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

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

Part 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.

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.

Possible Sequel

You're A Highly Successful Basketball Player Who Has Just Been Transferred To Barcelona's Women's Team.

244 notes View Post

justareader7

2 months ago

Such a good, well written and well thought story! Loved the banter. Need more fics like this..

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack. A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head.

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it.

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex.

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit.

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away.

Ricardo means well, you know that.

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I’m want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle.

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper.

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals.

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating.

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo.

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations.

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type.

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another.

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others.

Maybe you do have a type.

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity.

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far.

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets.

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise.

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan.

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics.

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view.

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things.

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud.

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it.

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club.

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike.

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers.

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth.

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow.

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way.

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying.

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on.

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves.

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them.

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you.

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed.

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces.

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline.

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film.

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason.

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct.

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal.

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo.

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you.

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation.

That's not the point right now.

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries.

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this.

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover.

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen.

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you.

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief.

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling.

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now.

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite.

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands.

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to.

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat.

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you.

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it.

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do.

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed.

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack.

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over.

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means.

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight.

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!”

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face.

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance.

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink.

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears.

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now.

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot.

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses.

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you.

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing.

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous.

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance.

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment.

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together.

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced.

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul.

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of.

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure.

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love.

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again.

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you.

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads.

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries.

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever.

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee.

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it.

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you.

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow.

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear.

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future.

Together.

627 notes View Post

justareader7

2 months ago

I-I don't know what to say anymore... so good🔥👀

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

Alexia had just flipped the game on you.

The picture sat on your screen, daring you to respond.

No words. No caption. Just her.

And now, for the first time, you were the one caught off guard.

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck as you stared at the image, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. She knew exactly what she was doing. The sweat, the sports bra, the way her abs were tensed just enough to make sure you noticed.

You inhaled deeply, refusing to let her see that she had won.

Slowly, deliberately, you typed out a response.

You: Now who’s playing a dangerous game?

The dots appeared almost instantly.

Alexia: I don’t play games.

Oh, she was good.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

She had turned the tables completely, and now the ball was in your court. So, you did what you did best. You pushed back.

You opened Instagram, swiped through your camera roll, and found a picture you had taken after your last game—a locker room shot, post-win, your jersey off, muscles still tight from the effort.

Then, with the most casual audacity you could muster, you posted it to your story with a simple caption:

"Game on."

It didn’t take long for the internet to notice.

Your notifications exploded within seconds, fans losing their minds, digging up your previous interactions with Alexia, connecting the dots. Then Alexia’s name popped up in your story views. She had seen it. But she didn’t comment. Didn’t like it. Nothing. You waited.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Then, just as you were about to assume she wouldn’t bite, a new notification appeared.

Alexia: Careful. You might not like what happens next.

Your heartbeat kicked up a notch.

Because suddenly, this wasn’t just fun anymore.

It was something else entirely.

Alexia’s message sat on your screen, taunting you.

Careful. You might not like what happens next.

Your pulse ticked up a notch. Was that a warning? A threat? Or something else entirely?

You weren’t sure, but you weren’t about to back down.

You: That a promise?

You watched the typing bubbles appear, disappear, and then appear again.

Then nothing.

She left you on read.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. She wanted you to sit with it, to wonder, to wait. Fine. Two could play that game.

The next day, you were locked in, throwing yourself into training like you had something to prove. Your team had a huge matchup coming up, and if you were going to make a statement, it needed to be on the court, not just online.

But even as you ran drills, lifted weights, and took shot after shot, your mind kept drifting back to her.

And then, as if the universe was playing along, you got a text.

Not from Alexia.

From a teammate.

Teammate: Thought you’d want to know—Putellas is here.

You froze, gripping the water bottle in your hands.

Alexia was where?

You: At our training?

Teammate: Nah. She’s just hanging out in the facility. Not even trying to be subtle about it.

You swallowed, quickly typing back.

You: Alone?

Teammate: With a couple of her teammates, but she keeps looking toward the court.

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped. Alexia wasn’t just watching from a distance anymore. She was here. You exhaled, running a towel over your face before heading back onto the court. If she wanted a show, you’d give her one.

For the next hour, you went off. Pushing harder. Playing sharper. Draining shots like it was second nature. The energy was different today, and your teammates noticed. And every time you stole a glance toward the sidelines, you caught her watching. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. But her eyes never left you.

So, at the end of training, still buzzing with adrenaline, you decided to test her. As you walked off the court, towel slung over your shoulder, you let your gaze find hers steady, unflinching. And then, with deliberate ease, you pulled your jersey off, wiping sweat from your face, making sure she saw. You didn’t look back as you left. But you felt her eyes on you the entire time.

You didn’t check your phone right away. Not because you weren’t curious—because you knew she would text. You took your time. Showered. Changed. Hung around in the locker room longer than necessary, letting the anticipation build.

By the time you finally picked up your phone, there it was.

Alexia: That wasn’t very subtle.

A smirk tugged at your lips.

You: Neither was showing up to my training.

The dots appeared immediately.

Alexia: Didn’t realise I needed permission to be there.

You: You don’t.

You: But let’s not pretend you were there for anything other than me.

She didn’t deny it.

Instead, another message came through.

Alexia: Is that what you think?

You leaned back against your locker, debating your next move.

Then, you went for the kill.

You: I don’t think, I know.

You sent it. Watched the screen. And for the first time, Alexia didn’t have an immediate response. You laughed quietly to yourself, tossing your phone into your bag. Maybe, just maybe, you’d finally flipped the game on her again. But as you made your way out of the facility, the sound of footsteps approaching behind you made you slow down.

You already knew who it was before you turned around. Alexia stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t even wait to text back?”

Her lips twitched, like she was trying not to smirk. “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”

You shrugged, playing it cool. “I think you like the chase.”

Alexia took a step closer. “And what if I do?”

The tension stretched tight between you, charged, almost unbearable.

You didn’t move. Neither did she.

Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she murmured, “Careful. You might not like what happens next.”

The same words she had texted you before. Your breath caught for half a second.

But you didn’t back down. You leaned in slightly, just enough to make her wonder if you’d close the distance.

Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, you whispered “Try me.”

Alexia’s breath hitched, just barely, but you caught it.

You saw the flicker in her eyes, the way they darkened, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips like she was considering it—like she was fighting it. For a second, you thought she might pull away. She didn’t. She moved.

Or maybe you both did, drawn together like magnets finally giving in to the pull that had been there for weeks.

Her hands gripped your hoodie, fingers digging in as your lips crashed together, hot and desperate. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was everything unsaid, everything built up, everything you’d been daring each other to do spilling over at once. Alexia kissed like she played—controlled, purposeful, but with a fire underneath that threatened to burn through all of it.

Your back hit the nearest wall before you even realised she was pushing you, pressing into you, her body flush against yours like she needed to feel every inch of you, like she had something to prove. You let her. Let her take, let her press harder, let her hands slide down your sides and grip your hips like she wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

Your fingers tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to make her groan into your mouth, and the sound sent a spark down your spine, heat pooling low in your stomach. She nipped at your bottom lip, teasing, testing, and you answered by flipping the dynamic, spinning her so her back hit the wall this time.

She let out a soft gasp, but it melted into a smirk. Like she had expected nothing less. Like she wanted this. The tension, the fight for control, the way neither of you were willing to be the first to break. Your lips met again, harder, deeper, both of you pushing, pulling, matching each other with every move, hands exploring, gripping, learning.

You felt her exhale against your mouth, shaky, like she was finally giving in to something she’d been trying to hold back. And for the first time since this whole thing started—you both stopped pretending.

Stopped pretending this was just a game.

Stopped pretending you didn’t want this.

Stopped pretending you hadn’t already lost to each other.

When you finally pulled back, your breath mingling with hers, Alexia’s eyes searched yours, still heavy-lidded, still burning.

She swallowed, voice rough. “You gonna run again?”

You smirked, brushing your thumb over her jaw. “Not this time.”

Alexia’s fingers curled around the front of your hoodie like she wasn’t ready to let you go just yet—not that you were going anywhere. Your breaths were heavy, mingling in the space between you, both of you still pressed against the wall, still tangled in the tension neither of you had any interest in easing.

You could feel the heat of her body, the way her chest rose and fell rapidly, the slight tremor in her hands where they clutched at you. You knew you had her. But the problem was—she had you too.

Your thumb brushed against her jaw again, slow, teasing, but you could feel the way her pulse raced under your touch. You tilted your head, voice low, daring. “So what now, capitana?”

Her grip on you tightened slightly at the nickname. Her gaze flickered, sharp and unreadable, before her lips quirked into the kind of smirk that promised trouble. Alexia leaned in, her lips just barely grazing yours, her breath warm against your skin. “That depends…”

You swallowed, your own breath hitching. “On?”

Her fingers traced down the front of your hoodie, slow, deliberate, like she was making a decision in real time. Then, she leaned into your ear, voice like a damn challenge. “…how badly you want me.”

Your restraint snapped. Your hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her into you again, lips crashing together, hotter, hungrier this time. She met you with the same intensity, her body moulding into yours as your fingers dug into her hips, pulling her impossibly closer.

There was nothing careful about it.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Just hands and lips and the kind of desperation that came from weeks of pushing and pulling and daring each other to break first. Alexia’s hands slipped under your hoodie, palms skimming your sides, nails dragging lightly over your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your lips parted just enough for her to deepen the kiss, and the way she took it—like she had every right to—had heat pooling low in your stomach.

She had always played with control, but right now, you weren’t sure who was controlling who.

And for once? You didn’t care.

The sound of a door opening down the hallway made you both freeze. Reality crashed back in, hard and unwelcome, but neither of you pulled away completely.

Your lips were still inches apart, breaths still heavy, fingers still gripping onto each other like neither of you wanted to be the first to let go. Alexia swallowed, her eyes flickering between your lips and your gaze, like she was debating whether or not to just say screw it and pull you back in.

Your own pulse thundered in your ears, your body screaming at you to ignore whatever was happening outside this bubble and just take her. But then the moment shattered further when a voice called out, closer this time.

“Alexia?”

You recognized it immediately—one of her teammates.

She cursed under her breath, closing her eyes briefly before finally stepping back, the loss of her warmth making your skin prickle. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to do the same. She looked at you, something unreadable in her expression, something unfinished lingering between you.

Then, she smirked—just slightly, just enough to let you know this wasn’t over. Not even close. And as she walked away, leaving you standing there, pulse still racing, body still burning, one thing was painfully clear you had just crossed the point of no return.

The drive home felt eternal. Every red light a punishment, every car in front of you moving at a glacial pace. Your fingers drummed restlessly against the steering wheel, your body still humming with unresolved tension.

You could still feel her—the pressure of her lips, the drag of her nails, the way her body had melded against yours like she'd been designed to fit there. The phantom sensation of her hands gripping your hoodie haunted you, made your skin burn where she'd touched.

When you finally reached your apartment, you barely remembered closing the door behind you before collapsing onto your couch, exhaling a breath you felt like you'd been holding since she walked away.

Your phone burned a hole in your pocket. You wanted to text her. You needed to text her. But what would you even say?

So about that kiss...

When can I see you again?

I can't stop thinking about your hands on me.

None of it felt right. All of it felt desperate. And you weren't about to let her know just how completely she'd unraveled you.

You tossed your phone aside, running your hands over your face. This wasn't just about winning anymore. This wasn't even about the game you'd been playing. This was about the way she'd looked at you right before her lips touched yours—hungry, determined, like she'd been fighting this for as long as you had.

Your phone buzzed, the sound cutting through your thoughts like a knife. You reached for it, heart hammering, expecting—hoping—it was her.

It wasn't.

Just a notification from the team about tomorrow's training schedule. You sighed, dropping your phone back onto the couch. She was making you wait. Again. But this time, it felt different. This time, it wasn't just teasing. It was calculated. She was letting you stew in it, making you replay every moment, every touch, every taste.

And it was working. You couldn't focus on anything else. Not the upcoming game, not your training, not even the fact that your apartment was a mess and you hadn't eaten since lunch.

All you could think about was Alexia. Finally, just as you were about to give in and text her first, your phone lit up.

Alexia: I’m at Red, come see me

Not a question. A statement. Your pulse quickened, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. Still so damn bossy. You waited a moment, letting her experience the same anticipation she'd put you through, before typing back.

You: Is that an order, capitana?

The dots appeared immediately.

Alexia: Would you prefer if it was?

Heat crept up your neck. She was good at this. Too good.

You: I'll be there soon.

Alexia: I know.

The club was packed, bodies pressed together, music pulsing through the air like a heartbeat. You scanned the crowd, searching for her among the sea of faces, the dim lighting making it harder to spot anyone specific.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Alexia: VIP section. Left side.

240 notes View Post

justareader7

1 month ago

gone 😔😔 but never 🚫🚫 forgotten 🕊️🕊️

544 notes View Post

justareader7

1 month ago

Capi Mami - Alexia Putellas x barcelona femini

Summary: Alexia swears she’s not the team mom… and yet she’s the one confiscating phones, doling out granola bars, and keeping this locker room from imploding.

Word count: 1.5k

This is part of my 1k commemoration blurb! <3

a/n: a single mama who works two jobs

Masterlist

The locker room was a mess. Water bottles were scattered across the floor, shoes were everywhere, and a few jerseys had been tossed carelessly on the benches.

The younger girls were in full gossip mode, laughing and talking over each other, completely oblivious to the chaos they had created.

Vicky was sitting on one of the benches, animatedly chatting about some TikTok challenge, while Salma and Jana were having a loud conversation about the training session they had just finished.

Pina’s laughter echoed through the room as Esmee said something dry and hilarious.

Y/n and Sydney were livestreaming on Instagram–very much against team rules–talking about their training routine and casually throwing shade at the referee from their last match.

Marta walked in first. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the scene. She shook her head with a sigh and muttered, “What is this, girls?”

She took one step and nearly tripped over a bag lying in the middle of the floor.

“Okay,” Marta said angrily, lifting the bag into the air. “Whose bag is this—and why do I have a bunch of stickers glued on my locker?”

“Do you like it?” Vicky asked brightly, the only one acknowledging Marta’s presence.

“I hate it,” Marta replied flatly. “Take it off.”

Vicky rolled her eyes and continued chatting. The others kept pretending Marta didn’t exist.

“You might want to clean this up before Alexia gets here,” Marta warned, but the girls barely looked up.

Marta rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath before walking out.

She walked down the hall to find Alexia stretching on a bench, prepping for another round of training. Marta couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Tus nenas están causando problemas,” [Your girls are causing problems], she said with a teasing smile.

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Qué?” [what?]

"They’re making a mess in the locker room again. And I’m pretty sure I saw Y/n going live on Instagram ranting about the ref being bought."

Alexia sighed, her expression shifting from confused to fondly exasperated. "You know what they’re like," she muttered, standing up. "I’ll handle them, and then I’m confiscating Y/n’s phone."

The moment Alexia stepped into the locker room, her gaze swept across the chaos. Water bottles, jerseys, shin guards, and random clothes covered the floor. Not a single head turned.

Alexia didn’t speak at first.

She simply stood there in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. After a long pause, her voice finally cut through the room.

"Nenas, qué es esto?" [Girls, what is this?]

Y/n jumped to her feet, face paling at the tone. The room fell silent in an instant.

Vicky, Salma, and Pina all sat up straighter. Y/n very discreetly hid her phone behind her back while nudging Sydney to sit properly and kick a rogue boot under the bench.

“Hi, Ale!” Vicky greeted sweetly, putting on her most innocent baby voice.

“Mi reina!” Pina chimed in, springing up and reaching for a hug.

Alexia sidestepped her without missing a beat. “What is all of this?” she asked, gesturing at the chaos with one unimpressed sweep of her hand.

“Nothing! We were just… talking,” Jana said quickly, voice shrinking. “It, uh… got a little out of hand?”

Alexia’s eyes scanned the room like a laser. Her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

“Is this how we treat a shared space?” she asked. Her voice didn’t rise, but the warning in it was sharp.

“No,” they chorused, voices barely above a whisper.

“Is the locker room where we throw our stuff around like toddlers?”

“No.”

“Should I start labelling your bottles and jerseys like you’re in daycare? Or can we act like professionals?”

“We can act like professionals,” they muttered in unison, chastened.

Alexia took one slow step forward. The shift in the room was immediate–every breath held, every eye on her.

“I don’t like doing this,” she said quietly, the calm in her voice somehow worse than yelling. “But this? This is not okay. I expect better from all of you.”

Y/n shifted awkwardly, guilt written all over her face. “Are you mad at us?”

“I’m not mad,” Alexia said, her pause deliberate. “I’m disappointed.”

The words hit harder than anything else could have. The silence that followed was thick.

“We’re sorry, Capi,” Y/n said, her head ducked. “We didn’t mean to mess up. We just got carried away.”

Alexia’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “You should’ve known better. I trust you girls. Don’t make me regret that.”

“We’re really sorry, Alexia,” Salma added quickly, voice sincere.

“Sorry isn’t enough,” Alexia replied, crossing her arms. “I better not hear another complaint. Understood?”

“Yes,” they all said, truly meaning it this time.

“Clean it up,” Alexia ordered, turning to walk out. “And next time? Think before you act.”

As soon as the door shut behind Alexia, Sydney let out a dramatic exhale. “I really thought she was gonna make us run laps again.”

“My feet still hurt from last time,” Y/n groaned, flopping back onto the bench.

“Obviously,” Pina snorted. “It was yesterday, genius.”

“We are never doing this again,” Vicky said, voice solemn like she was making a blood pact.

“Nope,” Jana chimed in, hand raised like she was swearing an oath. “From now on, we will clean up before she walks in.”

“We should actually stop throwing stuff the second we get here,” Salma added thoughtfully.

Y/n suddenly sat up, panic dawning on her face. “Wait. Do you think she saw me go live?”

“Yes,” everyone said in eerie unison.

Y/n groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I’m so screwed.”

“You two are a disaster,” Jana muttered, nudging Sydney.

“We are not,” Sydney defended. “The world just needed to know how rigged that ref was.”

“You need to stop,” Esmee said, already starting to clean up the bottles.

Sydney shot her a look. “You’re just mad you didn’t join the live.”

“No,” Esmee said dryly. “I just don’t enjoy being yelled at. Call me crazy.”

Their chatter continued as they cleaned, a little more subdued now. Just outside, Alexia leaned against the wall, listening.

A soft smile tugged at her lips.

Y/n leaned back on the bench, phone in hand, muttering just loud enough for the others to hear, “One day, I swear, I’m gonna figure out how to get away with this. Maybe I’ll just block the older girls on Instagram and on Twitter–problem solved.”

A few of the girls snorted in laughter.

But then…

A voice, calm and deadly precise, cut through the moment.

“You think I’m gonna let that happen?”

Silence.

Alexia had stepped into the room like a shadow. Everyone froze. Y/n especially.

"Phone. Now." Her palm was out, her stance unyielding.

Y/n clutched her phone like a lifeline. “Ale… come on. Please.”

Alexia didn’t budge. “Now. You’ll get it back after training–if you survive it.”

A dramatic sigh escaped Y/n, but she reluctantly handed it over, placing it in Alexia’s open palm like a guilty child surrendering contraband.

Alexia smirked, tucking it safely into her jacket pocket. “You really think I don’t hear everything? I’m always watching.”

As she turned and walked off, Vicky whispered, “She’s got ears like a hawk.”

“No,” Jana said with a grin, “she’s got mom-radar.”

From across the room, Alexia called out, “I heard that, too.”

As soon as she left, Vicky whispered, "Okay… maybe we should behave."

"Maybe," Jana said. "But I doubt it’ll last."

After cleaning everything, the door opened again. Alexia stepped back in and surveyed the room.

"Well done," she said. "Now get ready. Training’s going to be tough."

As they moved, Alexia pulled a small bag from her backpack and began tossing sandwiches and granola bars at them.

“Eat,” she ordered, hands on her hips. “No one’s stepping onto that pitch with an empty stomach.”

“But we already had lunch,” Y/n mumbled, catching hers mid-air.

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“You’re serious?” Vicky asked, halfway through peeling the wrapper.

“Sí,” Alexia replied, voice firm but laced with affection. “You need it. You’ve all been dragging your feet since drills this morning.”

Y/n took a bite and sighed. “Okay, you’re right. I was kind of sluggish.”

“You always try to avoid eating before training,” Jana chimed in, smirking. “No more excuses.”

“I’m eating, aren’t I?” Y/n grumbled around a mouthful.

Alexia gave her a knowing smile. “Good. You need the energy to keep up with the rest of them.”

“Okay, mamí,” Y/n teased, raising an eyebrow.

Alexia paused mid-step. “What did you just say?”

“Mamí,” Y/n repeated, grinning now. “You act like a mom. You scold us, you take our phones, you pack our snacks. You’re literally parenting us.”

“I am not,” Alexia scoffed.

“You are,” Vicky said through a mouthful of granola. “This is full-on mom behaviour.”

“Keep calling me that and I’ll ground you,” Alexia warned, but her lips twitched, threatening a smile.

“See?!” Y/n pointed dramatically. “Mom threat.”

Alexia rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, she watched them finish the bars and sandwiches, making sure every last bite was gone.

Once the wrappers were tossed and silence settled back in, she straightened, captain mode back on.

“Alright. Let’s go. Hydrate, boots on, and meet me in five. We’ve got work to do.”

She turned, but not before one last glance over her shoulder at the girls–her girls.

Their chaos, their charm, their energy. They might not be hers, not really, but her love for them was unmistakable.

Strict? Always.

Soft? Only when they weren’t looking.

a/n: Just really wanted to write something platonic haha

544 notes View Post

justareader7

1 month ago

if this doesn't end with a contract renewal.. i might just delete the app 👀

🏀 Based after Eleven 🏀

Chapter 4

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.

The city was still asleep when you left her. The sky was a deep blue fading into grey, the hush before sunrise casting a strange calm over the streets as you slipped into your car, heart heavy and full at once. Alexia had fallen asleep again for just a few minutes, curled beneath the blanket on her couch, hair still damp from your shared heat, one hand stretched toward where you’d been lying only moments before.

You’d kissed her forehead before leaving. Quietly. Reverently. No words. She didn’t need them. Now, hours later, you stood on the runway beside your teammates, the private jet humming behind you, the buzz of the semifinal beginning to settle into your chest like caffeine. Focus had returned—sharper than ever. But underneath it, beneath the press calls and the tactical briefings—there was her.

Still on your skin. Still under your nails. Still in your head. You looked down at your wrist. The bracelet. Barça colours. Two white beads. Two ones. Eleven. Your thumb brushed over it as you boarded the plane.

Across the aisle, Maya leaned in. “You’re weirdly calm.”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “I’m not calm. I’m just ready.”

Liv, already half-asleep beside her, muttered, “You say that like you didn’t sneak off to see your lucky charm last night.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Maya said with a smirk. “It’s a flex.”

You settled into your seat, the engines roaring to life beneath you. You didn’t respond—not out loud. But you did glance out the window, the early light catching on your bracelet as the plane lifted off the ground. You were leaving for war. But you were carrying her with you.

Back in Barcelona, Alexia stirred awake to sunlight and an empty space beside her. She reached out, fingers brushing the couch cushion where you’d been, and smiled to herself. On the coffee table sat your jersey. And on top it, folded once, a note in your handwriting.

Don’t watch the scoreboard. Watch me.

She read it twice. Then she leaned back with a sigh, heart pounding, already counting down the hours until your next return. Semifinals were next. And this time, you weren’t just playing for the win. You were playing for the chance to win it all.

The wheels hit the tarmac in Milan with a soft thud, and your world shifted into overdrive. From the moment you stepped off the plane, it was a blur.

Camera crews. Sponsors. Staff. Schedules. Microphones shoved in your face before you even reached the hotel. You had barely adjusted to the Milan air before you were whisked into your first media session. Hair still damp from the plane bathroom sink, laces again barely tied, and someone was already asking:

“Do you feel pressure to lead this team to another historic win?” “Are you distracted by recent online noise?” “Any comment on Alexia Putellas’ tweet last week?”

You kept your answers clipped, professional, nodding politely, eyes forward. You’d trained for this—on and off the court. Smile when necessary. Speak when needed. Focus where it counts. The minute the press conference ended, it was straight to the training courts.

No time for breath. No space for nerves. Milan was cold, the sky grey and brooding, and the wind whipped up outside during your open session. Cameras lined the sidelines. Reporters watched every movement, every shot you took, every time the coach shouted your name.

You dug in harder. Every sprint, every drill, every set. You weren’t going to give them a headline about fatigue or distraction. You were here to prove something—to them, to yourself, maybe even to her. Still, the whirlwind didn’t stop. Dinner was late. Meetings even later.

By the time you made it back to your hotel room, it was after 9pm. You dropped your duffel by the bed and collapsed on the mattress, fully clothed, mind still buzzing with plays, matchups, film clips you couldn’t un-see. You stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin. Then you looked down.

The bracelet on your wrist caught the faint hotel light. Red. Blue. Two white beads. Two ones. You reached for your phone without even thinking, heart pulled toward her like gravity.

One unread message waited from hours ago.

Alexia: Play your game. The rest will follow.

You smiled to yourself, thumb brushing the screen before you typed back.

You: I will. Hope you liked your present

You didn’t wait for a reply. You slid the phone under your pillow, closed your eyes, and let the storm of the day settle. In two days, the lights would come on. In two days, the world would watch. But tonight—just for a few hours—you let yourself breathe.

—

You were in mid-morning practice in Milan when your phone started blowing up. At first, you ignored it. The group chat with Liv and Maya was always chaotic—memes, chaos, half-baked tactical jokes. But when Maya let out a loud gasp across the court, you knew something was up. “What?” you called out, dribbling casually toward her.

She turned her phone to face you, eyes wide, grinning like she’d just seen a celebrity scandal. “You’ve seen this, right?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at the photo on her screen—and your brain short-circuited for a second. It was a picture of Alexia. Walking into the stadium for her own pre-match duties that day. Sunglasses on. Fresh blowout. And wearing a Barça basketball jersey. The one with your last name on the back and the big #11 stitched in bold white. The one you intended for her to wear in the privacy of her own home,

The caption beneath the post said

Alexia Putellas arrives for her game repping [Your Name]’s jersey. Is this a soft launch part two or what?!

And the replies. Forget it. The internet was melting down.

“THE JERSEY??? THE. JERSEY?????” “So we’ve passed matching bracelets and now we’re just wearing each other’s kit. Casual.” “Alexia Putellas wearing her girlfriend’s number like a proud WAG, I’m fine.” “Is this... is this canon??” “Plot twist: she’s just supporting Barça basketball. Right?? RIGHT???”

Your heart thudded in your chest—not from nerves this time, but from something warmer. Something that made you want to jump on a plane back to Barcelona and kiss her in front of every camera lens in the world.

Maya was still grinning. “That’s your jersey, isn’t it?”

“She’s just supporting the team,” you said quickly, trying to play it cool—even though your ears were hot and your smile was threatening to break your face.

Liv jogged over, phone in hand. “Oh, the locker room’s gonna scream. Her teammates probably are too.”

You sighed, but you were smiling. Hard. “She really wore it?” you asked quietly, mostly to yourself.

Maya nodded. “To her game. Into her stadium. Repping you. That’s not just support, that’s a statement.”

You looked down at your wrist. The bracelet was still there—anchoring you. Then you looked back at the court. “Alright,” you muttered, smirking now, refocusing. “Guess I’ve got a game to win. Can’t let my number one fan down.”

Liv rolled her eyes. “You two are disgusting.”

“Championship-level disgusting,” Maya added with a laugh. You just grinned and stepped back onto the court, locked in—because this time, your name wasn’t just on your back. It was walking into stadiums across the world on hers, too.

Back in Barcelona, the cameras were rolling as the team made their way onto the pitch for warmups. The sun was dipping low, casting a golden hue across the stadium, and the crowd was already buzzing—half for the game, half for the players they adored. But tonight, all eyes locked on Alexia. She jogged out onto the field, leading the squad in her crisp pre-match warmup kit, hair pulled back, face calm. Classic captain energy. But the cameras—sharp-eyed as ever—zoomed in fast. It wasn’t her boots this time. Not her armband. Not even the glimpse of the jersey she’d arrived in earlier. It was the bracelet on her wrist. Red and blue beads. Two white ones. Each with the number 1.

Instant chaos.

“SHE HAS THE MATCHING BRACELET OH MY GOD???” “Two 1s. It’s the number 11 again. This is insane.” “They are doing this on purpose now and I refuse to believe otherwise.” “So it’s not just emotional support, it’s FULL matching accessory energy.”

Screenshots hit every social feed within minutes. A slow-motion clip of Alexia stretching on the sideline, bracelet catching the light as she adjusted her socks, was already being edited into fan videos with romantic music. And her teammates noticed.

Patri gave her a look mid-stretch—eyebrows up, smirk fully loaded. “Nice bracelet, Capitana.”

Alexia didn’t even blink. “Team colours.”

“Right,” Patri said, drawing the word out like it had layers of meaning. “And the white beads?”

Alexia tied her boot tighter, expression cool. “Lucky numbers.”

A few of them laughed, others nodded knowingly, and within seconds, the bracelet had taken on a life of its own. Alexia jogged past the media row, focused and unfazed, but the photographers didn’t miss it. The bracelet was captured in perfect clarity as she clapped toward the crowd, her wrist flicking just enough to catch the sunlight again.

You saw it during a team video review session. Maya was scrolling through social and nearly choked on her water when the clip popped up. “She’s wearing your bracelet,” she whispered, passing you her phone like it was contraband.

You stared at the screen for a second, caught in the slow-mo loop of Alexia walking across the pitch—bracelet fully on display, no hesitation. She told you she didn’t have a matching one. You didn’t say anything at first. Just looked down at your own wrist… and smiled. Matching. Loud in the quietest way. Two cities. Two games. One silent, sparkling connection wrapped around your wrists. The world could speculate. You both already knew what it meant.

The video review session wrapped a little earlier than expected, which was rare. You were collecting your things when Coach called out across the locker room. "Sit tight for a minute—don’t head out just yet."

You froze mid-zip of your hoodie, glancing toward the screen you’d just been analysing game tape on. She gave a small smile and nodded to the staff member by the laptop.

“We figured, since most of you have been sneaking updates anyway…” she said, very pointedly not looking at you. “Might as well watch it properly.” The screen flickered to life, switching over to a live stream.

Supercopa de España Femenina Final. Barcelona vs. Real Madrid.

The whole room shifted.

Maya whooped, “LET’S GO,” while Liv immediately slid back down into her seat. You didn’t say anything. You just blinked at the screen, lips parting, because there she was.

Alexia.

Leading her team out, wearing the captain’s armband like it was sewn into her skin, calm and focused as ever.

You hadn’t expected this.

Coach glanced at you, just once. “Consider it... team bonding. Club supports club.” You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.

For the next 90 minutes, you and your entire squad were glued to the screen. And what unfolded was absolute domination.

Barcelona came out firing. Real Madrid never stood a chance.

1–0 in the 8th minute.

2–0

3-0 before halftime.

By the time the fourth goal went in, Liv was standing on the bench screaming, and even Coach was nodding in quiet approval.

Then the fifth? Maya started the chant: “Alexia! Alexia!”—and the room joined in without hesitation.

It came in the 85th minute. You could feel it coming before it happened. Alexia picked up the ball at the edge of the box—curled it into the top corner with effortless precision.

The room erupted. Your teammates were on their feet, shouting, cheering, celebrating like it was your final. You didn’t even realise you were standing too until someone pulled you into a hug.

You couldn’t stop smiling. You weren’t even trying to play it cool anymore. The camera cut to Alexia blowing a kiss to the crowd, hand briefly touching the bracelet on her wrist—and your heart flipped. Because even in a 5–0 masterclass, she’d made you feel like part of it.

After the final whistle blew and the Barcelona players lifted the Supercopa trophy, your entire team was clapping, whistling, laughing.

Someone—probably Maya—filmed you with your hands on your head, grinning like an idiot. The video made it online within the hour.

🎥 @[YourTeamHandle] “When your sister team wins the #Supercopa and your locker room goes wild 🇪🇸💙❤️”

[📸: video of your squad celebrating Alexia’s 85th-minute screamer] “No. 11 supporting No. 11. 🫶”

The comments, as always, lost it.

“LOOK AT HER FACE WHEN ALEXIA SCORES 😭😭😭”

“You can’t fake that kind of joy.”

“That is real. That is SPORTSWIFE ENERGY.”

“I’ve never seen someone so proud. She’s LIVING.” “Not the team being fully invested in their captain-in-law.” “Alexia scoring the fifth was like a love letter, I swear.”

Today was the day. Semi final day for you, the buzz of Alexia’s win the night before long forgotten.

The hotel lobby was buzzing with pre-game energy—coaches double-checking schedules, staff sorting gear, players stretching, pacing, zoning in. The team bus was idling out front, clock ticking down to departure for the semifinal.

But before the chaos swept you away, you were granted a moment.

A small pocket of calm.

You stepped through a side corridor near the elevators and found them waiting—your family.

Your mum was already holding her phone up, clearly trying not to cry while snapping a picture of you in full team kit. Your dad, ever the quiet anchor, stood beside her with his arms crossed and the proudest smirk you’d ever seen.

Your older sister, standing tall as ever, was next to your brother and sister-in-law, who gave you a quick wave before nudging your niece forward.

And there she was four years old, bouncing in place, wearing an oversized jersey that nearly swallowed her whole, a tiny version of your number 11 on the back. Her curly hair was tied in two uneven puffs, and she clutched a little homemade sign that read:

“Go Auntie! Score lots!”

Your heart nearly burst.

You knelt down and opened your arms, and she sprinted toward you, throwing herself into a hug that knocked the air from your lungs—in the best way.

“Are you gonna win?” she asked seriously, peeking up at you with wide, expectant eyes.

“I’m gonna try really hard,” you whispered back, brushing hair from her face. “But even if I don’t, you still proud of me?”

She nodded furiously. “Duh. You’re my hero.”

You blinked hard.

Your brother clapped a hand on your shoulder while your mum quietly dabbed at her eyes. “No matter what happens today,” your dad said, voice thick but steady, “you’ve already made us proud.”

You stood slowly, hugging your mum, then your sister—who whispered in your ear, “Play like it’s for everything.”

“I will,” you promised.

Your brother handed you a folded note. “From all of us. Open in a bit.”

You nodded, carefully tucking it into your bag, right next to your water bottle and your game towel. Your sister-in-law passed you a small paper bracelet—clumsily made, colourful with marker scribbles and the words:

“Auntie’s magic!"

You tied it on next to the real one.

Just before heading toward the team, you took one last look at them—your family, your why, all standing together, cheering you on like it was the final.

You turned, heart full, focus sharp.

And walked toward the biggest game of your career, carrying their love with you—on your wrist, in your chest, and all the way to the court.

The moment you stepped onto the team bus, it all clicked into place. The pressure didn’t disappear—it sharpened. It no longer felt like a weight to carry. It felt like fuel.

With your duffel slung over your shoulder and your game headphones in place, you slid into your seat, gaze focused out the window. Paris passed by in flashes—grey skies, flashes of traffic, blue and red team flags waving outside the hotel. You could still feel your niece’s tiny arms around your neck, her voice echoing in your head,

“You’re my hero.”

You exhaled slowly, calming your nerves. Maya flopped into the seat across from you, giving you a long look before asking, “You good?”

You nodded. “Better than good.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Family fix that for you?”

You didn’t answer right away—just glanced at your wrist, where two bracelets now sat side-by-side: the Barça-coloured one with the twin 1s… and the new, lopsided ‘Auntie’s Magic’ one, drawn in bright marker by your four-year-old hype woman.

“Something like that,” you murmured with a smile.

The bus rolled forward. No music, no noise yet. Just the quiet rhythm of teammates finding focus in their own ways. Some tapped knees. Others mumbled plays. You closed your eyes briefly, centring yourself.

When you opened them again, you reached into your bag and pulled out the note your brother gave you.

You hesitated—then unfolded it.

The handwriting was messy, full of overlapping words like everyone had squeezed in a line:

No matter the score, we already brag about you like you’re a world champion.

You play with fire. Keep doing that.

From your favourite sibling—you’re the GOAT.

Make history, kid. But mostly—have fun.

At the bottom, in scrawled marker, your niece had written in giant letters:

GO AUNTIE GO!

With a crooked heart drawn beside it.

You folded it carefully and placed it inside your jacket pocket—close to your chest.

—

By the time the bus pulled up to the arena, the city had shifted. Milan hummed with electricity. Fans were already outside. Cameras lined the walk toward the tunnel.

The staff gave you the signal. It was time.

You stood with your team in the tunnel, bouncing slightly on your toes, the court just out of view. The arena lights glowed ahead. Whistles, cheers, and chants thundered just beyond the wall.

Your heartbeat synced to it. Maya nudged your arm and leaned in. “Ready?”

You nodded slowly, eyes locked forward. “Let’s make history.”

Then the announcer called your name. And you stepped into the light.

The lights hit you like a wall of heat as you stepped out onto the court. A roar rose from the crowd—not just noise, but energy, thick and alive and vibrating through your chest. The court gleamed beneath your sneakers. Flags waved from the rafters. Music thumped through the speakers as the announcers rattled off names, hyping up the crowd. You barely heard yours—you were already zoning in.

The entire stadium was electric, and you felt it in your bones. You glanced at the scoreboard—still blank, still untouched. The calm before the storm. Your team spread out for warmups. Coaches shouted instructions, but it all faded into the background. Your breathing slowed. You stretched. Let your muscles settle into rhythm.

The minute the coverage started on Alexia’s television it fell quiet, you were all they were talking about, Alexia was locked in on the TV, oblivious to how many of her teammates had joined her for the game “It’s a historic run this Barcelona side have been on, they are dominating in every competition they are competing in, and all talk is putting that down to (your name) she just brings something out these players we didn’t see last year”

“That’s right, the way she moves around the court, her confidence her ability to change the play, the amount of triple doubles this woman has achieved this season has broken all records.”

“Not only is she the leading points scorer she’s also leading in the assists to, she’s not a selfish player. Barcelona really need to lock her down if they want there women’s basketball team to continue to be successful”

“It shocks me they’ve yet to lock her down to a new contract” Alexia furrowed her brows, “It’s crazy to me to bring in a player of her calibre in for only one season. They have her for two more months and then after that, who knows where she’ll end up, but it’ll be a sad day if she leaves Spanish Basketball because what she’s done for the sport here is incredible. Last year you had maybe a thousand people at this game, this year is a packed sold out 19 thousand strong crowd. That’s the your name effect”

“The last we heard there were discussions on keeping her at Barcelona but I did hear she had at least 5 WNBA teams show significant interest in her”

Alexia sat frozen, her grip tightening around the remote as the broadcast continued. The energy in the room had shifted her teammates and family were murmuring about the weight of the moment, but she barely registered it.

She didn’t know. She hadn’t known.

The words echoed in her head, louder than the TV itself. She had always naïvely, not thought about the fact you may not be in Barcelona forever. That Barcelona was as much a home to you as it was to her. That this season wasn’t just a stepping stone but the beginning of something long term.

Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as the analysts continued.

“It would be a shame for Spanish basketball to lose her. What she’s done here is unprecedented.”

“She’s a generational talent—Barcelona need to do everything in their power to keep her.”

“But is that enough? If the WNBA comes calling, how do you say no? That’s the dream right?”

Alexia’s jaw tightened. She didn’t realise she’d stopped breathing until Patri elbowed her lightly.

“You okay?” she asked, chewing popcorn with casual concern.

Alexia nodded quickly. “Fine.”

But she wasn’t.

She had no idea.

She watched as the camera zoomed in on your face during warm-ups—focused, sharp, the bracelets still visible on your wrist. You looked calm. Like you were ready.

But Alexia wasn’t.

Her hands fidgeted in her lap again.

“You think she’d really leave?” one of the younger players asked quietly, almost in awe.

Alexia looked straight ahead, masking her emotion behind a calm, composed smile. “She’s spoken about as one of the best women’s basketball players, if she gets a better offer why wouldn’t she? I wouldn’t blame her either”

But inside? She hated the idea of you leaving.

The energy in the arena was suffocating, the kind of electric buzz that crackled in the air and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. A sold-out 19,000-strong crowd was packed into the stands, screaming themselves hoarse as the final minutes of the game ticked away.

Barcelona: 84 | Opponents: 84 |

15 seconds left

Your chest was heaving, sweat rolling down your temple as you dribbled at the top of the key, eyes flicking across the defence. You’d been battered all night—double teams, hard fouls, and a brutal elbow to the mouth that had left you with a bloody lip in the third quarter. But you weren’t coming off. Not with everything on the line.

Coach hadn’t even needed to draw up the final play. Everyone knew the ball was going to you.

You started your move with 10 seconds left, crossing over, getting your defender on their heels before driving hard to the right. The moment you saw the help defence slide in, you threw it to Maya in the corner. She faked the shot, but her defender closed too fast.

5 seconds left

Maya swung it back to you at the top of the arc. You caught it, planted your feet, and let it fly.

Time slowed.

The ball arced high, spinning perfectly toward the rim as the buzzer sounded—

A second later.

Nothing but net.

Game over.

For a split second, there was silence. Then the arena erupted. The sound hit you like a tidal wave. Deafening. Absolute madness. You barely had time to react before you were tackled Liv was the first to reach you, wrapping her arms around your neck, her legs around your waist, nearly taking you down. Then came Maya, Claudia, the entire bench mob, screaming and jumping as the crowd lost their minds.

Barcelona was going to the final. Second trophy of four coming within touching distance.

The weight of the moment hit you like a freight train. You had done it. For the first time in history, Barcelona’s women’s team was heading to the championship final game, a chance to win the trophy.

The cameras were on you now, someone shoving a mic in your face as you tried to catch your breath. Your lip was still bleeding, your body aching, but all you could do was grin, overwhelmed, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of your chest.

You barely heard the reporter’s question. Something about history. Something about pressure. Your mind wasn’t even in the arena anymore. You were just overcome.

The adrenaline was still coursing through your veins as you sat at the press conference table, your jersey still damp with sweat, your lip still split from the brutal elbow in the third quarter. The buzz in the room was electric reporters murmuring excitedly, cameras flashing, your teammates laughing and celebrating beside you.

Barcelona was heading to its first-ever final, and everyone wanted to talk about it. You fielded the first few questions easily—your thoughts on the game, the atmosphere, that buzzer-beater. You grinned as Liv elbowed you playfully when the reporter called it one of the most clutch shots in Barcelona basketball history.

“I mean, we knew the ball was going to her,” Maya said into her mic, shooting you a knowing look. “We’d be idiots not to. She lives for moments like that. She’s the only person I’ve ever met that loves that pressure”

Laughter rippled through the room, and you smirked, shaking your head. “I don’t know about living for it, I just didn’t want to go to overtime.”

The reporters ate it up, the cameras flashing faster. But then, the question came. Direct, cutting through the energy like a cold blade.

“There’s been a lot of talk about your contract situation (Your name), with Barcelona only having you under contract for two more months. Given the WNBA interest, is this your last season here?”

The laughter died instantly. Your teammates shifted beside you, the air in the room changing as every reporter leaned forward, recorders in hand. You didn’t hesitate. You set your mic down, leaned back in your chair, and exhaled sharply before giving a blunt, final answer.

“Now’s not the time for that conversation.” Your tone left zero room for follow-up. Cold. Unshakable. Maya smirked beside you, clearly amused by the tension in the room. Some of your other teammates chuckled under their breath, but the message was loud and clear. You weren’t talking about it. Not now. Not when your team was on the verge of history. The reporter opened his mouth to push, but you didn’t let him. You leaned forward, eyes sharp, and said, “Next question.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, another reporter spoke up, pivoting the conversation back to the game, to the championship ahead. The room exhaled, the pressure shifting. But your message had been sent. The press conference had settled back into its usual rhythm—questions about the game, the team’s mindset heading into the final when a reporter in the back cleared his throat, steering the conversation somewhere you hadn’t expected.

“We noticed Alexia Putellas wasn’t in the arena tonight for such a historic moment. She’s been seen at several of your games this season. Was there a reason for her absence?”

You barely blinked, but you felt Maya shift beside you, clearly sensing the sudden shift in energy. The room waited, pens poised, recorders held a little closer. You kept your tone even, uninterested in feeding the media anything extra. “Alexia has her own season to focus on. She’s a professional she’s got her own priorities. She and her team won the Supercopa not a couple of hours ago, she’s busy”

The reporter pressed on. “Still, considering the magnitude of this win, one might have expected her to be here. Does her absence say anything about your friendship..relationship?”

Your jaw clenched for a fraction of a second, but you smoothed it out before anyone could catch it. “I don’t see how this is relevant to basketball,” you replied, voice firm, shutting it down before it could become a headline. Liv smirked beside you, clearly entertained by your bluntness, while a few of your other teammates stifled amused glances.

The reporter hesitated before reluctantly pivoting back to questions about the game. But even as you fielded the next round of inquiries, something nagged at you. Because they didn’t know. They didn’t know she had unintentionally set up a watch party. They didn’t know she had spent the entire night glued to the screen, watching your every move, wearing your jersey. They had no idea that she had been just as invested—if not more—than the people screaming in the stands.

But for the first time, she had chosen to stay in the background. And that meant something. You were ignoring the glaringly obvious reason that you were in Paris. She back in Madrid hours post her own win.

Your phone buzzed on the table beside you—face down, out of sight—but you knew. You just knew.

It was her.

And suddenly, the game, the questions, the noise of the press room—it all faded.

Because whatever Alexia had to say? That was the only thing that mattered now

You subtly flipped it over, glancing at the screen.

Alexia: You looked good out there. Even with the bloody lip. Kinda hot, actually.

You bit your lip to keep from grinning, shaking your head when the pain shot through you. But before you could type a response, Liv, sitting beside you, leaned over just enough to catch a glimpse of the message.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across her face.

“Ohhh,” she murmured under her breath, barely audible over the noise of Maya answering a question in her usual professional articulate manner. “That was not a ‘congrats on the win’ text.”

You shot her a side-eye, trying—and failing—to keep a straight face. “Mind your business.”

Liv simply leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, thoroughly enjoying herself. “Can’t help it when it’s right there.”

Alexia: So, are we gonna talk about how you nearly gave me a heart attack? Or should I just accept that you enjoy stressing me out?

You exhaled sharply through your nose, a small smirk creeping onto your lips. Liv leaned in slightly, managing to catch a glimpse of the message before you could lock your phone.

You: I like keeping you on your toes.

Alexia’s response came immediately.

Alexia: We’ll see how much you like it when you get back here.

“Ohhh,” she whispered under her breath, barely moving her lips, eyes sparkling with mischief. “She’s mad. Mad.”

You bit back a laugh, keeping your face neutral, though the corners of your mouth twitched.

Still staring ahead at the next reporter, Liv nudged your knee under the table, mouthing, “You’re in trouble.”

That was it. You lost it. You tried to hold back the laugh, but the way Liv was fighting her own smile made it impossible. A small snicker escaped, and Marta, sitting on the other side of Liv, turned toward you in confusion.

“Something funny?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

You cleared your throat, masking your laughter with a cough, but Liv was no help her shoulders were shaking silently as she desperately avoided eye contact. When you both made eye contact you both burst out laughing, you covered your face as you laughed, “What’s so funny?”

“It’s not even funny” you laughed, your laugh was winding down but soon as you looked at Liv again you lost it again, “I’m sorry”

Maria squinted suspiciously before shaking her head, returning her focus to the press. “You now know the answer to why we never normally have these two in the same press conference”

Your phone buzzed you peered

Alexia: If you’re laughing at me, I won’t be happy

You tilted your phone to Liv who’s mouth dropped

Liv finally whispered under her breath, still grinning, “You’re so dead.”

You just smirked, tapping out a quick reply. “Sorry, what was your question?” You glanced as your thumbs were still moving

You: Are you ever happy?

You as a sign put your phone in your lap, cheeks warming slightly, and shot Liv a look.

She read everything from your face and chuckled, muttering, “Yup. You’re so done for.” You exhaled, shaking your head, but your grin never faded. Because you weren’t sure if Alexia was mad, exasperated, or just playing with you. But one thing was clear you couldn’t wait to find out.

The press conference didn’t go on much longer, Maya, nudged you. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, standing up and pocketing your phone, avoiding Liv’s smug look.

As you all made your way out of the press room, Liv caught your arm for just a second, whispering, “Tell her I said ‘hi.’”

You snorted, shaking your head as you pushed the door open. “You’re annoying.”

Liv grinned, eyes twinkling. “And yet, you love me.”

You laughed, shaking off the last of your nerves. Whatever was waiting in Alexia’s next message, you’d deal with it soon enough.

The second you stepped into the locker room, away from the cameras and press, you pulled out your phone. Your teammates were still riding the high of the win, laughing and chatting as they made their way each grab bottles of the awaiting celebratory drinks, but your focus was entirely on your phone.

Alexia: They’re replaying you looking all moody after the elbow. It’s sexy.

You tapped on Alexia’s message, your fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You: Oh, so now you like me bloody and bruised? Good to know.

A few seconds passed, then

Alexia: Always knew you were tough, but seeing it like that? Yeah… definitely not a bad look.

You chuckled under your breath, shaking your head. Just as you were about to respond, Liv brushed past you, tossing a teasing look over her shoulder.

“Tell her to keep it in her pants,” she quipped, loud enough for Mayam and a few others to hear.

Maya perked up immediately. “Ohhh, Alexia? What’s she saying?”

You shot Liv a glare while Maya practically lunged to peek at your phone. You pulled it away just in time. “Nothing. Mind your business.”

“Not a chance,” Maya grinned. “You’re all over the news, and your ‘not-girlfriend’ is suddenly very chatty? We’re invested.”

“Deeply invested,” Liv added, clearly enjoying herself.

You rolled your eyes, shoving your phone into your jacket pocket. “You’re all unbearable.”

“You love us,” Maya quipped.

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

The teasing continued as you fully engaged in the chanting and banging of the walls, but the moment you had a second to yourself after they’d subsided, you pulled your phone back out.

You: How’s my biggest fan feeling after watching that?

Alexia’s reply was almost instant.

Alexia: Proud. Also, frustrated because you’re an idiot for not dodging that elbow more the I watch it.

You grinned, leaning against the locker.

You: Part of the game

Alexia: Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

You hesitated for a moment, fingers tapping against the screen. The conversation was lighthearted, teasing, but something about her words, about her absence tonight lingered in your mind.

You: Wish you were there.

A pause. Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Alexia: Me too.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the message. For the first time all night, the win, the noise, the celebration—it all faded into the background. Because this wasn’t just some playful back-and-forth. This was something else entirely. It was too much for you so you changed the tone throwing Alexia for a loop

You: Was a good game you’d of learned a lot.

The locker room was buzzing, music blasting, champagne already being popped despite Coach’s weak protests, teammates laughing, reliving the final moments of the game like they hadn’t just lived it in real-time. You should’ve been fully in the moment. But your eyes kept flicking to your phone, Alexia’s last message sitting heavy in your mind.

Me too.

It wasn’t just words. It wasn’t just a casual response. It meant something.

“Are you even here right now?” Liv’s voice broke through your thoughts, amusement dripping from her tone. She leaned on the locker next to you, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

You blinked, forcing a smirk. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Liv scoffed. “Mmm-hmm. And I’m the Pope.”

You rolled your eyes, pocketing your phone. “Drop it.”

Maya, freshly drenched in celebratory champagne, appeared on your other side, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, no way. What’s going on?”

“Alexia,” Liv answered for you, smirking.

Maya’s eyes lit up. “Ooooh. Did she finally confess her undying love? Is she proposing? Did she—”

You shoved her lightly. “You two need hobbies.”

Liv shrugged. “This is our hobby.”

Maya nodded, completely serious. “You’re far more interesting than our actual lives.”

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed again. You felt both Liv and Maya shift to peek over your shoulder. You turned your back immediately, shooting them a warning glare. “Touch grass, both of you.”

Maya clutched her chest dramatically. “You’ve changed.” Ignoring them, you pulled out your phone, your heart kicking up just a little faster.

Alexia: I’m still up.

A slow smirk forming on your lips

You: What a coincidence. Me too.

Alexia: Call me when you’re done celebrating?

There it was again. Something unspoken.

You stared at the message for a second before quickly typing back.

You: Give me ten minutes.

You felt eyes on you and turned to find Liv and Maya grinning like they’d just won the lottery.

Maya held up her hands. “I won’t ask.”

Liv, however, smirked. “Just don’t say anything stupid when you call her.”

You scoffed. “When do I ever say anything stupid?”

Both of them exchanged a look.

Maya patted your shoulder sympathetically. “Godspeed.”

Shaking your head, you grabbed your jacket and slipped out of the locker room, your pulse quickening just a little. Because as much as you loved celebrating with your team, there was only one person you wanted to talk to right now. And she was waiting for your call.

The night air was crisp as you stepped outside the arena, the distant sounds of celebration still echoing from inside. You pulled your jacket tighter around you, took a deep breath, and tapped Alexia’s name on your phone. It barely rang once before she picked up.

“Took you long enough,” Alexia teased, her voice warm and familiar.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Had to survive the post-game interrogation first. Liv and Maya were unbearable.”

Alexia laughed softly, and the sound instantly eased the last of your nerves. “Let me guess—they saw my texts?”

“Oh yeah. They were ready to write fanfiction.”

Alexia hummed knowingly. “Sounds about right.” A comfortable silence settled for a second, the weight of the game, the win, and the night still lingering between you. “So,” Alexia started, her voice softer now. “How does it feel? You just made history.”

You exhaled, rubbing the back of your neck. “Honestly? It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It is.”

Her certainty made something settle deep in your chest. “I just wish you were there,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

There was a pause on her end, then a soft sigh. “Me too.” The sincerity in her voice made your heart skip. “I wanted to be,” she continued. “I had the whole watch party going, but it wasn’t the same.”

You smiled slightly, picturing her in your jersey, surrounded by her teammates, Alba probably making a whole event out of it. “You had a whole crowd watching me?”

“Of course,” she said simply. “I wasn’t missing that.”

Your stomach flipped, warmth spreading through your chest. “Well, we’re in the final now,” you said, trying to keep your tone light. “Plenty of time to show up.”

Alexia chuckled softly, but there was something unspoken in the pause that followed. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Plenty of time.”

But you both knew that wasn’t entirely true. The unspoken thing—the contract, the future, the uncertainty—hung between you like an invisible thread, waiting to be pulled. You weren’t ready for that conversation tonight. So instead, you teased, “You’re still picturing me with a bloody lip, aren’t you?”

Alexia laughed, a little breathless. “I hate how well you know me.”

You smirked. “I have a talent for reading you.”

“Oh yeah?” she mused. “Then what am I thinking right now?”

You pretended to consider. “Hmm… you’re wondering when I’m getting on a plane back to Barcelona.” Her silence spoke volumes. “Am I wrong?” you pressed.

“Not even a little,” Alexia admitted.

You grinned, shifting on your feet. “Soon.”

“Good,” she said, her voice softer now. “I’ll be waiting.” You exhaled, the weight of the night suddenly feeling a lot lighter. “Try to get some sleep tonight, cariño,” she murmured, her voice sending warmth through you. “You’ve got a final to prepare for.”

You smiled. “And you’ve got a flight to book to Paris.” The final was in Paris.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Go celebrate, idiot.”

“Goodnight, Alexia.”

“Goodnight.”

You ended the call, exhaling deeply, the city buzzing around you. You had just made history. But somehow, she was still the only thing on your mind.

The streets of Paris were alive, buzzing with energy, but nothing matched the euphoria radiating from you and your teammates as you spilled out of the team bus and into the bar your coach had reserved. The night was yours, and for once, you weren’t thinking about anything else—not Alexia, not the contract talks, not the endless media speculation.

Tonight was about celebrating.

The adrenaline was still coursing through your veins as you stepped out of the hotel lobby, where a fleet of black cars was waiting to take the team to your celebratory dinner. The night air was crisp, the city still buzzing from the historic win just hours earlier.

Inside the cars, the mood was electric—laughter, cheers, and even an impromptu chant started by Maya that had the entire squad hyped all over again.

“You do realise we only made the final, right?” Liv teased, adjusting the sleek blazer she had opted for instead of a dress. “Not saying we shouldn’t be celebrating, but it’s not like we won the whole thing yet.”

Maya rolled her eyes dramatically. “Please. We made history tonight. Do you know how many Barcelona teams before us have tried and failed to do this?”

“All of them,” Claudia added, grinning. “So yeah, we celebrate.”

When you pulled up to the restaurant—a high-end spot that the club had booked out exclusively for the team and staff—you were met with flashes of cameras from across the street. The media was already outside, eager to get a glimpse of the team that had just shaken the entire league.

Inside, the energy was even louder. The coaching staff, club executives, and even a few familiar faces from other Barcelona teams were there, raising glasses in your honour. As you took your seat at a long, lavishly set table, a waiter immediately poured you a glass of champagne.

“To making history!” one of the coaches toasted, raising his glass.

The entire room erupted, glasses clinking, cheers echoing against the walls. You leaned back slightly, taking it all in—the faces of your teammates, your team, all of you standing on the precipice of something massive. Dinner was chaotic in the best way possible—stories from the game, wild reenactments of the final shot, playful jabs at each other for missed free throws or sloppy turnovers. Someone started a tally of who had gotten the most fouls throughout the season, and of course, your name was high on the list.

“This one,” Liv announced dramatically, pointing at you with her fork, “has personally put at least five people on the injured list this season.”

You held up your hands in innocence. “Not my fault they don’t move fast enough.”

Maya howled in laughter. “They’re still talking about that brutal screen you set last month.”

Liv shook her head, sipping her drink. “You love being the villain.”

You smirked, raising your glass. “Only if it gets us the win.”

By the time dessert came around, the mood had shifted slightly—still celebratory, but also a little more reflective.

“We really did it, huh?” Marta mused, stirring her spoon in her coffee.

“We’re not done yet,” the team captain reminded her. “One more.”

“One more,” you echoed, nodding. And that was the reality of it. The biggest game of your career was still ahead. But tonight was about the journey. About this team. And about taking a second to appreciate the moment before the real battle began.

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justareader7

3 weeks ago

🤣🤣🤣

We No Speak Italiano

summary: you’ll never miss a day of Duolingo again

warnings: are language barriers and miscommunication warnings?

a/n: based on this request ! also thank you to @onsomenewsht for inflating my ego and helping navigate italian !

word count: 2.1k

Alexia looks at you like you’ve just dropped the biggest bombshell in the history of bombshells. Her eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape, and she’s got that look, like she’s trying to figure out how to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture with no instructions and half the screws missing.

“Estoy embarazada,” you say again, because you’re pretty sure that’s the right way to tell her you’re mortified after spilling your entire glass of wine on her brand-new sofa.

Your high school Spanish teacher would be so proud.

But instead of the expected response, maybe a nervous laugh or string of expletives, Alexia gasps, and her hands fly to her mouth like she’s just heard the Virgin Mary is back for round two. Her eyes flick down to your stomach and back up to your face. The calculation going on behind her eyes is something like 2 + 2 = 5, but you have no idea why.

“I… Oh my God,” she says, her voice all wobbly, like she’s about to cry. “I didn’t… I mean, this is… Are you okay?” She’s speaking in slow, deliberate Spanish now, like you’re suddenly a toddler and not a grown-ass woman who just spilled wine.

You blink at her. “Sí?”

“Madre mía”

It starts with a breakfast that makes no sense.

You wake up to the smell of something cooking in the kitchen, which is odd because Alexia barely knows how to operate a toaster without supervision. You stumble out of bed, groggy, and follow the scent of food.

What you find in the kitchen is nothing short of alarming: Alexia, apron-clad and concentrating so hard that she’s actually sticking her tongue out a little, is stirring something in a pot while a blender whirs ominously next to her.

“Buenos días,” she sings out when she notices you standing in the doorway. She’s all smiles, too bright for this early in the morning, and you immediately get suspicious.

“What’s going on?” you ask, eyes narrowing as you take in the sight of an overfull fruit bowl, a plate stacked with multigrain toast, and what appears to be an entire carton of eggs scrambled and ready to be eaten.

“Sit, sit,” she insists, pulling out a chair for you like you’ve suddenly developed a bad back and need assistance. “I made breakfast”

“You… made breakfast,” you repeat, eyeing the smoothie she pours into a glass and slides over to you. It’s an unsettling green color, like pond scum, and you’re not sure it’s fit for human consumption.

“Sí. You need to start your day with lots of nutrients.” She’s practically bouncing on her toes, like a Labrador eager to please.

You blink at the smoothie, then back at her. “Since when did you learn how to use the Nutribullet?”

She doesn’t answer directly, just gives you an encouraging smile that feels a little too close to a grimace. “Drink up. It’s good for you”

You take a tentative sip, and it’s like drinking liquid grass mixed with what you can only hope is kale. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No!” She’s almost offended, but there’s a hint of nervousness in her voice that you can’t quite place. “It’s full of vitamins. Good for… energy”

You stare at her, but she just stares back, eyes wide and almost… expectant.

“Okay,” you say slowly, deciding to let this weirdness slide, for now. Maybe she’s on a trendy new health kick. Or maybe it’s an early birthday surprise gone wrong. Either way, you down the smoothie in a few brave gulps, trying not to think about the fact that it tastes like lawn clippings.

Alexia beams at you when you finish, like you’ve just accomplished something monumental. “Bien, bien. Now, sit tight. I’ll get the rest”

She practically skips back to the stove, where she starts piling eggs and toast onto a plate. You don’t even bother asking why she’s suddenly turned into Martha Stewart; you’re too busy wondering if you’ve somehow walked into a parallel universe.

It’s only later, after you’ve forced down an absurd amount of scrambled eggs, that she starts talking about how “important it is to stay healthy” and how she’s “going to take care of everything from now on,” which sounds sweet but also vaguely threatening.

You brush it off, chalking it up to some kind of weird phase. After all, everyone gets weird sometimes, right?

By day two, you’re starting to suspect that something is seriously wrong.

It begins with a confrontation over laundry, specifically, the fact that you’re not allowed to do any. At all.

“I’ve got it,” Alexia says, practically wrestling the basket out of your hands when you attempt to head for the washing machine.

You try to grab it back, but she holds it over her head like some ridiculous game of keep-away. “What is with you?”

“You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things,” she says, so earnestly it makes your brain short-circuit for a second.

“It’s a basket of clothes,” you argue, “not a sack of bricks. And I lift heavier things at the gym every day”

She shakes her head, not budging. “No. Let me do it. Just relax”

You gape at her, watching as she carries the laundry to the washing machine like it’s a ticking time bomb. She’s being weirdly gentle, placing the clothes in like they might shatter if she drops them too hard.

Then there’s the vitamin situation. You’re sitting on the freshly cleaned sofa, flipping through channels, when Alexia plops down beside you with a clatter of bottles and packages.

“Take these,” she says, handing you an array of supplements that looks like it belongs on the shelf of a pharmacy. There are multivitamins, folic acid, omega-3s, and some other pill you can’t even pronounce.

“What is this?” You hold up the folic acid like it’s a foreign object. “I’m not trying to hatch an egg here”

“Just take them,” she insists, pushing the bottles toward you. “They’re good for you”

“I’m pretty sure the only thing these are good for is draining my will to live,” you mutter, but she gives you that look, the one that’s all big hazel eyes and soft smiles, and you end up taking them just to get her to stop hovering.

When you try to go for a run that afternoon, she practically tackles you at the door.

“Maybe you should rest,” she suggests, like she’s trying to steer a toddler away from a busy street. “You know, take it easy for a bit”

“Take it easy?” You raise an eyebrow. “I’m not 80. And since when do you care about rest days? You’re usually the one dragging me to the gym at 6 AM”

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again like a fish gasping for air. “It’s important to be careful”

“Careful of what, exactly?”

She hesitates, and you catch a flicker of something in her expression, nervousness, maybe? Fear? Whatever it is, it’s weirding you out. “Just… you know, careful”

You’re about to argue, but she gives you a kiss on the forehead, all soft and sweet, and you end up staying in just to avoid making things even more bizarre.

By day three, you’re done. Absolutely, 100% done.

It starts with the breakfast smoothies, again. This time, it’s a vibrant pink concoction that tastes like liquid chalk mixed with berries, and you’re pretty sure it’s the same smoothie you saw in a TV ad for pregnancy supplements once.

When Alexia starts lecturing you on the importance of hydration, while handing you a liter of water with electrolytes, you decide it’s time to get to the bottom of this.

“Alexia,” you say, setting the water down with a definitive thud, “we need to talk”

She glances at you, clearly nervous, and you know you’ve hit the jackpot. “About what?”

“About why you’re acting like I’m a fragile little baby bird that needs to be protected from all the big, scary things in life,” you reply, crossing your arms.

Her face flushes, and she avoids your gaze, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “I just-, I want to take care of you”

“I appreciate that,” you say, softening just a little, “but you’ve gone full-on helicopter mode. And it’s freaking me out”

She looks at you for a long moment, then sighs like she’s been carrying the weight of the world.

“You didn’t tell me,” she says, voice soft like she’s whispering state secrets. “How long? I mean… when did you find out?”

You stare at her, a mental Rolodex flipping through every interaction you’ve had over the last few days, searching for the moment when you apparently lost your mind. “Find out what?”

“That you’re…” She trails off, wide-eyed, and then whispers, like she’s on a soap opera, “Pregnant”

There’s a beat of silence. And then another one. You feel like someone just turned off the power in your brain. You’re pregnant? No, no, no. Last you checked, you were just really bad at pouring wine.

“Wait,” you finally say, holding up a hand to stop her from offering you yet another pillow or maybe a foot rub. “Pregnant?”

Alexia’s eyebrows are practically in her hairline. “You said you’re embarazada”

Oh. Oh. Oh no.

“Alexia,” you say slowly, enunciating like you’re the one explaining the IKEA instructions now. “I said I’m embarrassed. Not pregnant. Embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated because I thought I ruined your sofa with a ten-euro bottle of red”

She looks like she’s buffering, trying to load what you just said. “Embarazada… means pregnant, in Spanish”

Ah, the joys of faux amis, false friends, words that sound like they should mean the same thing but are actually waiting to sabotage you like linguistic landmines. Your high school Spanish teacher can take a hike.

You wipe away a tear, trying to catch your breath. “Alexia… I told you I was embarrassed. Imbarazzato doesn’t mean pregnant in Italian, it means mortified. Humiliated. Just how I felt when I spilled that wine and thought I ruined your furniture”

“Wait,” Alexia says, her brow furrowing in that cute, confused way you’d normally find adorable if she weren’t in the middle of thinking you’re harbouring a tiny human in your uterus. “So you’re not…?”

“No!” You laugh, a little hysterically because, seriously, how did you get here? “I’m not pregnant. We’re both women. How would that even work? I mean, unless there’s something about human biology I missed in school, I’m pretty sure that’s not in the cards for us”

Her eyes widen as the realisation hits, and then she groans, burying her face in her hands. “Dios mío, I’m such an idiot”

You’re still laughing, but you manage to pat her knee reassuringly. “An adorable idiot, but yeah, kind of”

“Well, you did say ‘embarazada,’” she points out. “How was I supposed to know you just meant you were embarrassed?”

You shrug. “Maybe when I didn’t start eating pickles and ice cream? Or asking for your jersey for when the baby arrives?”

“Touché.” She’s still grinning, that big, beautiful smile that makes you forgive her for thinking you were about to drop a baby bomb on her. “So, you’re just embarrassed”

“Yes. Very. And I’m also very much not pregnant. I’m sorry for confusing you”

She sighs, exaggerated like she’s relieved, and you both start laughing again, the awkward tension from the past few days melting away. But there’s still a mischievous glint in her eye, one that makes you a little wary.

“What?” you ask, knowing full well you’re about to regret it.

“Well, since you’re not pregnant,” she says slowly, leaning closer with that flirty smirk you love and hate in equal measure, “how about we do something about that embarrassment?”

She wiggles her eyebrows, and you roll your eyes. “Oh, so now that I’m not a fragile incubator, you’re all over me?”

“Exactamente,” she says, pulling you into her lap with surprising ease, even for someone who regularly benches more than your body weight. “Besides, I have to make sure you’re really not pregnant”

“Alexia,” you say, trying to sound stern but failing miserably when she starts nuzzling your neck, “that’s not how this works, remember?”

She grins against your skin, pressing a teasing kiss to your collarbone. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You push her back just enough to meet her eyes, raising an eyebrow. “But if you want to keep treating me like a queen, I’m not going to complain”

“Deal,” she says, her voice softening, her hand resting on your cheek. “But next time you’re embarrassed, can you please just say it in Italian, or English?”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to her lips. “Sure, but only if you promise not to freak out the next time I spill something”

“No promises,” she murmurs, pulling you closer, “but I’ll try”

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