“your Foot Moved Weird” 🤣🤣🤨

🥰🥰🥰

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 11 Other Parts

Word Count: 7k

The kitchen is filled with soft afternoon light, filtering lazily through the open window. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of music playing from the speaker on the counter and the soft clatter of you rummaging through cabinets.

You're barefoot, hair scraped up haphazardly, a t-shirt that's definitely not yours slouching off one shoulder as you pull ingredients out for lunch. Simple. Easy. Normal.

Or it would be, if not for the way Alexia hovers, not in the obvious way. She's subtle about it, or at least, she thinks she is. Leaning against the counter just a little too close. Reaching around you for the salt when she doesn’t need to. The brush of her fingers against the small of your back as she passes, feather-light but deliberate.

It's different now, there’s no more careful distance, no more pretending it’s platonic.

She's more tactile. Casual, but not. Her hand lingers at your waist when you’re slicing vegetables, her arm grazes yours as she leans in to taste whatever you’re cooking even though you know she doesn’t really care how it tastes right now.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye as she shamelessly dips a finger into the sauce, popping it into her mouth with an exaggerated “Mmm.”

“You’re annoying,” you murmur, bumping her hip with yours.

“I’m charming,” she corrects, eyes glinting, but her hand slides to rest at your lower back again, thumb stroking slow, unconscious circles through the thin fabric of your shirt.

It sends a quiet thrill through you, you try, really try, to focus on the pan in front of you. “You’re distracting.”

“That’s not a no,” she murmurs, voice lower now, closer, her breath warm near your ear.

You shoot her a look, but there’s no bite behind it. Not when her fingers are still tracing soft, aimless patterns against your back. Not when her body is pressed just shy of touching yours, her presence curling around you like heat.

Alexia, of course, acts like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you didn’t have your hands all over her just this morning. Like you haven’t both crossed a line that neither of you are pretending to care about anymore.

When you plate up the food and move to set it on the table, she catches your wrist, not enough to stop you just enough to make you look at her.

Her thumb brushes once, twice, over the inside of your wrist. “Thanks for lunch,” she says, soft, but there’s weight to it, not just for the food, for everything.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t need to, the smile you give her says enough, as you both sit to eat, her foot nudges yours under the table. Light. Thoughtless. Like it belongs there.

⚽️

Later in the day, the house fills up again with voices, with footsteps, with the unmistakable sound of a three year old on a mission.

Mateo arrives like a tiny whirlwind, his little arms overloaded with toys mismatched, colourful, spilling out of a too-small backpack he insists on carrying himself.

“I brought everything,” he declares proudly, dropping the bag with a dramatic huff in the middle of Alexia’s living room. “Because Coco said we’d play.”

You can’t help but laugh, crouching down to his level as you watch him unzip the bag with the seriousness of a man about to negotiate a world cup final.

“You came prepared, huh?” you tease, ruffling his hair. “What’s in there? The whole toy store?”

He beams. “Almost. Mami said I could pick my best ones.”

Irene just shakes her head, fond but exasperated, as she and her wife settle onto the sofa with Alexia, slipping into easy conversation.

Mateo proudly pulls out a small army of action figures, you notice the subtle shift in his posture his eyes darting toward the hallway, his little shoulders pulling in. Following his gaze, it doesn’t take you long to spot why, Teddy.

The picture of chill, Teddy is padding over with his usual friendly curiosity, tongue lolling lazily out, tail giving a slow, lazy wag, but to Mateo, it’s a different story.

The toys suddenly don’t seem that interesting, he edges subtly closer to you, almost hiding behind your leg, his hand curling into your shorts.

You soften instantly. “Hey, buddy,” you say gently, crouching down again to his level. “That’s Teddy. He looks big, huh?”

Mateo nods, wide-eyed, his little fingers gripping you a bit tighter. You glance at Teddy, who, bless him, must sense the nerves, he stops a good distance away, sitting down with that perfectly patient doggy expression, ears perked, head tilted, tail giving a slow, reassuring thump on the floor.

“Teddy’s the biggest softie you’ll ever meet,” you explain. “Loves belly rubs more than anything. He’s basically a giant pillow that breathes.”

Mateo’s brows furrow, suspicious, but curious.

“You know what?” you add, lowering your voice like it’s a secret. “He’s actually a little scared of new people too, but when he sees someone is kind, he relaxes. Like magic.”

That gets you a thoughtful look, you extend your hand toward Teddy, giving him the signal to stay put, and gesture to Mateo.

“Wanna give it a try? You don’t have to touch him. You can just say hi from here.”

Mateo hesitates, eyes flicking from you to Teddy and back again, but then he puffs out his tiny chest, brave, determined and waves his hand in a quick, jerky motion, “Hi, Teddy.”

Teddy’s tail wags a little faster, Mateo glances at you, and you grin. “See? He likes you already.”

Little by little, Mateo inches closer, dropping into a cautious crouch, his toys temporarily forgotten. He watches as Teddy stays perfectly still, gaze soft, waiting for Mateo to set the pace, and then tiny fingers reach out. Just the tips, barely grazing Teddy’s fur. Teddy, in true golden retriever fashion, responds with a slow, happy thump of his tail and a lazy lean forward, until Mateo’s fingers are buried in the soft fur behind his ears.

A giggle bursts out of Mateo before he can stop it. “Soft,” he says, amazed.

You glance up to see Alexia watching from the sofa, her mouth tugged into a smile that’s softer than you’re used to seeing. Something warm settles in your chest. “Look at you, already making best friends,” you murmur, giving Mateo’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

He looks up at you, beaming. “I like him” And with that, the toys come back into play, Teddy now firmly accepted as part of the gang.

⚽️

Alexia’s footsteps echo lightly down the hallway as she returns from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel, brow furrowed at the sound of absolute chaos coming from the living room.

Laughter. Full-bodied, uncontrollable Mateo’s tiny giggles bubbling over, joined by yours loud, can’t-catch-your-breath laughter and somewhere beneath that, Irene and her wife are laughing too, the quiet, helpless kind of giggles that come when you're around others laughing you can’t help but get dragged under.

Alexia rounds the corner, towel still in hand, brows raised. “What is going on?” she asks, voice amused, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

You’re on the floor, half-sitting, half-toppled over, clutching your stomach, tears in your eyes, barely able to breathe. Mateo is sprawled next to you, red-faced from laughing so hard, wheezing out little gasps between his peals of giggles.

You can't explain, you just begin waving a hand in the air like you’re physically batting away your own laughter, you gasp some air before the laughter continues.

Mateo nods vigorously, hair flopping into his eyes, absolutely useless with how hard he’s still laughing. He tries to explain, gets out one garbled word “Rawr” before dissolving again into helpless giggles, flopping dramatically against your side like it’s too much.

Alexia’s eyes flick from him to you, then to Irene and her wife who are both just as amused as Alexia, giggling into their hands, seeing how happy this stranger made their son.

“Oh my god,” Alexia mutters, exasperated but smiling now, shaking her head as she leans against the doorway, watching the ridiculousness unfold. “I leave the room for two minutes…”

You’re wiping at your eyes now, breathless, the laughter finally starting to taper off into little aftershocks. You manage to look up at her, face flushed, grin wide.

“Mateo’s got jokes,” you say, voice still shaky from laughing. “And sound effects. Very realistic.”

Mateo immediately presses a finger to his lips, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Secret joke,” he whispers loudly. “Only for Coco.”

Alexia just watches you, and even as she rolls her eyes, her lips curve into that soft, almost fond smile that’s becoming dangerously familiar now. “You’re encouraging him,” she accuses, though there’s no heat behind it.

“Absolutely,” you reply shamelessly, giving Mateo a high five that sets him off into another giggle fit.

Alexia shakes her head, but her eyes linger on you a moment longer and there’s something in her gaze that says more than she’ll say out loud right now.

"Do you need a hand with dinner Ale?" Irene's wife smiled, it didn't take much persuasion before Irene and her wife were in the kitchen helping.

You’re on the living room floor, legs crossed, as Mateo lines up his little army of toys with all the focus of a general preparing for battle. He’s explaining the intricacies of some very serious dinosaur alliance when you catch the sound of hushed voices drifting in from the kitchen.

Irene’s voice is unmistakable. Light. Probing. “So… how long are we pretending this is just ‘friendly’ hospitality, Ale?”

There’s a pause. The clink of dishes. The soft scrape of a knife against a chopping board. Alexia’s reply comes slower, careful. “What do you mean?”

Irene’s wife snorts. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been hovering around like a golden retriever yourself today. I thought Teddy was the dog, not you.”

Mateo tugs at your sleeve, oblivious, asking if you thought the big dinosaur or the little one is faster, but your brain is only half here. Your ears are firmly in the kitchen.

“I’m being a good host,” Alexia says, far too innocent, but you can hear the smile in her voice. “I'm being a good friend, she's in town because of her situation with Bayern I trying to make it better, and why would she pay for a hotel when I have so much room here. I'm just helping my friend out. Is that a crime now?”

“You don’t get flustered when other houseguests walk into the room,” Irene points out, dry as ever. “Or touch your back. Or breathe the same air.”

There’s a brief beat of silence. You can imagine Alexia’s expression, that carefully schooled face, the little purse of her lips when she’s caught out but refuses to admit it. “I like her,” she says finally. Quiet, but sure.

Mateo’s still chattering away, showing you how to properly play with an action figure dinosaur, but your attention flickers again when Irene’s wife softly adds, “Good, because she’s good for you, Ale. You’re different with her.”

“I know,” Alexia admits, and there’s something so unguarded in her voice now it nearly floors you.

Mateo climbs into your lap mid-battle, tilting his head up at you with a grin. “Coco, you’re not listening,” he scolds, tapping your cheek with his little finger. “You have to focus.”

You smile down at him, ruffling his hair. “Sorry, boss. I’m back. Let’s save the world.” But as you dive back into his toy universe, the knowledge hums quietly beneath your skin.

“Okay, Ale. Serious question,” she says, tone deceptively light. “Why are you being so secretive? You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“I’m not being secretive,” Alexia mutters, too defensive to be convincing.

“You are,” Irene’s wife chimes in, “But it’s cute. In a frustrating, emotionally repressed way.”

Alexia exhales, setting down the knife, her hands braced against the counter. There’s a moment where she looks down, gathering herself, and then she shrugs casual, but her voice is quieter when she speaks, “I was waiting to see if I could really trust her.”

That stops you. You’re still, so still, even as Mateo launches his toys into some epic battle beside you. Irene’s smile softens, but she doesn’t let her off the hook. “Because…?”

Alexia’s fingers drum lightly on the counter. “Because she’s heard things. Things I’ve told her. Things I haven’t told many people. Things she could’ve easily… leaked. Or twisted.” She pauses, glancing up for a breath before dropping her gaze again. “But she didn’t. She hasn’t.”

There’s a vulnerability in her tone now, barely concealed, like this truth costs her something to say aloud.

“I think she likes me for me,” she admits, voice small. “Not for the name. Not for what comes along with it.”

Your chest twists. A tangle of emotions wraps tight inside you. Annoyance, sharp and immediate because she tested you, she dangled trust like something you had to earn.

Pride, fierce and undeniable because you had passed, whether she’s outright said it or not, but mostly sadness. That heavy ache for her. For the history packed into those words. For the wrong people she’s trusted before, the scars she’s clearly still carrying.

“I get it,” Irene says softly, after a beat. “But you know you don’t always have to keep it from your friends, right?”

As you quietly gather Mateo’s toys into a little pile, pretending you aren’t listening, you feel her words settle in your chest, heavy and real.

⚽️

The clink of cutlery and soft murmur of conversation fills the dining room. It’s an easy atmosphere, laughter lingering from earlier, wine being slowly sipped. You’re sitting next to Alexia, who’s close enough now that her thigh brushes yours under the table, subtle but deliberate.

Then Lucia, with that curious tilt of her head, casually drops it into conversation like it’s just another side dish. “So… what actually happened with your coach? You two seemed close. But now,” she shrugs lightly, “it’s quite obviously tense.”

The table quiets just a fraction. Not awkward but attentive. Alexia’s fork stills. You consider brushing it off, a joke, an evasive answer, but the truth feels easier now, maybe because of what you overheard earlier. “I slept with her daughter,” you say simply, stabbing a piece of roasted pepper. “And then I left in the middle of the night.”

Lucia’s brows lift, but she doesn’t look surprised. Irene huffs a quiet laugh into her glass. “It wasn’t… casual, at least not for me. I thought we were. I don’t know. Starting something I guess.” You glance down at your plate, jaw working for a second before you continue, you told other people a lie, to save face mainly. It's never nice to think someone doesn't like you for genuine reasons. “But when she was asleep, her phone lit up. Group chat.” You let that sink in. “She’d texted them. Bragging. That she’d ‘ticked me off the list.’ Her words, not mine.”

Alexia’s head turns sharply towards you, her lips parting slightly, but she says nothing.

“I couldn’t stay after that. Not even until morning. Felt like a bloody idiot.” You pop the bite of pepper in your mouth, chewing as if the bitterness wasn’t lingering elsewhere.

Irene exhales slowly. “That’s rough.”

You shrug like it’s no big deal, even though you know it was. Still is, sometimes. “I guess I needed to learn that lesson once, right?” You flash a smile, light but not quite reaching your eyes. “Not everyone wants you for the right reasons.”

The words hang there. You don’t need to look to know Alexia’s gaze is on you. Lucia nods, but her eyes are softer now. “Still, that says more about her than it does about you.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table. You feel Alexia’s hand brush yours again under the table, this time her pinky hooking around yours for a second longer than necessary. It’s small but it’s loud in its own way.

⚽️

Later in the evening, while the grown-ups are back to clearing dishes and sharing stories over a bottle of wine, Mateo’s settled himself beside you on the living room rug again. He’s got two plastic dinosaurs in each hand, giving you a very serious rundown of which one would win in a fight, a T-Rex or a Spinosaurus.

“Spinosaurus is bigger,” he insists, eyes wide. “But T-Rex has stronger teeth.”

You nod sagely. “You know, my dad would love this debate.”

Mateo’s head snaps up so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash. “Why? Does he like dinosaurs too?”

You grin, leaning back on your hands. “He doesn’t just like them. He’s a paleontologist. That’s his job. Studying dinosaurs. Digging up fossils.”

Mateo’s mouth falls open. A tiny, perfect what?! hanging in the air.

“No way.” He squints at you, like you might be pulling his leg. “That’s a real job?”

You chuckle. “It is. He travels all over to dig sites. Has a massive collection of bones at home. Real ones. Not toys.”

Mateo looks absolutely floored. He drops his dinosaurs into your lap, completely betrayed by his plastic versions now. “That’s so cool,” he breathes, eyes wide as dinner plates. “Does he have a T-Rex?”

“Not a full one,” you say, playing along, “but he worked on a dig in Montana where they found parts of one. Big teeth. He showed me when I was little.”

Mateo’s bouncing now, practically vibrating with excitement. “That’s the coolest dad job ever. Way cooler than my Mama's spreadsheets.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, ruffling his hair. “Don’t tell her you said that.”

He leans in conspiratorially. “I won’t if you show me a real dinosaur bone one day.”

“Deal.”

From across the room, you catch Alexia watching you, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. There’s something soft in her gaze, a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Do you want anything boss man? I'm just going to get a drink?"

"I'm ok coco"

You head into the kitchen, reaching for a glass of water more out of habit than thirst. That’s when Alexia’s suddenly there, moving in beside you like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything. “Hey,” she says softly, voice pitched for just the two of you.

You glance sideways, and she’s close, too close for this to be casual. Leaning against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, arms loosely folded, but her gaze sharp and thoughtful.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she admits, cutting straight to it. “About your coach’s daughter. The text you saw.”

You shrug, trying for nonchalant, but it lands closer to guarded. “Old story now.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But it explains a lot.”

You glance at her, brows ticking up. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

A corner of her mouth lifts, but there’s no teasing in it. Just that same softness from earlier. “Like why you look at people sideways when they get too nice. Why you act like you’re always waiting for the punchline.”

You go still, the truth of her words striking deep.

“And why trust isn’t something you give easy,” she finishes, voice low.

You huff a breath, looking down at your glass, swirling it like you’ve got something important in there. “Yeah, well. Can’t all have the pick of everyone, can we?”

It’s sharper than you mean. A defense mechanism. But Alexia doesn’t flinch. “No,” she agrees quietly. “But we both know what it feels like when people want you for the wrong reasons.”

That pulls your gaze back to her and you see it, see her, not the superstar, not the badge. Just a woman who’s been burned, same as you. “I heard what you said to Irene,” you admit, voice soft now. “About testing me. About needing to be sure.”

A flicker of guilt crosses her face, but she holds your gaze. “I’m not proud of that,” she says. “But I needed to know if you were here for me. Or for…” she gestures vaguely, “everything else.”

“And now?” you ask, more curious than confrontational.

Alexia’s lips press together, thoughtful, before she steps just a fraction closer. “Now I think you’re the most patient person I’ve met,” she murmurs. “And I’m starting to feel like the idiot for not making a move sooner.”

Your breath catches, heart hammering louder than it should. “I told you,” you say quietly, “patience is a virtue.”

Her smile turns warmer. “You’re too good at this game.”

“Not a game, Alexia.” You let that sit between you.

⚽️

The house is quiet again. The dishes are done, Mateo’s toys tucked back into his backpack, and Irene and Lucia have said their goodbyes with warm hugs and knowing looks after Mateo charmed his way into a sleepover. It was obviously pre-planned on his part, he took the initiative to pack some PJ's.

You and Alexia are on the couch now lights low, some random episode playing but neither of you are watching it. Your legs are stretched out, your socked foot lightly brushing her bare shin. The casual closeness is anything but casual now.

She glances at you during a quiet part of the episode. You feel her eyes before you see them. Your gaze flicks over and meets hers and this time, nothing hesitates.

She leans in slowly, deliberately, her hand brushing your jaw, and then she kisses you. Soft. Sure. The kind of kiss that isn’t about fireworks. Your lips part for her just slightly, and the kiss deepens by a breath, a slow press of mouths that says everything the two of you haven’t. You chase her for half a second when she pulls back.

Her eyes stay closed for a moment longer, like she’s memorising the way this feels. And when they open, she’s smiling quiet and real.

Small footsteps patter down the hall. You both freeze, instinctively pulling apart just in time for Mateo to round the corner in his pyjamas, clutching a small stuffed dinosaur.

His eyes find you instantly, then flick to Alexia, his little brows furrow.

“You were kissing her,” he announces accusingly, pointing a stubby finger at Alexia.

Alexia’s eyes go wide. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

Mateo stomps forward, tiny and determined, clutching the dinosaur like a weapon of moral judgment. “She’s my friend,” he tells Alexia, firm and scandalised. “You’re not allowed to kiss her.”

Alexia’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She looks at you for help.

“Mateo,” you say, still trying to catch your laughter before it comes out, “you kissed me on the cheek six times earlier and told me we were the best of friends”

“That’s different!” he says with all the righteous fury of a three year old. “We had a deal!”

Alexia clears her throat, trying very hard not to laugh. “I didn’t realise I was in competition with a dinosaur prince.”

“You are!” he shouts dramatically, and flops down onto the couch between you, arms crossed, glaring at Alexia using all his might to try and move her over on the sofa.

You lean down, whispering, “He might be harder to win over than Irene.”

Alexia mutters, “Apparently.”

Mateo squints up at her. “I’m watching you.”

Alexia grins now, accepting the challenge. “I’m very scary.”

He doesn’t look convinced. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen her look more amused. The three of you sit in silence for a second, the episode still playing in the background. Mateo yawns dramatically.

“You can stay,” he tells her finally, like a king issuing a decree. “But no more kissing.”

You and Alexia share a look over the top of his head her eyes warm, yours laughing.

“No more kissing,” you promise, lips twitching.

"I make no such promises" you can't help the giggle that escapes when Mateo turns his head to Alexia and she seems to recoil at the look she was getting.

⚽️

Mateo had fallen asleep squarely in the middle of the sofa sprawled between you and Alexia like a pint sized buffer, one hand still clutching his stuffed dinosaur and the other loosely resting against your leg. His soft snores had been the final cue that it was time to carry him up to one of the guest rooms.

You scoop him up carefully, his head lolling against your shoulder, and carry him through the hallway with slow, quiet steps. Alexia watches you go with a little smile playing at her mouth, one of those soft ones, the kind you pretend not to notice but feel anyway.

Once upstairs, you tuck him under the blanket, he stirs a little, mumbling something in Spanish in sleep-heavy, but then, just as you start to ease away, his eyes flutter open, small and round and glassy with sleep.

“Do you really like Auntie Ale?” he asks quietly, voice small in the hush of the dim room.

You blink, heart tugged. Then smile gently. “Yeah, Mateo. I like her very much.”

He nods slowly, as if this confirms something important, and snuggles deeper into the pillow. “Can she come tuck me in too?”

You brush your hand through his hair. “I’ll go get her.”

You step back into the hallway and pad downstairs, Alexia is still in the living room, one leg tucked up under her, turning the TV off, she looks up as you enter.

“He asked for you,” you say softly.

Alexia arches a brow. “Is he okay?”

You nod. “He just wants you to come tuck him in.”

Alexia chuckles, standing heading back up the stairs. You head back up after grabbing your phone but, something makes you pause in the hallway by the door, just outside Mateo’s claimed room, drawn by the soft murmur of their voices.

“Are you comfy now?” Alexia asks gently, her voice like velvet in the quiet.

“Uh-huh.” A pause, then, Mateo says very seriously, “You can make her your girlfriend now.”

Alexia is clearly caught off-guard. “What?”

Mateo yawns. “Coco. You can make her your girlfriend.”

Alexia’s voice is light, but there’s something breathless underneath it. “Why do you say that, Mateo?”

He shifts under the covers, half-asleep but earnest. “Because she passed my tests,” he mumbles. “She’s nice and she played with me and she made you smile a lot.” Another pause. You can almost hear Alexia blinking, “She told me she really likes you too,” Mateo adds, like it’s a secret he’s been holding in all day.

Silence and then Alexia’s voice, barely audible: “She did?”

Mateo hums, already sinking back into sleep. “Mhm. She said it when I asked.”

Alexia says nothing else for a moment. You picture her there, sitting beside his bed in the soft light, her hand resting on the blanket, staring down at this kid who just knowingly played matchmaker.

Finally, softly, you hear her say: “Okay. Thanks, Mateo.”

You step back, quietly making your way to Alexia's room, it was quiet expect the hum of your phone on the bed as you got changed, as Alexia pads in softly on bare feet your already part way through your phone call.

You’ve got your back to her, one hand braced on the windowsill, the other holding your phone to your ear. You don’t see her, don’t know she’s there and so you speak freely.

“No, I get it. I know it changes things.” Your voice is low, tired, but steady. Alexia pauses just inside the doorway, out of sight but close enough to hear you clearly. Something in your tone stops her. You exhale into the phone. “Look, I didn’t want anyone to lose their job. That was never what this was about.”

Another beat. You shift your weight, shoulders tense.

“I’ve made a decision. There’s no going back now. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, leaving like that especially under those circumstances but I meant what I said, I can't play there now.”

Alexia stays where she is, quiet as a ghost.

“I’m not staying, no matter who they bring in next what assurances they give me. I know it changes the dynamic, but I’ve already committed to what’s next. I owe it to myself and to them to follow through on that.” There’s a long pause where whoever’s on the other end replying. You nod silently, then say quietly, “Tell them I said thank you. For everything.”

Another pause.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I will be.”

You hang up, your head drops, and for a moment you just stand there, eyes closed, fingertips pressing into the windowsill like it might keep you upright.

Then you turn and freeze, Alexia’s in the doorway now, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. Her expression is unreadable, soft and still. You blink, startled. “How long?”

“Long enough,” she says gently.

You hesitate, the air thick with unspoken things. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” you say finally.

“I know,” she replies.

“I made my choice,” you say, more quietly now. “I had to. Even if things… changed after.”

She pushes off the frame and crosses the room slowly, her gaze never leaving yours. When she stops in front of you, she’s close not touching, but closer than she needs to be. “What happened?”

“My head coach got let go this morning.”

Alexia’s brow lifts, a flicker of surprise in her expression. “Seriously?”

You nod. “The club’s already promoted the assistant. He’s taking over.”

Alexia takes a step further into the room. “You okay?”

You shrug, somewhere between relief and conflict. “It’s… weird. She was part of the reason I left, but not the only reason.”

Alexia watches you for a moment, reading you like she always does, calm, quiet, patient. “Does it change anything?” she asks.

You shake your head slowly. “No. I told them it doesn’t. I’ve already made my decision, and I’m following through on it.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes curiosity, and something deeper. “What did you decide?” she asks softly.

You meet her gaze, steady now. "I signed with Barca yesterday before I left"

Alexia’s eyes widen just slightly a blink, a twitch of her mouth like she’s caught between trying to stay composed and wanting to beam. She shifts her weight onto one foot, then crosses her arms tighter like she’s trying to keep the emotion from spilling over.

“You… you already signed?” she says, voice a little higher, quieter than usual.

You nod, watching her. “Yesterday, right before I left. We made it official.”

A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, and she tries to keep it subtle, but it’s hopeless. Her dimples betray her before her mouth does, and her eyes go bright even as she dips her head, suddenly shy. “I didn’t think I’d be nervous hearing that,” she mutters, half to herself, half to you.

You take a step closer, bumping her gently with your shoulder. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing,” she says quickly, flustered now, laughing a little.

“You kind of are,” you tease, grinning.

She rolls her eyes, cheeks pink anyway, but she can’t stop smiling. “It’s just… after everything. I know how much this decision meant to you, and I didn’t want to be part of the pressure.”

“You weren’t,” you say, and you mean it.

Alexia looks up at you, the shyness still soft around her eyes, but there’s something else there now something steadier, warmer. “I don’t really know what to say,” she admits.

You shrug. “You could say congratulations. Or. Just an idea, maybe finish what we started last night”

That pulls a real laugh from her, quiet and fond. “That is very good idea”

“Well, then,” you say, as she begins reaching out to curl her fingers gently in your shirt, “I just gave you a pretty good reason to kiss me.”

Alexia’s fingers twist gently into the fabric of your shirt, and there’s a beat of silence where you both just look at each other, soft, charged, inevitable.

Then she pulls you in, the kiss is warm and hungry all at once, not rushed, but with a certain urgency. Her hands find your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left, your bodies pressed together like they’ve known for a while what they wanted.

You barely notice the shuffle backward until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sinks down, taking you with her, lips never leaving yours.

There’s laughter between kisses light, breathless as you straddle her, that giddy, heady kind that bubbles up when nerves meet something longed for.

Her mouth breaks from yours only for a second. “You sure you don’t want to go back to the guest room?”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning in again. “Not even a little bit.”

Alexia hums a soft, amused sound as she with an overwhelming ease holds you against her with one arm lifting turning and laying you on the bed reattaching her lips to yours with more urgency than before.

Her touch grew bolder, her fingertips deftly lifting your shirt and sliding it up your sides and over your head. Your heart pounded in your chest like a drum, each beat echoing in the quiet room. Alexia's eyes roamed over your bare skin, a soft smile playing on her lips as she took in the sight of you. Then she leaned in, her breath warm and sweet as she placed a trail of kisses along your neck, her mouth moving with a purpose that sent your thoughts spiraling.

Her fingers found their way to the clasp of your bra, releasing it with a practiced ease that made you gasp. Your breasts spilled into her waiting hands, and she cupped them gently, her thumbs teasing the sensitive peaks. Your breath caught in your throat as she lowered her mouth, her tongue tracing delicate circles that sent waves of pleasure crashing through you. You arched your back, offering yourself up to her, desperate for more of her touch.

Her mouth moved down, her kisses growing more insistent, her tongue darting out to taste your skin. Alexia's hands found the button of your jeans, undoing them, and then sliding them down your legs. Leaving you in nothing but your lacy underwear.

She murmured in Spanish, her voice thick with desire, as she slid your panties off. You felt a blush creep up your neck, but the way she was looking at you made you feel anything but embarrassed. You were alive, on fire, ready for whatever she had in store.

Her fingers began to explore, gliding over your most sensitive spots, setting every nerve ending alight. You could feel yourself getting wetter with every stroke, your body responding to her touch with a fervor that surprised even you. Alexia's eyes never left yours, the intensity of her gaze making you feel as if she could see into the very core of your soul.

And then she was kissing your body again, her mouth moving down your body, her tongue leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When she reached the apex of your thighs, she paused, her breath hot and tickling. The anticipation was unbearable, your entire body taut with need. But she didn't disappoint. Her tongue slipped inside you, and you moaned, your hips bucking involuntarily. She took her time, savouring every part of you, her movements deliberate and precise just like on the football pitch. You felt your climax building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter within you until it finally broke, sending you spiralling over the edge with a cry of pure ecstasy.

Alexia pulled back, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder. How did she know exactly what you needed? How could she make you feel like this?

She repositioned herself between your legs, her own desire evident in the way she was looking at you. Her fingers began to work their magic again, and you felt yourself building back up to that peak, the sensations more intense than before.

Her mouth found your clit, sucking gently as her fingers plunged inside you. You writhed beneath her, your hands tangled in her hair, urging her on. The world outside the bedroom faded away, leaving only the two of you in a cocoon of passion and pleasure.

You felt your orgasm approaching, a crescendo that seemed to build forever, and when it finally crested, you moaned out her name, your body arching off the bed. Alexia's eyes never left you, her gaze a mix of triumph and hunger as she watched you come apart in her hands.

As your breathing began to even out, she kissed her way back up your body, her lips lingering on your stomach, your breasts, your neck, until she reached your mouth. Her kisses grew gentle again, almost tender, as she unbuckled her own pants, sliding them down her legs.

You could see the outline of her arousal through her panties, and the sight of her made you ache to touch her.

With trembling hands, you reached down and slid the fabric aside, revealing her to yourself. She was wet and ready, and you didn't hesitate to dip your fingers into her warmth, feeling her quiver against your touch. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she let out a deep, throaty groan.

Alexia's hips began to rock against your hand, and you felt your own desire stirring once more. You leaned in, your mouth finding hers again as you matched the rhythm of your fingers to the movement of your tongues. You could feel her tightening around you, her breath coming in short gasps as she approached her peak. As she came, her body tensed, and she buried her face in the crook of your neck, her teeth grazing your skin. You felt her release, the warmth of her against your hand, and the tremble of her muscles. It was intoxicating, the power you had over her, the intimacy that you shared in this moment.

Neither of you got much sleep that night, hands and mouths wouldn't stop exploring, if you did fall asleep, it was only temporary as you both seemed to wake up at the same time and hands would wander again silently.

⚽️

It starts with Alexia as she casually tosses herself over with a sigh and a stretch, taking up the middle of the mattress like it’s instinct.

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Comfortable?”

She shrugs, already turned onto her side. “Just getting settled.”

You catch the way she subtly shifts again, back angled toward you now not quite obvious, not quite an invitation, but unmistakable.

You're on your back behind her, heart warm. “Ale.”

“Si?” she says, too innocent, gaze fixed stubbornly on the wall.

“You’re trying really hard not to ask me to cuddle you.”

Her voice is muffled in the pillow. “I’m not trying, I’m succeeding.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m just... lying like this because it’s more comfortable. Nothing to do with you.”

"Ok" you smile and dramatically roll the other way, "Sleep tight" you feel the bed shift as Alexia seemingly looks over her shoulder to see where you were.

"If you wanted a cuddle, I'd allow that"

You laugh softly, "You'd allow it huh?"

"Si" you hear her sigh as she settles back down, there was silence, deafening silence but you knew that wasn't the end of it, "Cold isn't it"

You laugh roll over slid her hand over her waist and up her body to her chest and drag her back into you, snug against your chest. She melts instantly, sighing again this time quieter, softer. Her fingers find yours under the blanket and link.

After a moment, “Happy now” you whisper against the shell of her ear, she nods unable to wipe the smile from her face, "The great Alexia Putellas, a little spoon. Who would have thought it.

Alexia makes a small noise of protest that’s entirely undermined by the way she nudges herself closer, tucking herself firmly into your space. “Si,” she mumbles. “But don’t get cocky about it.”

You smile into her hair. “No promises.”

A quiet beat, then she adds, voice barely above a whisper, “When do you have to go back to Germany?”

You exhale slowly, letting your nose brush gently against the back of her neck before answering. “Day after tomorrow,” you murmur. “Got the last game of the season and need to pack up my things. Say goodbye. Sort out all the boring grown-up stuff.”

Alexia nods, silent for a moment. Then, quieter: “You okay with going back?”

You think about it honestly. The flat that doesn’t feel like home anymore. The training ground that feels like a chapter that’s already ended.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “It’ll be weird, I think. Bittersweet. But I’m ready to close that door.”

“Do you think… you’ll get to play the last game before the break?”

You’re quite a second, thinking. “I hope so. They haven’t said anything official yet, but I’m fit. If they want to show I’m still part of the squad, even just off the bench... maybe. Get to say bye properly”

Alexia nods slowly. “Would that be weird for you? Playing again, after everything?”

You breathe in, then out. “A little, yeah. But it also feels right. To go out properly, not just... vanish. I’d like that.”

She hums, the sound thoughtful. “I’ll keep an eye on the match. Even if it’s just a few minutes, I want to see you play there one more time.”

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.

Word Count: 5k

The stadium is humming before kickoff — not with noise, but energy. That kind of low, anticipatory buzz that settles over everything like mist. Golden hour pours across the pitch, turning white lines soft and shadows long. You step out into it and feel the heat of the turf rise through your boots. The crowd’s not huge, but they’re close. Intimate. Every sound sharp and personal.

Then you see her.

Alexia.

She’s across the pitch, tying her laces with a calm that feels choreographed. Head down, then up. Hair pulled back into that signature ponytail, a strip of white tape wrapped neat around her left wrist. There's no announcement of her presence — just the quiet command of someone who doesn't need one. She's not looking at you, but you feel it anyway. The pull.

Warm-ups blur. You stretch out, chase touches, listen half-heartedly to the pre-match talk. But your focus — truly — stays across the halfway line. You’re not meant to mark her directly. Doesn’t matter. You’re already watching her like it’s your job.

Kickoff comes.

You move like you always do: quick, precise, sharp in the tackle. But this time, every shift of your weight seems to carry an extra purpose — an undercurrent of something... else. She's not in your zone, but she drifts there, like smoke, like she knows you’ll follow.

And you do.

She gets her first touch near the sideline. You’re too far to challenge, but you press anyway, closing space. Not urgent — just enough to let her know you’re there. Her first pass is perfect, of course. But as she turns away, she glances back. Not long. Just a blink. But it hits you low in the ribs.

You're in this now.

Minutes later, she receives it centrally. You close her down — this time properly. She shields, body between you and the ball. You press tighter than necessary. Not reckless. Just firm. She leans back into you — a subtle shift of weight, a muscle twitch against your torso. You stay with her, step for step.

Then she spins.

Clean. Sharp.

You miss the interception by inches, but you recover and chase her all the way to the flank. When the play resets, she jogs by you — not fast, not slow — and there's a flash of amusement in her eyes. Not quite a smile. Not yet. Just a promise.

She’s enjoying this.

So are you.

You start to anticipate her. Not just tactically — intuitively. She moves left, you’re already drifting. She checks her run, and somehow your feet do too. You find her even when you don’t mean to. When she ghosts into the pocket between the lines, you're already there, shoulder brushing hers before the pass arrives.

There’s a tension, electric and unspoken, in every overlap.

It builds.

On a through ball in the 18th, she breaks the line. Perfect run. You’re chasing, watching the flag — and then it goes up. Offside.

She stops with a shake of her head, arms slightly raised, frustrated but composed. Not dramatic. She turns like she might say something, eyes scanning the assistant ref — then she catches you jogging past, lips already tugging upward.

You tilt your head, a little smirk playing on your mouth, and lock eyes just long enough to let her know: "you were" you mutter in amusement.

Her expression falters for just a moment. The corner of her lips tighten — the beginning of a grin that dies before it can bloom as her hand wipes over her mouth. You watch it fall away. The air between you goes warmer. Denser.

She says nothing. But her gaze lingers.

Later, in the box for a corner, she finds you again. Neither of you are jumping for this one, not really — it’s too wide, too slow. But you stand shoulder to shoulder anyway. Her forearm presses lightly against yours, not enough to draw notice, but enough to feel every twitch of her movement. You don’t look at her. You don’t need to. You feel her looking.

The ball’s cleared. Still, neither of you move.

The longer the game stretches, the more your duels feel like choreography — like you’re dancing just behind the game itself. Winning balls, losing them. Pushing, pulling. Touches that linger. Eyes that hold just long enough to mean something.

In the 37th minute, you dive in for a challenge at midfield and win it — clean, sharp, textbook. She goes down, just barely, catching herself on one hand as you pass forward. When you glance back over your shoulder, she’s still on one knee, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You turn back around.

But you feel her eyes.

The tackles bite a little harder. The spaces close faster. The tension between you both thickens. She doesn't smirk anymore — not like before. Now it’s all controlled glances, occasional brushes of contact, her hand lingering on your hip just half a second longer when you battle for position. On one late run, she taps your calf with her toe as she passes behind. You pretend not to notice. She knows you did.

There’s another corner in the 40th. You’re standing close again, tighter this time. Her arm slips across your back as she maneuvers for position, then stays there — soft, light, grounding. You don’t move away. You don't breathe, really. Just watch the ball float in, both of you static. Eyes locked.

Neither of you jump.

It’s not about the ball.

In the 43rd minute, she makes a diagonal run into the box. You follow — again, unnecessarily — but this time you don’t stop. She cuts across you, brushing close, and her hand grazes your side. This time you’re the one who lingers, your arm trailing across her shoulder as you jockey. No one else sees it. But the spark of it pulses down your spine.

When the cross sails over, you don’t even notice.

The whistle finally comes. Half time. You 0 - Barcelona 3

The score is blurry. You barely registered the last five minutes of play. All you know is that you’re breathless, sweat-soaked, pulse still chasing her down the tunnel. You're about to walk toward your teammates when you feel it — a soft slide of skin on the back of your hand.

Her knuckles.

She passes behind you, close enough for her shoulder to graze yours. No words. Just that fleeting contact.

You turn slightly, catching the edge of her profile.

And she glances back.

Not a smile. Not this time.

Just eyes — warm, locked onto yours — and the kind of look that lives in the space between challenge and confession.

Then she disappears into the shadow of the tunnel.

The locker room is muffled noise and static. Coach’s voice floats somewhere above you, strategy and structure laid out in practiced rhythm. But none of it sticks. Not really. Your chest is still tight — not from exhaustion, but from the way she looked at you before vanishing into the tunnel.

That gaze hasn't left your skin.

0–3. You should be crushed. Instead, you're electric.

You step back onto the pitch with a pulse in your veins that has nothing to do with the scoreline. You scan the field, the sideline, then finally — you see her.

Alexia.

Hands on hips, head tilted slightly, watching you under the lights like she knows what’s coming. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. She just waits.

Kickoff again.

From the whistle, your touch sharpens. You start playing like your body remembers how good it feels to win balls off her. To beat her to second touches. To be seen by her. You stretch into space, call for the ball more often. Her presence drifts near you — still not marking, but always present, always there.

In the 52nd minute, you cut inside from the wing and bury a low shot past the keeper’s left glove.

1–3.

You don't celebrate hard. Just turn away, chest heaving, pulse pounding. And when you glance toward the halfway line, she's watching. One brow raised. Almost impressed.

Almost.

The next ten minutes, she turns it up. You can feel it — the snap in her passes, the bite in her shoulder when you challenge. She knocks you off the ball once — clean, strong, fierce — and when you fall, she walks past you without breaking stride. But you catch the subtle tilt of her head. She’s waiting to see if you’ll rise.

You do.

By the 70th, the crowd has leaned back in. The buzz is back. That mist from before has thickened into fog. You’re everywhere now. Chasing, creating, pressing. You intercept a loose pass, beat two defenders, and curl one in from the edge of the box.

2–3.

You sprint toward the corner flag, teammates crashing into you. But even as they pile on, your eyes find hers. She’s standing still, hands on hips again — chest rising, jaw tight. The look she gives you isn’t frustration. It’s something deeper. Something personal. You’re not just clawing your team back into the game.

You’re matching her.

And she knows it.

Now, the duels between you are heavier. Every shared breath on a corner. Every chase down the sideline. Her hand grazes your hip again. Yours brushes her shoulder. Neither of you say a word. But your bodies speak in contact, in rhythm. There’s nothing casual anymore — not even the fouls. She clips your ankle lightly in the 77th. You fall, roll, rise — and jog past her with a grin tugging at the edge of your mouth. Her eyes flick to your lips.

Neither of you are pretending this is just football anymore.

The minutes crawl.

88th minute. Your team is pushing. The crowd rises. You feel the shape of the game bend in your direction. She’s deeper now, tracking back more, drawn toward your gravitational pull.

You find the space.

Wide right. Diagonal ball over the top. You take it down on the run, one touch to settle. One touch to beat the final defender. The keeper comes out.

You lift it.

It floats — slow, perfect — into the far corner.

3–3.

The stadium erupts. Your teammates catch you in a hurricane of arms and cheers, but your chest is heaving like it’s only the start. You jog back toward the halfway line, high on adrenaline, sweat slick down your spine.

And she’s there.

Standing in the center circle, hands on her thighs, staring at you like she’s not sure whether she wants to shake your hand or pull you closer.

You walk past her. This time, it’s your hand that brushes hers — deliberate, light.

She doesn’t move it away.

When the final whistle blows, it doesn’t sound like an end.

It sounds like a pause.

You're walking around doing the customary slapping of the opponents hands when you feel her behind you. Close again, like earlier, like always. The brush of her arm. The soft knock of her shoulder into yours.

But this time she doesn’t pass.

She stops beside you.

Neither of you speak.

You just look at each other. Fully, finally. No smirks. No glances.

And then she nods — small, private — like a secret just between you and her, puts her hand up you slap it she taps your arm as she gives your hand a gentle squeeze and keeps going.

⚽️

Your apartment is still and low-lit, the only sound the occasional creak from the radiator and the soft shuffle of your post-match playlist bleeding from your phone speaker. You’re sunk deep into the corner of the couch, hoodie loose over your shoulders, thighs still sore and buzzing in that heavy, satisfying way. Hair wet from the shower. Muscles stretched, feet up, heart finally slowing.

The match feels like it happened in another life — but the images flicker in your head on a loop: the goals, the crowd, the corner flag, her.

Alexia. Her look. Her touch. That nearly-smile in the tunnel.

You’ve barely let yourself process it, haven’t said a word about it to anyone. It’s like holding something delicate in your hands, afraid the air might break it.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh.

Ellie 🧤: Oi you absolute menace That last goal was disgusting 😮‍💨🔥

You grin, typing back with your free hand.

You: Had to give your defense nightmares somehow 😇 You good?

Ellie: Yeah yeah, I’m fine. Cata got a hand to your second though lol Also 👀

You pause, then watch the typing bubble start and stop.

Ellie: You’ll love this Alexia literally hasn’t shut up about you since the game ended lol

You blink. Sit up a little straighter.

You: … What do you mean?

Ellie: I mean she was in the locker room like 'number 7 is so intelligent on the ball' and 'did you see how she peeled off the shoulder??' And then she hit us with 'that third goal was world class' and just sat there smiling like she had a secret You should’ve seen her lol

Your pulse trips over itself. That heat from earlier — the kind that sat just under your skin during the match — is back, blooming warm in your chest, up your neck.

You reread the texts. Twice.

You: Shut up.

Ellie: I’m DEAD serious. She looked like she was replaying the game in her head like it was her favorite film. Like she knew something we didn’t.

You laugh under your breath, phone balanced against your knee, teeth sinking lightly into your bottom lip.

You: Maybe she does

You lean back, exhaling slow. You should be tired — spent, even — but you’re more awake than ever. The city hums beyond your window, lights dancing across your ceiling, and in the quiet… your mind drifts again.

To her.

To the touch of her hand at your back. The weight of her stare after your third goal. That unspoken thing passing between you on the pitch.

And now this.

You stare at your phone.

Your thumb hovers over her name.

You haven’t followed her yet.

Not officially.

But maybe it’s time to stop pretending this was just a game.

⚽️

You step out onto the pitch like you’ve been here before.

Same golden light. Same soft shadows drawn long across the turf. Same crowd gathered tight in the stands, every voice blurred into a single heartbeat.

But this time — it’s different.

This time, you’re walking out with a name humming under your skin.

Alexia.

It hasn’t left you since the last match — since her hand brushed yours, since Ellie’s text sent your pulse spiralling, since you caught yourself watching her clips like they might explain the way she watched you that day.

You haven’t spoken since. Not directly. But she followed you on Instagram.

No message. Just the follow. Quiet. Bold. Certain.

And now here you are — return fixture. Barcelona away. Everything on the line, but the only pressure you feel is the question hanging in the air like smoke:

Will she play it the same… or will she play it different?

You don’t have to wait long for the answer.

Kickoff comes.

She finds you inside the first minute. No ball. No contact. Just… proximity. A drift. Like gravity pulling her orbit to match yours. You’re pressing high, eyes scanning the field, when you feel her behind you. That familiar hum. That presence.

You glance over your shoulder.

She’s watching you.

You hold her gaze for a breath too long, then break into a sprint. The ball zips past the midfield, and you're on it like instinct, slicing between defenders, teasing space. You don’t get the shot — not yet — but you force the corner. Crowd rises. You walk to the flag, head high, and you know she’s there behind you.

She always is.

This time, her hand grazes your back as you step into position. Light. Intentional. No words.

Just heat.

The ball curls in. You leap. She does too. You collide midair — elbows and ribs, breath against neck — and the ball sails over both of you. When you land, you stumble slightly, and she steadies you. Briefly. Her hand presses against your lower back. You freeze for a moment, chest rising fast.

Still, no words.

Just her hand, steady. Familiar. Dangerous.

The game builds. Faster than last time. More physical. You’re both sharper, and it shows. Shoulder to shoulder, you clash again and again — not careless, but not gentle either. She fouls you once near the touchline, a tactical trip. You hit the grass, roll once, then push up to your knees.

You expect her to be jogging away.

But she’s right there, offering her hand.

You take it. You don’t have a choice, really.

She pulls you up with one firm tug, her hand wrapping around yours a second longer than necessary. Your bodies stay close. Breaths overlapping. Her eyes search yours like she’s waiting for something — for a crack in the façade, or maybe a confirmation.

You give her a smirk.

It’s the only language either of you have spoken all game.

Second half begins. It’s 1–1. Everything on edge.

You catch her drifting wide, and this time you cut her off clean. Shoulder check. Controlled aggression. She presses back into you, muscles flexing. The ball’s already gone, but neither of you pull away. Your forearm brushes hers, your wrist against her side. Neither of you move.

Then she laughs.

Not loud — just a breath. A soft exhale that hits your collarbone.

She steps away. You're left standing still.

And you’re furious at how much you want to chase.

75th minute. The pitch has grown heavy. Legs are tired. But your mind is sharp, zeroed in. You receive the ball at the edge of the box, flick it inside, cut past one, then another. She’s there — the last one between you and the goal.

You don't slow down.

She doesn’t either.

You meet.

Hard. Messy. Beautiful.

The ball moves loose to your teammate, who slams it into the back of the net.

2–1.

The stadium erupts.

You don’t hear it.

You’re still tangled up with her — half-standing, half-falling, your hands on her shoulders, her fingers curling around your jersey. She’s not letting go.

Neither are you.

Still no words.

But her eyes? They say everything. You both help steady each other before you jog off to celebrate, head spinning, throat dry, lungs full of heat and grass and her perfume.

When the final whistle comes — 2–2, again — it feels like unfinished business. You both played like the scoreboard didn’t matter. Like the real game wasn’t in goals.

It was in moments. In looks. In touches. In silence.

You walk the pitch following the play. You hear her behind you. Again. But this time, when she brushes your hand, lingering longer than before.

The score hangs on a knife’s edge now. 2–2 on the night. 5–5 on aggregate.

You’re in extra time now. Legs gone heavy. Lungs burning. Every run feels like a risk, every breath costs more than it did a minute ago. But you’re still here — still moving — because it matters. Because it’s Barcelona.

Even now, even in the thick of it, you know where Alexia is. Always. She’s the hum behind every decision, the silhouette in your peripheral, the rhythm in your heartbeat when the ball lands near her boots.

But you’re not watching her as much now.

Now, it’s survival.

You trade blows, chances. Cata Coll makes two saves that keep you breathing. You make one darting run into the box that nearly finishes it. Nearly. But not quite.

Then the final whistle comes.

Still level.

It goes to penalties.

The huddle is tight, arms around shoulders, heads pressed in. You can feel your pulse in your fingertips, in your temples, in the way the coach looks at you when they ask if you’ll take one.

You nod.

Not because you want to.

But because you have to.

Cata’s in goal for them now. Alexia stands off to the side with the rest of the squad — arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes not on the keeper…

But on you.

One by one, the shots come. Your team scores. They score. You save. They miss. They save. You miss. It builds. Evens. Spirals.

Until it comes down to you.

Final kick. Final player.

Score — and you send your team to the semifinals. Miss — and it’s over. Right here. Right now.

You step forward, boots dragging just slightly across the spot. The crowd has gone quiet — not silent, but that strange kind of stillness where every sound feels wrapped in cotton. Your breath. Your heartbeat. A faraway whistle. You set the ball down and step back.

Cata bounces lightly on the line, gloves flexing.

You exhale. Then take your steps. One. Two. Strike.

You hit it clean. Driven. Left corner. It’s going in. It should go in.

But her glove flashes.

Cata gets a fingertip. Just enough.

The ball lifts — not wildly, not violently. Just enough.

You watch it rise, helpless, as it spins over the crossbar.

And then it’s done.

The stadium erupts — not for you.

You drop to your haunches.

Head down. Hands on your knees.

You don’t cry — not yet — but your throat is full of glass and your chest is caving in. You stare at the turf, at the spot where the ball used to be. Still breathing like you’re running. But it’s over.

You hear it before you see it — the celebration. Barcelona flooding Cata. Alexia somewhere in the centre of it, jumping, shouting. Your world in reverse.

But then you feel hands.

Your team. One hand on your back. Another on your shoulder. A voice murmuring something — low, reassuring, breaking.

You don’t move right away. You just crouch there. Let it hurt.

It was yours to win. And it slipped.

Through fingertips. Through inches. Through fate.

And you’re left kneeling on the turf whilst she's in euphoria, still breathing through the weight of it all, your team lifting you up, arms around your shoulders as they pull you back toward the locker room.

This wasn’t the ending you wanted.

-

You stay where you are long after it’s over.

The crowd is still loud. Barcelona’s players are still flying, clinging to each other like magnets drawn together by joy. Somewhere in the tangle of blue and red, Cata is being swarmed. You can hear her name rising from the stands, tossed around in chants and celebration.

You stay rooted to the spot.

The grass beneath your boots feels heavier now, like it’s holding you in place. Hands on hips, lungs dragging in air like it might steady you. But nothing settles.

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

And when you open them again, she's in your line of sight.

Alexia.

Not jumping. Not screaming. Just standing back from the crowd, watching them — and maybe, just maybe, watching you too.

You wipe your face with the hem of your shirt. Not to cry — not yet. But because something about the air suddenly stings. The sweat, the weight of it, the sting of almost.

You draw in a breath and turn away.

Not toward the tunnel.

Not yet.

You walk instead to the far side, to the small clutch of away fans still standing, still clapping. Flags over the railings. Hands outstretched. Faces flushed with effort and hope and heartbreak.

You jog slowly toward them, nodding, lifting one hand in thanks — then the other waving. You press your palm to a few hands. Sign a shirt handed over the barrier. Take a photo with a young girl in your kit who’s still trying not to cry, even though you just did too.

You stay there longer than you should.

Because it matters.

Because they matter.

Because even in this moment — especially in this moment — showing up matters.

When you finally turn back toward the tunnel, the pitch is emptier. Quieter. Most of your team is gone. The lights still shine down like they haven’t noticed it’s over.

You glance once more toward midfield.

She’s still there.

The celebration has died down but the elation still electric between the players.

You exhale, tuck your chin to your chest, and start the slow walk off the field.

You don’t rush.

You carry the silence with you.

Your head still fogged, shirt clinging damp to your skin. The stadium’s quieter now. The away end’s still murmuring, and the Barcelona fans are singing, but the intensity’s dulled. It’s not roaring anymore — it’s echoing.

You’re halfway to the tunnel when you hear footsteps. Not loud. Measured. Deliberate. You look up, and she’s coming toward you. Alexia.

Still in full kit, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to her neck. She’s pulling gently at the collar of her shirt, stretching it slightly with her fingers. A silent question.

You know what it means. Your breath catches — just a little. You nod. Slow. Silent.

You peel your own shirt off and hand it over, heart thudding a little harder now than it did when you stepped up to take that penalty. Her fingers brush yours as she takes it, and she holds your gaze for a moment longer than needed before swapping.

Then, just as you start to pull her shirt over your head, she steps forward. Arms out. And pulls you into a hug. Not a polite one.

Not a professional, pat-on-the-back, good-game kind of hug.

A real one. Full-bodied. Honest. Warm.

You freeze for half a second — caught off guard — then melt into it, your forehead resting lightly against her shoulder, her arms around your back, strong and sure.

“You were unbelievable,” she murmurs against your ear, voice low and soft. You close your eyes, tears threatening yet again, the slight kindness chipping at the wall keeping your tears back like a dam “I mean it,” she adds. “You didn’t deserve that ending.” Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. “I’ve played against a lot of players,” she continues, pulling back just enough to look at you — not stepping away. “But you? You had us on edge all night.”

There’s something in her eyes when she says it. Not pity. Not consolation. Something sharper. Something deeper. Admiration. Respect. Something else. You manage a smile. Just a small one. But it’s real. “Thank you,” you murmur.

She gives a small shake of her head, still holding you at the elbows, “You’ve got nothing to hang your head about. Not tonight.”

You look down. At the shirt in your hands — hers. Still warm. Still carrying her scent, her sweat, the imprint of a game that changed something between you.

She finally lets go, steps back. And then — the faintest smile. The first one all night.

You watch her, your shirt already pulled on, number bold between her shoulder blades. You’re still standing there. Shirtless. Breathless.

And for the first time since that penalty… You're not thinking about the miss.

The floodlights are still burning overhead, casting long, tired shadows across the grass. The pitch is mostly cleared now — a few staff, some security, the odd Barcelona player still lingering near the dugouts. But for the most part, it’s just you and her.

You’ve both started walking. Side by side. Slow. Neither of you seem in a rush to leave the moment.

You’re still holding her shirt loosely in your fingers. She’s already wearing yours.

There’s a silence between you that doesn’t feel heavy anymore — just full. Soft. Comfortable in the way shared experience allows.

Alexia’s the first to speak.

“That second goal of yours…” she says, glancing over at you with a small shake of her head, “—we weren’t ready for it. Not one of us. I still don’t know how you got that shot off.”

You shrug, a wry smile pulling at your lips.

“I blacked out,” you say. “Might’ve had divine intervention. Or maybe it was just Cata screaming something in Spanish that I got scared”

She grins wide, teeth flashing under the stadium lights. It softens her whole face.

You take the opening and add, dryly, “Though I think the real miracle was me not collapsing from sheer intimidation every time you breathed down my neck.”

She turns her head fully toward you now, laughing properly — head tilted back, hand briefly brushing your arm.

“You mean when I gently existed in your space?” she teases, eyes gleaming.

You raise a brow. “Oh sure, gently existed. That must be what they call full-body marking with bonus psychological warfare.”

She laughs again — not loud, not sharp, but the kind of quiet, delighted laugh that people don’t fake. One that stays in her chest, one that stays with you.

You both keep walking, a little closer now, still smiling. The tunnel’s ahead, glowing softly like the end of a dream.

But for now, neither of you are quite ready to step inside. And somehow, after everything — the goals, the glances, the heartbreak, the hug — this is the part you know will stick with you. The walk. The warmth. The grin she only gave you, you'd seen the coolness in her handshakes with your teammates. She hadn't asked for there shirts or held a conversation with them.

It was a wonder but it seemed between the lines of the pitch- you'd gained the best in the world's respect.

Bebita - Alexia Putellas

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

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

Word count: 2.7

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

MASTERLIST

..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia gave a single nod, smiling shyly.

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

Clara babbled excitedly, watching her mom.

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

Clara kicked her legs and clutched Cat tighter.

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

..

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

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

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

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

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

Clara peeked over the teddy. 

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

Alexia’s brow furrowed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia checked her Samsung watch. Fifteen minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia barely made it back to the group before Clara let out a delighted squeal.

Too much. That was too much joy for one player circle.

Without warning, Alexia swooped in and plucked Clara right out of Patri’s arms.

“Come on, Clara,” she muttered, hoisting Clara onto her hip like a protective mama bear. “You’re ours.”

“Noo!” Patri gasped, hands dramatically outstretched. “Our amiga!”

“She was smiling!” Jana chimed in from seemingly nowhere.

Alexia blinked. “Where did you even come from?”

Jana just pouted and pointed. “She likes me more than you.”

Alexia raised her brows. “She drooled on your shoulder last week.”

Alexia ignored them all, bouncing Clara gently on her hip and muttering like a dramatic villain, “Your amiga needs to sleep in one hour, chicas. Back off.”

And that’s what did it.

Clara’s big eyes blinked once… twice… and then her lip wobbled.

The betrayal hit her in full force.

She let out a wail so dramatic, so raw and heartbroken. How did a baby have so many emotions? Who knows?

Alexia’s face fell in real time. 

“Oh, come on, bebita…” she cooed, trying to adjust her hold, bouncing Clara with expert panic. “Don’t cry. Mama’s sorry–”

“Give her back,” Vicky said, deadpan. 

“No!” Alexia turned, spinning away like she was protecting Clara, “She’s mine. I made her.”

“You did not!” Y/n called after her.  “I made her, remember? Forty-three weeks?”

Alexia didn’t turn around. “Fine, but I clipped her nails yesterday. Let me have this!”

Y/n stepped forward without a word and plucked Clara from Alexia’s arms.

“Shh, what’s going on with you today, huh?” she asked, settling Clara against her chest. Instantly, Clara melted into her, the cries slowing as she rooted for the breast like nothing had happened.

Alexia folded her arms and watched the scene unfold, tapping her foot. “She hates me today.”

Y/n leaned in and kissed her cheek, still swaying with Clara. “She doesn’t hate you. She just wants to party with the girls.”

Alexia’s pout softened. “Next time, she should save a giggle or two for me.”

Clara was nearly asleep by the time Alexia guided them toward the locker room, collecting her things so they could finally go home.

The walk to the car was slow, careful not to wake the tiny diva—but Clara, ever the drama queen, cracked her big hazel eyes open as Y/n buckled her into the car seat.

“Hi, Neneta,” Y/n cooed in a baby voice. “I bet you're gonna stay up the whole drive and absolutely not fall asleep at bedtime, huh? Yeah, of course you will.”

Clara giggled, like she was absolutely planning to sabotage their night.

Y/n frowned, struggling with the seatbelt–it wasn’t going over the right way, and it looked like it was pressing into Clara’s belly.

“Ale, I need help,” she called, glancing over her shoulder.

Alexia appeared behind her, now in a soft, oversized shirt, hair down and still damp from her shower. “What, amor?”

She leaned in to take a look–and that’s when it happened.

Clara smiled. Not just any smile. A big, two-toothed, gummy grin, arms shooting up toward Alexia.

Alexia gasped. Literal tears sprang to her eyes. 

“Oh, el meu tresor, has tornat a estimar la mameta, eh?” [Oh my treasure, have you come back to loving mommy, huh?]

She scooped Clara out of the car seat with no hesitation, kissing her all over while Clara giggled and wrapped a chubby hand in Alexia’s hair.

“Alexia, put her back!” Y/n scolded. “It’s cold! She’s gonna catch a cold!”

“My bebita,” Alexia crooned, ignoring her. “Mine.”

Y/n squinted. Something wasn’t adding up. Then her eyes narrowed in on the baby's fist, twisted lovingly in Alexia’s damp hair.

“Alexia,” she said slowly.

“What?” Alexia asked, still too busy baby-cuddling to notice the growing danger.

Without another word, Y/n stepped forward, gently took a handful of Alexia’s hair, and lifted it up into a mock ponytail.

Instantly–cry. A full-body, soul-deep shriek from Clara that echoed off the parking garage walls.

“What the-?”

Before Alexia could finish, Y/n let her hair fall back down. Clara stopped crying on a dime. She blinked twice, then went back to calmly playing with Alexia’s nose.

“She doesn’t like your hair up,” Y/n deadpanned. “She’s been mad at you all day because you put it in a ponytail. Diva behaviour.”

Alexia stared at her daughter in disbelief. “Is that true, bebita? I’m gonna have to figure out how to play football with my hair down, huh?”

Clara gave her a sleepy little grunt and patted her cheek, as if to say, finally, someone’s catching on.

The car ride home was full of Clara's babble–her favourite form of post-bedtime rebellion.

“She’s giving a full concert back there,” Alexia mumbled, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Y/n’s thigh.

“She’s practising for her world tour,” Alexia said with a small yawn.

From the backseat came a joyful “DA! and “MA!” followed by a long, dramatic sigh…Clara’s version of a mic drop.

Y/n twisted in her seat to look at her. “Clara, it’s sleepy time.”

Clara kicked her feet.

Alexia glanced at her in the mirror. “Bebita, no kicking mami.”

“Maybe she just needs to wind down,” Alexia offered. “You know, like a little story, some quiet time…”

“She just yelled at her own toes,” Y/n said hopelessly. “We’re not sleeping today.”

By the time they pulled into the garage, Clara was still going strong, waving her arms as if she was saying hi to a crowd, but Alexia didn’t care because she was giving her a gummy grin every time she looked back. 

Y/n unbuckled her with a sigh.

“We have ten minutes before she realises she’s a baby and not a woman in her twenties at a club,” she muttered.

Inside, Alexia took Clara while Y/n dealt with the diaper bag and Alexia’s game bag. 

Clara was clinging to her again, arms tight around Alexia’s neck, one hand firmly rooted in her hair like she was personally in charge of keeping it down.

“She’s obsessed with your hair,” Y/n said as she walked into the nursery.

“She has taste,” Alexia replied, swaying slowly with Clara in her arms.

“She has control issues.”

“She gets that from you.”

Y/n shot her a glare, but was too tired to keep it up. Instead, she leaned against the doorway, watching the two of them. 

Clara was slowing down now, her lids heavy as Alexia quietly hummed a lullaby in Catalan, her hand rubbing soft circles on Clara’s back.

It was quiet for a moment, just the gentle and occasional creak of the floorboards under their feet. 

Y/n felt something melt in her chest.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmured.

Alexia glanced over at her, surprised. “At what?”

“Being her mom.”

Alexia’s mouth tugged into the smallest, most fragile smile. “Only when my hair’s down, apparently.”

“She just missed you,” Y/n said, crossing the room to stand beside her. “You’re her favourite, you know.”

Alexia looked down at Clara, whose tiny hand was still tangled in her hair, her face finally tucked into her mom’s neck. “She’s my favourite, too–well, you and her.”

Y/n leaned her head on Alexia’s shoulder, both of them swaying now in the half-lit nursery. Clara let out a soft sigh–peaceful this time–and went limp in Alexia’s arms, fully asleep.

“Victory,” Y/n whispered.

“Don’t jinx it,” Alexia whispered back.

They waited another few minutes, just to be sure, then moved into the quiet routine that every young parent had. 

Alexia laid Clara in the crib. Y/n pulled the blanket up. Neither of them breathed until they were sure she was down for real.

Back in the hallway, Y/n pulled Alexia into a long, slow hug, burying her face in the damp hair. “I vote you never wear a ponytail again.”

Alexia chuckled, kissing her temple. “Deal.”

They padded off to their bedroom, tired and tangled in each other, both grateful that Clara had finally called it a night.

Y/n flopped face-first onto the bed with a groan. “Okay, but we both agree we’re too tired for sex, right?”

There was no answer.

Y/n turned her head slightly. Alexia was already on her side, eyes shut, breathing deeply, completely out cold.

She snorted. “Okay. Guess that’s a yes.”

She reached out blindly, grabbed the blanket, and yanked it over both of them, grumbling softly as she burrowed in beside Alexia. 

“You better be dreaming about me,” she mumbled into the pillow.

..

Hope you guys enjoyed it!

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines. What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

🏀

The lights inside Palau Blaugrana burst in brilliant hues as you step onto the gleaming hardwood court for the very first time wearing the iconic Barcelona jersey. The atmosphere vibrates with energy—an almost tangible electricity that courses through the air, mixing with the bright hues of blaugrana garlands worn by passionate fans. The rhythmic beating of drums resonates like a heartbeat echoing off every wall, while the mingled aromas of polished wood, mingled with perspiration and adrenaline, transport you to a realm where dreams and determination meet. Your new teammates clap you on the back with murmurs of encouragement that mesh with the pulsing rhythm, yet your focus remains crystal clear.

Number 11.

Boldly stitched across your jersey like a silent manifesto, this number has been inseparable from you for as long as you have danced with the game. It signifies much more than a mere digit—it carries the weight of countless hours of practice, of triumphs and stumbles alike. That steady emblem grounds you as you glance into the sea of faces, absorbing every moment. And then, amidst the roaring crowd, you see her.

Alexia Putellas.

Seated courtside with an air of relaxed authority, she crosses her legs gracefully and rests her arms lightly across her lap. A mischievous half-smirk tugs at her lips, hinting at stories untold. Even if you weren’t a devout follower of the sport, her presence is legendary—a symbol of Barcelona, of dominance, and, by extension, of the emblematic number 11 itself. In a fleeting, electrifying moment, your eyes lock with hers, and though she swiftly turns away, the impression is indelible. In that subtle flicker of amusement on her face, it seems as if she already understands the impact of your presence.

Focus. It’s just a game.

Yet, it isn’t simply a game. It is your grand debut, your moment to prove that you belong in this exclusive circle, to earn your place in this storied club and in this vibrant city. Moments earlier, you had been all smiles, trading jokes with teammates as your image flickered onto the giant screen—your arrival marked by every eye in the arena. Rumor had it that Barcelona had splurged to make you the highest-paid woman’s basketball player in the world, enticing you from your hometown team all the way from England. There was an undeniable buzz surrounding you—a magnetic force drawing every gaze. The weight of their expectations did not weigh you down; rather, if pressure was present, you welcomed it and transformed it into fuel.

Though many whispered about your stature—standing a mere five foot nine inches—it only served to make your exploits on the court all the more remarkable, as every move defied the conventional limits.

And then, the whistle slices through the symphony of excitement, and in that instant, everything else blurs into insignificance. The opening minutes become a whirlwind of fast breaks and razor-sharp passes; the sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor punctuates the relentless pursuit of victory. When the ball lands in your hands, a calm, instinctual resolve takes over. You surge toward the hoop, a graceful blur as you spin past a defender, and then release an almost effortless jumper—a testament to your honed skill.

The crowd erupts in a tidal wave of cheers.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of Alexia leaning forward, her gaze intently tracking every nuance of your movement. Her lips part just slightly, as if momentarily captivated by the poetry of the game.

The contest intensifies into a ballet of tight defenses, aggressive maneuvers, and a relentless battle for every point. You are utterly absorbed, dropping three-pointers with surgical precision, orchestrating assists that shimmer with brilliance, and proving over and again why Barcelona had so ardently sought you out. Yet, amid the flurry of action, your gaze repeatedly drifts toward the sidelines, drawn by the unmistakable presence of Alexia. In those rare glimpses, a subtle tilt of her head, a perfectly raised brow, or an approving nod after a particularly elegant play speaks volumes.

Then arrives the defining moment—a high-tension climax. The score hung in a delicate balance as the final seconds tick away. The ball, as if by fate, finds its way to you at the top of the key. You draw a slow, steady breath, feeling every heartbeat echoing in your ears. Rising as if suspended in time, you release the ball and watch in silent awe as it arches gracefully through the air, spinning in a perfect trajectory before whispering cleanly through the net.

Game.

In that instant, the arena becomes an ocean of sound; cheers cascade over you, and your teammates swarm in a jubilant embrace, their hands slapping your back in a celebratory symphony. Yet, in the midst of the euphoria, your eyes search relentlessly for one singular figure. There, standing amid the explosion of festivity, is Alexia, clapping with measured enthusiasm and that tantalizing smirk still etched on her face. Her expression is enigmatic—a canvas of emotions too intricate to decode, yet charged with intensity.

As the crowd’s roaring applause continues to swell, Barcelona officials step confidently onto the court to honor your debut. A microphone is passed to the team captain, whose brief but rousing speech extols your arrival, your skills, and warmly welcomes you into the heart of the club. Your teammates whirl you into a jubilant huddle, and the atmosphere ascends to a fever pitch. Cameras flash in rapid succession, capturing every triumphant detail as your jersey, emblazoned with the proud number 11, is hoisted high for all to see.

Then she appears.

Alexia Putellas, standing just off to the side with her jacket’s pockets casually imbued with confidence, steps forward as if drawn by inevitability. The distance between you dissolves in the wake of her quiet assurance, mirroring the ease with which the official introductions had been made. In that charged moment, the game itself—with its adrenaline, its roaring crowd, and the embrace of your teammates celebrating your first monumental performance in a Barça jersey—fades into a vivid, unforgettable memory.

Throughout the night, you had caught glimpses of her presence: the way her eyes followed your every move, the subtle lean forward whenever you readied your shot. And then, with calm clarity, she spoke.

“Felicidades,” she intoned smoothly, her voice low yet piercing through the clamor of the arena. “Buen debut.”

Though not every word in Spanish was crystal clear, the tone of her greeting sent a shimmering thrill straight through your chest. “Gracias,” you responded, locking eyes with hers in silent conversation. There was an ineffable quality in her gaze—a mix of challenge and admiration—that left you momentarily breathless. Then, with a playful lilt, she added, “El 11 te queda bien... por ahora.” (11 suits you... for now.)

Without a moment’s hesitation, you quipped back, “I make it look better, though.” Her knowing smirk lingered as she turned to walk away, leaving a trail of mystery and promise in her wake. A quiet laugh escaped you as you shook your head, forever etched with the memory of that final look, a spark that hinted at many more encounters yet to come.

The locker room buzzes with the euphoric aftermath of victory—a symphony of congratulatory shouts and laughter that ricochets off the walls. Your teammates surround you, their faces illuminated with genuine admiration, yet you find yourself replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her words echoing in your mind like a melody that refuses to fade.

"Champagne for the game-winner!" someone calls out, and suddenly a bottle appears, its cork popping with a satisfying thunk that sends foamy bubbles cascading over eager hands. The cold liquid kisses your fingertips as a plastic cup is pressed into your palm.

"To our new número once," your captain toasts in a thick Catalan accent, raising her cup high. "Who plays like she's been wearing blaugrana her whole life!"

Your phone already overflowed with notifications—family, friends, and former teammates all witnessing your Barcelona baptism from afar. But their words blurred together as your mind kept replaying that brief exchange with Alexia, her enigmatic smile lingering in your thoughts like a melody that refuses to fade.

You take a slow sip, savoring the bubbles that dance across your tongue, watching your teammates' animated faces as they relive the game's highlights. The locker room's fluorescent lights cast everyone in a warm glow that matches the heat of victory still pulsing through your veins.

"That last shot," Claudia says, your point guard with hands like magic, "I knew it was going in before it left your fingers." She mimics your shooting form with exaggerated flourish.

"Pure instinct," you reply with a shrug that belies the thousands of hours spent perfecting that very motion.

As the celebration continues, your phone buzzes again in your locker. This notification is different—an Instagram follow request that makes your heart skip Alexia Putellas. Your finger hovers over the screen for a moment before you reciprocate, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

Later that night, the team drags you to a celebration at a dimly lit restaurant tucked away in the Gothic Quarter. Ancient stone walls curve around intimate tables, while flickering candles cast dancing shadows across plates of steaming paella and bottles of rich Rioja. Your teammates switch effortlessly between Catalan, Spanish, and English, their laughter a universal language that wraps around you like a warm embrace.

"To think we stole you from London," Claudia teases, refilling your wine glass. "Their loss, our treasure."

"The English never know what they have until it's wearing Barcelona colors," adds Marta, the team's veteran center, her eyes crinkling with mischief.

You're about to respond when your phone illuminates with a notification. Alexia Putellas commented on your post of you mid air the ball flying through the air on its way to score the winning basket

Nice shot tonight.🏀🔥

Three simple words that send a current through your body. You stare at the message, fingers hovering over the screen, suddenly aware of your heartbeat in your ears. The restaurant's ambient noise fades to a distant hum.

"Earth to superstar," Claudia waves her hand in front of your face. "Who's got you smiling like that? Your English boyfriend missing you already?"

You lock your phone quickly. "No boyfriend," you reply, taking a deliberate sip of wine. "Just congratulations."

"From someone special?" Marta raises an eyebrow knowingly.

You shrug noncommittally, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you. You set the phone down, trying to focus on the conversation flowing around you.

The flirting starts subtly.

You reply, Didn’t know you were a basketball fan.

Alexia’s response comes quickly. I wasn’t. Until now.

A smirk tugs at your lips. She’s smooth, you’ll give her that. The conversation flows easily after that—teasing comments about your shooting percentage, her claiming she could school you in a game of one-on-one, you laughing at her confidence. It escalates when she sends a picture of her boots, captioned: Think I could pull off sneakers instead?

You reply with a simple: Doubtful.

A minute later, she sends a selfie, clad in a Barcelona basketball hoodie that’s clearly not hers, lips pursed in mock offense. Better?

Your pulse quickens. I stand corrected.

The back-and-forth continues over the next few days. Playful jabs, inside jokes, the occasional late-night message that lingers on read for a little too long before one of you responds. There’s something unspoken beneath it all, an undeniable tension that neither of you address outright, but it’s there, simmering between every message.

As you scroll through your phone the next day, it’s obvious she’s not done playing. That moment? It hasn’t left your head since. Barcelona as a city, as a community has welcomed you with open arms, and your name is already making the rounds in sports headlines. But nothing compares to the moment Alexia Putellas personally congratulated you after the match, her voice low and smooth as she spoke in her native tongue. You didn’t understand every word, but you understood her the way her eyes lingered, the slight smirk pulling at her lips.

And now, the communication continues.

Alexia comments under a post from FC Barcelona’s official account, featuring a photo of you mid-game.

@alexiaputellas: El 11 te queda bien… por ahora. (The 11 looks good on you… for now.)

A challenge. A tease. You don’t hesitate to respond this time.

@yourusername: I make it look better, though. 😏

Your notifications explode after your writing exchange mimicking the private one face to face the night previous. Fans flood the replies with speculation, excitement, and over-the-top theories. Some are just here for the banter; others are fully convinced something is brewing between you two. Fans speculating, debating, and fuelling the growing tension between you both. The chemistry isn’t just a private moment on the court anymore, it’s playing out in front of thousands.

You post a photo from the gym drenched in sweat, muscles tense, mid-shot, pure focus in your eyes. The caption reads:

Working on my shot, but some things just come naturally.

Minutes later, Alexia replies

 @alexiaputellas: Like? 🤭

You laugh, shaking your head before firing back.

@yourusername: Like winning. Maybe I should teach you how.

More likes, more replies, more eyes on you two. It’s not just fans noticing. Your teammates tease you in the locker room, nudging you with knowing looks. Even club officials seem amused.

Then, later that night, Alexia ups the ante. You’re scrolling when you see a notification; she’s tagged you in her Instagram story. It’s a clip from your first game shared from an official Barcelona page, you nailing a three-pointer, followed by a close-up of her reaction court side, lips parted, brows slightly raised. The caption?

Maybe I should learn from you after all…🤔

Your chest tightens, heat rushing to your face. She’s playing with fire. And you’re more than ready to match her. You reply in her DMs.

You: Careful, Alexia. Keep watching me like that, and people will start talking.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly like she was expecting you to respond.

Alexia: Let them.

And just like that, the game changes. You don’t respond to Alexia’s last message.

Let them.

Two words, yet they sit in your mind long after you put your phone down. She’s pushing now, playing with the line between teasing and something else. And you? You’re more than willing to push back.

The next morning, training is business as usual, but your teammates are already buzzing about your little social media exchange. Whispers and knowing glances are exchanged before anyone even says a word to you.

"You and La Reina getting close?" one of them finally asks, nudging you with an elbow as you stretch. Their tone is teasing, but there's genuine curiosity behind it.

Another teammate chimes in before you can respond, grinning. "That little back-and-forth last night.. looked pretty flirty to me."

You roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose as you switch positions. "You lot need a hobby," you mutter, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrays you.

They laugh, clearly not convinced. "C'mon, you’re not even denying it!" someone calls out, and a few others chuckle in agreement.

You shake your head and focus on your warm-up, refusing to give them anything more. Let them speculate. Like the rest of the world. It harmless. Playful. It would fizzle. You were sure of it.

Still, when you check your phone post-practice, you see a DM from Alexia waiting for you.

Alexia: No comeback? I was expecting more from you.

You grin before typing back.

You: Didn’t think you needed me to spell it out. You’re already watching me closely enough it seems.

You send it and lock your phone, refusing to check for a response right away. Let her sit with it for a while. Later that evening, you’re at home, scrolling through Instagram when another notification appears.

@alexiaputellas liked your post.

The post in question? A new picture from training today focused, intense, a caption that reads:

One of us has to be the best female 11 in Barcelona. Might as well be me.

Something you know would bait Alexia in, you knew she couldn’t resist to comment. Not only has Alexia liked it, but she’s also commented.

@alexiaputellas: Bold statement. Hope you can back it up.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you type:

@yourusername: I can and have, yet to see you do so

@alexiaputellas: You’ll see soon enough. Might have to invite you to a game personally.

You huffed a quiet laugh, staring at your screen. She’s bold today. It didn’t take long for your mentions to explode. Fans caught on immediately, flooding the comments with theories, reactions, and over-the-top ship names.

After a moment of thought, you tapped out a reply.

@yourusername: Got a ticket for me La Reina? 👀

@alexiaputellas: Front row or nothing. See you there. 😏

The internet lost it.

Your teammates lost it.

And you?

You just grinned, because for the first time, you felt in control. Now, it was just a matter of seeing how far she’d go. The comments explode. Fans are already losing their minds over the not-so-subtle invitation.

@yourusername: I’ll be there. Front row.

Your stomach does a slow, lazy flip. It’s a challenge. A promise. And for the first time since arriving in Barcelona, you’re not just thinking about basketball anymore. You're thinking about her. Your phone is practically vibrating from the attention. Your last comment—"I’ll be there. Front row."—has sent fans into a frenzy. The replies are a mix of shock, speculation, and sheer amusement.

-Did she just confirm she’s into Alexia?! -This is some next-level flirting. -Forget football, forget basketball, I’m here for this storyline.

"You are such a menace.” You heard soon as your bag dropped in your spot and your back sit felt the cool wood beneath it as you took a seat.

You glanced up from your phone to see your teammate, Jordan, shaking her head at you from across the locker room.

"What?" you asked, feigning innocence.

Camila snorted. "Oh, don’t act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing." She held up her phone, showing your exchange with Alexia on her screen. "This? This is elite-level flirting.”

A couple of your other teammates leaned in. "I give it two weeks before you two are spotted together."

"Two weeks? Please. By next week, she’ll be showing up to our games."

You just smirked. "That’s assuming she can handle the heat.” Another said

Jordan rolled her eyes. "You realise this means you have to go now, right? You can’t just flirt with the most famous footballer in Spain and then not show up."

You stretched your legs out, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll see how I feel."

Jordan shook her head. "You’re enjoying this way too much.” You didn’t even try to deny it.

"Let me get this straight," your coach said announcing her presence in the corner, arms crossed, a barely-contained smirk on her face. "You’re flirting with the most famous footballer in Spain… publicly?"

You rolled your eyes. "I wouldn’t say flirting—"

"Really?" The whole team cut in, in unison, Marta holding up their phone as evidence. "Because to me, ‘Front row or nothing. See you there.’ sounds a lot like flirting."

You had nothing to say to that.

Your coach just shook her head. "I’ve seen players distracted by a lot of things, but this might be my favourite."

Your teammates snickered from across the gym.

"She’s already in her head," Claudia teased. "We might as well start planning a double sports wedding."

"Oh, shut up," you muttered.

Your coach laughed. "Look, as long as you don’t start missing shots because of her, I don’t care what you do. But…" She paused, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Just know that if she shows up to one of our games, I’m putting her in a jersey and making her run drills."

You grinned. "I’ll let her know."

🏀

Before I explore this idea more, would anyone actually want to read it?

🥂❤️

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

You and Alexia's wedding Day

The sun is just beginning to rise over Barcelona when you wake up. Soft, golden light filters through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room. Your heart is already racing before you even fully open your eyes, the realisation hitting you like a tidal wave.

It’s today.

Your wedding day.

You turn your head slightly, expecting to find Alexia beside you, but the bed is empty. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips. Of course, she’s already gone. You had promised each other, no seeing one another before the ceremony. She must have snuck out in the early hours, letting you have one last morning as an almost before you officially become hers forever.

There’s a soft knock at the door before it creaks open slightly. Carla peeks her head in, eyes full of excitement. “Buenos días, future Mrs. Putellas.”

You groan, throwing a pillow at her. “Shut up.”

She laughs, dodging it effortlessly. “Nope, not happening. Get up. We have a wedding to get ready for.”

You sit up slowly, the nerves mixing with the sheer thrill of knowing by the end of the day, you’ll be married to the love of your life.

Carla walks in fully now, setting a cup of coffee on your nightstand. “How are you feeling?”

You exhale deeply, stretching your arms over your head. “Honestly? A little nervous.”

She plops down on the edge of your bed, crossing her legs. “That’s normal. But also kind of ridiculous because let’s be real, you and Alexia have been married in every sense of the word for years now.”

You laugh softly because she’s not wrong.

The next few hours blur into a whirlwind of activity. Your bridal party, Carla, Ingrid, you got Ingrid Alexia got Mapi that was the deal, and a few of your closest friends from work flit around, making sure everything is perfect. There’s music playing in the background, champagne being passed around, laughter echoing through the air.

At one point, Eli arrives, her eyes already glassy with emotion as she cups your face. “You are so beautiful,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “She’s going to cry when she sees you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I think I’m going to cry first.”

Eli chuckles, wiping away the tear that slips down your cheek. “That’s what I brought tissues for.”

The dress is waiting for you, hanging by the window, its fabric catching the morning light in the most breathtaking way. As you step into it, as the zipper is carefully pulled up, as your hands smooth over the delicate fabric, it hits you, this is real.

This is happening.

Ingrid lets out a dramatic sniffle as she watches you. “Okay, yeah. I’m crying.”

Carla, ever the menace, smirks. “We should place bets on how long Alexia lasts before she starts crying at the altar.”

Ingrid snorts. “No way she makes it past five seconds.”

Eli shakes her head fondly. “She won’t even make it to when you walk down the aisle.”

You roll your eyes but smile, already picturing Alexia’s face when she sees you for the first time.

Then, as if on cue, your phone buzzes on the table. A message. From her.

Alexia: No seeing each other before the wedding. But just so you know, I already know you’re the most beautiful person in the world today. See you soon, mi amor.❤️

Your breath catches, your heart skipping a beat.

Carla leans over your shoulder, reading it before dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “She’s so obsessed with you. It’s disgusting.”

You just smile, warmth spreading through your chest. Yeah. She was.

By the end of today, she’s going to be your wife. Eli gave you big hugs and kisses and promises to see you soon but of course she was going to go be with Alexia.

The car ride to the venue feels surreal. The streets of Barcelona blur past the window, but you barely notice them. Your hands are clasped together in your lap, knuckles white as you try to keep your nerves at bay.

Ingrid sits beside you, her presence calm and steady, her hand resting gently on your knee, grounding you in the moment. In the front seat, Aitana is unsurprisingly arguing with Carla over something completely ridiculous.

“I swear, Carla, if you trip and take me down with you, I’m never letting you be in my wedding when it’s my turn,” Aitana huffs, arms crossed.

Carla scoffs. “First of all, rude. Second, you act like you wouldn’t be the one to trip first.”

“You’re literally the one who fell off a treadmill last week.”

“That was one time!”

You tune them out, heart racing as you glance down at your phone. No messages from Alexia this time. The next time you see her, it’ll be at the altar. Your wife-to-be.

Ingrid must sense your nerves because she squeezes your knee lightly. “Breath.”

You take a slow, deep breath, forcing yourself to relax.

“You’ve been ready for this for a long time,” Ingrid continues in that soft, reassuring voice of hers. “She’s waiting for you. That’s all that matters.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “I know. I just—” You exhale shakily. “It’s a lot.”

Ingrid gives you a small smile. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

The car finally pulls up to the venue an elegant villa nestled along the countryside, the perfect mix of intimacy and beauty. The moment you step out, the warm breeze carries the faint sound of music, guests murmuring softly inside, waiting.

Carla climbs out first, stretching dramatically. “Alright. Everyone still has their balance? No sudden injuries? No broken ankles?”

Aitana rolls her eyes. “Tú eres un caso.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but thenyour breath catches as your gaze drifts toward the grand double doors leading inside.

This is it. The nerves come rushing back tenfold.

Ingrid notices immediately, stepping close. “Babe” she murmurs. “She’s just on the other side of those doors, waiting for you.”

You nod, trying to swallow the wave of emotions building in your chest.

Carla and Aitana exchange glances before stepping away slightly, giving you a moment.

The doors are still closed, but you can feel it, the anticipation, the weight of this moment. Behind them, Alexia is standing at the altar, waiting for you.

Your fingers tighten around the bouquet in your hands. Your heart is pounding. Then, the music shifts.

Your cue.

Carla grins, winking at you. “Showtime.”

Ingrid presses a kiss to your temple. “Go to her,”

You take a deep breath, steady yourself, and the doors begin to open.

The doors swing open, and for a split second, everything is silent.

The music plays softly in the background, the gentle hum of a string quartet filling the space, but you can’t hear it, not over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your chest.

Your breath catches. Because there she is.

Alexia.

Standing at the altar, her hands clasped in front of her, looking like something straight out of a dream. She’s dressed in the most elegant suit, tailored perfectly to her frame, her hair swept back just enough to show the way her jaw tenses, the way her lips part slightly as she takes in the sight of you.

You barely make it two steps before you see it, her eyes are glassy, her chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths like she’s trying desperately to keep it together.

Then, she blinks, and a single tear slips down her cheek. And that’s when it hits you. You were never going to make it down the aisle dry-eyed.

The emotions well up too quickly, your vision blurring as you take your first step forward. Your fingers tighten around the bouquet, your breath shaky, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Not when she’s standing there looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Not when she’s wiping away that lone tear, smiling so softly, so tenderly that it makes your knees weak. Not when every step forward is a step closer to forever.

Carla walks beside you, her usual playful demeanor softened by the significance of the moment. Aitana and Ingrid follow just behind, but you barely register anything beyond the way Alexia’s eyes never leave yours.

You can see the way she’s gripping her hands together, her fingers fidgeting slightly like she’s stopping herself from running down the aisle and meeting you halfway.

And God, you kind of wish she would.

The distance feels too long, the anticipation too much.

When you reach the halfway point, another tear slips from your eye, and before you can even think about stopping it, Alexia exhales sharply, her face completely crumbling for a second.

Her lips tremble, and she sniffs, wiping at her face almost angrily, like she can’t be breaking down right now—but she is. Your cool calm collected poised partner of four years, totally is.

You let out a breathy laugh through your own tears, shaking your head. She does the same. You both do.

By the time you reach the front, you can’t hold back anymore. Your free hand reaches instinctively for hers, breaking the traditional etiquette of waiting, but you don’t care.

And neither does she.

The moment her fingers touch yours, she squeezes so tight you think she might be holding on for dear life.

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, a silent message, a whispered I love you without saying a word.

You sniffle, laughing softly, and whisper, “You’re crying.”

Alexia lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking her head. “Tú también.”

The officiant clears their throat gently, and you realize that technically, you’re supposed to let go of her hand right now.

But neither of you move. Neither of you want to. This is it. The moment before everything changes, before every promise you’ve ever whispered to each other in the dead of night is spoken out loud for the world to hear.

And as you stand there, with the love of your life holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping her grounded, you know—

You’d walk down this aisle a thousand times over. As long as she’s always waiting for you at the end. Everything feels like a blur an overwhelmingly beautiful blur.

The ceremony, the vows, the way Alexia looked at you like you had just hung the stars in the sky every moment is burned into your memory, but it still doesn’t feel real.

Not until you hear it.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you wife and wife.”

A pause.

A heartbeat.

“You may kiss—”

But Alexia doesn’t wait. She moves before the officiant even finishes the sentence, her hands cupping your face, her lips crashing against yours with a desperate, almost relieved kind of urgency.

And you melt into it. The sound of your friends and family erupting into cheers barely registers. The only thing you can focus on is her, the way her hands shake slightly against your skin, the way she breathes you in between kisses like she’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment.

When she finally pulls away, your forehead rests against hers, both of you grinning so wide it almost hurts.

“You’re my wife,” you whisper breathlessly.

Alexia laughs softly, her thumb brushing over your cheek. “Say it again.”

You beam, tightening your grip on her. “My wife. Mi Esposa”

She kisses you again, short, but full of so much love it makes your knees weak. Then, together, hand in hand, you turn to face the crowd. A shower of white flower petals rains down around you as you make your way back down the aisle, both of you laughing, wiping at your damp eyes, unable to let go of each other’s hands for even a second.

It’s perfect.

But as soon as you step inside the quiet hallway leading toward the garden, away from the noise, the guests, the cameras, Alexia pulls you to the side.

Just the two of you. Finally.

She exhales sharply, as if she’s been holding her breath this entire time, before she wraps her arms around you, burying her face in your neck.

Your hands immediately slip into her hair, holding her close. “Hey,” you whisper softly, “we did it.”

She nods against you, breathing you in. “We did it.”

For a long moment, neither of you move.

You just exist in the silence, in the warmth of each other’s arms, in the weight of everything that just happened.

Then, she pulls back slightly, her hands settling on your waist, her eyes roaming over every inch of your face like she’s memorising you all over again.

“You are so beautiful,” she murmurs. “I still can’t believe you’re mine.”

You smile, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “Forever.”

Alexia closes her eyes briefly, letting that word settle in before she nods. Then, without warning, she lifts you off the ground, spinning you in a slow, dizzying circle. You squeal, laughing as you grip onto her shoulders.

“Alexia!”

She grins up at you. “I had to. I just married you, I get to do whatever I want now.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but you know she’s right.

Because this is forever now.

Your forever.

Your wife.

The wedding reception is everything you could have dreamed of, laughter, music, love filling every inch of the space. The venue glows under the golden evening light, fairy lights strung above the tables creating a soft, intimate atmosphere. Everywhere you turn, there’s someone smiling, someone dancing, someone toasting to you and Alexia and the life you’ve just promised to share.

Alexia is currently caught up in conversation with some of her teammates, her hand still very much attached to yours like she can’t quite let go yet. It’s been like that all evening small touches, quiet glances, the occasional kiss when she thinks no one is looking.

But there’s something you still need to do before the night fully takes over. You catch Alba’s eye first, then Eli’s. A silent understanding passes between you, and they both follow as you gently squeeze Alexia’s hand in reassurance and slip away from the crowd.

Eli is quiet as you lead her toward the top table, where the two of you wives now will soon take your seats. Alba follows closely, her usual energy subdued, sensing the weight of whatever it is you’re about to show them.

And then, they see it. An extra chair. A place carefully set, just like every other. And, resting in the middle of the plate, a framed picture of Alexia’s father. Eli stops abruptly, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands fly to her mouth as she takes in the sight before her, eyes instantly glassy with unshed tears.

Alba stands frozen beside her, blinking hard, her jaw clenched like she’s trying to keep it together.

You swallow past the lump in your throat, stepping forward gently. “I—I wanted to make sure he was here with you tonight,” you whisper. “With her. With all of us.”

Eli exhales sharply, shaking her head as a tear slips free, but her lips curve into the softest, most grateful smile. “Mi amor…”

You reach out, taking her hands in yours, squeezing them tightly. “I know how much she wishes he was here.” Your voice is barely above a whisper now. “And I know how much he would be, if he could.”

Alba finally moves, running a hand over her face before huffing out a shaky breath. “She’s—she’s going to lose it when she sees this.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, nodding. “I know.”

Eli reaches out, brushing her fingers over the picture gently, her touch lingering as she takes a slow, deep breath. Then, she looks at you, her expression soft, full of so much love that it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

“She chose well,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “So, so well.”

You sniffle, squeezing her hand. “I’m just lucky she chose me.”

Alba finally cracks, letting out a teary chuckle as she nudges you lightly. “You’re gonna make me cry again,” she mutters.

You laugh softly, wiping at your own eyes. “I think that was inevitable.”

Eli lets out a small, watery chuckle, shaking her head before she pulls you into a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers into your hair. “For this. For loving her.”

You cling to her tightly. “Always.”

As you step back, Alba clears her throat, clapping her hands together to break the emotion swirling in the air. “Okay,” she says, sniffling one last time before straightening her shoulders. “How long do we give her before she notices?”

You smirk, glancing over at Alexia, who is still deep in conversation, completely unaware.

“Not long,” you murmur.

Alexia was in the middle of a conversation with Mapi and Ingrid when she caught something out of the corner of her eye—Eli wiping at her cheeks, Alba shifting awkwardly beside her, both of them standing near the top table where you had just been.

Her stomach instantly twists. She excuses herself without a second thought, her mind racing as she crosses the room.

“Mami?” Her voice is laced with concern as she reaches them, her gaze flicking between her mother and sister. “What’s wrong?”

Eli quickly shakes her head, still dabbing at her eyes. “Nada, mi amor,” she assures softly. “Just… come with me.”

Alexia frowns, not entirely convinced, but Eli reaches for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before leading her toward the table.

Alba doesn’t say a word—just steps aside, swallowing hard as she watches her sister move closer. And then Alexia sees it. Her breath catches instantly, her entire body going still as her gaze lands on the extra chair, the carefully set place, the framed photo staring back at her.

The picture of him. Her father.

A soft, shaky exhale slips from her lips as the weight of it settles in her chest. She doesn’t move at first—just stands there, eyes darting over every detail. The chair tucked in like he really belongs there. The glass set, the plate, the tiny flower laid beside the photo.

Her throat tightens.

Her hand instinctively grips Eli’s, and when she finally finds the strength to glance at her mother, she sees nothing but understanding in her eyes.

“She did this for you,” Eli whispers, squeezing her fingers. “Because she knew.”

Alexia lets out a breathy, broken laugh, blinking rapidly. “Of course she did.”

Eli smiles through her own tears. “She always knows.”

Alexia sniffs, shaking her head as she wipes at her face, trying to pull herself together, but it’s useless.

Because he’s here. He’s with her.

Alba clears her throat beside her, nudging her gently. “She didn’t want to tell you. She wanted you to just… see it.”

Alexia swallows hard, nodding slowly, her eyes locked onto the framed photo.

Her father’s eyes. His smile.

Her heart aches, but it’s a different kind of ache, softer. Lighter.

It doesn’t feel like a loss. It feels like love.

And suddenly, she needs to find you. Her head snaps up, scanning the crowd frantically until finally she spots you, standing off to the side, caught in conversation with a few of her distant cousins.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she moves. She needs you. She crosses the room in quick strides, barely giving you a chance to react before she’s there, wrapping her arms around you from behind, burying her face in your shoulder.

You let out a soft gasp, instantly placing your hands over hers. “Lex?”

She exhales against your skin, nodding before she murmurs, “I saw.”

And just like that, you know. You turn in her arms, tilting her face up gently, and when you see the tears in her eyes, the overwhelming emotion threatening to spill over, you don’t say anything.

You just hold her. She melts into you, tucking her face into your neck, letting out a small, shaky breath.

“I just wanted him to be here with you,” you whisper, running a soothing hand down her back.

Alexia sniffles, pressing her forehead against yours. “He is.”

Your chest tightens as she pulls back just enough to cup your face, her thumb brushing against your cheek.

“I love you,” she whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I love you so much.”

You smile softly, pressing your lips against hers in a kiss that says everything words never could. And as she holds you close, with the sound of laughter and music still carrying through the night, Alexia knows her father is here.

And you are her home.

The reception is in full swingwine glasses clinking, laughter echoing through the villa, warmth filling every corner of the room. You can feel the buzz of happiness in the air, wrapping around you like the soft golden glow of the fairy lights strung above the tables. And then, as the music fades slightly, Eli stands up.

The room hushes instantly, all eyes turning to Alexia’s mother as she clears her throat, her expression soft but full of something deeper something unbreakable.

She glances at you and Alexia, her daughters sitting side by side, hands intertwined under the table. Then, she smiles.

“Buenas noches a todos.”

A wave of quiet chuckles spreads across the crowd as she smirks. “I will not take too long because I know everyone is eager to get back to the dancing, especially Alba, who has already had three glasses of wine and keeps trying to challenge Aitana to a dance battle.”

Laughter ripples through the room, breaking any lingering nerves Eli might have had.

She turns back to you and Alexia, her gaze softening. “Today is a day full of love,” she continues. “Not just because of the two incredible people we are here to celebrate, but because love is what brought us here in the first place. And love is what will keep us together for the rest of our lives.” Alexia’s grip on your hand tightens. “I don’t have to tell you all who my daughter is,” Eli says, glancing toward her eldest child with a twinkle in her eye. “The world knows who she is. A leader, a fighter, the most determined person I’ve ever met. But before she was that before she was the Alexia Putellas that people chant for in the stadium she was just my little girl.” Alexia shifts in her seat, blinking rapidly. Eli exhales, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “And then you came along.” She turns to you now, her eyes filled with something deeply maternal. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I knew immediately that you were the one for her. The very first time I saw her with you, there was something different. Something softer in the way she spoke, something lighter in the way she moved.” A lump forms in your throat. “I have never seen her happier than she is with you.” Eli’s voice wavers slightly, but she holds strong. “And as a mother, all you ever want is for your children to find that kind of happiness. That kind of love.” You don’t even realize you’re crying until Alexia reaches up and wipes a stray tear from your cheek. Eli smiles warmly, lifting her glass. “So, let’s raise a toast to my daughter, to my new daughter, and to a love that will last forever.”

The room erupts into applause, glasses clinking as everyone cheers. You turn to Alexia, her face a mixture of quiet emotion and pure love. She leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your temple.

Then, before the room can settle, Alba slams her hands on the table and stands up.

“Alright, my turn!” she announces dramatically.

Carla groans. “Oh no.”

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is already a disaster.”

You chuckle, watching Alba pick up her glass and hold it high. “First of all, let’s acknowledge the real MVP of this wedding me because without me, I’m not sure Alexia would have ever admitted she was in love.”

Alexia glares. “That is absolutely not true.”

Alba winks. “Not saying I’m responsible, but I’m also not not saying it.”

Laughter ripples through the room again. She turns to you now, and suddenly, her usually playful demeanor shifts. “I joke a lot, but I need to be serious for a second.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve spent my whole life looking up to Alexia. Not just because she’s my sister, but because she’s my best friend. And I always wondered if there was anyone out there who could match her who could truly be what she needed.” She glances at you, her eyes shining. “And then you came along. And suddenly, my sister wasn’t just my sister anymore. She was herself in a way I had never seen before. And I knew. I knew you were her forever.” Alexia swallows hard, looking away briefly like she’s trying to compose herself. Alba grins now, raising her glass. “So, as the official bestower of blessings, I give my very important stamp of approval to this marriage. Not that you needed it, but still.”

The room laughs, raising their glasses again. Alexia groans but reaches for her sister’s hand, squeezing it briefly in gratitude.

As the laughter settles, you take a deep breath and stand up. Alexia’s head snaps toward you, her brows furrowing slightly.

“Wait,” she whispers. “I thought—”

You smirk. “You hate public speaking, so I figured I’d do it for us.”

A few amused chuckles ripple through the room. You stand, feeling the weight of Alexia’s gaze settle on you instantly. She wasn’t expecting this. You hadn’t told her. But she hates public speaking, and there’s no way you were going to let her suffer through this part alone. So here you are, standing in front of a room filled with all the people who love you both, your heart pounding as you look at your wife—the woman you are lucky enough to spend forever with. You clear your throat, letting the soft hum of quiet settle over the room before you begin.

“I wasn’t supposed to give a speech tonight,” you admit, smiling slightly as a few chuckles ripple through the crowd. “But I figured since Alexia hates public speaking almost as much as she loves me, I’d do this one for us.” More laughter, but Alexia just shakes her head at you, eyes already shimmering. You take a deep breath. “I don’t really know how to put into words what today means. What she means,” you say softly, glancing at Alexia. “I could stand up here for hours and still never fully explain what it feels like to be loved by her. What it feels like to know that every morning I wake up, she’s going to be there. That every bad day, every hard moment, every time I start to doubt myself she’s there, looking at me like I’m the best thing in the world.” Alexia sniffs, blinking rapidly, but you continue. “She is the strongest, most determined person I have ever met. She puts her whole heart into everything she does whether it’s football, or family, or making sure I never leave the house without a jacket because she swears I always get cold.” Laughter fills the room again, and you pause, letting it settle before continuing. “But more than anything, she is home to me,” you say, voice quieter now. “Loving her is the easiest, most natural thing I’ve ever done. She is my best friend, my greatest love, my everything. And today, I got to promise to love her forever. A promise I would have made a thousand times over.” Alexia wipes at her cheek now, and you reach out instinctively, squeezing her hand before continuing. “There’s someone missing today,” you say, and the room falls completely silent. You feel the shift, feel the way Alexia’s grip tightens around yours, feel the way Eli’s breath catches. “I never got the chance to meet Alexia’s father,” you say softly. “But I wish I could have. Because if the way his daughters turned out is any reflection of the kind of man he was, then I know, I know, he was an incredible man.” Alexia’s chest rises and falls in a deep, steady breath, but her eyes are locked onto yours, unblinking, feeling every word you say. “I’ve heard many stories seeing many videos and many pictures and I see him in Alexia every day. In the way she loves, in the way she fights for what matters, in the way she never gives up. And I see him in Alba, too. In her fire, in her passion, in the way she refuses to do anything quietly.”

That earns a watery chuckle from Alba, and you smile.

“I know that if he were here today, he would be so unbelievably proud. Not just of the woman Alexia has become, but of the family she has built around her. The love she gives. The way she makes the people in her life better just by being in it.” You take a deep breath.

“And I promise you, mi amor I will spend every single day making sure you feel that love. That pride. That safety. Because you deserve nothing less.” Alexia blinks rapidly, her lips pressing together tightly, her free hand lifting to wipe at her cheek again.

You glance around the room then, your heart racing, and then you take a deep breath, and you switch.

“Avui és el dia més bonic de la meva vida.”

(Today is the most beautiful day of my life.)

The entire room gasps.

You hear someone slap the table probably Carla. Someone else mutters “No way.” Alexia’s jaw drops.

“I wanted to take a moment to say something important,” you continue, in perfect Catalan, watching as her eyes fill with even more tears. “Today has been perfect in so many ways, but what makes it truly special is all of you. This family. The people who have welcomed me into their hearts, who have loved me as one of their own.” Her grip on your hand tightens—desperate, overwhelmed. You smile, speaking directly to her now.

“Et prometo que sempre et cuidaré, sempre estaré al teu costat i sempre estimaré cada part de qui ets.” (I promise I will always take care of you, always stand by your side, and always love every part of who you are.)

Alexia makes a choked sound, a tear slipping down her cheek. You take a deep breath, blinking through your own emotions before finishing.

“Gràcies per donar-me la teva vida, el teu amor i la teva família. Sempre seré teva.” (Thank you for giving me your life, your love, and your family. I will always be yours.)

A beat of stunned silence.

Then absolute chaos.

People are cheering. Clapping. Carla is banging the table, half screaming. “WHAT THE HELL?! WHEN DID YOU LEARN THAT?!”

You laugh, cheeks burning, looking back at Alexia only to yelp as she grabs your face and kisses you senseless. The room erupts.

Alexia’s hands are cradling your jaw, her lips fierce against yours, like she can’t hold back. Like she has to kiss you or she might actually explode. She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours, her eyes wild with love.

“You, you just” she stammers. “How?”

You grin, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Secretly learned it. Just for today.”

She laughs, breathless, shaking her head. “I cannot believe you did that.”

You smirk. “I’d do anything for you.”

Her hands tighten on you, her lips brushing against yours again. “I love you so much it’s ridiculous.”

You chuckle. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me forever.” And as the entire room celebrates, as Alexia kisses you again softer this time, like a thank you whispered into your lips you know.

You know. This moment, this love, this life it’s yours.

Forever.

The wedding had been everything you had dreamed of—maybe even more.

It had been filled with laughter, with love so thick in the air you could feel it, with the warmth of everyone who mattered most. But now, the music had faded, the guests had gone home, and the two of you had finally stepped away from the celebration into the quiet intimacy of your wedding night.

Now, it was just you and her.

The hotel suite was bathed in soft, golden light, the glow of the city filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You turned slightly, catching your reflection in the mirror as you reached up to unclip your earrings, but before you could, a voice—low and full of something darker, something deeper—stopped you.

“Don’t.”

You froze, your breath catching in your throat, before turning to face her.

Alexia was leaning against the doorframe, still dressed in the suit she had worn for the wedding—the perfectly tailored black ensemble that had made your heart stop when you first saw her at the altar.

And now, as she stood there, hands in her pockets, eyes dark as they traced over your form, you felt that same breathless ache in your chest.

She looked at you like you were something precious.

Like she was trying to memorise every inch of you.

Her lips curled into something soft, but there was a hunger beneath it, a slow burn flickering in her gaze.

“God,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly. “You’re beautiful.”

Heat flared in your stomach.

She stepped closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she wanted to savor every second of this.

When she reached you, she reached up, her fingers barely ghosting over your waist.

Her eyes flickered over your dress—the same dress she had seen you in all night, the one she had struggled to take her eyes off of, the one that had nearly undone her at the altar.

Her voice was softer this time, almost reverent.

“You are stunning, mi amor.”

You shivered at the way she said it, at the way her fingers traced lightly over the delicate fabric.

Then she leaned in, her lips grazing your ear, her breath warm against your skin as she whispered,

“How does it feel?”

Your throat was dry. “How does what feel?”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing along your jaw, her expression pure adoration.

“To be Mrs. Putellas.”

A rush of heat shot through you, warmth curling in your chest and pooling in your stomach at the way she said it.

You loved the way it sounded.

The way it felt.

The weight of her name wrapped around yours, binding you forever to her.

You swallowed, barely able to find your voice. “Say it again.”

Alexia smirked now, a knowing, teasing thing.

“Mrs. Putellas,” she murmured, her lips pressing softly against the corner of your mouth.

You melted into her, your hands sliding up her chest, gripping the lapels of her suit as you tugged her closer.

She let out a soft chuckle, her hands settling at your waist, pulling you flush against her.

“I like the way that sounds,” you admitted breathlessly.

She hummed in agreement, her fingers tracing the outline of your dress.

“I like the way it looks on you.”

Your pulse hammered, your head spinning from the intensity of her gaze.

“Alexia…” you whispered, your fingers twisting in the fabric of her suit jacket.

She tilted her head slightly, studying you, memorising you, before dipping her head to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I love you,” she murmured against your skin.

Your breath hitched.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your heart full to bursting.

And as she took her time, loving you the way only she could—with soft whispers, tender touches, and an overwhelming depth of adoration—you knew one thing for certain.

Being Mrs. Putellas was the most incredible thing in the world.

🌹🌾

roses

you want to make your first sant jordi together perfect for her.

“Ale?” You called out, hearing a hum from the vague direction of the lounge. 

You'd just arrived at her place, reluctantly waking up in separate apartments on a free Sunday in early April since Alexia had a family thing the night before, and you spent the evening at Ingrid’s with a few friends. Individually, both of you had a good time, but it wasn’t without a grumble from you at having to walk up alone. You slept better with Alexia beside you, somehow she helped with your sleeping problems better than anything else you had tried. Whether that be because she’s a naturally calm person and that seeps into you, putting you at ease, or having her there worked as a distraction since you always fall asleep drowning in each other’s arms or with her fingertips running up and down your back soothingly.

The night before, however, you didn’t sleep too well. Your mind wouldn’t shut off at all. But, it allowed you to do some thinking. And the next morning, you walked into her apartment with a plan of action.

She was, what would seem uncharacteristic to others but not to you at all, sprawled out on her sofa, all long limbs in an oversized navy Nike tracksuit. The girl was like a sloth sometimes, a description of her she didn’t appreciate, yet one you loved to tease her with. As you rounded the corner from the hallway, she dropped her phone against her chest and glanced up at you with a warm smile. The sight of her so happy to see you never got old.

“Bon dia.” She uttered with a content sigh, moving an arm behind her head as she watched you take off your jacket and slide your shoes off. Then, you headed over to her, and her smile got wider as she braced herself for you to lay on top of her. You didn’t, to her disappointment. You sat by her feet, a determined look on her face. “What’s up with you?”

“I need you to tell me everything I need to know about Sant Jordi.”

Well, that, the brunette wasn’t expecting.

“Why?” She asked curiously, sitting up a little to lean back on her hands, her eyebrows pressed down into a confused scowl. All she wanted was a hug, but here she was having to give a history lesson.

“Because you said it’s your favourite holiday. So I need you to tell me all about it, so that I can make plans for us.”

Your words offered her a hug instead; her heart fluttered in her chest at the demand from you. It was incredibly sentimental to her, so much so she felt her cheeks heat up the tiniest bit.

“You want to make plans for it?” Alexia wondered, eyebrows now raised with a hopeful smile on her face that she tried to disguise.

“Of course I do. It’s your favourite.” You repeated, replying to her question like the answer was obvious. Because of course you wanted to make her favourite day of the year live up to her standards, and more.

“Okay.” Alexia blinked as she looked at the seriousness on your face, trying to process what was happening. There were butterflies in her stomach, like she was a teenager after their first kiss. But no, it was just you, and your limitless thoughtfulness and compassion. It only made her love you more, made her more excited for the holiday to come, because it was her first with you and that was good enough for her without all the added extras you seemed set on adding. “Well, what do you want to know?” 

You pulled your phone out, opened up your notes, pressing on the already half-written page from your impromptu research the night before, and looked back up at her.

“Everything, Alexia.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at your response. Not at your dedication, because she found that outrageously endearing, but at how deadset on this you were. How deadset you were on making her feel loved, and that was something she treasured more than you could ever know.

“Only if you actually give me a hug first. Maybe a kiss too for extra motivation if I have to tell you everything.”

You rolled your eyes at her, though fell for it regardless. You dropped your phone and watched as she shuffled closer, visible excitement on her face as if she hadn’t kissed you a hundred times before. She sat up properly and held your face with her hands on the side of your head, leaning in so fast you almost clashed heads, but that was the last thing on your mind the moment her lips landed on yours. They were soft, like always, soft and familiar, and the way they moved against yours had you wondering why on earth you’d delayed the moment when you arrived. 

Until your thoughts trailed off from her and back to the task at hand.

“So,” You started as you pulled away from her mouth with a wet smack. Your phone was back in your hand and you were straight back to business before she’d even registered that you had broken it off. “Tell me about it.”

Her hands were still cradling your face, eyes on yours as she caught her breath back. You looked down at her, eyebrow raised as you waited for her to compose herself again. After she inhaled another deep breath, she searched your eyes to check for any ounce of doubt or sarcasm as she took a moment to realise… just how much it meant to her that you were offering this.

“You’re really serious about this?” She murmured a moment later, a sheepish expression on her face. 

“Yes. I am. It’s our first together, I want to get it right.” You admitted quietly, a slightly embarrassed red tinge to your cheeks as she beamed at you, her thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. She leaned in again, a gentler kiss this time, one that conveyed her adoration rather than any other meaning.

“That means so much to me.” She whispered against your lips when she pulled away. A soft smile formed on your face at her words, because they alone were worth it and you hadn’t even done anything yet. That was exactly why you were doing it.

“Can only do it if you tell me.” You teased, turning your head to kiss her palm.

Alexia chuckled gently, shifting to sit back against the sofa and wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you into her a little. You turned slightly so that your back was to her shoulder and her hand slipped down to your chest, your own reaching up to link with hers and resting there. With a warmth in her chest, finally having you where she wanted you and a topic at hand where its future with you both excited her immeasurably, she was wholly content.

“I don’t even know where to start with it.” 

How could she explain it to you? The day spoke for itself. She hadn’t ever explained it to anyone before because it’d always just been there in her life, woven into April and she’d never known anything different. Now though, she had you, who hadn’t even heard of it until one movie night early on in your friendship where she rambled about it for twenty minutes straight when you asked if she liked Valentine’s Day. She had scoffed, to your confusion, before giving a hundred-and-one reasons why Sant Jordi was far superior due to the deep-rooted culture and everything else about it that fascinated her still, even after thirty years of it. Maybe you would have better knowledge of it, had you actually paid attention to what she was saying rather than how she looked. 

It wasn’t a holiday, exactly, more like the heartbeat of her city. A day where love drifted in the wind, swirling in the air, like oxygen, which it almost was. Nobody could survive without love and that’s what the day was about, always had been, since that time with the dragon and the rose that sprouted after. Since then, no matter what a person was going through, a simple rose was enough to put a smile on anyone’s face. Because a Sant Jordi rose wasn’t simple, it was more than just a tradition. It was love with roots, dating back centuries and sure to last for yet more to come. Giving a rose to you and receiving one from you on this day, to Alexia, meant that you had both chosen to love each other and wanted to tell so in the language of the place that meant everything to her. As she was explaining, she felt herself become giddy with excitement. It was hard to put it into words when all that was on her mind was you and roses and books and dragons and-

“You’re trailing off, Ale. Stay on topic.”

Right.

The brunette wholeheartedly believed there was never a more beautiful day in Barcelona than on Sant Jordi. There was a particular way the city softened then. Streets transformed from fast-moving busyness to slow streams of people stopping in their step, not out of obligation but from wonder. From actually pausing their life, taking a breath, and appreciating things they missed in daily life. Love, community, humanity. Something shifted in everybody during the holiday. Strangers smiled easily, weightless from their usual burdens, desperate to share the serenity they felt with others. Vendors with hundreds of the most gorgeous roses you could find handed them out willingly to everyone with the same care reserved for their loved ones, because that’s just what the day made you do. It was good, whilst also unfairly rare to have a reason to give beauty just for the sake of it. 

Deep down, maybe that’s why most people loved it. It was an excuse to share the pure sides of humankind in a world that lacked it so much.

And the way people showed these things was with the roses, yes, but books too. Alexia recalled her mother saying something to her when she was younger, where she had asked why it was books and roses, and her answer was ‘one for the mind, one for the heart.’ That memory came racing back to her, bringing a reminiscing smile to her face, before echoing it to you too. There was the legend of the knight and the dragon, of blood turned into rose, of course, but there was the celebration of two authors too, Cervantes and Shakespeare. So while the rose speaks of love, the book speaks of connection. To give one is just as precious as receiving one. It’s a gift of thought and attention, where someone has listened to another and decided on something that will resonate with them, whether it’s a topic about what they long for, what they fear, what they want to learn, or what they treasure. It’s sacred, in a way that’s different to the rose, but just as meaningful. 

The day was solely dedicated to care, to language, culture, and love. All the things that were most important to Alexia. She thought about it often in the weeks leading up to it, and apparently so did you. That gave her even more reasons, added to the already infinite list, of why you were her person.

“Wow.” You breathed out in awe when she finished, thumbs paused over your phone screen because you hadn’t quite expected her to go so in depth. She opened up to you about it, completely and honestly. You might be the worst person ever if you didn’t make it the best day of her life. 

“Yeah.” Alexia hummed, her ramble having caught herself off guard. But, sharing her adoration for the day with someone new, where she had to explain all the reasons she enjoyed it which she hadn’t really done out-loud before, simply reignited her love for it and made it stronger. “Was that… too much at once?”

You put your phone down, it being the last thing on your mind then, then turned around to face her. The midfielder seemed a bit shy, embarrassed even, and you had to change that.

“No. Never too much. You explained it a million times better than I thought you would. Thank you for sharing all that with me.” You told her, eyes wide and sincere as she met your gaze. She let out a small relieved sigh, before her lips widened into an admiring smile. 

“I can’t wait to spend it with you.” You gave a cheesy grin at her adorable comment, then got straight down to business.

“Who do you want to spend the day with?” You questioned, waiting for her answer expectantly as she frowned at you.

“You, obviously.” The midfielder answered.

“Okay, but I mean, don’t you want to see your family too? Some friends maybe? You don’t want to have lunch with Alba and your mother, dinner with your close friends, that kind of thing?” 

“No. Just you.” 

Oh. That took you by surprise a bit. You were flattered by her, and you couldn’t exactly hide it either with the way you blushed a moment or two after she spoke. She noticed and smirked at you, proud of her charm.

“Well, I still think we should visit Alba and Eli anyway, give them some roses.” You compromised, feeling a tad guilty for snatching your girlfriend away from her family.

“Sure.” Alexia shrugged. “As long as I get the whole day with you.”

“You will.” You mumbled under her piercing attention, her eyes unmoving from your face. “And where do you want to go together? What would you like us to do?”

It was then that she looked away. How could she say what she wanted to say without extinguishing your excitement?

“Let me take the lead on that. I know you want to surprise me, and you still can, but I want to show you to some of my favourite places, okay? I know all the good spots and I want to show you why I love them. I'd really like to share them with you.” You seemed to deflate at that, her wishes going against the rough plan you had for how this conversation would go, as well as Sant Jordi itself.

“But I want to surprise you, Ale.” You said dejectedly, which only made her smile. She leaned forward and kissed your cheek, hoping to cheer you up back into your good mood.

“I know, and I’ll let you. But I want to give you a good day too. Let me organise where we go, what we see, and you can do anything else you would like. Fifty-fifty.” She suggested, watching your reaction as you took a minute to think. After a moment or two, your eyes narrowed skeptically at her.

“Sixty-forty.” You bartered, which she laughed at. Nevertheless, she agreed.

“Fine.” 

Once that had been decided, she wrapped her arms back around you and pulled you into her. She nestled her head into your neck and dotted kisses up and down it, before settling comfortably on the couch with you in her hold as she smiled into your skin, with daydreams of the two of you on Sant Jordi clouding her mind.

—

Then the day arrived, finally. It felt like you’d waited an age for it. 

You were up as the sun rose, Alexia still away with the fairies in bed, and moving around the apartment as you checked your preparations for the millionth time. There was email after email on your phone, confirming your various orders of roses and their deliveries. Yellow ones for Ingrid, since she was your best friend and it felt wrong not to acknowledge how much you loved her on a day like today. Then some more for Jana and Aitana, who had helped you in planning and with where to get the best roses one could find in Barcelona, as well as their meaning. You felt endlessly grateful for everyone in your life, you’d give roses to them all if you could. 

However, your main focus was the sleeping form in your bedroom, whom you were about to make breakfast in bed for. On the menu for her, a smoked salmon omlette with traditional Catalan toasted bread, and a coffee. Simple, but her favourite for a day-off. Except it was her favourite when… she made it. It wasn’t exactly your specialty, but you were going to give it a try, considering you wanted to surprise her. 

And it worked, it didn’t come out half bad, and just as you’d served it up onto a breakfast tray for her with a coffee from the ridiculously fancy espresso machine she didn’t need (and took you months to learn just how to turn it on), the door rang with the most important delivery for the day. Her roses. Perfect timing for you to pick one out, wrap a Senyera ribbon around it, and put it on the tray with her breakfast. 

She was still out for the count when you walked back in, on her side with an arm outstretched where you would lay, something that brought a smile to your face as you put the tray on her bedside table. You sat on the edge of the bed and gently nudged her shoulder, causing her to stir.

“Bon dia, Ale.” You whispered, hearing her usual grumble at being woken up before she naturally woke up. “Wake up, you’ve slept long enough.”

“Wow.” She huffed groggily, rolling onto her back and rubbing her face tiredly. As she did so, you leaned over and grabbed the rose, presenting it to her as she opened her eyes. Her grumpy expression faded instantly, replaced by one of shy gratitude as she reached out to take it. “Thank you, amor.” 

“Feliç Sant Jordi.” 

Sitting up properly, Alexia met you halfway as you leaned in with a hand on her thigh to steady yourself. A kiss full of tenderness, brimming excitement for the day ahead, was the best way to start her day. Even better? It was followed by breakfast cooked with care and a coffee brewed to perfection (you couldn’t take credit for that, it was the machine) that hit the spot for her. It was only early morning, and it was already her favourite one she’d celebrated so far.

“Happy first Sant Jordi.” Alexia grinned sleepily, gazing at you with an admiration like it was your first day on earth. “You did a good job with the rose, it’s beautiful.”

“I had some help.” You admitted sheepishly, to which she shrugged it off. 

“Don’t care. Still your brain behind it.” She murmured, leaning back in again to steal another kiss from you. “I love you. Love everything about you. Happier than ever with you.”

“Shut up, eat your food.” You blushed, cheeks burning as she smirked at you before reaching for her coffee. “I love you too.”

“I can’t wait for you to see the city later.” Her eyes had a look of childlike wonder in them as she thought of what waited for you both outside the walls of your apartment. Before that, she had some bigger priorities she needed to deal with. She swallowed her mouthful of coffee before addressing you with a desperate question. “Did you leave time fo-”

“Yes, I left time for us to spend in bed after breakfast. Hurry up and eat, then we’ll have longer.” 

The girl was nothing without lazy mornings in bed, wrapped up in each other. Neither were you.

—

A couple hours later, after time together in the peace of the bedroom and a quick trip to her mother’s, the pair of you were wandering the streets, hand in hand and taking in the relaxed nature of everyone that you passed. There was this mutual contentment which possessed each person that celebrated the holiday, something that you loved being around. You hadn’t even made it to the main parts Alexia wanted to take you to.

She looked different. More relaxed than you’d seen her. She was calm, fully in the moment, everything loud in her life far away from her mind. Not a second went by without a smile on her face, whether it be one that stretched across her cheeks or one that was simply an upwards quirk of her lip. You adored seeing her so happy, seeing how much she loved the day.

At first, the city didn’t seem too different. There were red petals scattered every few steps on the tiled ground, some fresh and some bruised, and there was something poetic about that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The sun had decided to come out too, only adding to the atmosphere around. But apart from that, everything seemed normal. Just the early stirrings of Barna waking up.

Until you got closer and closer to the very heart of the city, where you turned one corner, and the streets became something else entirely. It was a slow unravelling of everything the day embodied; each person had a rose and a wheat sprig with an unbridled smile on their face, there was stall after stall as you stepped foot onto Passeig de Gràcia, tin buckets filled with bouquet after bouquet of flows, wooden tables creaking under the weight of the countless books stacked on them. It was unlike anything you had ever seen.

Barcelona truly did look like something out of a fairytale, just like your girlfriend had rambled about.

“This is the best place to be.” Alexia murmured into your ear as you paused to take in everything that was happening ahead of you.

And like every time she’d declared something before, she really wasn’t wrong.

Despite the crowds, you didn’t feel overwhelmed, because every single individual was sharing the same passion, celebrating the same traditions, holding their love to a higher importance. It was addictive, you wished everyday was like it. You would be more than happy, consider yourself lucky even, to live in this city for the rest of your life.

You moved slowly through the street, another ripple in the current of people fascinated like you were. The scent of roses was strong, how could it not be with how many hundreds there were in every square meter, with the metallic echo of scissors cutting stems each time a fresh flower was bought for someone that was treasured by their company. Honestly, that might have been your favourite thing about it, like Alexia had said; the love was so easily shared, each person so deeply valued, it didn’t matter that you were all strangers because it didn’t feel like it there. With the contagion of love in the area, you felt bonded to everyone that passed by you. It was a weird phenomenon to feel such a way, but you didn’t question it. No one questioned it. That’s just what Sant Jordi was, that was its pride.

Alexia had given you a rose after breakfast, having hid a bouquet for you out on her balcony. Even if you had expected it, it still did something to your heart as she handed it over to you. However, neither of you had exchanged books yet. You had a plan you kept to yourself, and so did Alexia. Yours was the first that came to fruition. 

One of her favourite authors had a stall that day where they were selling a new book Alexia had spoken about a number of times in the last few weeks. You had to, shamelessly, stalk her Amazon account to make sure she hadn’t pre-ordered it for herself. Fortunately, she didn’t, and the days since it was released ticked by without it suddenly making an appearance in her travel bag or on her coffee table. So when you saw the stall in question, the book standing out to you instantly on the table, you stopped the pair of you in place and turned to her with a beaming grin.

“Stay here.” You told her randomly, before rounding the corner and disappearing from her view. 

She frowned, a little suspicious, but did as you said regardless. As she waited, she saw a stall for fresh churros with chocolate off in the distance, mouth already watering as she thought of them. Anyway, just as you’d demanded, she stayed where she was until you came back, twiddling with the rose she’d tucked into the pocket of her jacket over her chest whilst she took in the surroundings. All that crossed her mind was that this truly felt like home. It grounded her, a reminder of where she came from and what she was representing on the global stage that football was. And she was proud to do that, indescribably so.

“Close your eyes, hold your hands out.” You appeared in front of her again, hands behind your back as you waited for her to follow through on your instructions. Once she had done as you said, you placed the book into her hands, the seller having even gone one step further and tying a red ribbon around the item too. “Open.”

The brunette looked down at the gift and let out a tiny gasp, glancing back up at you in slight disbelief. There was something about not only being heard and seen by people in her life, but having someone actually do something with all they learnt that landed inside her with a quiet kind of significance. 

“Mi amor.” She exhaled a shaky breath, a downturned smile on her face at the surprise. “Thank you. This is… thank you. You’re amazing.”

She drew you in for a tight embrace, there, in the middle of the avenue, where you couldn’t fend off the pleased grin that grew as a result of her reaction. Maybe she had wanted to buy it for herself which, to some, might have made it less of a surprise, but not to her. Things like this struck a chord within her, triggered that sentimental part of her that couldn’t ever really get over the fact people adore her so much they’d do something this thoughtful. 

“I had to muddle through the limited Catalan I know to get it but… luckily I know how to say that I need a gift for my hot g-” 

“Alright, you ruined it.” Alexia tutted, cutting you off with her words and a kiss that silenced your teasing pretty quickly. “You keep beating me to things, I need to step up my game.”

“God, you really have to turn everything into a competition.” You scoffed, to which she grinned and took hold of your hand again to start leading you both down the avenue.

“Of course. And I’m going to win myself back a goal by buying you the best churros you can find, right now.” 

Suddenly, the most sickeningly sweet scent you’d ever experienced invaded your senses and you had to hold in a groan at the deliciousness of it as she slotted you both into the queue. Churros had fastly become one of your favourite treats, but not something you indulged in often since, obviously, you were a footballer and they weren’t exactly the most nutritious things in the world. When else was a better time to share some with your girlfriend than on Sant Jordi? 

“You’re saying churros are better than your book?” You feigned a dejected expression and tone, feeling a tiny bit guilty at the panic on her face, but not when she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and grazed her lips against your temple.

“Never.” She reassured you, rolling her eyes when she heard you giggle. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Very lucky, it turned out, because she wasn’t lying when she said they were the best churros. For a little while longer, you walked along the avenue, your hand on her upper arm which held the cardboard tray, each of you picking from it every so often and laughing when some of the chocolate dripped down Alexia’s chin. You swiped it away with your thumb before letting her lick it off, not even ashamed about being that couple in public. You were in your own bubble, basking in the company and the devotion that thrived between you. It was quickly turning out to be one of your favourite days with her, maybe even ever in your life.

Shortly before you left Passeig de Gràcia, Alexia brought you to the place everybody wanted to see on Sant Jordi – Casa Batlló. It was front and center of the holiday, the photo that marked every headline in the news, and rightly so. Beautiful didn’t begin to cover it. 

“Worth letting me plan the day, no?” Alexia joked quietly, standing behind you as you gazed up at the building. Her hands were low on your waist, thumbs stroking up and down. As the day ticked by, it got seemingly harder and harder for her to control her devotion, it was just overflowing from her.

“This place is amazing.” You stated in awe; the longer you looked at it, the more details you spotted. From that building alone, with so much history embedded into its architecture, was enough reason to love Sant Jordi. “I never knew all this about Barcelona and Catalunya when I joined.”

“Now you have me to show you. Every year, for the rest of our lives.” She spoke soothingly, the words meant for you and you only. This woman.

“Somebody is really in their feels today, huh.” 

You were joking about it, but the whole day it’d set you alight. Never had being in a relationship felt so right to you. You were certain that you hadn’t known love before her, and she was really taking advantage of the holiday to show exactly how she felt towards you. God only knows you were feeling the same about her.

“What better day to do it? I love you. Let me love on you.” She replied, raw, vulnerable, honest. Her openness was one of the things you adored most about her, she never shied away from saying exactly what was on her mind. 

“Never said you couldn’t.” 

With her hands that sat on your hips, she span you around to face her, drawing you in closer just a bit. Her gaze was intense, communicating things that you didn’t want to share with anyone else, wanting to keep it between the two of you. 

“Your book.” She said out of nowhere, dragging you out of your thoughts and back to the present. One hand slipped away, reaching behind her back and presenting a small book, small enough to fit in her jeans pocket. You scanned over it, not quite sure what it was. “It’s a poetry book in Catalan. A lot of my favourites, some that are really important to me. Some that I’ve shared with you before and some that I haven’t yet because they feel too special to speak aloud, too sacred to translate. I wanted you to read it because it’s everything I’ve never said. But it’s always been for you, about you. And, I don’t know, maybe you’ll read the things in there and… think of me.” 

You didn’t answer, not right away. You stared at her, then the book, and back to her. The object turned from something light, like a feather in your hands, to something heavy with a pulse. This was the closest she could get to giving you her heart.

No part of you could quite comprehend how esteemed and dear this gift was. Whether the crowds were dying down or you were just honed in on the book and your girlfriend, but it was like the world around you knew not to intrude on such a moment. Nothing ceased to exist outside this pocket of time where you stood, with the woman you love, in the city that raised her, and a piece of her soul in your possession. 

One deep breath, then two, before you blinked and a tear fell. You didn’t wipe it away. She did.

“I don’t know what to say, Ale.” You whispered as if afraid that a decibel higher would steal the memory away from you. “This is everything to me.”

You couldn’t believe she had chosen you to share this part of her with. 

“You’re everything to me. That’s what I wanted to show you.” Came her response, in a soft, dulcet tone. Her knuckle wiped away another tear. “Don’t cry outside of Casa Batlló, that is so guiri of you.” 

Her humour broke through your astonishment and caused you to burst out into tearful laughter, the brunette joining you instantly. You tucked the book against your chest, coincidentally right over your heart without even thinking, before rushing forward to get a hug from her. She accepted it immediately, leaning her forehead against your temple, her heart rate higher than ever from the nerves she felt at giving you her book. In that silence, punctuated periodically by your sniffles of disbelief, she held you. Like she always did. 

—

It was a miracle that the pair of you made it to the dinner you’d booked later that evening. You with your emotions and Alexia with her lack of restraint at keeping her hands to herself. 

You did make it, though, of which you were glad for. Not only because you were hungry after a day of walking and a few too many tears, but also because the restaurant you’d booked a table at was difficult enough to find a reservation for, nevermind on Sant Jordi too. It was one of Alexia’s favourites and yours too, a surefire way to cap off the day successfully. 

Neither of you could stand being away from each other for a second; had anyone been with you for the duration of the day, it would have been sickening for them to see. But you just didn’t care. You sat in the same side of the booth at dinner, either with hands linked, a hand on the other’s thigh, or knees touching as you used your cutlery, like a couple that hadn’t seen in each other a year, not one that had spent the last twelve hours constantly in each other’s company. Dinner was perfect, the company even better, and the aftermath back at home just to top it all off.

Together, you ended the night with a bath. A cliche, rom-com type setting, with low light and candles and glasses of champagne seated next to each other on the ledge of it. You had your back against her chest, her legs caging yours, with her arm around your waist. In her hand, the book you’d given her. In yours, the poems in her mother tongue you were slowly making your way through with a little help here and there. 

You wanted the day to last forever. 

Instead, midnight was drawing near, the water was cooling, and yawns kept sounding from the pair of you as you read your books. Eventually, you heard the gentle sound of Alexia closing her book echo through the bathroom, before she carefully dropped it to the tiled floor. Both her arms came to wrap around your torso then, her head ducking down to scatter kisses across your shoulder, back, neck, any bit of skin she could comfortably reach. Then, in a low, coarse, tired voice-

“Best Sant Jordi ever.” 

😭❤️‍🩹

learning curve part 5

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re right. He’s fine.” 

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Hello, is this Will’s guardian?” 

“Yes. Is everything okay?”

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

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

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

“Ale, you can stay–”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Well, how badly she thought she messed up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You really loved your little family. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you fighting?” 

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

“No, bud. We’ve just had a long day.” 

Will looked dubious, even as Alexia nodded along. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will giggled, and the tension was broken. Mostly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Apparently.” You agreed. 

“Goodnight, mi amor.” 

“Goodnight my Ale.” 

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

—

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By one of us, you meant Alexia. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There wasn’t. 

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

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

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

—

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

LE REINA THINGS 👑💙❤️

TobinHeath 🫶 Alexia Putellas 🤝 Aitana Bonmatí 🤙⚽️

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar

Alexia Putellas x Explorer!R

8.5k Fluff, Fun, Minor Angst

Hi Guys,

This is pt4. in the 'I Would Climb Every Mountain With You" otherwise known as Explorer!R Universe. TW: description of killing an animal.

Highly recommend you read those 3 first, as this is entrenched in lore. Pt 1 can be found here.

It's developed from an ask I received from @karsonromanoff so thank you so much for the idea! I hope I did it justice and I'm sorry for the delay and the words. ha.

This is the first time I've written since my dad died. I'm not being emo or heavy about it but I am asking to please, be kind. I know there's nice people out there but often they're drowned out by the loud haters.

So throw us a comment, like or reblog if you enjoyed. I'm just trying to get back into something that brought me joy. I know I enjoyed writing it.

Also, may be weird for a fic about a spanish gay footballer, but you probably need a good working knowledge of Bear Grylls to understand 80% of this. ha.

As has become tradition, here's the song running though my head when writing! Yes, my music taste remains to be that of someone born in 1962. God love Helen Reddy.

“Vamos Ale! I don’t like to make Miguel wait…” you shout from the kitchen, bag resting on the countertop as you try to fix your bracelet with your left hand,

“Deja de preocuparte, a él no le importa, I will be one minute…” you head called back from the bedroom where your wife had been getting dressed for 2 hours now.

Yes.

Your wife.

Sometimes you couldn’t believe it.

Sometimes the weight of the band on your finger catches you by surprise and you’d remember.

Sometimes Alexia would place her hand on your bare thigh and you could feel the cool metal on your skin and you’d remember.

Sometimes you’d get called “Mrs Putellas” at a school talk, or at the Doctors, and you’d remember.

It felt so natural that sometimes you’d forget that you weren’t always Alexia's wife.

But now you are. And had been for almost 6 months. And married life couldn’t have suited you more.

Your wedding ring was your new favourite accessory, you never took it off.

In a fire you would save Alexia and your ring.

Maybe even your ring first.

It was embossed with the imprint of grass that Alexia has been collecting from each pitch of each game she had played in since you had met. The intricate design brought tears to your eyes as soon as you saw it. Made even worse by the inscription “’cause you are my goal”. 

You would be embarrassed if Alexia hadn’t cried like a toddler when you presented her with the ring you had made for her, which had rock from each of the 7 peaks you had scaled, as well as a granule of sand from the Dead Sea set within it. Integrated into the metal, visible but smooth to the touch. 

The inscription 'every mountain high, every valley low' on the inside of the band.

You knew you’d done good and you knew your Ale well enough to anticipate the absolute mess she would be when presented with it, ensuring you had a pocket full of tissues for the inevitable waterfall.

You weren’t wrong.

You had to assure a passing couple on the trail you had chosen that she was fine, not having a medical incident and you were definitely not mid break-up but in fact exchanging wedding bands early because you knew your fiance well enough she didn’t need her teammates to witness this much of her soft side.

Though you tried, they still saw enough on your wedding day to tease her for the last 6 months with no sign of slowing down.

Though right now your wife's behaviour was nothing but unexpected. You had agreed to attend one of Alexia's events this evening. Since getting married you had felt more of a duty to attend and make up for the years you’d left her carrying her own handbag whilst you trotted over mountains on the other side of the world. 

She insisted that you didn’t have to. Like she always did. You weren’t one for the fancy dresses and the flashing cameras. But you saw the gleam of hope in her eyes as she insisted she would be fine on her own.

You couldn’t let that sparkle dim.

Also you had to set off for a camp in a few days and you had gotten seriously stuck in the honeymoon phase meaning that an evening without your wife by your side wasn’t something you could stomach.

Not that you would admit to being so clingy.

But it wasn’t like Ale to take so long to get ready, neither of you being particularly fussy, usually she would throw on some light makeup, smack your bum whilst you ate nutella off a knife under the hob light, procrastinating getting ready until she dragged you and dropped you into the ensuite, steal a kiss and a spray of perfume, and wait for you whilst watching old football clips in the living room.

But now, as you still struggled to attach the clasp of your bracelet and you had one eye on the poor Barca driver, Miguel, waiting in your driveway, you started to grow frustrated at your wife's sudden vanity.

You smelt her perfume invading your senses as you felt her arms envelope you from behind, moving your uncoordinated left hand away and easily attaching the clasp of your bracelet for you, pressing a kiss to your neck as she did so.

“Finalmente… Let’s g-...” you spoke as you turned in her embrace, finally taking in her attire which stopped you in your tracks.

“Boobs”

You had suddenly turned into a 14 year old boy and you couldn’t explain it.

You had seen your wife naked hundreds of times.

Hundreds of fantastic times.

But here she stood looking, regal. Her hair falling lightly over her face, her dark sparkly dress with wide shoulders and only what you could describe as a boob portal you had been rendered speechless. Mouth gaping open like a fish.

“...Amor?...” you heard the delight in her voice. “Are you listening to me… my eyes are up here.” she jokingly clicked her fingers in front of your face which took you out of your breast-inspired trance.

“Ale you are so beautiful” you looked deeply into her eyes but you didn’t miss the blush rising from her neck. And you meant it. She was. Wow. 

“Do you like it?” she asked, shyly, “You don’t think it’s too much? It’s just the first event we’ve gone to together since we got married and I wanted to…”

You interrupt her but pressing a kiss to her lips, and, well, if you slipped a little tongue in there then fine. She was your wife after all.

“What? Show the world what they're missing out on? I am so proud to stand by your side, my love.” you whispered into her lips, as you toyed with her wedding band. 

You couldn’t help yourself…”and your boobs are fantastic.” 

She barked out a laugh as you leaned back into where you left off, but she took a step back, her heel clicking against the tile floor, to which you let out an annoyed grumble.

“Oi Oi, Mi Amor. What about poor Miguel, he is waiting, Si?” she teased.

“He doesn’t care… Cálla y bésame.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You took a deep breath and leaned back on your chair at the round table you found yourself at. Alexia had been pulled from your side which she had stuck to like glue all evening,  to go and present the final award of the evening which she had just done, very sexily if you do say so yourself. All confident and boob-y.

You smiled, imagining her now making small talk backstage, eyes bored but a smile plastered on her face as she tried to make her way back to your table.

Your other table-mates seemed to take the opportunity of the break in the ceremony to raid the free bar put on by the charity. Which seemed very uncharitable of them. But, as you toyed with the rim of your glass, who were you to judge?

Stomach full from a mediocre-mass produced meal and head happily fuzzy from the bubbles you had consumed you found yourself oddly satisfied as you sat here. In this conference room-turned auditorium in the middle of Barcelona, here, loudly and proudly as Alexia's wife.

Mrs Putellas.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, you felt weirdly grown-up. With your wife, your house, and your business. You blinked and missed yourself becoming so settled and for once in your life you weren’t terrified of the idea.

You saw the glint in Alexia's eye. When Irene and her wife would come round for dinner and bring their kid. She’d surrender all hostess duties and sit on the living room floor, crawling around at the beck and call of whatever imaginary game the 5 year old insisted on. You’d seen her perfect her lion roar in that very spot. It probably matched the glint in yours when you were grocery shopping and a child being pushed in a trolley would go past shoving cookies into the trolley without their Mother seeing.

Maybe, you thought, maybe it was time…

“It is you! I am so sorry to interrupt. I had to come over to introduce myself. I am such a fan…”

You glanced around, expecting Alexia to be standing over your shoulder and smiling politely at the person who had approached your table to meet her… but you were met with blank space and then you engaged your silly brain and realised the person was speaking English and looking at you and…

Oh My God.

It’s Bear Grylls.

“Oh My God. You’re Bear Grylls.” 

You let out. 

Stupidly.

Standing and thrusting your hand out like an idiot to your legitimate childhood hero.

You and your brother would watch his series for hours as children. Sat cross-legged 2 inches from the TV on your living room floor, eating up every second of his adventures. Your mum had to stop you from eating a woodlouse once in your garden because you’d seen him eat a cricket in the Amazon the evening before. Your brother smacked upside the head for trying to drink a cup of his own wee for the same reason.

Now you were a well-seasoned adventurer yourself you knew that all of that was for theatricks. 

You had spent more than 7 weeks wandering the Amazon yourself once, and not one drop of urine passed your lips. Not one 8 legged insect had you gulped down in one.

But still.

Hero.

He took your hand graciously, as you both sat back down you prepared to barrage him with questions but before you could he jumped right in…

“I have been wanting to meet you for years. But my team said you had disappeared off to Spain and couldn’t be tracked down. Please, I've been desperate to know. .. Tell me all about summiting Orjas del Salado…”

So you told him, and you asked him about his adventures, and you chatted for what could have been hours, sharing stories and advice with Bear-fucking-Grylls.

He blushed as you pointed out his for-TV tricks and you thanked him for being a portal into the wider world from your living room.

At some point you felt Alexia return, a strong hand on your shoulder. You paused your monologue about Patagonia and giddily took her hand in yours, introducing them to each other. 

Polite pleasantries exchanged you could tell she had legitimately no idea what was going on or who this middle-aged English guy at your table was, but judging from your excited eyes, she didn’t need to interrupt.

It didn’t take too long for someone from his team to pull him away for an interview with the charity. But as you stood to say your goodbyes he made an offer, “You know, me and the production company are making a special about survival in the Alps… I would love for you to be a guest star.”

You stood there like a gaping fish for a moment. “Really?” you asked, in wonder, your 7 year old self spinning around in glee in your chest. Alexia smiling up at you from her chair at the joy in your voice.

“Of course! I would be honored, it’s especially about how to survive in an Avalanche situation. Obviously, with what happened in Nepal…you are an expert in that fie…”

At that point, Alexia stopped her polite silence she had been maintaining whilst you had your moment with your childhood hero. And abruptly stood, clutching your hand hard in both of hers, stern look on her face.

“No.”

From the look on his face you gathered that this successful upper-middle class white English man had not been told no too often, and a beat of silence followed which Alexia was more than happy to fill.

“Sorry Señor Oso. She doesn’t do snow now. Thank you for the offer though.”

She said it with such finality that even you didn’t think to question it. Her mis-translation brought a smile to your face. Her hands still encompassed yours, her eyes didn’t leave his face. As though daring him to rebuff her.

He looked at you as though to confirm she could answer for you. Of course she could. But you knew this refusal wasn’t just about you, but about her also. You knew the anxiety it would cause her for you to put yourself in that situation wasn’t worth anything on this planet.

Nevermind the trauma it would dredge up for you. So obviously, you agreed.

“Sorry Mr Grylls. Not my rodeo anymore. I’ve got some contacts though who you could work with” you politely confirmed your refusal and felt Alexias hands lessen their grip on yours in relief.

“No, no, of course. Sorry. But no. I would really love for you to be involved in the series. We have an episode about promoting women in outdoor pursuits. It's still on the drawing board, but if you are interested I’ll get our people to liaise with each other!”

“That sounds amazing but… I don’t have any people for you to…”

“Don’t be silly Mi Amor” Alexia interrupts again, hand still in yours and the other expertly reaching into her clutch and pushing a card into his outstretched hand… “We have people. Please, Oso, be in touch.”

Smiling vaguely and confusedly at your wife, still clearly mildly terrified of her, he takes the card as he's dragged away by his handler. He's probably still in hearing distance as you squeal in glee and throw yourself into your wife's arms, making her spin with the momentum.

“Ale, Ale, Ale!!! Do you know who that was….” you exclaim.

She can’t help but laugh aloud at your antics, soft look on her face as she lifts you lightly off the ground to stop your spin.

“Si Mi Amor, ese era el hombre oso de la televisión. Tu favorito.” she replies with a smile on her face, speaking softly, somehow, in the middle of this event where she was the guest star, making you feel as though you were the only person in the universe.

“No.” you corrected “..eres mi favorito.” You sealed your words with a light kiss to her lips, chaste but warm.

“Ah, Si. And you have had some wine. You always get soft after wine.” she lightly rolls her eyes with affection at your gushing over her.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes as you pull her into a soft sway, your childhood hero quickly forgotten now you’re in the company of your wife.

Though the giddiness in your bones from your encounter remains.

“Si the wine.” you agree moving your lips close to her ear as you whisper, breath dancing against her cheek, your hand moves to her chest and you feel her breath falter at your closeness,

“but also your boobs.” and you quickly poke her exposed chest between her breasts before she can stop you, and you move away from her pulling her behind you as you rush off to the bar.

“Amor!” she cackles.

“Vamos Ale! A La Barra!”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Estoy Muerta.”

You grumble in complaint into the chest of the warm and moving pillow that you had clearly settled on in the night.

“Shh Ale.”

“Me estoy muriendo y a mi esposa no le importa.”

“You are not dying Ale. You are hungover and over 30”, you mumble in reply, moving away from resting on her chest, the heat becoming too much for your own fuzzy brain.

“Explain to me how that is different.” she doesn’t take kindly to your light chuckle in reply, as you move your hand to cover your eyes from the sunlight starting to bleed through the curtains.

You peek an eye open and see the remnants of your previous night strewn across the bedroom floor.

You take in the glorious dress of your wifes thrown across your chest of drawers. You recall unzipping it with your mouth after making very good use of the boob portal. Much to Alexia's delight.

You had probably taken it a little bit too far at the bar. Your giddiness let your binge-drinking brit out a little too much.

You had a flash of memory at dancing on a table at a dive bar in the town centre, before being brought down by Alba who you had called and demanded come and dance the night away.

Meanwhile Alexia had been in the corner trying to drunkenly explain to Mapi a set of complicated tactics that they should try out at an additional training session in the morning.

“I thought you had scheduled extra training today Ale” you teased after taking in her pasty complexion as you rolled over and settled back down onto your, cooler, side of the bed.

“I hate you.” she replied, quite seriously, as she moulded herself against your back, taking your hand in hers and burying her face into the back of your neck.

“Of course you do, dear, it feels like it.” you tease again, wiggling yourself and making her grumble again.

You rest there for a few moments, before you’re dragged onto your back again and pulled into Alexia's embrace as she moves you around like her own personal teddy bear.

You go with the flow, quite used to your wife's clingy nature, especially when she didn't feel well.

But your silence doesn’t last two minutes before she rolls you over again, now onto your back, “Oh bloody hell, where are we going now.” you mumble, as she rests her head on your chest this time, nuzzling into your breasts.

“me estoy poniendo cómodo.” she mutters into your bosom, “allá. ahora estoy cómodo”. You run your hands through her hair, smiling down at your wife who is practically purring at the attention.

“Bebé…”, you make a noise of affirmation.

“Will you…” you know what she wants, and you know she must be feeling bad if she’s asking for attention.

“Si, my love. voy a trenzar tu cabello. One big plait or lots of little ones?”. 

“The tingly ones por favor” she mumbles into your chest. Your heart expands at her adorableness, never quite learning the English for ‘french plait’ they became known as the ‘tingly ones’ in your household, because of the feeling she would get as you plaited her wet hair after a game, hands working through her scalp. 

It brings a smile to your face and you can see the lovesick smile on hers where it is squished against your chest.

You start to section out her hair as she lies still, your ministrations slowly putting her to sleep, working methodically in the quiet morning.

Moving strand over strand in intricate braids, lightly tugging her scalp and undoing when it's not perfect and redoing, giving her an extra scratch to the soft skin behind her ear when you get there, knowing it's her most sensitive spot. Receiving a sleepy purr in satisfaction as your reward.

You hear the animals from the national park outside, feel the sun starting to warm the room around you. Her chest rising and falling against yours hypnotising you further into the moment. You’ve got grand plans, brunch and a walk along the beach in your mind, maybe a lazy afternoon swim, hold on no. Maybe a lazy afternoon skinny dip. Yeah.

That sounds good.

You’ve almost finished tying off the last plait when you are startled back into the moment by the buzzing of your wifes phone on the bedslide table.

You fight back a smile at the groan that is emitted from your fully grown-pro-athlete-wife.  It resembled that of a teenager who’d been asked to clean their room or no dessert. When she doesn’t go to make a move you nudge her shoulder.

“Ale. Ale, your phone."

“No.”

“Yes."

“No."

“C'mon Ale.” you reach across and pick the phone up. “It could be important. It could be your secret wife wondering where you are.”

She rolls off you at your tease, throwing you a glare that resembles more of an angry kitten than anything, “It could not be, she knows where I am. I snuck out whilst you were dancing on the tables in that last bar to make plans for dinner.”

“Ah, Si of course. My mistake.”

She surges up and gives you a completely unnecessary chaste kiss, as though even the joke is too much and she has to confirm she’s kidding. The phone has stopped vibrating against the bedside table and the silence that settles over you both is welcome.

“How are you so okay? I feel like I have been run over by a truck.” she states as she rubs her face, finally sitting up to start the day.

“You are old.

“I am 2 months older than you.”

“Two, very long, months my darling.” you tap her cheek lightly as you move to get out of bed, throwing on one of her oversized t-shirts you find on the floor.

“Seria, how?” she asks again, now sprawling across the space you have vacated.

“I am English. I once did a vodka shot through my eyeball in the park. I was 14.” you state, plainley, eyebrow raised in challenge as she just looks at you, open mouthed.

“Ojalá no hubiera preguntado.” she mutters, as her phone starts to ring again.

“Ale, phone.” you say, just to annoy her.

“¡lo sé!” you hear thrown at you, as you head downstairs to set some food out for Billy-the-Goat, and make a coffee for your dying wife.

Soon after, you feel her presence behind you as you stir her coffee, turning as you feel her hands wrap around your waist and presenting her coffee and she takes it from you as though it's a ballon d’or. She takes a sip before she presses a kiss to your head.

“That was my agent.”

Your heart drops, and you can’t help the petulant whine that leaves your lips.

“No, Ale! I wanted to spend the day together. Try that new brunch place Alba told us about. Have a swim, just be together. Whatever brand needs you can wait. Tell them no, please” you finish your little monologue with a pout, and you feel a childish frustration rise as a laugh teases against her lips.  You don’t get very far when a kiss is pressed against your lips.

“Well that sounds like the perfect hangover cure Mi Amor. Do you not want me to tell you what it is before I tell them no though?” there's something in her taunt, a glint in the eye that makes you think twice as your mouth already wraps around the refusal.

You take a moment too long apparently, and she takes things into her own hands as she clutches her coffee happily and spins around, “I’ll tell them no! Don’t worry Mi Amor…” teasing lilt in her tone. Whatever the news is, it has pulled her from her hangover.

You wait a beat

Another.

“Fine, What is it!” you groan out in defeat, hands raised to the sky, Alexias t-shirt riding high on your thighs as you raise your arms.

Your wife turns and is distracted momentarily by the flesh on display. Before you cough and she remembers what she's supposed to be doing. Coy smile on her face returning.

“That was my agent…” you huff out at her drawing out the anticipation. “Or should I say our agent.” your brow furrows in confusion as she continues… “she has been contacted by a muy interesado oso.”

Realisation starts to dawn on you, memories of the previous night flashing in your mind and you can’t help the grin that forms.

“Si, Mi Amor. It turns out he really meant it. She said they were willing to offer anything to get you on. She’s getting the details now and will contact us again after our day together today to see if you are interested”.

“I am interested!” you exclaim with glee, Alexia throwing her head back in laughter.

“I know Amor, but let's let them sell it to you. You need the details. Though… I am sure it is no more dangerous than ojos de vodka.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hola, love!” you shout into your empty hallway, hands full of groceries, you shuck off your trainers, hearing them thump against the wall as you struggle into the kitchen.

Tonight was the premiere of “Man Vs Woman” , the special episode of your and Bear's adventure. After the offer was made you met with the TV production company via Zoom to go through ideas.

You pretended you didn’t know Alexia was standing just outside the door to your study, listening and clearly deciding if she thought it was too dangerous or not. At least that's what you deduced from her interrupting with a cup of tea every time a particularly hairy idea was mentioned.  

When you brought this up with her you pretended you didn't see her blush creeping up from her neck. Because you’re her wife and it was the wifely thing to do.

The concept was a really cool one. You were excited from the start. The idea was that you and Bear would both be dropped in an inhospitable environment with a map and a knife and nothing else. Neither of you would be told what type of environment but you had assurances in your contract that it wouldn’t involve snow. You had 28 days to get to the muster point. Whoever got there first won.

Simple.

Convincing Alexia it was really cool. Less simple.

“Amor what if there are animals!”

“I know how to avoid dangerous animals. And there will be a medical team on standby,”

“What if you fall and cut yourself on your knife."

“What if you get tackled and break your leg?”

“That's different. What if you lose your map and can’t find your way out and you have to live out there forever”

“I will always find my way back to you.”

“What If-”

“Ale.”

You stopped her rambling with a kiss and when you pulled away you looked deeply in her eyes.

“Que pasa I miss you too much?” eyes wide and vulnerable.

There we go. Her real source of anxiety.

You had spent more time apart than most couples but since you scaled down your travels you had fallen into a sweet domesticity you could admit was a struggle to pull yourself from. 28 days plus the week before to get to the location is longer than you’d like. But it was an adventure of a lifetime. Maybe… maybe your last adventure? The thoughts had been creeping in more and more recently.

Of early mornings chasing more than sunrises, maybe rising due to a baby's babble instead?

You’d made sure that Alexia really knew how much you’d miss her the night before you flew out. On reflection maybe you should have rested your muscles a little more before such a physically demanding month but. Be serious. Look who your wife was. 

You are not God's strongest soldier.

So, off you had gone. Competing against your childhood hero for all of womanhood. And you couldn’t lie. You loved it.

Being blindfolded and dropped in an unknown location was exhilarating. Learning the land as you went, with only a map and a knife in hand it was one of the biggest challenges of your life.

The team had made good on their promise and the tropical rainforest you were in couldn’t be further from a snowy mountain range.

You’d refused to let anything slip to Alexia in the 3 months you’d been back. Lips tightly sealed no matter what she tried. You wanted her to be surprised and watch it in real time with you. In all the games you'd attended since you had to deal with an injured Mapi yapping your ear off whilst you tried to concentrate on the game, probing for hints about if you won, what you won, where you were, if you wrestled a snake, how big was the snake you’d wrestled.

“Maria stop with the snake!” you’d finally snapped during the tense quarter final of the Queen's cup.

Which had worked.

For all of two seconds.

“What did the snake taste like?”

You’d originally planned to go home to England with Alexia to watch the premier with your family. But then a schedule mess-up in the league had meant that Ale had to play in a rescheduled game the day after the premier. It just didn’t work for her to come to England.

She insisted you still go, but you refused. You wanted to watch her game. And you knew she’d need you when the show was on. Even if she didn’t know that yet.

You started to unpack your groceries mindlessly, you’d picked some great snacks for the evenings viewing, you suddenly were hit with how suspiciously peaceful your house was, though, you were sure you’d seen Alexia's car in the drive.

“Ale! Love!, ¡Estoy en casa! Come help me unpack!” You shouted into your empty kitchen, back turned to your living room, you had a few hours before the show was on air, “I got that ice-cream you like! I know it gives you a tummy ache sometimes but don’t worry, I'll rub your tummy how you like afte…”

“Amor!”

You turned around at the panic in her voice, “Wha–”

“SURPRISE!”

Ale stood in your living area, face reddening, surrounded by her closest Barca teammates as well as Mario, his ever pregnant wife and his kids, your mum and brother as well as Eli and Alba. Everyone comically in paper party hats and some lop-sided bunting was up above your couch,

“HOPE YOU BEAT THE BEAR SNAKE!” it read, and you immediately knew who was on the decoration committee.

You jumped in surprise, dropping the ice cream and immediately ran into your mum's open arms, “Mum! You’re here!” you squealed into her neck, hiding the tears that had appeared in her presence.

“I am, love. Alexia literally wouldn’t let us refuse the flight. She pretended she didn’t understand English when we tried to at least pay for it. And you know I have a 265 day streak on duolingo but my accent must need work because she didn’t understand my Spanish.”

You pulled yourself from her neck with a wet laugh and transferred yourself into your wifes open and familiar strong arms. “Aleeee” you whined. She knew you meant thank you. And I love you. And you mean the world to me. But you were too British to do that infront of people.

“You need to stop pretending you don’t speak English when you don’t like what you hear.” you muttered without malice after placing a kiss below her ear.

“I know amor. I love you too. And your family needed to be here for your big moment! You couldn’t miss this with them because of me. And then also. Mapi happened and now we’re having a viewing party! There's a cake!”

“And Ice Cream Ale! Don’t worry, I’ve saved it! Though we don’t want your barriga to hu-” Mapi stands the space you'd just vacated holding up the abandoned and slightly battered carton of ice cream. She's stopped from her gleeful teasing by Ingrid covering her entire face with one big palm.

“We wanted to be here to support you.” Ingrid interrupted her girlfriend, addressing you kindly.

“We all did!” you hear from Alba in the back, already tucking into the buffet set up on the coffee table, paper hat skew-whiff on her head. You have never felt so loved. It was perfect.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, when are you going to tell her you’re ready for them?”

You are brought out of your daydream by Ingrid sidling up to you and addressing you with her familiar soft lilt.

“Huh?”

She doesn’t reply vocally, just nods her head towards your wife, who is currently having a very intense game of 2v2 in your garden with 2 of Marios youngest and Mapi.

The kids little legs making them toddle around after the small ball adorably, Mapi and Ale giving soft touches they would easily catch up with.

You can’t help but laugh out loud as Ale takes Mapi by surprise and takes a shot against her hard, the ball catching her bare thigh in a manner which must have left a sting much to the small Spaniard's disdain.

Her and the two kids start to chase Alexia around the garden, dramatically tackling her as she suddenly becomes some sort of football monster, rolling around and blowing raspberries on their stomachs as Mapi cheers her toddler army on from the sidelines.

You feel another knock against your arm, dislodging your hand which is supporting your head as you lean over the breakfast bar facing the garden. Lovesick looks clearly on your face, going off Ingrid's coy smile.

“You know, barn. Kids. Munchkins…”

“Yeah, Yeah I get it Ingrid…” you steal another look outside at your more-often-than-not-stern wife getting grass stains on her comfy shorts for the entertainment of your best friends' kids, suddenly you feel like being really really honest. You turn to Ingrid with a shy smile of your own, “soon.”

Her face lights up, teeth on display unable to disguise her smile. “Yeah?” she asks, before turning to look towards the garden, “Me too.”

You smile to yourself and drop your head onto the dark haired girl's shoulder, you both taking a moment to watch your partners play with the kids. The moment is ruined by your mum mussing up your hair on her way past,

“Come on Love, we need to wrangle these last-minute spaniards, it starts in 10 minutes!”

She had a point to be fair. A very chaotic 8 minutes later you practically push Eli into her seat on the couch after she tries to get another plate full of food for Mario’s wife, “¡Está llena de Eli! ella esta embarazada no tiene hambre!” you cheekily remind her, your wife looking up at you from her place on the floor with tender eyes.

“And you…” you turn your attention towards her as you make your way to your seat, “get up here.” you demand, patting the empty space next to you.

“I’m bueno down here Mi Amor, me and Bruno can watch from down here.” she insists. the 4 year old of Marios nestled on her stomach, her arms wrapped around his sleeping form where he attached himself to her after being forced back inside.

You hesitate for a moment, not watching to make a scene or be too needy in front of all your closest family and friends, but you knew that Ale would need to be within touching distance of you in the next hour. 

You’re about to make your peace with it when Mario glaces your way. You and Mario have worked together for years. Years before you met Ale and the girls.

You’ve battled more than just bears together. Weeks spent isolated in the mountains. And a bond like that means that you can communicate with just a look.

With just that glance he’s up and pulling his toddler into his own burley arms. Bruno remaining in his deep sleep through the change.

“I’ve got el monstruo Ale. Go sit with your wife."

She doesn’t need any more direction, the small interaction is subtle and missed by everyone, except your brother who sends you an exaggerated puppy dog look.

“Fuck off” you throw at him, finger in the air, quickly grabbed by Alexia, “Hey, I thought you wanted me to sit here!” she teases, sending your brother a wink.

“Stop ganging up on me…!” you’re about to protest further before you’re shushed by Mapi, of all people, sitting on the floor between Ingrid's legs who sits on the couch above her. “It's about to start!”

She has a point, a familiar British accent fills the living room, Spanish subtitles appearing on the bottom of the screen for the Spanish contingent. Bear’s voice is as dramatic as ever, long sweeping scenes fill the screen of intense jungle, a crocodile and an action shot of a snake thrown in for good measure.

“Serpiente!” Mapi shouts, pointing at the screen, before Ingrid hushes her and pulls her back against her legs. 

           “We all know by now that humans are masters of the jungle. But the unanswered question remains. Is it the King, or Queen of the Jungle? Find out tonight in Man V Woman.”

The title fills the screen with a dramatic crescendo of music. Your friends and family whooping as though it's the champions league final. Alexia barely contains her excitement next to you. You had been steadfast in your refusal to tell anyone the outcome.

The next shot is a recognisable one, the sound of trees being hacked with a machete accompanies a close up of a muddy puddle set deep in the jungle, until the water is disturbed by a ever-familiar battered boot stomping in the puddle, blaugrana laces pulled tight, as proudly as ever.

This prompts another wild round of jeering from the crowd around you as the camera pans out and reveals your full profile as Alexia places a loving kiss onto your shoulder, “That's my wife!” she shouts, proudly, making you laugh. 

Bear's voice over continues as you pull Alexia's hand into yours, half pulling her on top of you, she gives you a peculiar look, this being more PDA than you would usually allow in front of your English family, but she goes with it, too full of pride to be worried otherwise.

As the voiceover continues, highlights of your career flash across the screen to introduce you to the audience.

Mountains in Peru, Arctic Explorations, Treks across Siberia, all flash across the screen, mixed in with childhood pictures your mum must have supplied painting a picture of your career so far and your expertise in your career.

The music turns more dramatic as you shift uncomfortably, being the only one to realise in the room what's about to happen.

A picture of you smiling with Arjan at the peak of Everest, ice picks raised proudly in the air. You feel Alexia stiffen on your lap, ever so subtly. Stock footage of snow hurling down a mountain as Bear describes the avalanche you got trapped in.

He gives out stats and figures to heighten the drama… “your chance of survival drops 3% every minute you are trapped after the first 15 minutes… being trapped for 2 days… our guest star did the unthinkable…”

The room is bathed in a white light as the screen changes. Camera shaky and audio changing to the shouts and heavy breaths of whoever the body worn camera is strapped too. “Yahām̐, Yahām̐, she is here!”

The camera catches Arjan digging desperately, it's clear now the camera is strapped to a rescuer on the slopes of Everest, the TV production company having access to the footage through a sister company who were filming a documentary about altitude rescue at the time.

It shakes as the man helps dig, grunts of exertion as the spade digs desperately. A flash of colour and your snow suit is revealed, face pressed up against the rock you had found shelter near.

Arjan clears snow from your face desperately and puts his head close to yours, “She’s breathing!” he pulls you up and your hand, satellite phone frozen in place, falls from the side of your ghostly white face as the camera fades out.

The whole segment couldn’t have lasted more than 32 seconds. But it had felt like time had slowed. You could feel from her placement on you that Alexia hadn’t taken a breath. Her eyes remained wide as she stared at the screen.

There was a heaviness in the room around you. 

The voiceover continued, explaining the challenge to the audience but the silence continued. Eli glances at her daughter worriedly, every few seconds.

Just as you thought the tension couldn’t get any more intense… “That's what Alexia looks like when she visits England for Christmas and mum won’t let us put the heating on.” your brother jokes, awkwardly, a crooked smile on his boyish face. 

The room is silent, your mum hiding a smile behind a hand only you notice. He goes to speak again, probably to apologise when-

Alexias' laugh shocks even you, bubbling up from deep within her chest. She closes her eyes, a stray tear escaping at the pressure. Laugh still rumbling deep in her chest, slowly the room joins in, as though they’ve been given permission, and soon your in a choir of laughing spectators, your brother blushing deep red at the attention.

“Thank you” you mouth to him across the room, as you wrap your hands around your wife, whos body still shakes with the odd giggle.

He tips an imaginary hat at you in return.

Because he is an idiot.

The challenge begins, unhelpfully, with you throwing yourself out of a helicopter into the rainforest, “Oh Dios Mio” she mumbles, heard subtly under Mapis, “Cool!”.

You press your lips against her shoulder again and mutter into her skin; “I am here, I am warm, I am Safe.” Like a mantra, you feel her nod and grip your hand tighter.

The thing about being in the environment completely opposite to an avalanche inducing mountain range, was that it was hot. Hot and wet. The camera follows both you and Bear as you struggle through the elements seperatly, deciding when to camp down and preserve energy and when to try to gain more miles.

Bear goes hard, and Mapi looks up at you aghast as you decide to build a shelter and bunker down for seven days straight. The heat zapping any energy you had.

“What are you doing! It's a race!” she exclaims, to which you laugh and zip your mouth closed with your fingers, cocking an eyebrow at her as she eagerly looks back towards the TV like a small child.

You spend two days collecting water and, seemingly, according to Mapi, wasting time cutting palm leaves and collecting bark to make twine. Meanwhile Bear is hacking down trees, making spears out of sticks and rock and throwing himself at seemingly anything that would give him a bit of protein on the move.

You’ve ridden yourself of most of your clothing due to the heat. Smothering yourself in mud from the riverbank you were camped next to, you explain to the camera its sun-cream qualities and how it’s safer than clothing as it also protects you from dehydration. 

All the while you weave and weave and weave your leaves together, quietly, assuredly.

You explain to the camera; “I am a master weaver. My wife likes it when I plait her hair. Alot. She’s cute. Sorry Ale.” you wink at the camera as your wife groans on your lap and  her teammates start to tease her, “Amor! Why!”

“Now. Let's see how this works!”  you grin and pull up a large basket to the camera.

The screen shows you scantily dressed, boots safely on a rock in the background, in the river, moving twigs into position to make a run for the fish to swim directly into your basket.

You explain the contraception, set some bait and say your goodnights to the camera, crossing your fingers for a full basket in the morning.

Cheerful music begins as the camera fades back into your campfire, fish on a stick roasting and cooking heavenly, your muddied but smiling face coming into view.

“Bear can eat his roaches and drink his wee. I’ll be here with my fish buffet!” You joke, under your shelter, camera panning to tens of fish in your basket waiting to be smoked.

The next scene shows Bear explaining the protein benefits and the unusual flavours of a witchetty grub as he struggles against the rainstorm. 

The music begins to ramp up. Graphics on the screen showing both of your progress. Bear has made much more progress than you. But struggling physically. He’s developed a terrible case of trench foot but was still making steady progress with his machete.

You chose to travel up the river. Walking along its bed you are able to make more direct progress, but it’s more energy draining wading through water. You have, however, had a relatively strong diet over the last 3 weeks.

You’re sitting on the river bed, tending to your basket of smoked fish you’re carrying with you for energy when you suddenly remain completely stock still. Dramatic music begins. Your head raises subtly and then out of nowhere.

“Serpentine!”

A snake strikes at you from the shallows, clearly after your basket, or you, or whatever it can get its fangs in. You react quickly, crouching down to your knees, keeping a low centre of gravity to keep your balance as your right hand reaches into the shallows.

You and the snake strike at the same time, and you throw yourself to the side as you bash a jagged rock against its head.

The next scene shows you taking a mouthful of grilled snake; “Tastes like chicken!” you joke at the camera. Before popping a piece of charred snake skin into your mouth.

You feel Alexia shudder in your arms.

"I'm never kissing you again" she lies.

Mapi slowly turns around, mouth agape, gobsmacked look on her face. “Snake!” she whispers, in disbelief. “You beat a snake!” You can’t help but laugh and lean over to turn her head back to the TV.

“Told you you’d find everything out tonta.”

The map on screen shows the last day of the challenge, Bear's voice over explaining distances to the muster points, as well as geographical challenges. The screen swaps quickly between the two of you, running, climbing and swimming to where you both believed the finish line to be.

You were making good progress, as was Bear.

A close up of a Brazilian flag on the edge of a waterfall.

A close up of you throwing yourself into the river.

Bear gripping a cliff edge and heaving himself up. The camera shows the bottom of the flag pole as he pulls himself up. The camera pans up. And the flagpole is bare.

The screen changes to you.

Standing, still relatively scantily clad in your battered boots, your hiking shorts cut down to short-shorts and thin vest muddied and holey, fish blood staining your arms,holding the flag proudly up in one arm.

The room around you erupts. “She did it!” “¡Jefe de la Jungla!!!!” “I always knew!”, “She killed a snake!”. You find yourself at the bottom of a pile of bodies as Alexia's teammates celebrate in the way they know how. Which is apparently to throw themselves at you in a pile up.

“That's my wife!” Alexia chants proudly from within the pile, laughing gleefully, all earlier angst forgotten.

The screen goes blank, and the image shows you and Bear embracing, laughing as the voiceover continues; “... at least this time. It's a Queen of the jungle… or should I say. La Reina de la Jungla.” Bear quips, as Alexia groans, forever hating her nickname, and the screen cuts to black.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s hours later, many more plates of food, celebration toasts and questions from Mapi about the snake later. That you're finally in the quiet of your bedroom in your wife's arms.

Your mum and brother are set up in the spare rooms and you have all got plans to meet up with the Alexias family at the game tomorrow before going out for a meal.

Your head is settled on her chest as she plays on her phone above you, struggling to calm down from the evening's events, and as usual, struggling to sleep before a game.  You play with her wedding ring on her spare hand. Feeling the cool metal beneath against her warm skin.

You feel her swipe furiously through her phone, getting more agitated as time passes, grumbles that are not-quite words emitting from her chest.

“Hey. Love.” you sit up and pull her phone away. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” she replies, bottom lip out in a pout, pulling her phone back into her hand.

“It’s not nothing. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Alexia.” you sigh, “We aren't doing this.. What's got you so…” you look down onto her phone and see. Yourself? It's her tiktok open and you see an edit of the show being played over… “Hot Stuff? Ale. What's this?” you glance at the comments section and see a selection from seemingly anon accounts;  

‘I have never understood Alexia more’, ‘I wonder who calls who capi.’ ,‘Capi, your wife's thighs are bigger than yours’.

“Nothing!” she grabs her phone back from your grip… you arch an eyebrow at her which crumbles her resolve in 3…2…

“Fine! It's all over my TikTok.  The comments about you. The fans have made these edits. Of you! All, wet and… muscley and… nearly undressed.”

“And you…don’t… like me wet, and muscled and… naked? Cause, love, I have evidenced otherwis…”

“Shut up! Of course I do but you're mine!”

Oh. Realisation dawns on you and you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t laugh!” she grumbles. “You’re jealous….” you tease in a sing-song voice. “I am not jealous!” she insists, “It's just… tu eres mio! And these people are all looking at you”.

“I am,” you agree, with a smile. “But, love. Try being married to Alexia Putellas. Maybe you’ll keep your shirt on at games now.” you tease, making her smile and roll her eyes.

Eyes softening as you pull her phone from her grip and plug it in for her. Settling back into her chest, nuzzling against the warm skin you find there.

“I am so proud of you.” she whispers into the now dark room, placing a kiss on your head. The moment became more serious and tender.

“I love you” you reply, softly, the moment feels weighted, and you’re not sure what makes you do it. Maybe it's the adrenaline of the evening, having completed your life's ambition, or maybe it's the wine you drank.

Though, really, you know it's because of the images of your lanky wife curling herself onto the rug in the living room because Bruno had decided she was the world's best pillow again. But you can’t stop yourself.

“Ale. I want to have kids with you.”

Her hand stops its movement in your hair and she rushes over to turn the bedside lamp back on.

“Que?” she breathes out. Hands finding their place softly on your cheeks, a look of urgency in her eyes.

“I want us to have kids. Me and you. I want that with you. Is that something you’re ready for?” you whisper, eyes looking deeply into hers.

“En serio?” she asks, as though she's afraid of the answer.

You nod in response. Moving your hand to wipe away the tears that have appeared on her cheeks.

“Sí, Mi Amor. Quiero eso contigo. Mucho.”

You're both smiling too much to kiss, but you make a good go of it anyway. And as you bury yourself into your wife's arms. Hands roaming and adrenaline of a decision made rushing through your body you can't help but think.

This is the beginning of the biggest adventure of your life. 

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

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

source: esport3 on instagram

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

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

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

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