating tempo, pointing, shifting the lines with her fingertips, her voice cutting through the noise. She moves like the match belongs to her — like she’s not playing in it, but shaping it. Every touch is smooth, precise. She’s not flashy — she never is — but she’s everywhere.

You can’t stop watching her.

Your eyes track her automatically. Like gravity. Like instinct. The way she turns with the ball. The way her brow creases when she spots a space no one else has seen yet. The way she lifts her head just after every pass to check if you’re watching.

You think she’s doing it more than usual. And she knows exactly where you’re sitting.

Beth is on the bench next to you, pulling her water bottle from under her seat, catching your line of sight without even trying.

“She’s playing well,” she says casually, voice low.

You don’t reply.

“You’re watching her like she does you.”

You sigh.

Beth grins. “It appears mutual whatever this is, at this point.”

Back on the pitch, Alexia receives the ball near the touchline and twists — sudden and sharp — sending your teammate the wrong way before slotting a pass through two defenders. A near assist. Nearly cruel.

The crowd gasps. She jogs back into shape, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, breathing steady, unfazed.

You swear she glances at the bench again.

You shift forward slightly, elbows on your knees now, jacket suddenly too warm, boots tapping at the grass. You want in. Not because you need to stop her. Not even to score.

But to meet her in the middle of it. To play the game you’ve been playing since that first glance. That first tackle. That first encounter.

Not from the sideline. With her.

Sarina's voice barks your name down the bench. You look up. And everything in you stands. "Y/N, Beth! Go warm up, you're coming on after half time!"

⚽️

You’re along the sideline now, jacket peeled off, as you jog small circles up and down the touchline with Beth.

The crowd’s roaring behind you — full-throated, relentless — but it’s all white noise compared to the pressure unfolding on the pitch.

Because Spain is pressing. And Alexia is at the center of it all. You watch her glide through midfield like she belongs to the turf — weightless, elegant, always in space. Her passes are scalpel-precise. Her vision is five seconds ahead of everyone else.

She gets the ball, checks her shoulder once, twice, and releases it like it’s nothing. Like the shape of the game bends around her.

“Jesus,” Beth mutters beside you, breathing hard. “She’s everywhere.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching her again — how she receives under pressure and turns, drawing two midfielders like it’s a game of tag she’s already won. She barely even looks your way, but somehow that makes it worse. Because you want to be in there. You want to feel her steps against yours again.

“You okay?” Beth asks suddenly, flicking her eyes sideways toward you.

You nod, jaw tight. “Just want to be out there.”

She hums. “Yeah, well. You’re not the only one thinking you should be.”

You glance over, confused. Beth jerks her chin subtly toward the pitch. And sure enough — in one of those rare lulls between plays, when Alexia turns to scan her positioning… Her eyes flick toward the sideline. Toward you. Just for a second. No expression. No smile. No nod. But it’s intentional. You feel it like a wire snapping beneath your ribs. She turns away again before anyone else can see.

Beth grins. “She’s watching you.”

You exhale hard. “Yeah. Probably just wants a reaction, and to be fair she’s got the upper hand right now.”

Beth stretches her quads dramatically. “Not for long.”

And as you roll your neck and shift your weight forward, listening to Sarina barking from the sideline and glancing toward the fourth official... You get the sense that your time’s coming. And when it does? You’re not just stepping into the game. You’re stepping into the fire.

⚽️

You’ve been flying.

Your touch is sharp. Your legs are light. You’re playing like you belong here — not just in this game, but in this moment.

Beth finds you with a threaded pass just as you ghost between two midfielders, the space opening up in front of you. One touch, two. You see the top corner. You see it—

Then it happens. You don’t see her coming.

You’re focused — ball under your feet, cutting in toward the box, one touch ahead of the defender, eyes on the corner of the goal.

Then everything stops.

Olga Carmona slides in hard. Full weight. Too late. Too low. The contact is sharp. Blunt. Wrong.

Your knee twists under you, a white-hot shock up your leg, and you drop before the ball’s even gone. A cry tears from your throat before you can stop it — not frustration.

Pain. Real pain.

You clutch your knee instantly, curling inward, breath punching out of your chest in ragged, panicked gasps.

The whistle blows. Everything stops. Wembley falls silent.

It’s eerie. Like someone hit mute on 90,000 people at once.

The ref’s arm goes up. Spanish players freeze. Your teammates rush toward you — some shouting, others pale. You can hear Beth’s voice, strained and close. “Stay down. Don’t move. Medic! Now!”

You’re trying not to cry. The physios are sprinting on. You’re gripping your knee like if you don’t, it’ll fall apart in your hands. Pain pulses through you in waves. Blinding. Crippling.

A shadow falls across you, You don’t need to look. Alexia. She’s standing a few feet away, arms stiff at her sides, face tight with something that isn’t confusion or shock — it’s fear.

Not for the game. For you.

She takes a step forward, but a physio blocks her path, kneeling by your side.

“Just let us look,” the medic says, gently pulling your hands away.

You can barely focus, barely breathe, but out of the corner of your eye, you see her still standing there — not moving. Watching. Beth kneels at your side now, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead.

“You’re okay,” she says, voice low. “Just let them check. It’s okay.”

You nod — barely. Alexia hasn’t moved. Not until the ref walks over and gestures her back toward her half. She hesitates. Then finally, reluctantly, she turns. But not before her eyes catch yours.

You sit up slowly, hands still gripping tufts of grass, breath shallow, knee throbbing. But it’s holding. And more than anything — it’s not broken.

The physio looks you in the eye. “You want to come off?”

You shake your head instantly. “No. I’m fine.”

“Are you—”

“I’m taking the free kick.”

Beth is already helping you to your feet, her arm steady around your back. The crowd is rising with you — slowly, all at once, voices lifting, 90,000 people on their feet because they saw the pain and now they see the refusal.

You limp a step. Then another. Then jog back toward the ball.

The referee checks on you once more — you wave her off. Your focus is already zeroed in. The ball is placed. The wall is set. Cata’s lining up, barking instructions.

You stand over it. Maybe 23 yards out. A few steps left of centre. A little too far to shoot, a little too close to ignore.

The angle's awkward. Unless you're you. They’ve called you the female Beckham since your spectacular viral free kick in the Euros in 2022.

But this is your moment. Another Wembley moment.

You take four steps back. One to the left. Plant your right foot. Deep breath. Wembley holds it with you.

Then you strike. It bends. Wide. Too wide. For a second it looks gone. Then it curls. Back. Arcing around the wall. Gliding over two defenders’ heads. Swinging like it’s got a magnet in the top corner.

Cata dives. Too late. The net ripples.

GOAL.

1–0.

Wembley erupts.

You stand frozen for half a second, eyes wide, chest heaving, and then your teammates swarm you — Beth first, grabbing you from behind, lifting you off the ground even as you stumble with the landing.

The bench clears. Coaches shouting. Crowd losing it.

From the penalty spot, Alexia stands still. Watching. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Just breathes.

Her eyes never leave you. As the crowd chants your name, as your teammates pull you toward the sideline, as England finally leads… You meet her gaze. And her smile is small. But it’s real. She’s not surprised.

She knew.

The pace slows. Just for a breath.

The ball’s been cleared long, chased into a corner, Spain momentarily regrouping, England pulling shape. Everyone’s catching their breath — you included.

You’re jogging back into position, legs heavy, the sting in your knee still alive but manageable. You bend slightly, tug your sock back into place over your shin pad, heart still pounding, your breath fogging in the chill air.

She appears beside you. Close. Quiet. You don’t look at her. But you hear it. “You good?” she mumbles — just loud enough for your ears only.

Not dramatic. Not showy. Not even particularly soft. Just real. You nod. “Yeah,” you say, breathlessly. “I’m alright.”

She doesn’t say anything else. Just walks beside you for a few strides, both of you tracking the play, scanning the field like nothing passed between you. And then her hand brushes lightly against your back. A single pat. Firm. Reassuring. Acknowledging. Accepting your answer.

Then she keeps moving. No glance. No smile. Just a touch. But it lingers.

Like her hand is still there long after it's gone. And for all the intensity, for all the weight of the game, for the score, the pressure, the world watching. It’s that moment you’ll remember the most.

⚽️

The whistle blows.

The noise is instant — a wave crashing over the pitch as Wembley erupts behind you. 1–0. You held it. That free kick wrote the script, and you saw it through to the final line.

Teammates close in from all sides, arms around shoulders, heads bumping yours, laughter, relief, euphoria. The roar from the crowd is still going — high, rising, full of pride.

But your eyes are already on the other half of the pitch. Spain regrouping. Hands on hips. Heads bowed. Respectful. Composed.

You peel away from your huddle, weaving through the blur of bodies. You tap shoulders. Shake hands. Pat backs. Every “good game” automatic but genuine.

And then you see Alexia.

She’s moving toward you too, head held high, still all grace even in defeat. Her shirt clings to her back, sweat-dampened and brilliant under the lights. Her expression unreadable — until she locks eyes with you.

You smirk before she can say anything. “You’re not having my shirt again.”

Her brow arches — the smallest flicker of amusement in her eyes — but she says nothing. Just reaches her hand out. You clasp it. Firm. Familiar. Yours.

Your fingers wrap around hers — and they don’t let go right away. Neither of you rush it. The moment hangs. Not long enough to be obvious. Just long enough for her to know you let it.

Your thumb brushes against her knuckles. She smiles. Only just.

Then she releases. Keeps moving. So do you. You pat her back. Once. Firm. As you both pass each other like you didn’t just speak a language no one else in the stadium understands.

No shirts traded. No words left hanging. Just the echo of her skin on yours.

⚽️

Your room is dark except for the soft glow of your phone screen. You’re lying flat on the bed, one arm behind your head, the other scrolling through post-match clips and photos — and trying not to watch that free kick for the seventh time.

Your body aches. A good kind of ache. But your mind it’s still with her.

The pat on your back. The lingering handclasp. That barely-there smile. You’re about to close your phone when it buzzes. AlexiaPutellas11 has sent you a message

Alexia: You’re probably still replaying that free kick.

You smirk.

You: What, jealous?

Alexia: A little. But mostly just annoyed I couldn’t stop it.

You: You weren’t even in the wall. Weak defending, honestly.

A pause. Then another message comes through — slower, different. Weighted.

Alexia: That’s it for us, for a while. No more me v you. Not until the Euros this summer.

You stare at the screen. There’s no emoji. No flirtation. Just truth. She’s not just talking about fixtures.

You: Feels weird. Like we just found a rhythm.

Alexia: We did.

Another pause.

Alexia: And now we wait.

You lie there, letting those words settle into your chest. She’s not pushing. Not asking for more. Just naming it. The gap. The pause between this and whatever comes next.

You: Guess you’ll just have to miss me.

You’re halfway through typing something back — probably a joke, something to lighten the tension — when another message pops through.

Alexia: I don’t have to miss you. I could come see you. In Germany. If you want.

You freeze. Staring at the screen. At those words. Not flirtation. Not suggestion. A gesture. An offer.

Germany — where you play your club football. Your other life. The one she’s never been a part of. Not until now.

You read it again. She wants to come to you. And suddenly, your room feels warmer. You sit up, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with match fitness.

You type slowly, thumb hovering just a second too long.

You: You serious?

Alexia: You think I’d joke about flying to a different country just to see you?

Then — another one.

Alexia: I’d like to. If you’d have me.

That last sentence lands deep. Not just in your chest — lower. Quieter. Truer. You let yourself smile as you bit your lip. Then answer. One you wouldn't normally be so brave to send

You: I’d have you.

Straight. Straight straight straight.

~ I really don’t know what this is. I couldn’t sleep and so, here we are. I’ve never written anything other than essays for uni before so ..this could go down like a lead balloon! we’ll see, lemme know! :) ~

~ it’s like ..10k words? because I really couldn’t sleep. so, it’s a long one ..if you have nothing else to do! ~

~ I don’t think it needs any content warnings, but please tell me if there should be! there’s some swearing, if that’s off putting to you.. ~

~ it takes a tiny while for A to show up, and she’s never explicitly named..but she is there, it is her ~

~ I’m talking myself out of posting, but this is too long to scrap now, sorry ~

~ good luck! good bye xx ~

________________

The club is a disgusting little place to be. Buried right in the centre of town, with drinks so extortionately expensive, they make even the cost of your London’s monthly rent, look a little reasonable. The music blares inside your head, the strobe lighting messes with your vision, and the smell of horny sweaty bodies is an assault on the nostrils. It’s your least favourite place on earth to be.

It’s somewhere you’d managed to avoid being, for all of your early twenties. You’ve had no reason to go to a club late at night. Not when you’ve had a boyfriend for the past 5 years to go home to. That dirty little desire to get drunk, and hookup with an attractive stranger, took a nice long hibernation.

For you.

Turns out, your ever-loving, ever-caring, fuckwit of an ex-boyfriend, still managed to find the time to go to clubs, and hookup with strangers in between spending nights with you. You really thought he was out working till the early hours of the morning, busy making a living for your future together? What an idiot you were.

So, you’re back in a nightclub, at the behest of some of your single friends, for the first time in over half a decade, borderline drunk out of your mind.

It’s still a comfortable level of tipsiness at the moment, you’d argue, despite stumbling a little on your way back towards the bar. You can easily identify the song that’s being blasted, you’ve been able to order more drinks independently without being refused service. Your inhibitions are long gone, but you’re still able to think clearly, and you’re ready to find someone to go home with.

Your friends are all dotted around the room getting off with men of varying levels of attractiveness. None of them have impressed you so far, you’re not so desperate for company that you’re willing to let your own standards drop tonight. You’re happy to wait for the best-looking man in the room. Looking around the room to scope the talent on offer, however, maybe you do need to lower your standards a little bit.

You approach the bar again, and order a shot of tequila for yourself. A friendly little liquid that’s had previous success with you, for getting you to sleep with just about anything.

“¡Dos, por favor!” Comes a call from behind you, from a woman you do not know. It’s rather ballsy of her, almost rude, but she holds out her card to pay, before you can get too irritated with her request.

“Gracias.” You offer, using your exceptional detective skills to work out the woman’s nationality.

“¿Hablas español?” She checks, as she leans next to you, and you wag a dismissive, drunken finger in front of her face as you shake your head.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you tell her, “only English. GCSE level German.”

She smirks, watching you, and you narrow your eyes at her, tapping the bar as you await your drink.

You’re handed your shot, with a lime wedge and some salt, and you nod in thanks, to the woman who bought it for you. You don’t wait for her to go first, you’re in a bit of a rush here. All the men in the room are getting uglier by the second, you need to act fast, before you see the light too clearly.

You lick your hand and pour on the salt, the woman watching you closely as you do. She doesn’t go through the motions at all for her own drink, she focuses solely on you, gently biting at her bottom lip.

You lick the salt, down the shot, and she holds the lime wedge in between her fingers for you to bite. You don’t question it. Not until you sink your teeth into the lime, your eyes meet over it, and time stand still.

She has very beautiful eyes. A mysterious looking hazel. They flicker over you as you suck the citrus juice, and you can see the crinkles in the corners of them as she smiles at you. It’s weirdly intimate, unnervingly so.

You pull away, wiping the juice from your chin as you point to her own glass for her to follow suit. You find yourself watching her as she does the same routine, but you don’t hold out the fruit for her, the way she did for you. It was a strange custom, one that’s already playing on a loop in your head.

“Can I get you another?” She offers, and you find yourself torn.

You’re not here for a woman, you’ve never been with one. You’ve kissed your girlfriends once or twice when you were younger, mainly as a gross way of attracting boys. It’s not something you thought too deeply about, it wasn’t exactly a lightbulb moment for you. There was never any secret yearning for any of your friends afterwards. You’re straight. Straight straight straight.

The woman’s eyes seem to pierce through your soul, as she waits for your answer, like she can see something in you that you can’t. It draws you in, but you hold yourself back.

“I’m straight.” You tell her, and she smirks at you again.

“Congratulations! I didn’t ask,” she points out, “but thanks for letting me know.”

You frown a little as she turns her attention back to the bartender and orders two more shots for the pair of you. She doesn’t seem put off by your sexuality claim at all. It’s almost like she doesn’t believe you, and you’re not too sure you appreciate her cockiness about it.

In fairness, maybe you’re the one being cocky. She doesn’t have a badge on her saying she’s a lesbian, there’s no rainbow floating above her head. She’s not a stereotypical lesbian, not in the way that your little sister is. Maybe she’s just being friendly, and you’re projecting, because you’re drunk and full of yourself.

“Sorry,” you start, leaning into her so she can hear you above the music, and she pushes the shot towards you, “I just thought ..maybe you were coming on to me.”

“That’s very wishful thinking from you.” She says simply, turning her head slightly to face you. She’s exceptionally close, and your eyes instantly trail to her lips. Time’s stood still again.

She has nice lips, very nice lips. They’d probably taste very nice..

You have to pull yourself away.

“Gracias.” You say again, gesturing to the glass in front of you with a frown. You reach for the salt, but before you can lick your hand, she’s raises it to her own mouth to wet it for you. You really don’t know what to make of her. It’s very gross, it’s very rude ..it’s very sexy.

There’s a confidence in her, that has you questioning things. The warmth of her tongue sends goosebumps right up your arm. Which, she can undoubtedly see, as you don’t have long sleeves and she’s smirking at you again. You don’t appreciate her smug little attitude. Anyone would have a physical reaction to being licked by a stranger, she has no business being arrogant about it.

You must have been stuck in place for too long, as she pours the salt onto your hand on your behalf too.

You don’t like being outdone. If she wants to play it cocky, you can match her for it. You grab the lime wedge and indicate for her to open her mouth. It catches her a little off guard, which you feel a sense of pride in, but she doesn’t back down from your challenge. She welcomes your newfound confidence, with that same little smirk from before.

You place the lime, skin-side back, in between her teeth and you lick the salt from your hand with unwavering eye contact. You down the shot, and you pull her in carefully by her neck.

Your lips brush against hers, ever so slightly, as you bite the lime between her teeth and remove it in your own. It’s a deliberate move from you, maybe you’re feeling messy tonight. You watch as she raises her fingers to her lips, and you wipe the juice again with the back of your hand. You give her a nod with another little ‘gracias’, before heading away from the bar without looking back at her.

You’re stuck on a carousel of men once you return to the centre of the club. They are all admittedly, far better looking than they were before your little trip to get drinks, but there’s still no one drawing your eye. None of them like that cocky little woman at the bar.

She wasn’t really little, she’s quite tall, actually. Had a couple inches on you, that’s for sure, and you’re not short. She was impressively tall, she had nice posture. She didn’t slouch or look uncomfortable. She was just tall, and beautiful, with that endearing little smirk on her pretty little fa— what are you doing?

You need to find yourself a man, and quick.

You’ve trapped yourself between another one and a wall, only a few minutes later, and it feels like a mistake. His hands are on your hips, his mouth is dangerously close to yours, and frankly, no amount of alcohol could make you genuinely attracted to him.

“You’re really sexy.” He slurs, his hand grazing up your body.

No, next.

It doesn’t take long to find another, his arm wrapped round your waist as he shares his drink with you. He’s cute, you’re fairly certain. He does have a moustache, which isn’t your usual cup of tea. It’s like a little caterpillar resting above his top lip, twitching as he talks to you. He drowns it slightly as he has more of his drink, and it makes you cringe as he licks at it.

It’d probably tickle if he kissed you, or leave you with a rash, the hairy little ferret on his lip.

Do you know who didn’t have a moustache? Who you wouldn’t have to work out, how not to throw up in their face, as there’s no risk of their facial hair ever getting stuck in your mouth as you kiss?

Mhmm.

Straight straight straight.

You slide out from his embrace, twirling him around to go after some other poor soul and you return to the bar.

It’s disappointing to realise she’s no longer there, not that she should be waiting around for you. She’s probably found someone less rude to spend her time with, someone more gay.

Look at the state of you, traipsing back to a bar in search of woman you don’t know because she looked at you for a second too long and now you can’t shake her from your head. How embarrassing. You’re straight. Straight straight straight.

You make your way through to the ladies’ room to splash some water on your face, and come to your senses. Of course, that’s where she’s hiding. With some new company of her own.

That shouldn’t hurt you. You don’t even know this woman’s name. You know nothing about her at all except that she’s tall, beautiful and has soft lips. Lips that are now on another woman and you’re incensed. You have no right to be angry about it, and yet, here you are.

You bash at the head of the tap, rather aggressively. Sometimes taps in nightclub restrooms don’t work, it probably needed a firm touch. It has nothing to do with you wanting to distract the woman, no no no. Because you’re straight. Straight straight straight.

You don’t need the attention of another woman, that would be ridiculous. That wouldn’t be very straight of you at all.

It doesn’t seem like your loud and theatrical washing of your hands has done anything to disturb the kiss to the side of you.

And good! You wouldn’t want to do that.

So, when you bump into them to reach for some hand towels, that’s just an accident. The fact that the tall, beautiful, soft-lipped, Spanish woman’s eyes flick to you as you dry your hands, is just an unfortunate side effect of your clumsiness.

The fact that it doesn’t stop her from kissing the other woman, however, is outrageous. Her watching you, as she’s busy with someone else? How disgusting.

Your heart shouldn’t be racing at the sight of her, your breath shouldn’t be as shallow at is, and it definitely shouldn’t be catching in your throat as the other woman kisses down her neck, and she’s still only looking at you. This isn’t attractive. This isn’t turning you on. You don’t wish it was you on her neck. There’s that infamous smirk on her face again as she stares at you. She’s unbelievable.

You throw your towels in the bin with an almighty clang as you let the lid drop back down, finally putting the other woman off her stride, and you make a swift exit back into the club.

The music’s too loud again, the smell is suffocating, all of the men are gross by comparison to the woman stuck in your head. It’s been an unsuccessful night and you’re ready to go home alone.

The hand that grabs you, has other ideas.

“You said you were straight!” She reminds you, as she pulls you outside with her.

“I am!” You tell her, still annoyed with her little antics.

“You followed me to the toilet?”

“I didn’t know you were in there!” You point out, even more annoyed with her cocky little attitude.

“You’re angry.” She tells you, smirking. “Didn’t like me kissing someone else?”

“I don’t care who you kiss!”

“No?”

“No!”

There’s a palpable tension between you both. It doesn’t make sense. You don’t know this woman. She doesn’t know you. It doesn’t matter that she kissed someone else. You were trying to kiss someone else only a minute before.

Why you’re so enraged by a woman who’s bought you two shots, getting with another woman after you walked away from her, is a question for future you. You’re not about to have an existential crisis in front of her. Questioning your identity in your mid-twenties, is absurd. You’re straight. Straight straight straight.

There’s a curiousness, to her decisions, actually. To follow you, when she already had company. To drag you outside, to where no one else is. She’s very confident about you being interested, but she’s not exactly being apathetic herself.

“Why did you leave her?” You ask.

“What?”

“You followed me,” you point out, furrowing your brow, “had a pretty girl draping herself all over you, and you left her to follow me. Why?”

You’ve clearly touched a nerve; her smirk has vanished. You can see her tongue pushing against the inside of her mouth. She’s annoyed with you.

She slowly runs her tongue under her teeth, before wetting her bottom lip with it while rolling her eyes. She doesn’t miss how your breath hitches watching her. Her smirk is back, and she moves closer to you.

“Maybe I’ll go back to her.” She threatens, and your jaw clenches slightly.

“Maybe you should!” You tell her, taking steps backwards as she approaches.

“Do you want me to?”

You collide into the wall behind you, and she places her hands on it by your head.

“No.” You confess, breathlessly.

“You said you were straight.” She repeats, her face mere inches from yours as she leans into you.

You swallow down, your pulse picking up speed.

“I am.” You insist, your eyes locking onto her mouth. “I..”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

“What do you want me to do?” She questions knowingly, that all too familiar smirk, taking over her face. She tilts her head, impossibly close to yours. You can smell the lime that lingers on her lips, feel her breath that softly blows against you, but she still doesn’t let you have what you want.

“Are you going to make me beg for it?” You groan, leaning backwards into the wall as far as you can.

“Maybe.” She tells you.

You hate her holding all the cards like this. She has you like putty in her hands. She’s all cocky and in control. Who does she think she is?

You’re better than this. You’re not shy around people you fancy. You may have been caught in a pointless relationship for far too long, but you’re a catch, people are into you. This woman right here, is into you. You don’t need to be nervous with her, it doesn’t mean anything. You’re straight. Straight straight straight. It could be the worst kiss of your life, and why should you care?

You slink your arm up behind her neck, closing the distance between you even further, and her eyelids flutter shut.

“I’m not going to.” You inform her, emboldened by her reaction to you. You duck out from under her arms, blowing her a kiss as you walk back inside. To find a man to take you home. You’re straight. Straight straight straight.

It doesn’t take you long at all to find another man to wear around you. One with glasses on. No, he’s not attractive. No, you don’t want to go home with him. But he’s here, he’s a man, and he isn’t driving you quite as crazy as the woman you keep running into. It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s hassle free. It’s exactly what you came for, you’re ready to go.

________________

Waking up in unfamiliar sheets, is something you haven’t done in a while. You’re quietly proud of yourself. The sheets smell nice, your hangover headache isn’t half as bad as you thought it would be, and there’s a pleasurable little ache between your legs that tells you that, whatever happened last night, you more than enjoyed yourself.

You wriggle a little under the covers and take a peek to confirm that you are indeed, completely naked. Your eyes are allowed to trail the body next to you. You’ve had sex with it, you’re more than entitled.

You really don’t remember which man it was you left with. There was the one with the glasses, the tall one with the mullet, the man with the moustache, the unfortunate gentleman with the incorrectly placed toupee.

He’s probably the one you’d most be upset about seeing next to you. Not that he didn’t seem friendly enough, but he really wasn’t the attractive stranger you were hunting for.

You risk another quick peek under the covers and your eyes all but bug out of your head. No no nonononono. You pull the covers back down and shut your eyes, trying to remember what the hell went wrong. You had countless semi-attractive men all over you. How the hell?

You peek again. Maybe you’re seeing things. Your hungover little brain playing tricks on you.

No.

That’s definitely not a man’s body. It’s far too beautiful. It’s toned, smooth, sculpted by the gods themselves. You want to put your tongue on it. You probably already have had your tongue on it. Who knows what you’ve done to it, what it’s done to you. How the hell did you go home with a woman?

“Are you enjoying the view?” The voice outside of the covers asks, and you roll yourself over under the sheets away from her.

You’d recognise that accent anywhere. That cocky little tone to her voice. That insufferable Spanish woman from the bar. That tall, beautiful, soft-lipped, Spanish walking-headache, took you home, and had her way with you? You? When you’re straight? Straight straight straight.

The ache in between your legs, the dull satisfaction running through your body, and you have her to thank for it?

It’s a dream. It’s a nightmare. It’s a horrible, twisted little trick, that, if you keep your eyes closed to, maybe it will all disappear around you and you’ll wake up again next to a man. A gross, sweaty little man, with too much hair on his face and not enough on the top of his head.

There’s a snicker from outside of the covers and you let out a huff, as she taps at your body.

“What?” You grumble, making no effort to free yourself from the sheets you’ve cocooned yourself in.

You can feel her shimmy herself closer to you and you hold your hand behind you to stop her.

“No!” You tell her, quite firmly, as her torso connects with your fingertips. Her toned torso. Her taut, muscly torso that your fingers have somehow now spread out over. You can feel her breathing against your palm. She hasn’t edged any closer to you after your outburst, and you regret telling her off so soon.

You’d quite like her pressed up against you, if that’s what she wants to do. Maybe you were too hasty, too rude. You can still feel the shortness of her breath against your hand. You’re being inappropriate, touching her like this. You slowly remove your hand from her, still hovering it pretty close.

You reach back for her arm, trailing your fingers down it until you meet with her hand, and you pull it around you. You’re not entirely sure what’s possessing you, you just want to feel her on your skin. She doesn’t need much encouragement to nestle into you, and it’s definitely not a man’s body.

You tangle your fingers with hers over your stomach, leaning into her. She has nice hands. Hands that are quite a bit bigger than yours, it’s no wonder you have an ache.

She removes the covers from over your head, instantly placing her lips to your neck. It’s very easy to forget yourself with her mouth on you, it’s no real surprise she managed to trick you into coming back to hers at all. She frees her fingers from yours, moving her hand down your body, and you put up no resistance to her. You encourage it, if anything, moving yourself to make it easier.

It’s nothing like having a man between your legs. There’s no needless grunting above you, no mindless grabbing, or endless showboating. You don’t need to make excessive noises to boost her ego. She just really knows what she’s doing with her fingers. She has every right to be cocky with herself.

Maybe this is just what it is to be with a woman. Maybe they just know, it’s the same parts, after all. Maybe it’s an inherent knowledge that all women possess, but only a select few ever get to experience. Lucky them.

Lucky you.

You are still being quite loud with her inside of you. It’s not for her benefit, it just really feels very good. You grip at her head behind you, running your fingers down the back of her neck, and you bite at your other hand to mute your sound effects, to stop giving her quite so much satisfaction with herself. You can see that smug little smirk on her face, it’s impossible to know if it’s still annoying or just incredibly sexy. It’s a very thin line with this woman.

It’s hard to keep still with her going to work on you the way she is. You find yourself rolling back over into her and she welcomes you, easily capturing your lips with hers. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

They are very nice lips, they do taste nice, and it’s not the first time you’ve kissed them.

Memories of the night come flooding back in.

________________

“I can take you back to mine?” The man wearing glasses offers.

“Perfect!” You reply, all too eager to get out of this frustrating little situation you’ve found yourself in. He places his cup on the nearest table, and winks at you, before leading you to the door.

Again, the hand that grabs you, has other ideas.

“You’re not leaving with him!” She tells you in no uncertain terms, as she holds you firmly in place.

“You can’t tell me what to do! Who the hell do you think you are?” She doesn’t give in, and as you turn to find the man, he’s already wandered off without you. “Are you joking? What’s your problem?”

You’re absolutely furious with the woman, she has no right to ruin your plans like this. You shake her off of you and head back to the bar, but she shadows you closely.

“You can fuck right off, following me about!”

“You’re really very angry.” She tells you, rather amused at your attitude. “Why, because I didn’t let you leave with some gross man?”

“He was cute!”

“He was about 50!”

That can’t be right.

He had glasses on, sure, but so do lots of people in their twenties. He had ..greying hair. Slightly less common, perhaps, but he had been cute.

Hadn’t he?

“Fuck!”

You rub your fingers over your forehead, trying to erase him from your mind, as the woman continues smirking at you.

“You can wipe that smug look off your face, right now!” You warn her and she chuckles to herself.

“Do you want another drink?”

“..Please.”

You down another round of shots together, being inappropriate with the salt and limes again. There’s an incredible amount of confidence in you. Whether it’s your new disdain for this woman, the fact that you’re unlikely to be going home with someone you’ll be happy waking up next to, or just the alcohol flooding your system, who can tell, but it’s a confidence that you’re more than willing to embrace.

You order another round of drinks and lick her collarbone ready to pour the salt on to. Her eyebrow quirks at you, but she doesn’t stop you doing it. She readies the lime in her mouth, as you down the tequila, and she pierces it with her teeth for you, dripping the juice into your mouth from hers up above.

It’s a very weird mating call from her, and it’s 100% effective. You grab her hand and lead her back to the hallway between the toilets. You bury your head in her neck as the moustache walks past you both, and you open the door to the smoking area to see if anyone’s about. No one is, so you pull her outside with you.

“Why are we back here?” She asks, that smug smile still tattooed on her lips.

“I feel more sober in fresh air.”

“Mm? You’re very drunk.”

“You’re very drunk!”

“Maybe, but at least I’m not on a ridiculous hunt for a man!”

“It’s not ridiculous, it’s meticulous!” You tell her, giggling slightly at your accidental rhyme. “I’m looking for a very specific man, preferably a good looking one, in his twenties.”

“Really? You didn’t seem too worried, that a man in his twenties was actually a man in his fifties!” She points out.

“Mm. I don’t know that I’m particularly worried about a man in his twenties ..being a woman in her twenties either.” You tell her with a rather casual shrug as you head to one of the tables. You sit yourself up on it, looking back at the woman who gives you a knowing little smile.

“You’re not very straight, are you?” She asks sarcastically.

“I really am.” You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I’ve never been with a woman, never wanted to be. I’ve only just got out of a long-term relationship with a man. I’ve only ever wanted to be with men.”

“Mm?” She mumbles, moving over to you slowly. She carefully pushes your knees apart and stands in between them, looking down at you. “I’m not a man.” She reminds you, and you trap your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Maybe I don’t want you.”

“Mm?” She places a curved finger under your chin, tilting your head and bringing your mouths very close together. “Tell me you don’t.”

There’s a feeling in your stomach at her challenge, a feeling lower than your stomach at her challenge. You do want her, and you’re not a good enough liar to pretend that you don’t.

“I can’t..” You admit, and she smiles again, before removing herself from you. You let out a frustrated little sigh as she moves backwards, and you swing your legs back together. “You want me too!” You tell her and she tilts her head to the side.

“Who told you that?”

“Tell me you don’t.”

“..I can’t.” She admits, and maybe her cocky little smirk has found its way onto your face.

You jump down from the tabletop and lean back against it, nibbling at the inside of your mouth. She casually walks back over to you, resting her hand on your hip.

It’s far less offensive than gentleman number 6’s grazing of your body. You don’t feel the need to push her away at all. She leans back into you, tucking your hair behind your ear. It sends a little tingle right down the side of your neck, and she smirks again at your reaction. You can’t not roll your eyes at her incessant need to be arrogant. She rubs her thumb across your cheek and over your mouth, pulling down on your lower lip gently.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes ..what?” She asks, and she’s ruined the moment. You shake your head at her chuckling lightly.

“If you don’t want to kiss me, it’s fine, we don’t have to. I’m not going to beg you for it.” You tilt your head, brushing her nose with yours. “Do you want to kiss me?” She nods silently, and you wink at her. “Looks like we’re both missing out then!”

You slip out from between her and the table and make your way over to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To find a man to take me home! I’m straight!”

You can hear her cocky little laugh as you head back into the club, and it sends a little thrill right through your body.

This bizarre game of cat and mouse continues between you both for a little while longer. You keep buying each other shots, drinking them in more obscene ways every time. You back each other into walls, threatening to kiss each other, before one of you walks away, and the whole process repeats itself.

It’s getting harder to compose yourself after each round of shots. You really do just want her to kiss you, you’ve had enough of fighting it, but you also don’t want her to have the satisfaction of you caving in. It’s a ruthless little battle that you’ve found yourself in. She’s incredibly competitive.

You have to commit. Genuinely find yourself a man. It shouldn’t be hard. There’s lots of them about, and you’re more drunk now than you’ve been all night. You’re embarrassingly easy prey.

You survey your surroundings, hoping for one decent looking man to catch your eye. It’s a truly talentless night. You find yourself grimacing slightly realising that all of your friends have already left the place. Some of them will definitely regret their choices in the morning.

As will you, if you don’t manage to get at least one kiss from this godforsaken woman.

“Looking for me?” She asks as she sidles on next to you, leaning against the wall.

“I’m looking for a man! I’ve already told you this.”

“Well ..there’s one there.” She tells you, gesturing to a random fellow in the corner. “There’s another there.” She points out. “There. There. The—”

“I get it, thanks. You have terrible taste in men.”

“I don’t have any taste in men.” She reminds you. “I have pretty impeccable taste in women.”

“Mm? Well, which one takes your fancy?” You ask. “There’s one over there. There ..there. Th—”

She grabs your pointed finger and turns it back towards you. It’s not a new answer, so god knows why you’re blushing at it.

“Then kiss me.” You tell her, little louder than a whisper. “Just kiss me, for fuc—”

She’s clearly had enough too. Maybe it was the tiredness in your voice, the obvious look of defeat in your eyes. Maybe she just doesn’t like you swearing. You’re not going to question it. Her lips are finally on yours, and she was definitely worth the wait. It ignites a spark in you, it sends your tipsy little mind fully into orbit, and she’s the only other person in the room with you.

There’s no sense of desperation in the kiss. It’s not messy, or chaotic. It’s deliberate from her, considered. There’s an air of caution perhaps, a worry that you’ll pull away from her. You’re straight, after all. Maybe she’s nervous that your certainty in wanting a kiss will waver now that she’s finally given you what you want. Maybe you’ve realised that you don’t actually want it.

It’s a new experience for you, surprisingly different from kissing a man, but it’s not one you want to pull away from. It’s not one you want to rush. It’s not one you really want to end at all. You can sense her apprehension, and it’s the first time that she’s had no snark. It’s not a cocky little kiss. She’s not doing it to get it over and done with. It’s not going to end with her smirking at you, like she’s done you a favour. It isn’t meaningless.

It’s tentative, and frankly, you’ve had enough of her carefulness. If she needs a sign that you’re not going anywhere, that you want her to keep kissing you, you’ll find a way to do that. Your tongue parts her lips, and the gasp you elicit is all the confirmation you need of her nerves. It’s endearing to have her be quite so vulnerable with you.

You deepening the kiss is clearly all the confirmation she needs that everything’s fair game, because she wastes no time in escalating the intensity. She clings to you, wrapping her arm around your waist, her hand gripping at your hip, the other cradling your jaw. She backs you up against the wall and muffles the moan that escapes you with your joined lips.

Her tongue dances with yours, and you let her take over all your senses. It’s just a kiss, and yet it’s like a journey to a whole new world. It’s entirely all-consuming, the rest of existence has melted to nothingness around you. You don’t care where you are, you don’t care who’s watching. Or do you?

Maybe there is a mild sense of urgency to it, because kissing is simply not enough. You need to have her closer, impossibly close. You need her, entirely, and regardless of how much you’re craving the feeling of her, you do still care about where that happens.

“Are you local?” You ask, breaking the kiss to catch your breath. She only gives a silent nod in reply. “I’m like ..20 minutes by taxi?”

“My hotel’s closer than that.”

“So ..back to yours?”

“Are you sure?” She asks, searching your eyes for any sense of reluctance. She’s unlikely to find any, but you nod, assertively, just to reaffirm. “I’m not taking you back to mine to ..play cards?” She double-checks with you and you chuckle, resting your forehead to hers.

“No, I’m sort of counting on that.” You tell her. “Unless you don’t wa—”

She cuts you off with a kiss again. There was no swearing this time, no tiredness or look of defeat. Maybe she just likes kissing you.

“Are you absolutely sure?” She asks again, because she’s polite, and underneath all her cocky annoyingness, she really is very sweet.

“Oh my god.” You sigh. You do still find yourself rolling your eyes, you don’t know how much more obvious you need to be with her. “..please.”

The rush back to her hotel room is fun, you feel like a teenager all over again. Waltzing through the streets of London, your hand interlaced with an attractive stranger’s, the promise of sex hanging in the air.

It doesn’t matter that it’s a woman you’re linked up with. That doesn’t mean anything. It’s a one-time little indulgence. An experiment, for research purposes. To find out what it is your sister’s been going so crazy over, ever since she was a teenager.

It doesn’t mean anything when she keeps kissing you against the walls of closed buildings. It doesn’t mean anything when you pull her back into you at the entrance of her hotel. Yes, it’s nice. It’s enjoyable. It steals the air right from your lungs every single time, but that doesn’t mean anything. How could it, when you’re straight? Straight straight straight.

You do keep your hands off each other when you get to the lift of the hotel, there’s an older woman in there with you, and you’re not about to put on a show for her. Not for free.

Maybe your eyes keep meeting too much, or the smirking is too obvious. Maybe you do keep touching once or twice, because something’s definitely giving you both away.

“Lesbians?” The older woman asks, with a very clear disdain.

“Hm? For tonight.” You reply with a nod, unperturbed by her demeanour. Your Spanish host shakes her head at you, smiling as she looks up at the ceiling.

You’ve dealt with a few homophobes in your time. Your sister isn’t exactly subtle with her identity. It welcomes dirty looks, offensive words, and you’ve never been one to shy away from protecting her. You’ve never had to defend yourself against prejudice, but she’s not exactly an intimidating woman. You could easily take her if she tries to raise her hand.

“It’s disgusting.” She mutters under her breath, and her unsupportive attitude is sort of spurring you on.

“Do you think?” You ask. “What’s so disgusting about it?”

“Two women. It’s a waste.”

“Oof. I am not about to let her go to waste, don’t you worry about that at all, madam.” You reassure her, offering a friendly smile that earns you a very angry look in reply.

You don’t miss the smirk that graces the taller woman’s face next to you in the mirror, and that’s all the encouragement you need.

“It’s not natural!” The older woman tells you, and you nod your head slowly back at her. “It’s disgusting!”

“You’re very annoyed about it.” You point out. “It’s a bit unnecessary, no?”

“I think you’re both disgusting!” She hisses at you again.

“Oh dear.” You lean back against the bar of the elevator, as the older woman stares you down. “That’s an incredible argument you’ve put forward. I think I’ve seen the light!”

She not at all impressed by your relaxed sarcasm, you’re clearly getting on her nerves. Your lack of remorse, the fact you’re not begging for her forgiveness.

“I think it—”

“You think it’s disgusting, madam. We get it.” You interrupt, a little bit tired of her insistence. “Don’t spend your evening with another woman, then. We’re not inviting you to join us, so you can calm down.” You tell her, moving back towards the Spanish woman behind you.

She wraps her arm around your waist instantly and you lean into her touch. It’s comforting, subtle. It’s a very casual display of support without silencing you, without fighting over you.

She’s not dramatically shouting at the other woman; she’s not emasculated by you doing all the talking. She’s not making empty threats or getting up in the other woman’s face.

She’s not reacting at all in the way you’ve come to expect. The way that he probably would, to someone questioning him. Not that your ex ever defended your sister’s honour with you, but he certainly enjoyed getting into a scrap when he felt threatened.

It’s very attractive from her, actually, to just silently remind you that she’s there if you need her. That she’s with you, she does have your back, and you’d kiss her right there on the mouth if the woman opposite wasn’t glaring at you quite so intently.

Maybe you should kiss her regardless. There’s only a few more floors left till the old bat gets off. What’s she going to do, slap you both for some pda? There’s a security camera in here, she wouldn’t be so stupid.

Perhaps you can control yourself for a couple more floors, you don’t need to provoke the bastard woman. So what if she’s an unfavourable little witch, she’s not ruining your evening, you’re not going to let her.

Well, if that’s your logic, why should you let her stop you from kissing the woman when you want to? What courtesy do you owe to her? If she’s that upset about it, she’ll have to either avert her eyes like a petulant little child, or stop off at the floor below and hope she doesn’t choke on her bigotry when walking the rest of the way up. You don’t care.

Thankfully, neither does the Spanish beauty who matches your energy and kisses you back with the same fervour you’re showing her.

You’re instantly entirely unbothered by the third wheel once there’s an extra tongue back in your mouth, her Spanish hands on your face. You don’t care at all how uncomfortable you’re making the old bint. Frankly, you hope her eyes are burning at the sight of you both.

She doesn’t let you enjoy your moment for too long. Of course she doesn’t, the dark-sided little mare. She barges past you both as the doors open and she spits at the floor in front of you. The absolute nerve. She expectorates in the lift inside of a nice hotel, and you’re the disgusting ones? Absolutely not. You’re seeing red. You really could take her, you’ve been to a gym more than once or twice in your life, you’re not weak.

“You revolting little bi—”

The hand that grabs you, has other ideas.

“Let her go!” She tells you, laughing as she spins you back round to face her. “Por favor, she’s not worth it!”

“She spat at us! That dirty little cu—”

She kisses you again. Maybe she really does hate your swearing. Her lips are distracting, though, and you don’t mind learning that that’s one surefire way to get them back on yours.

“She really was a hateful bitch.” You murmur between kisses, and the Spaniard giggles against you.

“You’re a very angry straight girl.” She tells you, pushing your hair back off your face. “You don’t like homophobes?”

“Do you?” You ask, frowning at the woman in front of you.

“No,” she admits with a chuckle, “I’d have probably just let her get on with it quietly, though. Didn’t feel the need to anger her more!”

“I’m sorry for embarrassing you.”

“You didn’t, I’d have backed you if she kept going.”

There’s that sexy little smirk again. It shouldn’t do things to you the way it does. It shouldn’t set your whole body on fire. A small curve to her lips, and you want to rip her clothes off? You’re very tragic.

You drag your eyes away from her and scan the floor number you’re on.

“Bloody hell!” You sigh. “Did you really have to book a room on the highest bloody floor? I get it, you’re rich ..but fuck me!”

You drum out your frustrations on the handrail of the lift, it’s slow ascent through the floors seemingly never-ending.

“Are you sobering up?” She asks, and you nod at her, still tapping your hands. “Are you changing your mind?”

You stop your little percussive performance and turn back to face her.

“You’re very convinced that I’m going to back out?”

“I just want you to know that you can.”

It’s genuine from her. It’s not a perverse attempt at guilt tripping, she’s not trying some weird technique of reverse psychology. She genuinely wants you to know that it’s okay if you’re not ready. If your own act of confidence, is exactly that, just an act.

You take her hand and pull her back towards you. She rests her hands on the rail behind you and you lean in very close.

“Do you want me to?” You ask, and she shakes her head. You tilt her face to meet her eyes and you kiss the corner of her mouth. “Well, okay then, and neither do I.” You tell her quietly, your lips feathering hers. “So know, that until I revoke it, you have my consent ..to do whatever.”

“Careful,” she warns, “I might take you up on that.”

It earns you a deep kiss, and another cheeky smirk. There’s exhilaration shooting through your body and this goddamn endless journey through the sky is entirely unbearable.

“It’s very cute, that your hotel is so close to the bar, but it really would’ve been quicker to just go back to mine!” You point out, patting at her hands behind you.

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t me that booked it.”

That’s very cryptic. What on earth is that supposed to mean?

“Please don’t tell me your girlfriend’s waiting for you in there.” You tell her, narrowing your eyes as you await an explanation.

“No, it’s a ..business trip.”

That’s still very cryptic.

“A business trip? What do you do for a living?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“No?” You chuckle, arching an eyebrow. “Are you a spy?”

She laughs back at you, shaking her head. “No,” she assures you, “but it’s too personal.”

“Too personal? We’re not allowed to know each other’s careers?”

She shakes her head, and you find yourself smiling slightly with narrowed eyes. It’s very intriguing. If she wants you to be less interested in her, that wasn’t the way to play it.

“So, I’m guessing, I’m also not allowed to even know your name?” You check.

“A.”

“A?” You chuckle, nodding your head. “That’s a very beautiful name!” You tell her, your hand resting on her chest as you push her away from you. “There’s no way your parents were that lazy!”

“It’s my initial.” She tells you, rolling her eyes with that classic little smirk, as she pulls you back with her across to the other side of the elevator. “My first name starts with A.”

“And that’s all you’re giving me?” You ask, resting your hands on the railing behind her as she nods her head. “You really don’t want me to find you after tonight?” You question her, with your tongue tracing the bottom of your teeth. “Haven’t even been with me yet, and you already know you won’t want a repeat?”

She dips her head to kiss you again, and your hands grip at the bar behind her. You pull yourself in towards her, desperate to be closer, and she cradles your head in her hand.

“It’s not that,” she tells you gently, “but I go home tomorrow.”

Shit. That shouldn’t be so surprising to you. She has a thick Spanish accent, she’s staying in a luxury hotel, paid for by a company on her behalf. Of course she isn’t staying in London for very long. What happened to your exceptional detective skills? How did you not work that one out?

“Fuck.” Is all that falls out of your mouth as you pull yourself back from the woman.

“I’m sorry..” she offers, but you shake your head with a heavy sigh.

“No, I should have realised.” You tell her, nibbling at the inside of your mouth.

It’s a bummer, certainly. There’s something between you both. Whether it’s just a physical attraction, a sexual desire, who knows? But it’s there. You can feel it, and you’re positive that she can too. It doesn’t have to be anything deeper than that. That would mean you really did need to do some introspective work on yourself moving forward.

She’s just a woman. The one woman. The world’s most beautiful woman, who’s turned your world upside down, in a matter of hours. Who bought you a drink, that left you confused. That kissed another woman, and left you annoyed. Who refused to let you leave with a random ancient bastard and has saved you from spending a fundamentally flawed night with a limp-dicked disappointment.

And tomorrow she’ll be gone. You only have tonight with her.

You can walk, she’s already told you that. You can turn around now, and not let yourself fall any deeper. Save yourself the pain of a perfect night that you’ll never be able to repeat. Save yourself from spending the rest of your life chasing an experience you can never recreate with someone else.

It’d be hard enough to find her in London. It’ll be impossible to track her down in Spain.

Leave her now, with just the mind-numbing kisses to haunt you for all eternity. Don’t give your soul to a woman you’ll never see again. Don’t let her steal your heart away with her. Don’t ruin a life of enjoying mediocre sex for yourself.

The elevator rings out, signalling your arrival at her floor and you stay rooted to the spot as she slowly makes her exit. She looks back at you, a sad smile replacing her arrogant one.

“I understand.” She tells you, as she disappears down the hall.

You don’t understand. You don’t understand at all why your body feels so drawn to this woman. Why your mind, your heart, your soul are so desperate for you to chase after her. It can only spell trouble for you. One kiss with her sent your head spinning. Anything more than that will undoubtedly result in irreparable damage. How do you recover from that? How do you move on? How do you let yourself make any other meaningful connections with someone after feeling so intoxicated by a woman you know absolutely nothing about?

It isn’t possible for you to feel this way. It doesn’t make any sense. Even if you weren’t straight. Straight straight straight. How the hell can you fall for someone, when you don’t even have the luxury of knowing her first name? You don’t know what she does, you don’t know who she is. She could be an evil mastermind. A dark-sided villain who does terrible things, all the way over in Spain.

Don’t follow her. It’s foolish. It’ll be the worst mistake of your life. A night you can’t take back. An act you can’t undo.

The doors start to close in front of you, and you wedge your foot in between to stop them. You’re an idiot. A damn blasted fool.

But how could you not go after her? How can you not chase after the rush she sends through you? It’s dangerous, it’s messy, but you want her. Even though it’s just for a night. You can’t walk away from a feeling this strong. A yearning so powerful every cell in your body is screaming out for it.

She’s annoying. Frustrating. Beautiful. Enticing. There’s something, and you can’t very well just turn around and walk the other way.

You follow her into the hallway of her floor, and she turns back to face you.

“I thoug—”

“I didn’t revoke.” You tell her, shaking your head as you walk towards her. “I didn’t come up all this way to play cards, and I certainly didn’t come up all this way to go straight back bloody down again!”

She chuckles at you, shaking her head.

“And tomorrow?”

“We’ll deal with that then.” You tell her. “If it’s only meant to be one incredible night, then so be it.”

“You think it’ll be incredible?” She asks, the smirk tugging at her lips.

“With you? ..yes.”

The smirk morphs into a full smile. One that reaches her eyes. One that transforms her whole beautiful face into the most breathtaking radiance as she beams back down at you.

“And what if it’s awful?” She chuckles.

“Then I’ll be packing your bags for you to go in the morning.”

She takes a step to close the distance between you and pulls you in for a slow deep kiss.

“Are you absolutely su—”

“For fuck’s sake!” You whisper, crashing your head to her shoulder to chuckle against her neck. “Yes! I’m sure! I’m very bloody certain, I want you to take me to your room. Yes!”

“Yes ..what?”

She’s incredibly frustrating. Just wilfully annoying. Childish, pathetic, addictive, perfect. She’s everything. She’s absolutely everything.

“Please.”

________________

You don’t hate this woman. She didn’t trick you into bed at all. There’s affection between you, a fondness. It wasn’t a drunken night of angry passion. It was intimate, careful, experimental. Perfect.

You have a desperate need for this woman you’re wrapped up in. A want to have her close, to keep her with you forever. An impossible request. An unattainable, hopeless little prayer.

“You’re leaving today.” You remind her, panting slightly as she calms you from your high.

“I did tell you that.” She whispers, her fingers trailing your stomach.

“I know, I just ..it just hit me.”

You look back to her, and there’s a sadness in her eyes that you can only imagine you’re reflecting back at her with yours. You stroke your thumb over her cheek and lean in for a kiss. It’s soft, impossibly gentle. It’s the most painful way to say goodbye.

“I should go,” you tell her, “my sister will be wondering where I am. Wondering what ..man I hooked up with.” You chuckle a little pulling yourself out of her embrace.

“What will you tell her?”

“He was beautiful.” You admit. “Foreign.. Italian, I think.”

She laughs to the side of you, leaning back over towards you as she shakes her head. She places a kiss on your shoulder, lighting a tiny fire with her mouth.

“I don’t want you to go.” She tells you, placing more kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips.

You don’t want to go either, not when she’s igniting an inferno inside of your body like this. It’s cruel, it’s sadistic. It’s the perfect way to say goodbye.

“What time’s your flight?” You ask, with a mild desperation to your voice.

“Not till this evening.”

“Do you have to be anywhere else today?”

“Not till this afternoon.”

“So, we still have the rest of the morning?”

“Mhmm.”

“It probably wouldn’t be the worst thing ..if I was late back home.”

“No?”

“Unless you’re kicking me out?”

She has no intention of doing that, as well you know. She straddles herself on top of you, and your heart starts racing again. Her body on full display in front of you. The most beautiful body. She’s in incredible shape. It’d be more intimidating to you, if she hadn’t repeatedly told you how beautiful she thinks you are last night. You’re not in terrible shape yourself, but you definitely felt the need to tense more to give yourself some sort of definition. Her abs are just naturally on full display without any effort from her at all.

“You’re very beautiful.” You tell her, taking her in. “You have very beautiful ..eyes.”

“My eyes are up here.” She tells you, pointedly.

“Mhmm. Very beautiful.” You repeat, ignoring her little biology lesson as you trace your fingers over her curves.

She traps her tongue between her teeth as she smiles down at you, before leaning back in for a bruising kiss.

“You might be my favourite straight girl.” She tells you, and you roll your eyes.

“Might be?” You ask, feigning offence as you push her back up.

“You’re in the top three.” She tells you, smirking.

“Woww.” You draw out sarcastically. “That’s very charitable of you, thanks.”

She chuckles to herself, collapsing back down to run her lips across your chest. She starts trailing lower, and you can tell where she’s heading. She’s already seen to you once this morning, she’s done more than enough. You’d like to repay the favour. Frankly, you could do with a rest.

You grip at her thighs to flip her over, and the smile on her face as you do, has you kicking yourself for not doing it sooner.

“Are you okay?” She asks as your eyes roam over her face.

“Mhmm.” You nod. “I remember ..really enjoying something last night.” You admit, a little cautiously.

“Yeah? I remember you enjoying it too.”

“Did ..did you enjoy it?”

“Mhmm.” She murmurs, and you can feel her body shifting beneath you. “You’re very good with your tongue.”

“Really?” You ask, a little too enthusiastically, as a tiny thrill courses right through you. You have to fight every instinct not to wet your own lips with it as she nods, that small smirk coming back into view. “Did it feel good?”

“Yes.”

“You tasted good.” You breathe, clenching your jaw slightly.

“Are you still claiming to be straight?” She chuckles, her eyebrow arching.

“Mm.” You laugh, collapsing back into her for a kiss. “It’s hanging by a thread.” You admit, smiling into her as her lips move against yours. “Do you want me to?” You ask, a knowing look on your face.

“Yes.” She admits, her back arching as she readjusts herself for you.

“Yes ..what?”

She shakes her head, with a disbelieving smile. Maybe you’re in love with this stranger. Maybe she feels it too.

“..Please.” She whispers, and you don’t need asking twice.

________________

The walk back to the elevator, has no reason being as painful as it is. Even after a morning together between the sheets, a shared shower before a very late breakfast. You’ve still only known this woman a little over 12 hours. You’ve learnt absolutely nothing about her personal life, who she is, why she’s here, whether she’ll ever be back. She knows nothing about you. It isn’t right for there to be a connection between you, when you have no fundamental knowledge of each other. You could have literally nothing in common, and your heart’s tearing itself in two at the thought of her leaving for another country.

Neither of you want to say goodbye to each other. That much is obvious as you tangle your fingers with hers and stare at the button for the lift. Both elevators are on the bottom floor, you’ll still have a few minutes together even if you request it now. You can’t draw an eternity out of a few minutes, but you can savour them. It’s like setting a little timer for you as you press the button. The lift starts its ascension up the floors and the seconds you still have together start to decrease.

“This is insane.” You admit to her, your eyes beginning to sting. “I shouldn’t hate leaving you this much, I don’t even know who you are!”

“I know.” She tells you, with the same shaky breath as you.

She pulls you into her embrace and you cling to the fabric of her sweatshirt for dear life. She’s given you one of her sweatshirts, to stop you looking too dishevelled as you do the walk of shame back home. It’s a bit oversized on you, and she told you you looked adorable when you had to roll the sleeves up a couple times to free your hands.

You sort of wish she’d stop being so sweet to you. Go back to being the annoying woman that had her lips on someone else. Go back to being the weirdly confusing woman with the salt and the limes. Do anything to make saying goodbye to each other just a tiny bit more bearable.

“Imagine if you weren’t straight,” she whispers to the side of your head, “imagine the breakdown you’d be having then!”

She’s an idiot, and it does manage to make you laugh, as warm tears escape your eyes, and you bury your head further into her neck.

She’s not straight, you remember. So, maybe it’s a subtle confession of her own struggle she’s having with you parting ways. She is holding you impossibly tight, like you’ll disappear from right in front of her in a puff of smoke, if she loosens her grip even slightly.

The elevator seems to be soaring through the levels without any people in it. It’s a far more rapid process than it was when it was holding the pair of you hostage last night. That isn’t fair. Who designed that?

“It’s going to be the longest journey of my life going back down without you.” You mumble against her.

“Hopefully you don’t bump into your best friend on the way!”

“For fuck’s sake!” You laugh, pulling yourself from her and wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. “That evil cow!” You let out a sigh and shake your head. “She’ll be fine with me today, to be fair. I’m straight again now!”

“Oh, of course! You can agree with each other about it being disgusting, then!”

“Mm. I mean ..we did do some pretty disgusting things to each other.” You remind her smugly.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate you giving her all the details.” She winks, and you grin as you pull her back into a hug.

“I really enjoyed it.” You confess to her, quietly. “I really enjoyed being with you.”

“Me too.”

The ding of the elevator signals that your time is up. The moment you’ve been dreading, has finally arrived. You head straight in. You don’t know if it’s better to get a clean break, or prolong the inevitable for as long as possible. The doors start closing, and her foot appears in the gap to keep you for a moment longer.

She fists her hands in her sweatshirt you’re wearing and kisses you across the threshold. It’s one that catches you off guard, but you match the passion in it as soon as you realise what’s happening. The doors try closing on you a few times, but you keep blocking them with a hand. You’re not letting them steal your moment.

She breaks the kiss but keeps her grip on you. You can see the tears in her eyes, feel the ones in yours. It’s ridiculous. You catch one with your thumb as it starts to roll down her cheek and you place a kiss to where you broke its fall.

“If you’re ever back in London..” you tell her, a small smirk on your face, “just ask around for my initial. I’m sure someone will lead you back to me!”

“I’ll have to try.” She tells you earnestly, letting go of your sweatshirt and smoothing it back down for you.

“I really need to go. It’s not possible to make this any easier.” You tell her, pushing her back as the doors start their final closing attempt. “Don’t forget me!”

“I won’t remember anything else.” She tells you, as the doors close, and neither of you have chance to change your minds.

It shouldn’t hurt like this. It was a one-night stand. They’re not rare. The pair of you crying after a single night together? That’s rare. That’s ridiculous.

Collapsing in on yourself as you try to catch your breath without her? That’s insanity.

The tears flow freely as you hold yourself up against the side of the elevator. You pull the neckline of her sweatshirt up over your nose and breathe her in. Playing make believe in your head, that she’s still with you. It’s a souvenir you’ll treasure. A living memory. Proof that it wasn’t a dream, and it certainly wasn’t a nightmare. It was your perfect little night, wrapped up with the world’s most perfect woman. The woman who’s running off back to Spain with your heart in her hand luggage.

All this longing, this desire, this love, for a woman that you barely know. A woman you have no hope in ever finding again. A woman you’ve fallen head over heels for, despite being straight. Straight straight straight.

new beginnings | something blue

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: your whole life is uprooted after one fall

warnings: deadbeat and neglectful parents, arguments

notes: new series!! i am actually very excited for this one so hope y’all like it. also this is a longer one!!

You pant as the stadium lights blaze down on you, illuminating the slick, rain-soaked pitch. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but you don’t stop moving— you can’t.

The air is thick with the scent of wet grass and sweat, and the roar of the student section vibrates through your chest, deafening, chaotic. You hear the distant pounding of the drumline, the frantic voices of your coach and teammates shouting instructions, but it all blurs together. White noise.

The scoreboard looms above, flashing 1-1, with the clock winding down. Your heart hammers against your ribs. If the streak ends here, you will never forgive yourself.

A messy clearance sends the ball bouncing, fast, unpredictable, through the center of the pitch. It ricochets off a defender’s shin and lands in your path, a gift wrapped in chaos.

For a split second, everything slows. The world shrinks to you, the ball, and the goal. You barely think. You don’t have time to. Instinct takes over.

With one touch, you push it forward, just enough to create space. A defender lunges in, too late. You see the keeper off their line—hesitating, shifting their weight, waiting for a pass that isn’t coming.

You pull back your leg and strike. The ball rockets off your foot, slicing through the air like a missile. You know it’s good the moment you hit it. The sound— that perfect, crisp contact rings in your ears.

The crowd collectively gasps. It climbs, spinning, curving then dipping, impossibly fast. The keeper scrambles, their hands stretching, but it’s a second too late.

The net ripples and for a second, there’s nothing. Silence. A breath held by thousands.

The stadium erupts. Your name is swallowed by the cheers, by the stomping of feet, by the chaos of bodies surging toward you. Your teammates crash into you, arms around your shoulders, voices wild in your ears. Someone grabs your face, shaking you, yelling words you can’t even process.

The scoreboard flashes 2-1. The final whistle blows. You did it. The streak lives as does your pride.

After the game, the celebration carries into the locker room, shouting, laughter, the slamming of lockers, the sharp scent of sweat and victory. You let yourself bask in it, let yourself feel it. The thrill, the relief, the high of it all.

By the time you step outside, your friends are waiting for you, still buzzing with excitement.

“That was insane!”

“Goal of the season, easy.”

“You’re a legend.”

They throw their arms around you, ruffling your damp hair, laughing, their eyes alight with pride. You try to brush it off, but their energy is contagious.

For a moment, everything is good. Eventually, one by one, they leave, disappearing into the night. The celebration fades. The stadium empties. The high starts to wear off.

And like always, you do what you’ve done after every game.

You take a slow walk along the stands, scanning the seats. Searching. Hoping.

The lights above hum, buzzing faintly in the quiet. The student section is empty now, just rows of vacant bleachers, puddles reflecting the glow of the floodlights. Your gaze drifts over every seat, your breath shallow. Maybe this time.

But the stands are empty. No familiar faces. No one waiting for you. Just like always.

You exhale, pressing your lips together. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You won. That should be enough. But the ache in your chest says otherwise.

The sun is dipping lower in the sky, staining the clouds gold and pink as practice stretches into the evening. The scrimmage has turned playful, full of taunts and laughter, the kind of session where the intensity is still there but the pressure isn’t crushing. It’s just fun… until it isn’t.

You’re dribbling down the pitch, slipping past defenders with ease, the ball glued to your foot. Someone shouts your name in warning, but it’s too late. A tackle comes in hard, way too aggressive for practice. There’s no time to react, no time to brace yourself.

You go down, and the impact rattles through your body, but the second you hit the ground, you know something is wrong. Pain explodes up your arm, sharp and immediate, radiating from your wrist.

You don’t scream, but you let out a harsh, shaky breath, cradling your wrist to your chest as you try to push yourself up only to be met with a wave of nausea as pain tears through your arm again.

“Shit, Azulita—”

“Is she okay?”

“Someone get the trainer!”

Voices swarm around you, overlapping, frantic. The player who tackled you hovers nearby, looking guilty as hell.

Your coach is there in an instant, crouching beside you. “Where’s the pain?”

You try to shrug it off, but even moving your shoulder makes your wrist throb. “Wrist.” Your voice comes out strained.

Someone helps you up carefully, supporting your arm as they guide you toward the sideline. The trainer takes one look and mutters, “We need to get her to the hospital.”

“No,” you fiercely shake your head, “No hospital please.”

“Ríos do not give me that bull today.” Your coach says in rebuttal. “You are going to the hospital. That is that. Am I clear?”

Your eyes start to water but the tears never fall. “Yes, Coach.”

The ride to the hospital is a blur of pain, muted voices, and the occasional bump in the road that makes you wince. Your teammates on the phone try to keep the mood light, cracking jokes, promising to cover your cast in the ugliest drawings possible.

But underneath it all, a weight is pressing down on you.

Hospitals mean paperwork. Paperwork means parents.

You barely process the check-in, the way the nurses poke and prod at your wrist, asking questions, nodding at your answers until suddenly, everything halts.

“Alright,” one of the nurses says, flipping through the forms, “we just need to get a hold of your parents for consent.”

Your stomach drops. They dial the number you gave them. You already know what’s coming. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Voicemail.

Frowning, the nurse glances up. “Do you have another guardian? A relative we can contact?”

You shake your head, quickly, instinctively, throat tight.

She tries again. Nothing.

“Sweetheart,” she says, softer now, “we can’t give you anything for the pain, and we can’t proceed until we get parental consent.”

The room closes in. Your teammates shift awkwardly, not sure what to say. The nurses murmur to each other. You stare at the floor, fingers tightening around the hem of your jersey, afraid to move, afraid to speak.

You could lie. Say they’re out of town. Say their phones died. Say something, anything. But the truth is pressing against your ribs, clawing up your throat. You don’t know where your parents are.

The minutes stretch long. Nurses come and go, but you refuse to meet their eyes, refuse to say anything. If they figure it out, if they realize you don’t have anyone, what happens next?

Then, a new nurse kneels beside you. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand answers. She just speaks, voice steady, familiar in a way you can’t place at first.

“You remind me of my little sister,” she says casually, watching you carefully.

You glance at her. The way she talks, the tone, the firmness, the care, it reminds you of Olga. Your throat tightens.

You don’t mean to say it. You don’t even realize the words are leaving your mouth until they’re already out, quiet and unsteady. “I haven’t seen or heard from my parents in months.”

The air shifts. The nurse straightens. Someone steps out of the room. The mood changes instantly. Your heart pounds. You shouldn’t have said anything. Now, everything is about to spiral.

Olga groaned as the sharp buzzing of her phone cut through the quiet of the bedroom. She shifted slightly, trying to ignore it, but the vibration continued, insistent.

Alexia, half-asleep, only tightened her arms around Olga’s waist, murmuring something incoherent against her shoulder.

Olga exhaled, debating ignoring the call altogether, but something about it felt urgent. Carefully, she pried Alexia’s arm away just enough to reach for the phone on the nightstand, squinting at the unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.

Her stomach twisted. Calls in the middle of the night were never good.

Reluctantly, she swiped to answer. “Hello?”

A brief pause. Then, a voice, calm, professional, but carrying a weight that immediately set Olga on edge.

“Is this Olga Ríos?”

“Yes.” She sat up slightly, rubbing at her face. “Who is this?”

“My name is Linda Perez, and I’m a social worker with Los Angeles County.”

Olga frowned, now fully awake. “Okay… what is this about?”

There was another pause, this one heavier.

“It’s about your sister.”

Olga went still.

“She suffered an injury earlier this evening during soccer practice at Willow Canyon Academy. She was taken to the hospital, but they were unable to reach either of her parents for consent to treat her injury. After further investigation, it became clear that your sister has been living without proper parental supervision for several months now.”

Olga’s breath caught in her throat. “Wait—what?”

The social worker continued, voice measured, but Olga could hear the underlying concern. “From what we’ve gathered, neither her father nor mother have been home for quite some time. Their numbers are disconnected or going straight to voicemail. She has no legal guardian available to authorize medical care or provide support.”

Olga felt like the room was tilting. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to process. “You’re telling me she’s been on her own?”

“Yes,” Linda confirmed. “And given the circumstances, her parents are now considered unfit. Without an immediate guardian stepping in, she will be placed into the system as a ward of the state.”

Olga’s stomach dropped. “She’s just a kid,” she said, voice tight, gripping the phone harder. “You can’t—”

“That’s why we’re calling you.” Linda’s tone softened. “You are her closest living relative. If you are willing, you can assume temporary guardianship. However, this is a serious commitment. You would need to take responsibility for her well-being, provide a stable home, and ensure she receives proper care.”

Olga didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll take her.”

Alexia, now sitting up beside her, stiffened at the urgency in her voice. Olga barely noticed, too focused on the conversation.

“Are you sure?” Linda asked. “This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”

“She’s my sister.” Olga was already kicking the sheets off, reaching for the nearest hoodie. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”

“Understood.” Linda hesitated. “Before you go— her injury. It’s her wrist. The doctors believe it’s sprained, possibly fractured. She needs surgery, but without parental consent, they can’t proceed.”

Olga clenched her jaw. “I give consent. Do whatever she needs.”

“I’ll let them know.”

The call ended, but Olga was already moving.

She threw open the closet, yanking out clothes, stuffing them into a suitcase with no real sense of order. Her hands were shaking. How did this happen? How did she not know?

Alexia grabbed her wrist, stopping her frantic movements. “Olga.”

“I should’ve known.” Olga shook her head, running a hand down her face. “She never said anything. I talked to her. I checked in. She never once told me she was—” Her voice caught.

Alexia squeezed her wrist. “You didn’t know.”

“I should have,” Olga snapped, then immediately winced at her own tone. She inhaled sharply. “She’s just a kid, Ale. She’s been alone for months. No parents, no one looking after her and I didn’t know. I should have known! Our dad has always been like this.”

Guilt burned in her chest. She thought back to every conversation, every time she’d asked, How are you? and got a casual, I’m fine in response.

Alexia’s grip on her tightened. “You are a good sister,” she said firmly. “You care. You’re doing the right thing now.”

Olga exhaled shakily, nodding. Alexia let go, only to start folding the clothes Olga had thrown into the suitcase.

“I’ll help you pack,” Alexia said.

Olga blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m coming.”

“You don’t—”

Alexia shot her a look. “Olga.”

Olga swallowed. The tension in her shoulders loosened slightly.

“Okay,” she murmured.

Alexia nodded, zipping up her own bag. “Then let’s go get your sister.”

The last time you saw Olga in person, you were twelve years old. She had come to visit for a month, and for the first time, you felt like you had a real family member, someone who truly cared, someone who loved you. You clung to every moment, every second of that summer, storing them away like treasures, hoping they would last.

Now, sitting in your social worker’s office, your leg bounces a mile a minute. Your fingers dig into the sleeves of your hoodie as you try to steady yourself, but your mind is racing. What if this doesn’t work out? What if she doesn’t want you? What if she sees you now and regrets coming?

The door swings open and Olga barely hesitates before crossing the room in quick strides. The moment she reaches you, her arms wrap around you tightly, pulling you in like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. You tense for half a second then melt into the embrace.

She smells the same, like citrus and something faintly floral. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face into her shoulder, and for the first time in months, you feel something close to safe.

She pulls back, hands still gripping your shoulders, and really looks at you. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes you in.

“You’re so—” Her voice catches, and she shakes her head. “Dios, has crecido tanto.” (God, you have grown so much.)

And you have. You’re nearly the same height as her now— maybe even taller. Your hair is longer, the tips dyed blonde. There are more piercings in your ears, and a small gold hoop gleams from your nose. Olga swallows hard. Her eyes are glassy, but she blinks quickly, shaking off the emotion.

Behind her, Alexia is speaking in low tones with your social worker, nodding as she listens. The woman slides a stack of paperwork across the desk, and Alexia flips through it, occasionally handing something to Olga to sign. It all feels so surreal.

Before you know it, you’re walking out of the office, bags in hand, stepping into the cool evening air. Alexia unlocks the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, while you and Olga settle in the back.

The drive is quiet.

You stare out the window, arms crossed, fingers tapping against your knee. The weight of everything sits heavy in your chest. Olga is here. You’re leaving your home, your LA. It’s happening so fast, and you don’t know how to process it.

Olga shifts beside you, then clears her throat.

“So…” she starts, trying to keep her tone light. “How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Any favorite classes?”

A shrug. “Spanish.”

She exhales through her nose, tilting her head slightly. “Okay… uh, football? Are you still playing with Legends?”

You nod, still staring out the window. “Well, not anymore.”

Olga rubs her hands against her jeans, glancing at Alexia in the rearview mirror. Alexia gives her a small look that says, Give her time.

But patience has never been Olga’s strong suit. “Zulita,” she tries again. “I know this is a lot, but—“

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

It comes out sharp. Too sharp. You see Olga’s jaw tighten slightly.

“You needed someone to come,” she says, voice edged with frustration.

“I was doing fine.”

“Fine?” Olga scoffs. “Zulita, you were in the hospital alone. You had no one looking after you.”

“I was handling it.”

“No, you weren’t!” Her voice rises slightly, exasperation creeping in. “You’re fifteen! You shouldn’t have to handle it!”

The words hit something raw inside you. The frustration, the helplessness, the months of being on your own, of convincing yourself you were fine—it all bubbles up too fast.

“Well, I did!” you snap. “Because I didn’t have a choice! Because no one else was there!”

The car goes silent. Olga stares at you, her expression shifting from anger to something softer. Something sad. And then, she remembers.

She remembers the way you used to be as a kid— how you would lash out when things got too overwhelming, how your emotions always felt too big for your body, how you would snap and yell because it was the only way you knew how to feel heard.

She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice quieter. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

You glare out the window, arms still crossed, but the anger is already fading into something closer to exhaustion.

You shift uncomfortably. “…Yeah. Me too.”

She huffs a small laugh, shaking her head. “You’re still so hot-headed, Zulita.”

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, lips twitching just slightly. “Takes one to know one.”

Olga snorts, nudging your knee with hers.

Alexia just smiles from the front seat, shaking her head as she drives.

Spain doesn’t feel like home. You only vaguely remember it— small flashes from the two times your dad brought you to visit Olga. The streets, the language, the way the air smelled different. But those were just trips. You were always going back to LA. Now, you’re here. Permanently. And you hate it.

The Spanish is different. The people are different. The food is different. Everything is different.

Your emotions are a tangled mess, a constant weight in your chest that you can’t shake. You don’t know how to deal with it, don’t know how to explain it, and the one thing that’s always helped, football, has been ripped away from you. You haven’t played since you landed a week ago.

Olga is smothering you. She means well, but it’s too much. She hovers, questions everything, watches your every move like you’re some fragile thing that might shatter at any second.

Alexia is different. She gives you space. She doesn’t treat you like a kid. She sees you not just some troubled teenager Olga suddenly has to take care of, but a person trying to survive in a world that doesn’t feel like theirs. She doesn’t push, just waits.

But none of that stops everything from boiling over.

You never meant to revert to your old ways. The one good thing about Spain was the fact that you had a chance at a fresh start.

But, as you’re sitting at lunch, music blasting in your headphones, trying to block everything out. Trying to breathe, you see it.

A younger kid, probably first-year, backed against a wall, shoulders hunched, eyes darting around like a trapped animal. A taller guy standing in front of him, sneering, shoving his shoulder. Words are exchanged, but you can’t hear them.

What you can see is the way the younger boy’s hands shake, the way he flinches when the older one steps closer.

And suddenly, your body moves before your brain does.

You’re up. Across the cafeteria. Pulling the guy away from the kid.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you snap.

The older guy sneers at you. “Who the hell are you, weirdo?”

You don’t think. You react. Shoving. Yelling. Someone grabs your arm, but you shake them off. A fist swings, and suddenly, you’re in it.

Then there are teachers. Hands pulling you back. Your heart pounding.

Before you even register what happened, you’re sitting in the principal’s office, hands balled into fists, jaw locked.

The secretary dials a number. You hear them say Olga’s name.

You shut your eyes and brace yourself. The car ride home is brutal.

“What the hell were you thinking? Do you know how serious this is? You just got here, and you’re already getting into fights? You’re lucky they didn’t expel you! Dios mío, do you know how hard it was to convince them not to suspend you? This is a top school, Azulita!”

You don’t answer. You stare out the window, jaw clenched, fingers digging into your uniform. You take a deep breath and bite your tongue.

Alexia is quiet for the most part, watching you through the rearview mirror.

Then she asks, voice calm, “Did they provoke you?”

You glance at her, hesitating. “…Yeah.”

“Were they hurting someone?”

Your throat tightens, but you nod.

Alexia hums but doesn’t say anything else.

Olga, on the other hand, is still going. Your breaths get more labored, “Olga. Please drop it for now.”

When you pull into the driveway, you don’t wait. You’re out of the car before it fully stops, slamming the door behind you and stalking inside.

Olga moves to follow, but Alexia stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Let her breathe,” she says.

Olga exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “She can’t just go around hitting people, Alexia!”

“I know,” Alexia says evenly. “But from what the principal said, and what she just said, she wasn’t fighting for no reason. She was standing up for someone.”

Olga’s shoulders drop slightly.

Alexia gives her a look. “You know better than anyone how she is. She doesn’t just get angry— she reacts. She’s been through a lot. You have to meet her halfway.”

Olga presses her lips together, sighing. “…Yeah. You’re right.”

She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and heads upstairs to your room.

She knocks. No response.

She knocks again. “Zulita, can we talk?” Silence. Something feels wrong.

She pushes the door open to be met with an empty bed. The window is open. Your phone is on the nightstand. Panic slams into her chest.

“Alexia!”

Alexia calms her down—barely.

“We’ll find her,” she promises, already dialing a number.

The call connects.

“Lucy,” Alexia says, straight to the point. “We need your help.”

It takes a few hours, but they find you. A park, thirty minutes away. A small, empty field. You’re there, by yourself, shooting goal after goal. You don’t even turn when they approach.

Alexia watches as you line up another shot, striking the ball perfectly into the top corner. It’s instinct. You don’t even think, don’t hesitate. Your body just knows what to do.

She and Lucy exchange a look.

Alexia steps forward. “You scared Olga half to death, you know.”

You exhale, resting your hands on your hips. “I needed to clear my head.”

“So you left your phone and ran off?”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you mumble.

Alexia frowns. “Of course we care.”

You sigh, rolling the ball under your foot. “I just—everything is too much. It’s too different. Spain is different.”

Alexia doesn’t push. She just listens. You stand there, staring at the ball as you line up your next shot, feeling the weight of everything that’s been building up inside you. The silence between you and Alexia stretches, and for the first time, you feel like you can let it out. Let her see the truth of how hard this has been for you. The truth of what you’ve been holding in for so long.

“I’m not used to this,” you say, your voice low but steady, breaking the silence. “It’s… it’s hard, you know? Everything back home just… made sense.”

Alexia’s eyes are focused on you, not speaking, just letting you continue.

You exhale deeply, trying to find the right words. “Back in LA, everything was… routine. It wasn’t easy, but it was my life. You know? I didn’t need to think about it. The corner store, Mr. García, that old man who ran it—he gave me free snacks if I swept the floors for him.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to hold back the emotion that threatens to spill. “He wasn’t rich, wasn’t some big store owner or anything. He was just an old man who liked to help out kids like me. And I did what I had to do. I didn’t complain about it because it meant I got to eat something I didn’t have to pay for. And I felt good doing it. Like, that was a part of me.”

Alexia’s eyes soften as she listens, and you shift uncomfortably, but keep going.

“There was also Mrs. Alvarez, the seamstress who lived down the block. She used to fix my clothes when they tore or when I just couldn’t afford new ones. She’d take the time to patch them up, make them look good as new. And she’d always say, ‘I’ve got your back, mija.’ Even when I couldn’t pay her. She’d make me new stuff too, just out of kindness.”

You pause, feeling the lump in your throat grow.

“And the grocery store? They’d let me stock the juice shelves for an hour or two, and in exchange, they’d give me a bag of groceries. It was the only way I could get some food most times. I mean, I didn’t care, you know? I was just a kid, trying to make it through. But I was making it.”

You stop and look down at the ball, trying to steady your breathing. “Everything back home was like that. A hustle, yeah, but a hustle I understood. It wasn’t perfect, but it made sense. People helped each other out, and you helped them back. I knew how to survive.”

You look at Alexia now, feeling the weight of your confession. “I got a scholarship, you know? A football scholarship to the best program in LA. And it wasn’t handed to me. I worked my ass off to get there. I had to claw my way in, beat out all the other kids who had better coaches, better gear, better everything. But I fought for it. I did it alone. No one helped me get there. It was just me, and I… I made it.”

You can feel the emotion building, the frustration, the anger, the sadness, all of it hitting you at once. “And now, I’m here. And I don’t know how to make it make sense. I don’t know how to fit in. Spain is nothing like LA. The Spanish is different. The people are different. And I feel like I’m… just lost. Like I don’t belong here.”

Alexia doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer advice or try to fix things. She just nods, listening, letting you spill everything.

“I didn’t know how to handle that. I didn’t know how to adjust. And yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but…” You clench your jaw, fighting the tears that are threatening to come. “It’s hard to start over. I didn’t think I’d have to do this again.”

Alexia stays silent for a long moment, letting you talk through everything. Then, when you’re done, she finally speaks.

“You’re right,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling, Zulita. I’ve been in Barcelona my whole life, so this—what you’re going through—this isn’t something I understand. But I can understand that it’s hard.”

You nod, your chest heavy. “I don’t want to be ungrateful. I know this is an opportunity. But it just feels like I’m starting over in a place that isn’t mine. A place that isn’t home.”

Alexia smiles softly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to figure it out all at once. You’re allowed to feel frustrated, to miss home. You’re allowed to take time to adjust.”

You look up at her, feeling a little lighter, a little more seen. “Thanks,” you say quietly.

Alexia’s gaze softens as she watches you, clearly understanding. “But there’s something you need to do. You need to talk to Olga about this. It’s the first step in the right direction, okay?”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering it. You know she’s right, but it still feels hard. Still feels like you’re betraying everything you built back in LA. But Alexia’s words make sense.

And when you finally nod, Alexia adds, “Talking to her is the first step, but we’ll get through this together. All of us. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

You take a breath and look back at the goal, focusing on the ball again. The frustration, the anger, the confusion—it’s still there, simmering. But for the first time since you got to Spain, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can start figuring this out.

Maybe you can make this work, too. You sigh, staring down at the ball. “…She treats me like a kid.”

“She treats you like someone she loves,” Alexia corrects gently.

You chew on your lip, kicking the ball toward the goal again. It soars into the net.

Alexia and Lucy exchange another look.

Alexia smirks. “We’re gonna have to get you on a team soon.”

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!

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

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

source: esport3 on instagram

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

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

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

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

I- I.. can’t 💔💔

🏀 Based after Eleven 🏀

Chapter 10

It started as playful online chemistry with someone unexpected-Alexia Putellas. Flirty banter turned into late-night texts before a heated moment on a club balcony shifted everything.

Now it was post game meet-ups, no-strings friends-with-benefits arrangement. They shared passion, comfort, and the grind of pro sports. But as the season went on, lines blurred.

It was supported to stay simple. These things never do however. Not in professional sports. The option to stay isn't always yours.

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, heart hammering like you were about to walk into a final except this time, there were no sneakers, no warm-up playlist, no team huddle. Just the quiet echo of your breath and the weight of a decision that felt bigger than a game.

This was it.

Your final contract meeting with Barcelona.

The gold medal from Paris still hung by the doorway where you’d left it, like a ghost of everything you’d just accomplished four trophies in one season. An unprecedented legacy. You’d done your part.

Now it was their turn.

You tried to steady your hands as you twisted your hair up, pulled on your jacket, smoothed down the front of your shirt. It wasn’t that you weren’t prepared, you were. You’d rehearsed what you’d say, you knew the numbers. Your agent had laid out every offer on the table, both from Barcelona and the ones calling from across the Atlantic.

The WNBA teams weren’t just interested.

They were ready.

Big contracts. Full campaigns. Franchise-level investments.

But that wasn’t the part tying your stomach in knots.

It was the what ifs that buzzed under your skin.

What if they didn’t value you enough? What if this was goodbye? What if walking away also meant walking away from... her?

You hadn’t talked to Alexia about it. Not really. That night in Paris had said everything and nothing all at once. The way she held you like you might disappear. The way you kissed her like you already had.

You’d made love like people who were too proud to admit they were scared of letting go.

Now, here you were zipping up your coat, smoothing trembling hands down your thighs, staring at yourself in the mirror and trying to believe that walking in there was just business.

But your heart didn’t understand contracts.

It only knew the city. The crest. The people. Her.

Your phone buzzed.

A message from Liv: “Whatever happens, you already won. Go get what you deserve.”

You took one last breath. Then picked up your keys. It was time to find out if Barcelona was willing to fight for you the way you’d fought for them.

You opened your apartment door to head to the contract meeting and almost walked right into her.

Alexia.

Still in her post-training hoodie, hair damp from a shower, flushed cheeks from training that had only ended an hour ago.

Your mouth opened. But she spoke, “I didn’t want to text it.”

You swallowed hard. “Text what?”

She reached up, gently brushing her fingers against your arm, then trailed them down until her hand found yours. “I don’t want you to go,” she said softly.

You stared at her, searching her face for any hint of hesitation. There wasn’t any.

“I know the last few weeks have been.. weird. Between us…I don’t know when it stopped being casual,” she added. “I just know that it did.” You let out a shaky breath. “But i’m in love with you. I love you Y/N please don’t go. Stay.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stood there in the soft hallway light, hand in hand, two athletes dressed in your respective team gear, looking at each other like the whole world had quieted just for this moment.

Alexia gave your hand a small squeeze. “Say something,” she said gently. 

“I can’t do this,” you said, “Alexia. I have a meeting,” stepping back, letting go of her hand like it burned.

Her brows knit. “A meeting?” Her voice sharpened. “That’s what you have to say? You’re just walking away?”

You rubbed your temples, already feeling the weight of everything pressing in, your future, your choice, her. “I’m not walking away. I’m going to get what I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about us?” she snapped. “You’re really going to pretend none of this means anything? That I don’t mean anything?”

You sighed. “Alexia, please. Don’t do this now.”

Her eyes glassed over, jaw tightening. “I didn’t plan to fall for you,” she said, voice low, shaky. “But I did. I love you. And I’m standing here, asking you to stay and you won’t even look at me.”

You turned your face away, your throat tightening. “You’re asking me to throw away something I’ve been fighting for since I was a kid.”

“I’m not asking you to throw it away!” she said, raising her voice. “I’m asking you to see me. To be honest about what this is what we are. You’re just running from it because it’s easier to focus on basketball than deal with your feelings.”

You flinched, then shook your head. “I don’t have the head space for this, Alexia. I don’t. You can’t drop all of this on me right before the biggest meeting of my career.”

“I had to,” she whispered. “Because if I didn’t, you’d leave and I’d never say it and forever wonder.”

Silence fell. The hallway buzzed with tension. Her words lingered in the air like smoke.

You stared at her, heart pounding, lips partedmbut nothing came out. Then you turned, grabbed your bag, and walked out your door.

Alexia didn’t follow. She just stood there in your apartment, alone, eyes locked on the space where you’d been.

—

You barely remember the drive to Alexia’s place just that your hands were clenched on the wheel the whole time and your chest hadn’t stopped burning since you left that boardroom. You weren’t calm. You weren’t even sure what you were going to say. All you knew was you had to say something.  

You pounded on her door like your heart was about to break through your ribs.

When it opened, you were met not just with Alexia but her whole world behind her. Her mother, seated on the couch. Her sister hovering near the kitchen. And a few of her teammates still in Barça tracksuits, frozen mid-conversation, eyes wide the second they saw you.

The room was thick with tension. They knew. They all knew what you’d done.  

Alexia stepped forward, face unreadable. She opened her mouth to speak. You didn’t let her. “No, don’t,” you snapped, voice cracking. “Don’t say anything right now. You don’t get to drop that on me and then just stand there like nothing happened.”

She blinked, taken aback, but you were already going, fuelled by adrenaline and emotion.

“You don’t get to tell me you love me as I’m walking out the door for the biggest meeting of my career,” you said, voice rising. “That wasn’t fair, Alexia. That was so unfair.”

You could feel every pair of eyes on you, but you didn’t care.

“You know what that moment meant to me. You know, I’ve been fighting for that chance my whole life, and you waited until right then to tell me how you feel?”

Alexia’s lips parted again, but you didn’t stop.

“You think I don’t feel things too? You think this is easy for me? You think walking away from you didn’t rip something out of me?” Your breath hitched. “But I would never ask you to pick me over your career. Never.” You took a step closer, your voice low and rough now. “So what would you do, huh? If it were the other way around? If I begged you to come with me, to give it all up? Would you?”

She tried to answer—but again, you shook your head, cutting her off.

“No. Don’t. Because that’s not the point. The point is you didn’t give me space to even think. You threw your heart at me like a grenade and expected me to catch it.”

Your hands were shaking now. Anger. Hurt. Love. Everything tangled in your throat.

“And I wasn’t ready for that,” your voice had yet to lower. “I still don’t know if I am.”

Silence fell, heavy and raw. You looked around the room at the faces pretending not to stare. Her mother, her sister, her teammates none of them said a word. But their expressions said everything. And finally, you looked at Alexia. Her eyes shimmered, jaw tight, but she still hadn’t said a word.

You swallowed hard. “It’s too much Alexia, I can’t handle this right now I have people constantly wanting a piece of me, wanting commitment, a signature on a contract, a comment, a fucking selfie, I don’t need you doing the same, you have no idea how much pressure I’m under to constantly make the right choice, I don’t need you asking me to make a choice to”

Then you turned and walked out, heart pounding in your ears, not sure where you were going just knowing you couldn’t stay.

—

You didn’t know how long you drove. Past streets that blurred together, red lights you barely registered, the same message from your agent popping up on your phone over and over “We need to know. Clock’s ticking.”

You ignored it.

Your chest felt like it had split open the second you walked out of that apartment.

Your voice still echoed in your own head. Alexia’s silence too.

You hadn’t even meant to say half of it, but it came out like a flood. Like it had been sitting there under your ribs, waiting.

You were terrified.

Terrified of choosing wrong. Of walking away from something real. Of staying and sacrificing what you’d worked for. Of leaving and never knowing could have been.

By the time you finally parked, the sun had sunk low enough to turn everything gold and soft. You didn’t even know where you were just that it was quiet. Just that you could breathe again.

You leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes. You didn’t text. Didn’t call. Didn’t answer when she did.

And you were tired. So instead of going back to Alexia, you went with Liv and Maya who had already booked a post-season escape to Greece, and insisted, loudly and dramatically, that you needed it more than anyone.

“Blue water. White buildings. No exes,” Maya had said, grinning as she shoved the ticket confirmation under your nose.

And you’d nodded, packed a bag, and gotten on the flight. Now you were on a boat.

Literally. Out in the Aegean Sea. The sun warm against your shoulders, the breeze tangling through your hair, your legs dangling over the edge of the deck. Maya was already mid-dive, cannonballing off the side with a scream, while Liv lounged in the sun with a drink in hand, sunglasses halfway down her nose as she watched you carefully.

“You haven’t checked your phone in two days,” she said.

You shrugged. “I didn't unpack it.”

She smiled faintly. “Proud of you.”

You looked out over the horizon, clear and endless and yours for once. No decisions. No pressure. No pretending that whatever was between you and Alexia didn’t always circle back to pain.

Just freedom.

“I didn’t want a goodbye,” you said suddenly, surprising even yourself. Liv didn’t press. You stared at the sea. “I just… didn’t want to sit in that silence again, knowing one of us was waiting for the other to say something they didn’t mean.”

Maya surfaced with a laugh, splashing water everywhere. “You two gonna cry or jump in already?”

You stood slowly, stretched, and smiled. “Jump.” And you did.

You dove in clean and headfirst, the water cold and bright and new. It wrapped around you like clarity, like release. Like something finally, finally just for you.

Alexia was somewhere far away, in another country, maybe still waiting. But right now you weren’t.

But back in Barcelona.

The warmth of summer had rolled in gently over the city, but for Alexia, it felt cold. The air in her apartment was still, heavy. The kind of quiet that doesn't come from peace but absence.

She sat curled in the corner of the sofa, knees tucked to her chest, wrapped in one of your hoodies one she had no right to still wear, but couldn't bring herself to fold away. Her phone buzzed on the table for the tenth time that hour. She didn’t look.

She already knew what it was. More news. More speculation. More you.

Every local sports channel had the same thing on repeat: updates about your contract, the mounting pressure on Barcelona to offer more, the leaked offers from WNBA teams huge numbers, huge interest, and the biggest story of all…

Your silence. No statement. No goodbye. No post-game recap. Just... gone.

And today they had photos. You, in Greece. Tanned. Laughing. On a boat. Your smile shining in the sun like the whole city hadn’t been holding its breath waiting for your next move.

Alexia couldn’t take it anymore. She shut off the TV and pressed her palms to her eyes. She tried not to cry. She really, really did.

But her mami had already sat down next to her, one look at her daughter’s face enough to see the heartbreak she was trying to hide “Mi niña,” her mother said gently, wrapping an arm around her. “What happened?”

Alexia shook her head, a tear sliding down her cheek. “I really thought she’d stay.” Her voice cracked so softly it broke her mother’s heart. “I really thought… even after everything… even after how messy we were, I thought she’d fight to stay.”

“She still might,” her mother offered.

Alexia shook her head. “She’s gone. She didn’t even tell me. Didn’t say goodbye. She just left.”

Her mother rubbed small circles on her back. “Maybe she couldn’t say it. Maybe she didn't say goodbye because she couldn't, not to you. Maybe it was too painful"

Alexia stared at her lap, blinking through tears. Paris had felt like a turning point. That kiss beneath the Eiffel Tower, the way you had smiled at her like it meant something again. The way you'd touched her face like you didn’t want to forget it.

And then that night, in the hotel. It hadn’t been sex. It hadn't been a hook up, it meant something. Something neither of you had dared speak aloud.

Alexia wiped at her face with the sleeve of your hoodie, breathing in the fading scent of you. “I think I let her go,” she whispered.

Her mother kissed the side of her head. “Or maybe you were just never sure if you were allowed to ask her to stay and when you did, it was too late.”

And that broke her all over again.

--

The sea stretched wide and endless around you, nothing but deep blue and gold sun. The yacht bobbed gently on the Aegean, anchored just off the coast of a quiet cove, the perfect post-season escape. Salt clung to your skin, your hair still damp from the ocean. Everything smelled like sunscreen, grilled food, and freedom.

You were lying on a cushioned lounger at the back of the boat, a pair of sunglasses shielding your eyes as you listened to the hum of Maya and Liv chatting somewhere behind you soft, lazy voices full of peace.

No pressure. No crowds. No one expecting you to be anything more than tired and sun-kissed. It had been a few days now. Since Paris. Since the final. Since her. And no one had brought it up. Not Alexia. Not the kiss. Not that night in her hotel room where everything between you slowed down for the first time.

Where it hadn’t just been sex. Where it felt like goodbye, even though neither of you said the words.

You’d touched her like you were memorising her. She’d held you like she didn’t want to let go. But morning came, and you both let it speak the things you couldn’t.

The ache from that night still sat quietly in your chest familiar, patient. Waiting. But now, the two people who knew you best were giving you the most obvious kind of grace.

They weren’t asking. Not about the contract. Not about Barcelona. Not about whether you were staying… or going.

You sat up slowly, pulling your sunglasses to rest on your head.

Maya was stretched out under the shade with a book on her stomach, eyes closed. Liv was dangling her feet off the side of the yacht, sipping from a cold drink, gaze somewhere far off on the horizon.

“Neither of you are gonna ask me?” you said softly.

They both looked up, brows raised, like you’d just interrupted a very chill dream. “Ask you what?” Maya replied, already knowing.

Liv shrugged, lips pulling into a gentle smile. “When you’re ready to talk about it… you’ll talk.”

Your throat tightened just slightly at the calm in their voices, the way they didn’t push. You nodded, quietly grateful. “Thanks.”

Maya lifted her glass toward you. “Whether it’s Barcelona or not, you’ll land where you’re meant to.”

Liv grinned. “And we’ll still make fun of your shitty decision making either way.”

You laughed, the knot in your chest loosening for the first time in days.

The future was still uncertain. But your people they weren’t going anywhere. And for now, under the sun, on the sea, with everything suspended in this warm, golden pause, that was enough.

-

The sun was melting into the Aegean Sea, painting the sky in soft strokes of orange and lavender as the yacht gently rocked beneath you. The air was warm with salt and quiet, the kind of peace that only came once the noise of winning had settled and the champagne had finally run dry.

You sat with Maya and Liv around a small table on the deck, barefoot, drinks in hand, a soft breeze tugging at the hem of your linen shirt. Laughter had faded into comfortable silence, a half-finished dinner of grilled seafood and pasta still on your plates. Someone had queued a mellow playlist. You’d almost forgotten the world existed beyond this floating slice of stillness.

Until Liv ever the instigator patience wearing thin-set her glass down and asked softly, “So. Are you going?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked out at the endless blue horizon, the world you'd just conquered behind you… and the one waiting ahead still uncertain. “I don’t know,” you said finally. “I thought I would. I mean, I still might.”

Maya leaned forward, chin on her fist. “But?”

You sighed, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “Alexia.” The name came out before you could soften it.

Liv gave you a look. Not smug. Not surprised. Just knowing.

You continued. “She’s probably, I don’t know… thirty percent of what’s making me hesitate.”

Maya raised her brows. “That’s not a small percentage.”

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “It’s not just her. I love the team. The club. The city. The fans. And… I’m not that far from home here. From my family. I get to see them. They’ve been part of this whole journey. I feel rooted in Barcelona.”

Liv’s voice was quiet. “But?”

You let out a slow breath. “But the WNBA… on paper, it’s perfect. The dream, right? The best league in the world. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I’ve trained for.”

“But it’s far,” Maya added gently. “Really far.”

You nodded. “Eight hours, sometimes more depending which team I pick. But it's not just distance. It's a different kind of pressure. A different kind of spotlight. I know I’d grow there. I know it’d challenge me. And I know I'd do well and thrive and my game would translate. But I don’t know if I’d be happy.” You looked up at both of them, eyes raw, vulnerable. “And I don’t know if that’s selfish or smart.”

Liv smiled softly. “It’s human.”

You stared back out at the water, heart heavy in the kind of way that had nothing to do with doubt, and everything to do with choice. “You know what’s funny?” you said after a moment, voice barely above the waves. “Winning everything this year… it didn’t make the decision easier. It made it harder.”

Because now you had everything. And you had to decide if you were ready to walk away from it. From the dream. Or from the life you never expected to build but had come to love.

And somewhere in between it all, was her, the goodbye you still hadn’t said.

“So,” Maya said, swirling her wine before leveling her eyes at you. “When do you have to make a decision?”

You pushed your fork through the last piece of feta, exhaling slowly before answering. “Three weeks.”

Liv glanced up, her expression sobering. “That’s it?”

You nodded, setting your fork down. “The club’s given me their final offer. No more meetings. No more back and forth. Just ‘Here’s what we’re offering. Take it or leave it.’”

Maya leaned back in her seat, eyebrows raised. “Damn. That’s… kinda cold.”

You shrugged. “They said they need to start planning for what the team looks like post-me. If I go.”

There was a brief silence. Not heavy just thoughtful.

Liv set her glass down. “And what does it look like for you if you stay?”

That was the question.

You leaned back, stretching your legs out, gaze flicking toward the water where the last light of the day danced across the surface. “Comfort. Familiarity. A team I helped build. A city I know.”

“And Alexia,” Maya added quietly.

You didn’t look at her. “Yeah.”

“But?” Liv asked, gently.

You glanced between them, then spoke honestly. “But… I’d be choosing less. Because no matter how much I love playing there, it’s not the best offer on the table, not even close.”

Maya nodded slowly. “So you’d be staying for the badge.”

You met her eyes. “I’d be staying for the people.”

That was the truth. But there was something else beneath it. That night in Paris with Alexia the kiss, the way she looked at you, the way she held you later in that quiet hotel room, like it was something more than just touch, like she knew what you both weren’t saying…

It had felt like goodbye. Neither of you had said it. But you both felt it.

Maybe that was why you hadn’t made your decision yet. Because staying meant more uncertainty. But leaving meant finally letting her go.

Liv reached out and squeezed your hand across the table. “Whatever you choose,” she said softly, “just don’t choose out of guilt. Or fear. Choose what gives you peace.”

"I would hate for you to stay for Alexia and you end up resenting her, because thats so much worse"

And under the Greek stars, with the water lapping gently against the hull, you finally admitted. You weren’t sure peace existed on either side. You knew it was time. “I have to tell you both something.”

Liv immediately looked over. Maya popped another grape in her mouth, then paused. “This sounds ominous,” Maya said slowly.

You nodded once, the heat suddenly sticking to your skin differently. “It is.”

They both waited, the air shifting, the sea breeze no longer enough to cool the tension rising in your chest. “It was before my last meeting with Barcelona,” you started, voice even but heavy. “Alexia turned up at my place just as I was leaving. We hadn’t really spoken after Paris… not properly.”

Maya straightened. Liv’s brows drew together.

You looked out over the water, then back at them. “She told me she was in love with me.” Silence. Neither of them moved. You let the words settle, your throat tightening as you finished, “And I walked out.”

Liv blinked, stunned. “You what?”

“I couldn't deal with it,” you said quickly. “She said it completely serious and I just… couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process. Not with everything else. So I left.”

Maya let out a slow breath. “Did you talk to her after?”

You shook your head, jaw tight. “Yeah. I went to her place her mum sister and some friends were there and just went crazy on her basically said she was unfair for telling me she loved me and walked away. I haven’t seen her since. Haven’t called. She hasn’t, either.”

Liv sat up now too, arms resting on her knees. “So she said she loved you. And you ghosted her?”

You winced. “I know how that sounds.”

“It sounds like you’re both idiots,” Maya said, though her voice was more gentle than annoyed.

“She asked me to stay to,” you added quietly. “To stay in Barcelona. With her. And I was hours from making the decision and it just… it overwhelmed me. It felt like pressure. Like she waited too long, and then expected me to just drop everything because she finally figured it out.”

Liv was quiet for a long beat. Then she said softly, “And now?”

You looked down at your hands, then up at them again. “I don’t know.”

You thought about her every single day. The last kiss. The way her voice broke when she said it. The feeling in your chest that morning, like something beautiful was being left behind... intentionally.

“She meant it,” you whispered. “I know she did. But I didn’t know if it was love or just fear of losing me.”

Maya nodded slowly, the sun dancing in her curls. “And now you might lose her anyway.”

“Yeah,” you exhaled. “I think I already did. I could see how broken she was when I left.”

And this time, neither of them said anything, because some heartbreaks didn’t need commentary. Just space. And silence.

--

The lights in the Palau Blaugrana blazed brighter than ever gold and purple flooding every seat, the court transformed into a stage, the banners of all four trophies draped across the rafters like proof of a dream most teams wouldn’t even dare to speak aloud.

You’d won everything. League. Cup. SuperCup. Continental Final.

The crowd was standing. Cheering. Chanting your name over and over, echoing around the arena where it all began. Where you’d bled, rehabbed, led, and lifted more than just trophies you’d carried a team into history.

And yet…

You were crying. Not small tears. Not discreet.

You were standing centre court, your medals around your neck, your hair still damp from champagne, and your shoulders were shaking. Your eyes were already rimmed red, your cheeks streaked with tears as the club played a montage of the season above the court. Every big shot. Every buzzer beater. Every celebration. Every injury. Every comeback. You. Always you.

You tried to smile through it, tried to wave to the crowd like everything was fine but your bottom lip was trembling and your hands weren’t steady.

Maya had an arm wrapped around your waist, her forehead pressed briefly to your shoulder. Liv wiped her own eyes beside you, sniffling with zero shame.

And the rest of your teammates were struggling. Because seeing you like this, the heartbeat of the team, the one who always held it together was breaking them.

Your coach saw it too.

She crossed the court calmly but with urgency, gently pulling you into a hug right there in front of everyone. One arm wrapped firm around your shoulders, the other cupping the back of your neck as you sank into her.

She whispered something only you could hear. “Whatever happens next, this will always be yours. You gave this city this.”

You nodded into her shoulder, the tears not stopping but becoming quieter. It wasn’t just the emotion of winning. It was the ache of knowing this was probably the end. Your last time in this arena as one of them.

And no matter how many cheers came, how many lights flashed, how many people screamed your name…

It wouldn’t change the fact that the goodbye you hadn’t said yet was already being felt.

The arena was still roaring when someone handed you the mic.

You hesitated. Your hand curled around the black metal, fingers trembling. You stared at it like it might burn you, because speaking meant naming something you’d spent months trying not to.

You looked out at the crowd, at the faces you’d come to know and love. Fans wearing your jersey. Staff who’d treated your ankle like sacred ground. Your teammates still clutching each other on the sidelines.

And then you looked up.

The banners. All four. Hanging there like crown jewels.

You cleared your throat and brought the mic to your lips. Your voice cracked before you even started.

“I’m not great at this,” you began, your laugh watery, brushing at your cheek with the back of your hand. “Talking. Especially when it matters. Especially when it’s this close to… everything.”

The crowd quieted, sensing what you were about to say, but no one moved. No one even breathed.

“This season… I don’t even know how to describe it. We made history. Not just as a team, but as people. We fought through injuries, setbacks, pressure, expectations so heavy they could’ve crushed us. But we didn’t break. We rose.”

You paused, exhaling slowly. You looked at Maya. At Liv. Your coach. Each of them anchoring you in their own way.

“There’s no version of this story without all of you. No version of this success without every single person who showed up every day, even when it was hard. Who stayed when things were uncertain. Who played through pain. Who showed up for each other when we didn’t know how to ask.”

The crowd started clapping again soft at first, then swelling.

You swallowed. Your voice gentled. “And this is the end for me here… this is the last time I wear this jersey, then I just want to say. Gracias!”

Your eyes were glassy again, but your voice didn’t falter now.

“For believing in me when I didn’t even believe in myself. For letting me lead you. For letting me grow here. For letting me leave this court not just as a player, but as a part of this club’s history.”

You looked down for a moment, overwhelmed by the roar rising again. Then back up, straight into the heart of the crowd.

“No matter where I go next, this” you turned, gesturing to the court, the lights, your teammates, "this will always be home. You made me feel like I belonged.”

A pause. A breath.

“And that’s something I’ll carry with me, always. I wish there was a different ending to this story but it's the one I have to accept. Te amo con todo mi corazón, adiós.”

You lowered the mic slowly, letting the words settle, letting the emotion swell.

The arena exploded. Standing ovation. Chants. Cheers. Tears.

And in the chaos, as your teammates pulled you into a hug, the staff and coaches surrounded you like a living, breathing embrace.

The press release went out just after sunrise.

Short. Gracious. Carefully worded by your agent, signed off by both parties, and accompanied by one photo your last walk through the tunnel, back turned, trainers slung over your shoulder.

You didn’t read the headlines. You didn’t need to. You already knew what they’d say.

“Barcelona’s Star Departs.” “Historic Season Ends in Goodbye.” “WNBA Wins the Battle.”

None of them would write about what it really meant. Not the missed calls. Not the silence after the fight. Not the ache in your chest when you handed back your training gear and walked past the football facility door without popping your head in.

You thought you might cry when the flight lifted off. But you didn’t. You stared out the window, the city shrinking beneath you, the crest pressed into your hoodie like it still belonged to you. Willing the plane to England for the post season break to hurry up and land you just wanted a hug from your mum.

You didn’t cry then. Not when you went to yours parents as you thought.

It was when you sat on the floor in your bedroom, and pulled out your phone.

A single message.

From her.

Just a photo.

Of your hoodie.

And underneath, just one line:

“You forgot your jacket.” How it all started.

You didn’t respond. Not because you didn’t want to. But because the words wouldn’t come. You pressed the phone to your chest and sat there in the quiet of your cries for a long time, letting the silence say what neither of you could.

And somewhere, across an ocean, maybe she was doing the same. Because love doesn’t always end with fireworks. Sometimes it ends with a story that doesn't get the happy ending. And a photo you’ll never delete.

was it me running 10k in the Barcelona sun? because this is getting hot 🥵

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

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

You weren’t sure if Alexia was actually going to follow through. She talked a big game, sure. But this? This was different. This was her stepping past the safety of online flirting. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that she meant it this time. So when training wrapped up and you were cooling down with a few teammates, you weren’t entirely surprised when your phone buzzed.

Alexia: Where are you?

No pleasantries. No hesitation. Straight to the point. You grinned, wiping sweat from your forehead as you typed back.

You: Facility gym. Why? You looking for me?

Read at 2:13 PM. A long pause.

Alexia: Maybe.

Your smirk deepened.

You: You lost or something?

Alexia: No. But you’re about to be.

You frowned at your screen, confused until you heard a voice behind you.

"¿Qué tal, estrella?"

You turned, pulse kicking up a notch. Alexia stood just inside the entrance of the gym, arms crossed, a small smirk playing on her lips.

She was actually here.

And she looked way too confident about it. "Didn’t think you’d actually show up," you said, tossing your towel aside as you took a slow step toward her.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting. "Why? Because you think I only talk and don’t act?"

You shrugged, mirroring her stance. "Haven’t exactly seen you prove me wrong yet."

A flicker of something crossed her face, challenge, maybe. Or irritation. Then, in one smooth movement, she stepped closer, invading your space just enough to make your breath hitch. "You like pushing me, don’t you?" she murmured.

You swallowed, your fingers twitching at your sides. "Maybe."

Alexia hummed, her gaze flickering over your face like she was studying every reaction. Then, her voice dropped lower. "Careful what you wish for."

Déjà vu.

She had texted you those words just hours ago. But hearing them in person? That was different. That was Alexia daring you to finally stop playing games.

You held Alexia’s gaze, your breath steady despite the heat creeping up your spine. She was testing you. Pushing you. Fine. Two could play that game.

You shifted your stance, standing taller, letting a slow smirk curl your lips. “You keep saying that, but I’m still waiting for you to prove it.”

Alexia’s eyes flickered with something dark, determined. “Oh?” she mused, taking another step forward.

You refused to move back. You were locked in now, a silent stand-off, neither willing to be the first to break. A few of your teammates were still lingering nearby, pretending very poorly not to watch. You caught one of them nudging another, both whispering behind their hands. Great. An audience.

Alexia must have noticed too because her smirk widened. “Your team seems interested in this.”

You let out a short laugh. “Can’t blame them. You’ve been running your mouth online for weeks.”

She tilted her head. “And yet, you’re still here. Entertaining it.”

Your jaw clenched for half a second. She had a point. But you weren’t about to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. Instead, you shrugged. “Maybe I just like the attention.”

Alexia’s gaze dropped to your lips, just for a flicker of a second before snapping back up. “That makes two of us.”

Damn.

That shouldn’t have hit you like it did. But it did. You were about to respond when one of your teammates loudly cleared their throat.

“So… should we leave you two alone or—?”

You rolled your eyes, finally stepping back from Alexia with an exasperated sigh. “Mind your business.”

Your teammate just laughed, raising their hands in surrender before walking off. Alexia, though, stayed exactly where she was, watching you with that same knowing look. Eventually, she glanced down at her phone. “I should go.”

You arched a brow. “Already?”

She smirked. “I just needed to see something.”

You folded your arms. “And?”

She leaned in slightly, voice teasing. “I got my answer.” Then, before you could react, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving you standing there heart racing, mind spinning, and absolutely not ready to let her have the last word.

If anyone thought the online back-and-forth between you and Alexia was slowing down, they were sorely mistaken. Because after your little run-in at the training facility, things only escalated. It started with a subtle like on one of your gym photos—one where your arms and shoulders were looking particularly good. No comment, just the quiet acknowledgment that she had seen it.

Then, a few days later, you posted a clip from training—hitting a deep three-pointer with ease. The caption?

Some things just come naturally. ☄️

The fans hyped it up immediately, and you didn’t think much of it—until Alexia replied.

Alexiaputellas: That so?

Short. Simple. Almost dismissive. But you knew what she was doing. So, you baited her right back.

Yourusername: Something you wanna say, 11?

She liked the comment but didn’t reply. Left you hanging. And if there was one thing you were learning about Alexia, it was that she loved to leave you guessing.

Then, the next day, she posted a picture from her own training session sharp focus, locked in. The caption,

Alexia: Nothing worth having comes easy.

No mention of you, no direct callout. But the timing was too perfect to be a coincidence.

The fans noticed.

— She’s talking about YOU, bestie — Oh, she’s so smooth with it — Just date already

Then, to your surprise, Alexia’s teammates got involved.

Irene Paredes commented first.

Irene: Is this flirting? Or are you two actually beefing? I can’t tell.

Then Mapi León.

Mapi: At this point, I think they don’t even know either.

And finally, Patri Guijarro.

Patri: Either kiss or fight because this needs to get a lot more interesting

That was it. The fans were losing their minds.

— EVEN PATRI SEES IT — MAPI BE SO REAL FOR THIS — SOMEONE PLEASE JUST CONFESS ALREADY

And then just as you were about to call it a night Alexia finally responded.

Alexia: Some games take patience.

Your heart kicked. Because now, she wasn’t just playing along. She was doubling down.

You knew Alexia was watching. From the moment your basketball team stepped onto the Barcelona training pitch for a fitness test, you could feel her eyes on you. She wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it. The gym overlooked the field, glass windows giving a perfect view of everything happening outside. And sure enough, through the reflection of your sunglasses, you could see her standing there—arms crossed, watching intently. So, if she wanted to watch? You’d give her something to look at.

The fitness test was brutal. Sprint drills, agility work, endurance runs under the unforgiving Barcelona sun. Sweat dripped down your temple, muscles burning as you pushed through each set. And still, you made sure to keep your movements sharp. Effortless. Letting your strength and control show in every stride, every pivot, every flex of muscle as you drove forward with precision.

And when the heat finally got too much you grabbed the hem of your training top and peeled it off in one smooth motion, letting the sun warm your bare skin. You didn’t need to look up to know Alexia had seen it. The shift in energy was instant. A pause in her usual movement, just for half a second. The way she adjusted her stance, fingers twitching slightly at her sides. You bit back a smirk.

One of your teammates jogged past, nudging you with an amused look. “You do realise she’s staring, right?”

“Oh, I know.”

You could feel it.

Even as you finished the final sprint, chest rising and falling with deep breaths, you knew Alexia’s eyes hadn’t left you. And when you finally allowed yourself a glance toward the gym window, you met her gaze directly. She didn’t look away. Didn’t try to hide it. Instead, she arched a brow—almost like she was challenging you.

Your smirk deepened. This game you were playing? It was far from over. 

The fitness test was over however, but you and a few of your teammates weren’t in a rush to leave. The sun was warm against your skin, and after pushing yourselves through relentless sprints and agility drills, a little downtime on the grass felt well-earned. You stretched out, leaning back on your hands, legs extended in front of you as you let the sun soak into your muscles.  

That was when you noticed them. Barcelona’s women’s team, stepping onto the field for their own training session.  

And leading the way, of course, Alexia.  

You felt her presence before you even looked up properly, but when you did—oh, she was already watching.  

Her gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, taking in every inch of you stretched out in the sun. You were still shirtless from training, skin glistening slightly from exertion, and you didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered just for a second longer than necessary.  

She caught herself quickly, but not quickly enough. Because now, you knew. And she knew you knew. Still, she didn’t back down. Instead, she smirked.  

“You tired already?” she called out, voice loud and teasing enough to grab the attention of both her teammates and yours. “Didn’t think basketball players ran out of energy so fast.”  

Some of her teammates snickered. One of your own muttered beside you, “Oh, she’s feeling herself today.”  

You tilted your head lazily in her direction, feigning boredom even as amusement tugged at your lips. “Didn’t realise footballers were so idle they had the time to watch other athletes train.”

The laughter from both teams was instant.  

Alexia arched a brow, and for the briefest moment, you swore she hesitated like she hadn’t expected you to throw it right back at her.  

Then she kept walking, slowing just slightly as she passed where you were sitting. And in a voice meant only for you, she murmured, “Well, you put on quite the show.”  

Her tone was smooth, confident like she wasn’t affected at all. But her eyes betrayed her.  Because just as she started to jog toward her teammates, her gaze dipped one last time trailing down the length of you, lingering at your abs before snapping back up to meet yours.  

You caught it.  

And judging by the sharp inhale she took before looking away, she knew you did too. You grinned, leaning back on your hands again, completely at ease. “Let’s see if you can do better, then.”  

She glanced over her shoulder, still smirking. “Oh, don’t worry,” she shot back. “I always do.”  

And with that, she was gone joining her team, acting like that whole exchange hadn’t just happened.  

One of your teammates let out a low whistle. “Yeah, you’re so in trouble.”  

Maybe. But judging by the way Alexia had just looked at you?  She was too.

As Barcelona’s women’s team started their drills, your teammates were still chuckling beside you, sending each other knowing looks. One of them nudged your side.  

“You’re playing with fire, you know that?”  

You just smirked, stretching your arms behind your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  

Another scoffed. “Right. And Alexia wasn’t just eye-fucking you five minutes ago.”  

You laughed, shaking your head, but you didn’t deny it. Because, yeah, Alexia hadn’t been subtle. And neither had you.  

You stayed on the sidelines, still catching some sun, but now your focus was elsewhere. You weren’t watching the entire Barcelona squad train, you were watching her. And she knew it.  

Because every time she had the ball at her feet, she was sharper. Every pass, every turn, every effortless control of the ball was dialed up, like she wanted to make sure you saw just how good she was.  

Then came the finishing drills.  

Alexia stepped up first. The ball was played into her stride, and without hesitation, she struck it cleanly top corner, unstoppable.  

You let out a small whistle, just loud enough for her to hear. She turned her head slightly, her smirk barely contained.  The next one? She took it first-time, a volley that rocketed into the net.  

Your teammates started laughing beside you. “Oh, she’s showing off now.”  

You just grinned. “Let her.”  

And Alexia just kept going.  

Goal after goal. Every movement precise, controlled, effortless. It wasn’t just about skill—it was about making sure you saw exactly what she could do.  

Then came the final drill, a one-on-one situation with the keeper. Alexia received the ball, dribbled smoothly into the box, then stopped—just for a second—before coolly slotting it past the keeper.  

And when she turned around she didn’t look at her teammates. She looked straight at you.

Like she was daring you to say something. You leaned forward slightly, resting your arms on your knees, letting her have her moment before tilting your head. “Not bad.”  

Her brow arched, her smirk growing. She scoffed, shaking her head as she jogged back to her team.  

One of her teammates, elbowed her and said something that made Alexia roll her eyes. But she was still smirking, still stealing glances your way when she thought you weren’t looking.  

Oh, you were definitely looking. And this game between you? It was far from over. It was heating up.

You could feel her eyes on you.  Even from across the field, where she stood with her teammates, pretending to be focused on training you knew exactly who Alexia was watching.  

So, naturally, you decided to have a little fun with it.  

Ona Batlle had come over to chat, casual and easygoing, but you knew what this really was. An opportunity. A chance to push Alexia just a little further, to see how much she could take before she cracked.  

So, you turned on the charm. “You ever consider switching sports?” you asked, smirking at Ona. “I think you’d do well in basketball.”  

Ona grinned, playing along. “Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”  

You leaned in slightly, just enough to make it look like something. “You’ve got speed. Good reflexes. I think you could handle yourself on the court.”  

From the corner of your eye, you caught the subtle shift in Alexia’s stance. The way her jaw clenched, the way she stood a little straighter, like she was resisting the urge to storm over.  

Perfect.  

Ona tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. But would you actually teach me? Or just use it as an excuse to show off?”  

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I’d definitely show off. But I’d make sure you learned something in the process.”  

Ona laughed, nudging your arm playfully. “Sounds like a fair deal.”  

You made a show of grinning back, knowing exactly what you were doing. Alexia knew it too.  

When you flicked your gaze in her direction, you didn’t even try to hide your amusement. And for the first time since this whole thing started, Alexia didn’t smirk back.  

She just stared and when training resumed, she didn’t hold back. Every touch, every pass, every shot—there was extra venom behind it, extra bite. She was playing with a sharpness, a level of intensity that screamed one thing.  

You’d gotten to her. And that was exactly what you wanted.

You weren’t staying.  

You had done what you came to do, run your fitness tests, pushing Alexia’s buttons, and maybe drive her just a little crazy in the process. Was an unexpected bonus.

You were leaving. Just like she had at your practice.  Fair was fair.   You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you walked around the edge to leave, your teammates still lounging behind you, soaking in the sun.  

But you barely made it a few steps off the pitch before you heard hurried footsteps behind you.  

You knew who it was before even turning around.  

“Leaving already?”  

Alexia’s voice was smooth, but there was something beneath it. Something tight. You exhaled a quiet laugh, not slowing down. “Didn’t realise I had to check out with you first.”  

Alexia scoffed, catching up to walk beside you, her pace casual but her presence anything but. “You don’t. Just surprised, that’s all.”  

You hummed, letting the silence stretch, watching as she very obviously tried to keep her eyes on your face. She failed. Her gaze dipped—once, twice—dragging down over your torso, where your shirt was still slung over your shoulder. The heat of the sun had been the perfect excuse to take it off earlier, and you hadn’t bothered putting it back on.  

Now, it was paying off. Because Alexia wasn’t subtle. Her eyes lingered just a second too long, her tongue darting out to wet her lips before she forced her gaze back up.  

You smirked. “Something catch your eye?”  

Her jaw tightened. “You wish.”  

“Oh, I know.”  

You stopped walking, turning fully to face her now, and she mirrored the movement without hesitation. For a second, neither of you spoke. But the tension. It was palpable.  

A slow burn in the space between you, stretching, thickening. Her eyes searched yours, like she was looking for a sign, a challenge, an opening, something.  

And you weren’t about to back down.  

So, you tilted your head, letting your smirk deepen. “I didn’t think you followed people when they were the ones leaving early.”  

Alexia exhaled sharply, her lips pressing together. “I wasn’t following you.”  

You chuckled. “No?”  

“No.” She squared her shoulders. “I had things to do.”  

You stepped a little closer—just enough that you swore you saw her breath hitch. “Right. And those things just happened to be in the same direction as me?”  

She didn’t answer right away. And in that silence, you swore you felt it shift. The teasing, the games—it was still there, but underneath it, something heavier. Something you weren’t sure either of you was ready to name.  

Alexia’s gaze flickered, just for a second, to your lips before she caught herself.  Then, as quickly as she had followed you she was stepping back.  

Regaining her composure. “You should put a shirt on,” she muttered.  

You grinned, reaching for your bag. “Why? Distracting?”  

She didn’t dignify that with a response. She just turned on her heel, walking away without another word. But she didn’t have to say anything. Because you knew. And next time you weren’t going to let her walk away so easily.

You weren’t one to back down from a challenge—especially not one unspoken.  

So, after training, standing in front of the mirror in the locker room, still shirtless, sweat clinging to your skin, you did what had to be done.  

You snapped the picture.  

The lighting was good, your abs looked sharp, and the smirk you wore? Just cocky enough to be annoying.  

Perfect.  

You opened Instagram, fingers hovering over the caption for only a second before typing exactly what you knew would send the world—and Alexia—into a frenzy.  

"Should I do as I’m told and put a shirt on? 🤔"

You hit post.  

And within minutes, the internet erupted.  

@barcaworldwide: WE NEED TO KNOW WHO TOLD YOU THIS. 👀  

@baskethoopsdaily: No. Don’t do it. For the culture.  

@alexiapfans: Someone check on Alexia! Is she ok? I AM NOT OKAY.  

@yourteammatename: I vote no. But if you get fined for this, I was never here.  

@AlbaPutellas: I feel like you’re enjoying this way too much.  

@alexiaputellas: You already know the answer.  

That last comment. Yeah. That’s the one that really got everyone talking.  

Because unlike the others—unlike all the laughing emojis and thirsty replies and teammates stirring the pot—Alexia’s response was… different.  

She wasn’t playing along, not exactly. She was reminding you that she had told you to put a shirt on. That she’d been there, watching, reacting.  

And that was enough to send her fans into a meltdown.  

@alexiaupdates: WE NEED AN INTERPRETATION IMMEDIATELY.  

@spainwntdaily: “You already know the answer” ??????? EXCUSE ME.  

@barcelona_fc_fan: This is the most obvious “I was watching you and you know it” message I’ve ever seen.  

@yournamefanclub: IS THIS OUR ROMANTIC ERA.  

You leaned back in your bath, staring at the screen, the likes skyrocketing, the comments piling up by the second.  

And then, before you could even think of a response, your phone buzzed with a private message.  

Alexia should have let it go.  

She should have ignored your post, pretended it didn’t get to her, pretended she didn’t see it.  

But she didn’t.  

She liked it. She commented on it. And then, hours later, when you were relaxing in the bath, she went a step further.  

Alexia: You’re a menace.

You grinned, typing back.  

You: And yet, you keep engaging.

She left you on read.  But she liked the text. And that said everything.

Your phone buzzed yet again.  

Alexia: You still haven’t answered the question.

You smirked

You: Which one?

Her reply came almost immediately.  

Alexia: Should you do as you’re told?

You chuckled under your breath, shaking your head. She was playing now, pushing this back into your hands, daring you to make a move.  

So you did.  

You took your time with your response, letting your fingers hover over the keyboard before typing.  

You: You tell me, Capitana. You seem to like giving orders.

Read at 9:46 PM.  

No reply.  

For a while, you let it sit, let her stew in it, let her decide whether she wanted to keep going or tap out. And then, when you were sure she couldn’t handle the heat. Your phone buzzed.

Alexia: I like being in control.

Your breath caught just slightly. Oh, she was good. But so were you.  

You could have left it there, let the tension build, let it simmer in the background. But where was the fun in that?  

Instead, you opened Instagram again, snapped another picture—this time, just a teasing hint of your legs and the glass of wine in your hand in the bath—and posted it to your story with a caption that would definitely get a reaction.  

".. whilst waiting on my orders. 👀"

And you knew she saw it.  Because not even five seconds later, you got another message.  

Alexia: Eres insoportable. (You’re unbearable.)

You: And yet, you’re still here.

She left you on read again. But something told you this wasn’t over. Not even close.