Actress Reader And Alexia Please 🥺

gone 😔😔 but never 🚫🚫 forgotten 🕊️🕊️

Bonmatellas moment at the end 😁

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMBwUREJy/

look how quickly she went over to check on aitana. always paying attention to what's happening 🥹

obsessed 😍👀

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

Part 2: You meet again whilst on International Duty

Word Count: 9.6K

⚽️

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

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

Until it buzzes.

Ellie 🧤: What have you done to Alexia?

You blink. Frown. Sit up a little straighter.

You: What? Why? What have I done?

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

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

You stare at the screen.

Still holding her shirt in your lap.

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

You: Stop.

Ellie 🧤: No. I think she likes you. 😏

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

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

She packed yours.

Kept it.

Chose it.

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

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

⚽️

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

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

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

Until now.

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

alexiaputellas11 sent you a message.

You stare at it for a beat. Then tap.

The message is short.

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

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

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

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

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

You inhale through your nose, deep, slow.

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

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

Alexia: I know. So let’s settle it.

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

It’s you and her again.

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

And for the first time since the miss…

You’re itching for kickoff.

⚽️

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

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

You don’t notice the buzz.

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

Just a flick.

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

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

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

Beth raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Nope. Didn’t say Poppy.”

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

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

Your stomach flips. Just a little.

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

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

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

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

Beth gives you a look that says sure it is.

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

Beth leans closer. “Friendly how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You type back, careful and quiet.

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

A moment passes. Then the dots appear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia: Good. I want your best.

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

You’re trying to be subtle. Really.

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

And of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

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

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

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

Keira raises her brow. “That look.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Georgia’s getting louder.

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

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

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

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

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

You bump her knee under the table.

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

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

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

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

And Beth. Apparently.

⚽️

You’re the first one out.

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

Except, you’re not alone out here.

Spain’s already out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, innocent. Too innocent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beth leans in again, lower this time.

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

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

She groans. “So there was a look”

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

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

⚽️

You’re in the rhythm now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Don’t flatter her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m begging you.”

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

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

And she’s looking again.

⚽️

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

Kickoff is minutes away.

You’re locked in.

Hands flexing. Boots shifting weight. Eyes forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m focused,” you murmur back.

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

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

The players start to move. Boots echoing against concrete.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now comes the walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that electric opening burst, the game turns.

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

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

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

And you’re good. You show it.

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

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

The 29th minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2–1. Game on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

The scoreboard reads 88:17.

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

It’s 2–2.

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

But it’s not over. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Draw.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're still catching your breath.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when your breath actually catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia smirks. “Just the important ones.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another one for the collection, huh?”

Beth. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer her.

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

⚽️

It’s past midnight.

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

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

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

Then you check.

AlexiaPutellas11 sent you a message

You swipe it open.

Alexia: Still awake?

You stare at it for a moment. Then reply.

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

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

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

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

You pause. Then:

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia: You started it. You winked.

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

Then she sends another.

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

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

You type slowly.

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

Alexia: Only if you keep giving it to me.

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m ignoring it.”

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

Alexia arches an eyebrow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cata shrugs. “You’re trending.”

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

⚽️

You’re out early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to think. “I do.”

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

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

Alexia shrugs. “Preparing.”

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

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

You glance sideways. “That a compliment?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

Fingers on your arm. Light. Just enough to make you stop. You look back, it’s Alexia.

She's already in position with her team, but she’s turned to face you, brow furrowed just slightly, eyes searching your face.

“You’re not starting?” she asks, voice low, confusion laced into the syllables of her accent.

You blink. You weren’t expecting her to notice. Weren’t expecting her to care. “Not this time,” you say quietly, shrugging.

She nods — slowly, eyes flicking down your body, like she’s double-checking, like maybe she’s trying to figure out why. There’s a pause, something uncertain in the way she presses her lips together.

Behind you, Beth slides in close and nudges your back gently. “Keep walking,” she mutters under her breath with a smirk, you roll your eyes and keep walking, pulse pounding harder now for entirely different reasons. Before following Beth turned to Alexia and adding sweetly, “Don’t miss her too much.”

Alexia’s lips twitch. Just slightly. Behind you, the confusion spreads. Leah turns her head just enough to whisper sideways to Mary Earps and Millie Bright. “What am I missing?”

Millie shrugs. “Dunno.”

Mary just raises her brows, clearly intrigued but out of the loop. They all look after you like you’re a puzzle piece they haven’t been handed yet. Meanwhile, up ahead, you glance back once — quick, quiet — and find her eyes still on you. She doesn’t look away. Not until you move out of sight.

⚽️

You’re sat on the bench, jacket zipped to your chin, legs bouncing lightly as you try — and fail — to still the restlessness coiling inside you. You’ve always hated watching. Always. Especially games like this. Big. Tight. Pulsing with energy. And she’s out there.

Already dictating tempo, pointing, shifting the lines with her fingertips, her voice cutting through the noise. She moves like the match belongs to her — like she’s not playing in it, but shaping it. Every touch is smooth, precise. She’s not flashy — she never is — but she’s everywhere.

You can’t stop watching her.

Your eyes track her automatically. Like gravity. Like instinct. The way she turns with the ball. The way her brow creases when she spots a space no one else has seen yet. The way she lifts her head just after every pass to check if you’re watching.

You think she’s doing it more than usual. And she knows exactly where you’re sitting.

Beth is on the bench next to you, pulling her water bottle from under her seat, catching your line of sight without even trying.

“She’s playing well,” she says casually, voice low.

You don’t reply.

“You’re watching her like she does you.”

You sigh.

Beth grins. “It appears mutual whatever this is, at this point.”

Back on the pitch, Alexia receives the ball near the touchline and twists — sudden and sharp — sending your teammate the wrong way before slotting a pass through two defenders. A near assist. Nearly cruel.

The crowd gasps. She jogs back into shape, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, breathing steady, unfazed.

You swear she glances at the bench again.

You shift forward slightly, elbows on your knees now, jacket suddenly too warm, boots tapping at the grass. You want in. Not because you need to stop her. Not even to score.

But to meet her in the middle of it. To play the game you’ve been playing since that first glance. That first tackle. That first encounter.

Not from the sideline. With her.

Sarina's voice barks your name down the bench. You look up. And everything in you stands. "Y/N, Beth! Go warm up, you're coming on after half time!"

⚽️

You’re along the sideline now, jacket peeled off, as you jog small circles up and down the touchline with Beth.

The crowd’s roaring behind you — full-throated, relentless — but it’s all white noise compared to the pressure unfolding on the pitch.

Because Spain is pressing. And Alexia is at the center of it all. You watch her glide through midfield like she belongs to the turf — weightless, elegant, always in space. Her passes are scalpel-precise. Her vision is five seconds ahead of everyone else.

She gets the ball, checks her shoulder once, twice, and releases it like it’s nothing. Like the shape of the game bends around her.

“Jesus,” Beth mutters beside you, breathing hard. “She’s everywhere.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching her again — how she receives under pressure and turns, drawing two midfielders like it’s a game of tag she’s already won. She barely even looks your way, but somehow that makes it worse. Because you want to be in there. You want to feel her steps against yours again.

“You okay?” Beth asks suddenly, flicking her eyes sideways toward you.

You nod, jaw tight. “Just want to be out there.”

She hums. “Yeah, well. You’re not the only one thinking you should be.”

You glance over, confused. Beth jerks her chin subtly toward the pitch. And sure enough — in one of those rare lulls between plays, when Alexia turns to scan her positioning… Her eyes flick toward the sideline. Toward you. Just for a second. No expression. No smile. No nod. But it’s intentional. You feel it like a wire snapping beneath your ribs. She turns away again before anyone else can see.

Beth grins. “She’s watching you.”

You exhale hard. “Yeah. Probably just wants a reaction, and to be fair she’s got the upper hand right now.”

Beth stretches her quads dramatically. “Not for long.”

And as you roll your neck and shift your weight forward, listening to Sarina barking from the sideline and glancing toward the fourth official... You get the sense that your time’s coming. And when it does? You’re not just stepping into the game. You’re stepping into the fire.

⚽️

You’ve been flying.

Your touch is sharp. Your legs are light. You’re playing like you belong here — not just in this game, but in this moment.

Beth finds you with a threaded pass just as you ghost between two midfielders, the space opening up in front of you. One touch, two. You see the top corner. You see it—

Then it happens. You don’t see her coming.

You’re focused — ball under your feet, cutting in toward the box, one touch ahead of the defender, eyes on the corner of the goal.

Then everything stops.

Olga Carmona slides in hard. Full weight. Too late. Too low. The contact is sharp. Blunt. Wrong.

Your knee twists under you, a white-hot shock up your leg, and you drop before the ball’s even gone. A cry tears from your throat before you can stop it — not frustration.

Pain. Real pain.

You clutch your knee instantly, curling inward, breath punching out of your chest in ragged, panicked gasps.

The whistle blows. Everything stops. Wembley falls silent.

It’s eerie. Like someone hit mute on 90,000 people at once.

The ref’s arm goes up. Spanish players freeze. Your teammates rush toward you — some shouting, others pale. You can hear Beth’s voice, strained and close. “Stay down. Don’t move. Medic! Now!”

You’re trying not to cry. The physios are sprinting on. You’re gripping your knee like if you don’t, it’ll fall apart in your hands. Pain pulses through you in waves. Blinding. Crippling.

A shadow falls across you, You don’t need to look. Alexia. She’s standing a few feet away, arms stiff at her sides, face tight with something that isn’t confusion or shock — it’s fear.

Not for the game. For you.

She takes a step forward, but a physio blocks her path, kneeling by your side.

“Just let us look,” the medic says, gently pulling your hands away.

You can barely focus, barely breathe, but out of the corner of your eye, you see her still standing there — not moving. Watching. Beth kneels at your side now, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead.

“You’re okay,” she says, voice low. “Just let them check. It’s okay.”

You nod — barely. Alexia hasn’t moved. Not until the ref walks over and gestures her back toward her half. She hesitates. Then finally, reluctantly, she turns. But not before her eyes catch yours.

You sit up slowly, hands still gripping tufts of grass, breath shallow, knee throbbing. But it’s holding. And more than anything — it’s not broken.

The physio looks you in the eye. “You want to come off?”

You shake your head instantly. “No. I’m fine.”

“Are you—”

“I’m taking the free kick.”

Beth is already helping you to your feet, her arm steady around your back. The crowd is rising with you — slowly, all at once, voices lifting, 90,000 people on their feet because they saw the pain and now they see the refusal.

You limp a step. Then another. Then jog back toward the ball.

The referee checks on you once more — you wave her off. Your focus is already zeroed in. The ball is placed. The wall is set. Cata’s lining up, barking instructions.

You stand over it. Maybe 23 yards out. A few steps left of centre. A little too far to shoot, a little too close to ignore.

The angle's awkward. Unless you're you. They’ve called you the female Beckham since your spectacular viral free kick in the Euros in 2022.

But this is your moment. Another Wembley moment.

You take four steps back. One to the left. Plant your right foot. Deep breath. Wembley holds it with you.

Then you strike. It bends. Wide. Too wide. For a second it looks gone. Then it curls. Back. Arcing around the wall. Gliding over two defenders’ heads. Swinging like it’s got a magnet in the top corner.

Cata dives. Too late. The net ripples.

GOAL.

1–0.

Wembley erupts.

You stand frozen for half a second, eyes wide, chest heaving, and then your teammates swarm you — Beth first, grabbing you from behind, lifting you off the ground even as you stumble with the landing.

The bench clears. Coaches shouting. Crowd losing it.

From the penalty spot, Alexia stands still. Watching. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Just breathes.

Her eyes never leave you. As the crowd chants your name, as your teammates pull you toward the sideline, as England finally leads… You meet her gaze. And her smile is small. But it’s real. She’s not surprised.

She knew.

The pace slows. Just for a breath.

The ball’s been cleared long, chased into a corner, Spain momentarily regrouping, England pulling shape. Everyone’s catching their breath — you included.

You’re jogging back into position, legs heavy, the sting in your knee still alive but manageable. You bend slightly, tug your sock back into place over your shin pad, heart still pounding, your breath fogging in the chill air.

She appears beside you. Close. Quiet. You don’t look at her. But you hear it. “You good?” she mumbles — just loud enough for your ears only.

Not dramatic. Not showy. Not even particularly soft. Just real. You nod. “Yeah,” you say, breathlessly. “I’m alright.”

She doesn’t say anything else. Just walks beside you for a few strides, both of you tracking the play, scanning the field like nothing passed between you. And then her hand brushes lightly against your back. A single pat. Firm. Reassuring. Acknowledging. Accepting your answer.

Then she keeps moving. No glance. No smile. Just a touch. But it lingers.

Like her hand is still there long after it's gone. And for all the intensity, for all the weight of the game, for the score, the pressure, the world watching. It’s that moment you’ll remember the most.

⚽️

The whistle blows.

The noise is instant — a wave crashing over the pitch as Wembley erupts behind you. 1–0. You held it. That free kick wrote the script, and you saw it through to the final line.

Teammates close in from all sides, arms around shoulders, heads bumping yours, laughter, relief, euphoria. The roar from the crowd is still going — high, rising, full of pride.

But your eyes are already on the other half of the pitch. Spain regrouping. Hands on hips. Heads bowed. Respectful. Composed.

You peel away from your huddle, weaving through the blur of bodies. You tap shoulders. Shake hands. Pat backs. Every “good game” automatic but genuine.

And then you see Alexia.

She’s moving toward you too, head held high, still all grace even in defeat. Her shirt clings to her back, sweat-dampened and brilliant under the lights. Her expression unreadable — until she locks eyes with you.

You smirk before she can say anything. “You’re not having my shirt again.”

Her brow arches — the smallest flicker of amusement in her eyes — but she says nothing. Just reaches her hand out. You clasp it. Firm. Familiar. Yours.

Your fingers wrap around hers — and they don’t let go right away. Neither of you rush it. The moment hangs. Not long enough to be obvious. Just long enough for her to know you let it.

Your thumb brushes against her knuckles. She smiles. Only just.

Then she releases. Keeps moving. So do you. You pat her back. Once. Firm. As you both pass each other like you didn’t just speak a language no one else in the stadium understands.

No shirts traded. No words left hanging. Just the echo of her skin on yours.

⚽️

Your room is dark except for the soft glow of your phone screen. You’re lying flat on the bed, one arm behind your head, the other scrolling through post-match clips and photos — and trying not to watch that free kick for the seventh time.

Your body aches. A good kind of ache. But your mind it’s still with her.

The pat on your back. The lingering handclasp. That barely-there smile. You’re about to close your phone when it buzzes. AlexiaPutellas11 has sent you a message

Alexia: You’re probably still replaying that free kick.

You smirk.

You: What, jealous?

Alexia: A little. But mostly just annoyed I couldn’t stop it.

You: You weren’t even in the wall. Weak defending, honestly.

A pause. Then another message comes through — slower, different. Weighted.

Alexia: That’s it for us, for a while. No more me v you. Not until the Euros this summer.

You stare at the screen. There’s no emoji. No flirtation. Just truth. She’s not just talking about fixtures.

You: Feels weird. Like we just found a rhythm.

Alexia: We did.

Another pause.

Alexia: And now we wait.

You lie there, letting those words settle into your chest. She’s not pushing. Not asking for more. Just naming it. The gap. The pause between this and whatever comes next.

You: Guess you’ll just have to miss me.

You’re halfway through typing something back — probably a joke, something to lighten the tension — when another message pops through.

Alexia: I don’t have to miss you. I could come see you. In Germany. If you want.

You freeze. Staring at the screen. At those words. Not flirtation. Not suggestion. A gesture. An offer.

Germany — where you play your club football. Your other life. The one she’s never been a part of. Not until now.

You read it again. She wants to come to you. And suddenly, your room feels warmer. You sit up, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with match fitness.

You type slowly, thumb hovering just a second too long.

You: You serious?

Alexia: You think I’d joke about flying to a different country just to see you?

Then — another one.

Alexia: I’d like to. If you’d have me.

That last sentence lands deep. Not just in your chest — lower. Quieter. Truer. You let yourself smile as you bit your lip. Then answer. One you wouldn't normally be so brave to send

You: I’d have you.

this might take the CROWN 👑 of all fics

Apart of Perfect Shot Series

Baby Girl Putellas-Segura is here

It started quietly—so quietly—you weren’t even sure at first.

You woke up before the sun, the room still cloaked in the deep grey of early morning. The house was silent, peaceful, the only sound the rhythmic breath of Alexia beside you, her arm draped protectively over your bump like it had been for months now.

But something felt… off.

Not painful, not at first. Just pressure. A strange, deep ache that rolled low in your belly and made you shift beneath the covers.

You lay still, blinking up at the ceiling, one hand drifting to your bump. You whispered softly, barely a breath, “Are you getting ready, little one?”

Another wave hit—not sharp, not dramatic, but undeniable.

You pressed your lips together, your heart picking up its pace.

Could this be it?

You reached for your phone and checked the time. 4:17 a.m.

For the next hour, you lay there quietly, timing each wave of pressure—growing a little stronger, a little longer, a little closer.

At 5:04, one came that made you really grip the edge of the mattress. You sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly, biting back a sound. 

That one felt real.

That one woke Alexia.

She stirred beside you, murmuring groggily, “You okay?” as she blinked herself awake.

You turned your head toward her, your face calm but your eyes glassy.

“I think I’m in labour.”

Alexia was up instantly. There was no slow waking. No sleepy blinking. Just full alertness, all hands and care, her voice suddenly clear and serious. “Are you sure?” she asked, already climbing out of bed and throwing on the first hoodie she could find.

You nodded, voice soft and shaking. “They’ve been getting stronger for the last hour.”

She was at your side in a second, kneeling beside the bed, her hands already on you, grounding you. “Okay. Alright. We’ve trained for this. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

You laughed softly, even through the rising tension. “You sound like you’re going into a final.”

She kissed your knee. “This is a final.”

The next contraction came while you were brushing your teeth. You doubled over the sink, gripping the edge as Alexia rubbed firm, soothing circles into your back.

The hospital bag was already packed—she made sure of that weeks ago. She loaded the car while you paced in the living room, stopping every few minutes to breathe through a contraction, her voice constantly in your ear: “Inhale. Exhale. That’s it. You’re doing so good, mi amor.”

By the time you reached the hospital, the contractions were five minutes apart and sharp enough to take your breath away. But every time you looked at Alexia—her jaw tight with focus, her hand never leaving yours, her thumb brushing your skin in quiet reassurance—you felt stronger.

Admitted. Monitored. Settled.

The nurse smiled kindly as she checked your progress. “You’re definitely in labour,” she said, almost amused by your calm. “And you’re already four centimetres. You’re doing amazing.”

Alexia leaned down, her forehead resting against yours. “Four down,” she whispered. “We’ve got this.”

The day stretched ahead of you—filled with movement, breath, heat, pain, love. The waiting room slowly filled with people: Eli. Alba. Carla. All pacing, texting Alexia’s phone for updates, barely holding back their excitement. But inside that room, it was just you and Alexia and the slow, powerful rhythm of a life arriving. And deep down, with every breath, with every grip of her hand and her steady voice in your ear—you knew:

Your daughter was coming.

And you were ready.

The hours blurred into each other—slow and sharp, quiet and chaotic, all wrapped in the strange timelessness of labour.

Contractions came harder now, stronger. You gripped the side of the hospital bed, the cool metal grounding you as your body swayed forward through another wave. Your forehead pressed against Alexia’s chest, and her arms were around you, steady and solid, her voice whispering low in Catalan, words of encouragement, love, anchoring you.

“You’re doing so well, mi vida,” she breathed, kissing the crown of your head. “She’s almost here. Just keep going. I’ve got you.”

You wanted to believe her. And you did. You really did. Even when you cried. Even when your breath came out in sobs. Even when you clutched her hand so tightly you were sure it would bruise. She never flinched. Never let go. There was a moment—maybe hour six or seven—where it got hard. The kind of hard no one could’ve warned you about. The part where your body felt like it was made of lightning and stone, and everything inside you wanted to scream: I can’t do this.

You whispered it once, barely audible: “Lex… I can’t do this.”

She was crouched in front of you, her forehead pressed to yours, her eyes full of tears but her voice unwavering. “You can. You are. She’s coming. Just a little more.”

You held onto her voice like it was the last light in a storm. And then—finally—the shift. The nurse came in, checked again, and this time her face lit up.

“Alright, mamá,” she said gently, her hand on your knee. “You’re fully dilated. It’s time.”

Everything went very still. Alexia looked at you, her hand still in yours. “This is it.”

You nodded, tears running down your cheeks. “She’s really coming.” The room filled quickly—lights adjusted, nurses moving, voices giving instructions—but all of it faded behind the hum of adrenaline in your blood and the absolute focus in Alexia’s eyes as she stood at your side, her fingers gripping yours tightly.

You pushed. Again. And again.

And with each cry, each push, each burning second of effort, Alexia stayed with you—her forehead pressed to yours, her voice in your ear “Push, amor, you’re almost there. She’s so close. You’re so strong. Just one more—come on. Just one more for her.”

Then—The cry. Sharp, piercing, perfect. A sound that tore through the air and shattered every ounce of pain like sunlight breaking through rain.

You sobbed, gasped, cried out as they lifted her—tiny, slippery, wailing—and laid her on your chest, her little limbs trembling with life.

Alexia’s hand covered hers, and her face broke wide open, crumpling with tears.

“She’s here,” she choked out, laughing and crying all at once. “She’s here, mi amor.”

You looked down at your daughter, your hands trembling as you cradled her, her cries slowly quieting as your skin met hers.

She was everything.

The weight of her, the warmth of her, the reality of her.

“I love you,” you whispered to her, your tears falling into her soft, damp hair. “I love you so much.”

Alexia leaned in, kissing your temple, then your cheek, then the tiny bundle on your chest.

You turned to her, eyes soaked, cheeks flushed. “We did it”

Alexia’s breath caught. “We’re parents.”

Alexia leant down to look more closely at her daughter. The second their eyes met, something in Alexia broke in the most beautiful way. She clutched her tiny arm gently, her lips pressed to her tiny forehead, and whispered:

“Hola, mi vida. I’m your mami.”

And for the first time since it all began— The world was still. Just the three of you. Exactly as you were meant to be.

The room had settled into that rare kind of quiet—soft and sacred—the kind that only comes after something life-changing.

Your daughter lay bundled against your chest, her tiny body rising and falling in rhythm with yours, still so new to the world, so delicate and impossibly real. Alexia hadn’t stopped touching—her hand brushing your hair back, her fingers gently stroking the baby’s wrinkled little feet poking from the blanket. You’d both fallen silent, completely wrapped up in her: her smell, her warmth, her being.

A knock on the door broke through the stillness. A nurse peeked in gently, her smile warm but professional. “Hi, mamas,” she said softly. “Just checking in. How are you both feeling?”

Alexia glanced at you and smiled, exhausted but glowing. “Tired. Happy. Like we’ve just been run over by a miracle.”

The nurse chuckled and stepped closer, eyes dropping to the baby. “She’s beautiful. Has she fed yet?”

You shook your head. “Not yet. We’ve just been… holding her.”

“That’s okay,” she said kindly. “Would you like to try now?”

You nodded, your throat a little tight. “Yeah. Yeah, I think we should.”

Alexia shifted beside you, brushing your hand as the nurse helped guide you through the process—showing you how to position her, how to angle her head, how to wait for that instinctive little open mouth movement. You followed every step. Your hands trembled slightly as you brought her close, your breath catching as you tried to help her latch. She didn’t.

Instead, she squirmed, fussed, turned her head away. You tried again. And again. She cried—a soft, pitiful whimper that shattered you.

The nurse leaned over with gentle encouragement, whispering tips, guiding your hands, but nothing worked. You could feel your chest tightening, frustration building. You were doing everything right—why wasn’t it working?

You looked up, eyes brimming. “Why won’t she latch?”

“She’s just learning,” the nurse said softly. “You both are. It’s completely normal.” But the tears were already slipping down your cheeks.

“She needs me and I can’t even do this—” you choked, voice shaking. “This is the one thing I’m supposed to be able to do, and she’s… she’s hungry and she’s crying and—”

“Hey, hey,” Alexia was beside you in an instant, her arms wrapping around you and the baby, holding all three of you close like she could carry the weight of it. “Stop. You’re doing so well. You’re not failing. Look at me—look at me.” You did. Barely. Her eyes were already glassy too. “You just gave birth to her. She’s brand new. You’re both brand new. You’re allowed to learn together.”

You sniffled, pressing your forehead to hers. “I just… I want her to feel safe. To know she’s okay.”

“She does.” Alexia’s voice cracked. “She’s here. On your chest. Listening to your heartbeat. You’re home to her already.”

The nurse gave you a few minutes, then gently smiled again. “We can try again later, or I can help express some colostrum and feed her that. You don’t have to do this alone.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

Before the nurse left, she paused and smiled down at your daughter. “Has she got a name yet?”

You and Alexia looked at each other, then at the baby nestled against you. Both of you shook your heads.

“Still choosing,” you murmured. “Nothing’s felt… quite right yet.”

“That’s okay,” she said kindly, touching your shoulder. “You’ll know when it does.”

When the door closed again, the silence returned. Alexia gently rested her chin on your shoulder, her eyes still locked on your daughter.“She’s strong,” you whispered. “She knew how to fight her way into the world. She’ll figure this out.”

“She gets that from you,” Alexia said.

You kissed the top of your daughter’s head, whispering, “We’ll get it right, little one. I promise.” Even without a name, she was already the centre of your universe. And soon… the name would come. The one that was hers.

—

Alexia hesitated near the doorway, one hand still clinging to the edge of the frame, her body halfway turned back toward you and your daughter—clearly torn between going and staying. Her brows were pulled slightly together, that quiet worry she always carried when it came to you sitting just beneath her surface.

You smiled through your exhaustion, still cradling your baby girl against your chest. “Go, Lex. They’re waiting.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine,” you interrupted softly, your voice thin but firm. “I promise. We’re just going to cuddle and keep trying. I’ll call if anything changes.”

Alexia stepped back toward the bed one more time, leaned down, and kissed your forehead. Then her hand swept gently over your daughter’s back, a whispered “I love you both” falling from her lips before she finally turned and slipped out the door.

The family room wasn’t far. It was a quiet space off the maternity ward, outfitted with vending machines, tired-looking couches, and warm lighting that was trying very hard to disguise how clinical the hospital still felt.

Inside, Eli stood pacing, her eyes flicking between the hallway and her phone, while Alba sat perched on the windowsill like a nervous cat. Carla was sprawled on a couch, clearly trying to act chill but bouncing her leg like she was seconds from exploding. A few of Alexia’s closest teammates were there too—Mapi, Ingrid, Irene—each of them chatting quietly but watching the door with the kind of tension usually reserved for extra time in a final.

The moment Alexia walked in, every head turned.

“Well?!” Alba practically shouted, leaping to her feet.

Alexia couldn’t help the smile that overtook her face. It was tired and emotional and completely soaked in awe. “She’s here,” she said softly.

A chorus of gasps and cheers rang out, and everyone rushed closer. “She’s okay?” Eli asked instantly, her eyes sharp with maternal urgency. “They’re okay?”

“They’re both perfect,” Alexia nodded, her voice cracking slightly. “Tired, but safe. She did so well.”

Eli exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours. Alexia stepped toward her and took her hand gently, squeezing it. “She’s okay, mamí. I promise. She’s exhausted and overwhelmed and trying so hard, but she’s okay.”

Eli blinked quickly, nodding, her throat bobbing with emotion. “I just… I needed to hear it from you. I was so worried.”

“She’s stronger than she thinks,” Alexia said softly, and the words came out so full of pride you could feel the love in the room shift.

“Can we see her?” Carla asked, already halfway out of her seat.

Alexia shook her head gently. “Not yet. The nurses want the baby to feed and be checked by the doctor first before any visitors go in.”

A collective sigh filled the room—some disappointed, but no one argued. Alexia smiled again, digging into the pocket of her hoodie.“But…” she said, pulling out her phone, “I can show you this.”

She held it out, and they all crowded close. The photo on the screen was simple: you, propped up against the pillows in your hospital bed, your hair a little wild, your face pale and damp with tears, but your expression so full of love it could stop time. And nestled on your chest—tiny, pink, blinking up at the world like it was all too bright already—was her.

Your baby girl.

There were gasps. Quiet sniffles. A few stunned, whispered “wow”s.

“She’s beautiful,” Mapi said softly, her hand over her mouth.

“She’s real,” Alba whispered, wide-eyed.

“She has your nose,” Ingrid added, nudging Alexia gently.

Alexia smiled, eyes misting again as she took her phone back. “We’re still deciding her name. But she’s everything already.”

Eli stepped forward, cupping Alexia’s face in her hands. “You’re everything,” she said. “The both of you. And she’s going to be surrounded by so much love.”

Alexia nodded, her voice low. “She already is.”

They sat together after that, the group of them huddled in that quiet family room—some laughing, some wiping away tears, all waiting for the moment they’d get to meet the little girl who had just arrived and already taken over all their hearts. And back in your room, holding her close against your chest, you whispered softly into the curve of your daughter’s ear:

“They’re ready for you, baby girl. Whenever you are.”

The door opened softly, and Alexia slipped back into the room, careful not to let it click shut behind her too loudly. The family had calmed—Eli had cried, Alba had nearly passed out from pacing, and everyone had promised to be patient for their turn to meet the baby her teammates promising to return tomorrow since it was late and they had an early training.

She expected to find you resting, maybe dozing off with your daughter nestled against your chest.

What she found instead was you, wide awake, eyes red and glossy, bottom lip trembling as you stared down at the tiny bundle of pink swaddling nestled between your legs on the hospital bed. Her chest tightened instantly.

“Mi amor…?” she said softly, crossing the room in two strides. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t look at her at first. Just kept staring down, blinking too fast, your breaths uneven.

Alexia perched on the edge of the bed, worry creeping into every line of her body. “Hey… talk to me. Are you in pain?”

You shook your head quickly and then, after a beat, your voice came, fragile and quiet. “She looks like him.”

Alexia frowned, confused. “Who—?”

You lifted your eyes to meet hers, and they were shining with tears. “Your dad.”

Alexia froze, her breath catching like it had been yanked from her lungs.

You glanced down at the baby again, gently running your thumb across her soft cheek, your hand trembling slightly. “Her nose. Her jaw. Even the way her little eyebrows sit. Lex… she looks like your dad.”

Alexia didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

You looked up at her again, tears slipping down your cheeks now. “I didn’t see it before, but now that she’s asleep—her face relaxed like that—I just… it hit me all at once. She’s his double.” Your voice cracked on the word. “I never got to meet him. But I feel like I’m holding a piece of him right now.”

Alexia's throat bobbed. Her eyes were wide, glassy, lips parted in stunned silence as she slowly turned her gaze to your daughter. She reached out with a trembling hand and gently brushed her finger along the baby’s tiny brow, her touch reverent.

And there it was. The shape of her eyes. The slight downward curve at the corners of her mouth. The arch of her nose—familiar in a way that felt almost impossible. “Oh my God,” she whispered, her voice breaking completely. “She does.”

You nodded, barely holding it together. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to upset you. But I kept looking at her and I just—Lex, I wish he could see her. I wish he was here.”

Alexia let out a quiet sob, biting her lip hard as tears slipped down her cheeks. She leaned forward, one hand on your leg, the other gently cradling her daughter’s head as if she could feel him in her bones now—like somehow, through all the heartbreak and loss, he had made his way back to her, to you, through her. “I see him,” she whispered, her forehead resting lightly on your shoulder. “I see him so clearly.”

You wrapped your arms around her, holding her as tightly as you could with the baby curled between you both. Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence didn’t need filling. It was sacred. It was him.

Eventually, you leaned back just slightly, your voice a whisper. “Tell me she doesn’t look just like him.”

Alexia laughed softly through her tears, brushing her nose against yours, her eyes never leaving your daughter’s face. “She does,” she murmured. “But she also looks like us. And she’s going to grow up knowing exactly who he was.”

You nodded, reaching down to gently squeeze Alexia’s hand over your baby’s chest. “She already feels like she’s carrying his strength,” you said. “And your heart.”

Alexia looked down at her daughter, her voice catching as she whispered, “Papá would’ve loved her.”

And in that quiet, tear-soaked moment, the three of you sat in a tangle of love and memory—Alexia’s past meeting your future in the form of one tiny, sleeping girl who had unknowingly brought someone home.

The room was dim again, late afternoon light filtering through the half-drawn blinds, casting golden lines across the hospital bed. The noise from the corridor outside was distant now, muffled behind the closed door—just the occasional shuffle of feet or soft call from a nurse.

Inside your little cocoon, it was peaceful. Still.

You were exhausted, but a different kind of exhaustion now. The kind that came with hope, and softness, and the weight of a miracle lying warm in your arms. Your daughter stirred gently against your chest, her lips brushing your skin in that searching, instinctive way. You held your breath, your hand supporting the back of her tiny head, and guided her closer, just as the nurse had shown you hours earlier.

This time—finally—she latched.

Your body stiffened with the surprise of it. Then relaxed, like a wave had passed over you. No fussing. No turning away. No crying. Just her, finally feeding, like she’d known how all along and had simply needed the right moment.

Your eyes instantly filled with tears—this time not from frustration or fear, but from relief so deep it hit your bones. Alexia had been perched quietly beside you in the chair, one leg tucked under her, watching every second with bated breath. When she realised what had happened, her whole body jolted with joy—but she caught herself, clamping a hand over her mouth to stop from cheering aloud.

Instead, she did a silent fist pump.

Then another.

Then leaned forward and gently buried her face against your shoulder, her whole body trembling with relief and pride. Her voice came in a whisper, thick with emotion. “She’s doing it. You’re doing it.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I didn’t think I’d cry over this, but—God, Lex—it feels like everything.”

Alexia kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the side of your mouth, her hand cupping the back of your head like she needed to hold you in place, ground herself to this exact second. “She’s incredible,” she whispered.

“She is,” you murmured. Then, a beat. “And I think… I know her name.”

Alexia pulled back just slightly, her eyes wide, searching your face. “Yeah?”

You nodded, your fingers tracing gentle circles on the back of your daughter’s tiny neck. “I keep thinking about what your Mamí said months ago… when we were first talking about names. Sofía. I couldn’t stop hearing it in my head today. And now that I’ve seen her, now that I’ve felt her… I can’t picture her as anything else.”

Alexia blinked, her lips parting in soft surprise. “Sofía.”

You nodded again. “And… I thought we could give her your dad’s name, too. As her second. Juame. It’s soft. Strong. Timeless. And neutral. It belongs to her as much as it belonged to him.”

Alexia just stared at you, eyes glistening, lips trembling like she was trying not to fall apart completely. “Sofía Juame,” she whispered, the name barely audible, like a prayer. She said it again, a little firmer. “Sofía Juame.”

You watched her fall in love with the name in real time.

“She’s going to carry that name,” Alexia said, her hand resting over your daughter’s back. “She’s going to make it mean something. Just like he did.”

“She already does,” you said softly.

Alexia nodded, swallowing hard. Then leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your daughter’s head. “Hola, Sofía,” she whispered. “Welcome to our little family, your furry brothers will love you.” And Sofía, as if she knew, let out the smallest, softest sigh against your skin—completely content.

“You like the name? Don’t just agree because I’ve just birthed her, please be honest”

Alexia gave you the softest smile, “I love her name, and I love that mami picked it and papa is involved to” You kissed before both staring down at the little girl feeding contently.

The room had grown quiet again.

Your daughter slept peacefully in your arms, her tiny chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm, one hand curled into the neckline of your hospital gown like she was already claiming you. You were completely wrapped in the moment, your body still sore but your heart so full it was hard to breathe.

A gentle knock came at the door and one of the nurses stepped in, her smile kind.

“Everything okay?” she asked, moving to check on the monitors with quiet efficiency.

You nodded, adjusting Sofía slightly in your arms. “She’s finally sleeping after feeding,” you whispered, pride and relief laced through your voice.

The nurse smiled wider, then looked to Alexia, who was perched on the edge of the armchair near the window, watching the two of you like she’d never blink again.

“Would you like to do some skin-to-skin time with her?” the nurse asked gently, directing it to Alexia.

Alexia blinked. “Me?”

“Of course,” the nurse said. “It’s not just for the birthing parent. It’s a great way for babies to start bonding with Mami, too.”

You watched Alexia’s face shift—surprise first, then something softer, something so deep it nearly cracked her open.

You nodded at her, smiling. “Do it. She’ll love it.”

Alexia hesitated only a second before standing, rubbing her hands together nervously as the nurse helped adjust the chair and handed her a fresh blanket.

She slipped off her hoodie, then her T-shirt, folding them carefully before sitting back down, now bare-chested and visibly emotional. Her skin was golden in the soft light, her breath uneven.

You carefully rose from the bed and walked the few steps to her, your arms wrapped tightly around Sofía. As you lowered her into Alexia’s waiting arms, something in your chest caught.  

Because the moment her skin touched Alexia’s, Sofía stirred.  

Just slightly. Her little head shifted, and a tiny sigh left her lips. Her cheek rested against her mami’s chest like it belonged there. Like she knew exactly who this was.  

Alexia froze.  

Her eyes welled instantly, her lips parting as she stared down at the impossibly tiny life pressed against her heart. One hand cradled Sofía’s head, the other instinctively resting across her back, holding her as gently as if she were made of glass.

“Hola.” she whispered, voice trembling. “Hola, mi pequeña.”

You sat on the bed, watching it all unfold—Alexia blinking rapidly as tears streamed down her cheeks, her breath catching in her throat.

“She’s so small,” she whispered, more to herself. “And she’s… ours. She’s really ours.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over Alexia’s arm as Sofia settled deeper into Alexia’s chest.

“She knows you,” you said softly. “She’s known you since before she got here.”

Alexia looked at you then, her eyes full of something ancient and powerful and brand new all at once.

“I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did,” she whispered, “and then I saw you become her mamá.”  

Your hand slid into hers, holding her tightly as your daughter slept, skin to skin, heart to heart, between the two people who loved her more than anything in the world.

And for the first time since the moment she arrived—there was only peace.

The family room was quieter than it had been yesterday—less buzzing, more soft murmurs and tired smiles. It had the comforting stillness of early morning, when everything feels calmer, like the world’s holding its breath in reverence for something sacred. Alexia’s teammates long going home having to prepare for practice today leaving behind Eli and Alba.

Eli and Alba were seated side by side on the couch, deep in quiet conversation. Alba had her legs tucked under her, hair thrown in a messy bun, flipping through a baby magazine someone had left behind. Eli was staring absently at her phone, eyes tired but kind, tapping out a message that she clearly wasn’t in a hurry to send.

The door creaked open.

Eli looked up first—and stilled.

You stood just inside the threshold, one arm lightly gripping the nurse for support, the other resting protectively on your belly, even though the bump was now an empty cradle. You were pale, your hair loose around your shoulders, cheeks flushed from the effort of walking, but your eyes were shining. Raw. Brighter than they’d ever seen them.

Eli rose first. Slowly. Like she couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like seeing you there, on your feet, in the same clothes from yesterday and somehow more powerful than ever, was too much.

And then she moved—quickly, wordlessly—and before you could breathe, you were wrapped in her arms.

Tight. Warm. Solid.

You exhaled shakily into her shoulder, and it all came out. The tears. The ache. The overwhelming swell in your chest that had been building since the moment Sofía had been placed on your chest.

You sobbed. Not loud, not frantic—just helpless, soul-deep crying, the kind that came when you’d been brave for too long.

“I did it,” you whispered, your voice breaking open like a flood. “I really did it.”

Eli held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head like she used to do with Alexia. “Of course you did,” she whispered. “You brought her here. You made her. She’s here because of you.”

You shook in her arms, overwhelmed by the weight of it all—of being a mother now, of the pain, the joy, the immensity of what you’d just done.

Behind you, the nurse stepped out, gently closing the door to give you the moment.

Alba was on her feet now too, watching quietly. And for once, she didn’t interrupt, didn’t fill the space with jokes or quips. She stepped closer slowly, her expression softer than you’d ever seen it.

She brushed your arm lightly. “You look like a woman who just performed a miracle,” she said gently.

You gave a breathy laugh through your tears. “I feel like one. A sore, emotional miracle.”

“You’re allowed,” Alba said. “You earned it.”

Eli eventually eased back, her hands still on your arms, her eyes glassy now too. “How are you feeling? Really?”

You sniffled, wiping your face, voice fragile but sure. “Like I’ve been cracked open. But like… like I’d do it again. In a heartbeat. For her.”

Alba smiled, her voice unusually soft. “She’s got no idea how lucky she is.”

You nodded slowly. “She will. I’ll make sure she does.”

Eli took your hand in both of hers and kissed it. “And we’ll make sure you know how proud we are. Of you. Always.”

You stood there with them, in a quiet pocket of the hospital, heart wide open and full of everything—grief and love and power and softness.

And down the hallway, you knew, Alexia was still holding your daughter to her chest, whispering the world into her ear.

And now you were ready to walk back to them.

Back to your girls. You looked up at them now, your voice soft.

“Do you… want to come meet her?”

Alba’s eyes lit up immediately, but she didn’t jump from her seat like she normally would have. Instead, she blinked fast, the smile she wore a little shaky.

“Are you sure?” Eli asked gently, as though she’d been waiting for your permission, even though her hands twitched like she wanted to run down the hallway.

You nodded. “She’s eaten. She’s sleeping. And I… I want you to see her. I know you want to have a cuddle with her desperately to”

Eli placed her hand over yours and squeezed it once, firmly. “We’d be honoured.”

You walked slower this time, without the nurse, but with your arms looped gently around theirs. The hall was quiet, and each step made your heart thrum with something that felt sacred.

When you turned the corner to your room, you noticed the door was already cracked open, soft light spilling out into the hallway.

You paused in the doorway first— and there she was.

Alexia stood near the window, bathed in the early morning light. One arm cradled against her chest, the other supporting your baby girl—Sofía Juame, wrapped in her pale pink blanket. She was rocking slowly, back and forth in that instinctive, natural rhythm you hadn’t even known Alexia had in her. Her head was bent low, her mouth close to the baby's ear.

And she was singing. A gentle, low lullaby in Catalan, the words soft and imperfect—half spoken, half hummed—but the melody was unmistakably familiar. You’d heard her hum it once before. The night you first talked about having a baby. You didn’t recognise it then, but when you’d asked, Alexia had told you with a quiet smile: “It’s what my dad used to sing to me when I couldn’t sleep.”

She hadn’t sung it since. Until now.

You watched in silence, overwhelmed. Eli, standing just behind you, brought a hand to her mouth and froze. The breath she took was shaky, sharp. You turned and wrapped your arms around her, gently guiding her into the hug she clearly needed but hadn’t wanted to ask for.

She folded into you, completely, her face pressed into your shoulder, her whole body trembling with the emotion of seeing her daughter sing to hers. “I can’t believe this moment exists,” she whispered.

You nodded, your own tears already brimming again. “She’s everything, Eli. She’s everything he would’ve loved.”

She nodded against you, unable to speak for a second, just holding you like a mother would hold a daughter, grateful and grieving all at once. Alba wiped at her face quickly behind you, then whispered, “You have to interrupt her eventually or I’m going to sob in the hallway forever.”

You gave a teary laugh, pulled back from Eli, and knocked gently on the doorframe. Alexia turned slowly, and the look on her face—that look—was almost too much to take. Her eyes were wet, but her expression was completely calm, a kind of stillness only love could bring.

“You’ve got visitors,” you said gently.

She smiled, her lips brushing Sofía’s temple before she stepped back from the window. “Come meet her.”

Eli stepped forward first, still holding your hand, as if she needed to hold onto something solid as she approached the newest member of her family. And when she reached them—her daughter and her granddaughter—she didn’t speak at first.

She just reached out, cupped Sofía’s tiny head, and kissed her softly, whispering something private in Catalan that made Alexia close her eyes, swallowing hard.

Alba finally stepped in too, slower than usual, her voice quiet and cracked. “Okay,” she said, brushing a tear from her cheek as she peered down at her niece. “I get it now. She really is perfect.”

And in that room, wrapped in light and music and history, your little girl rested—held by the arms that would never let her fall.

Alba hovered near the edge of the hospital bed, her hands clasped tightly behind her back like she was physically restraining herself from scooping Sofía up into her arms. Her eyes were glued to the baby, wide and shining, a permanent smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Then she blinked, as if realising something far too important had yet to be said.

“Wait,” she whispered, her gaze flicking between you and Alexia. “Did you name her yet? What’s her name? Don’t tell me I’ve just been staring at her like she’s a work of art and she’s still called ‘baby girl Putellas’ on the charts.”

You and Alexia shared a look—soft, quiet, full of everything you’d both been feeling since you whispered her name aloud for the first time the night before. Alexia gently rocked her daughter in her arms, her hand brushing over the tiny pink hat covering her soft tufts of hair.

You sat up straighter, eyes never leaving the small, sleepy face in Alexia’s arms. “She has a name,” you said quietly. “We wanted to be sure before we told anyone. We wanted to see her first. Feel who she was.”

Alba leaned in a little. “Well? Don’t leave me hanging, I’m emotionally unstable already.”

You took a breath, your voice trembling with emotion. “Her name is… Sofía.”

There was a beat of silence—then Alba’s brows lifted, a smile tugging at her lips. “Sofía,” she said, testing it out.

At your nod, Alba let out a soft laugh. “She actually looks like a Sofía.”

You laughed too, quietly—but it was Eli who hadn’t said anything.

“Her middle name is Juame” You spoke carefully, Alba snapped her head to you, “So I’d like you to officially meet Sofía Juame Putellas Segura”

She stepped forward slowly, her eyes locked on her granddaughter, and then flicked to you, her lip trembling. “Juame…” she whispered. The name barely made it out of her mouth. “You gave her his name.”

You nodded again, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “I hope that's ok. We wanted her to have something of him. Something strong. Timeless. Something that… carries him forward.”

Eli’s eyes welled instantly. She brought her hand to her chest, staggered slightly like the moment had taken the breath right from her lungs. “I can’t believe…” she murmured, shaking her head gently, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I suggested Sofía and you… you used Juame. You gave your precious little girl our names.”

You reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “She looks like him, Eli. And she’s going to grow up with stories about him, and you, and this family. She’s going to know exactly who she came from. It only felt right when she is that much like him that she has his name”

Alexia’s voice was soft, broken with emotion as she gazed down at Sofía. “We wanted her to carry his name, have his part in her. And we wanted her to carry yours too, in a way. You’re the reason I’m the woman I am. You’re the reason she has this family to be born into.”

Eli couldn’t speak anymore. She just stepped forward and pressed her lips to Sofía’s forehead, her tears falling gently onto the soft pink fabric of her hat. “Sofía Juame,” she whispered again. “He would’ve loved her so much.”

And you knew, in that still, sacred moment—that your daughter had already brought a piece of him back into the world. And that in naming her, you hadn’t just honoured the past. You’d woven it into the future.

Alexia looked down at her daughter for another long moment, then slowly turned toward her mother. “Mami,” she said softly, her voice as delicate as the moment itself. “Do you want to hold her?”

Eli looked up, startled, like she hadn’t dared to ask. Her lips parted, trembling, eyes red-rimmed and watery. She nodded once, unable to speak.

Alexia moved gently, as if she were handing over a piece of the universe itself. She shifted Sofía with careful hands, cradling her like something sacred, then stepped forward and placed her into Eli’s waiting arms.

The moment Sofía settled against her grandmother’s chest, Eli let out a sound that was half a breath, half a sob. “Oh…” she whispered, eyes fixed on the baby’s face. “Oh, mi amor.”

She brought one hand up to Sofía’s cheek, brushing a fingertip ever so lightly down the soft curve of her tiny jaw. Her thumb paused under the baby’s chin, trembling, and then she inhaled sharply.

“She looks like him,” she whispered, voice cracked. “My Juame. She looks just like him, I couldn’t see properly before but I can see him now.” Eli sat slowly, never once breaking her gaze from the baby in her arms. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks now, one after another, no shame, no restraint—just raw, overwhelmed emotion. “She has his eyes,” Eli murmured. “His mouth, too. And that crease between the brows, even while she sleeps—that’s him. I used to tease him about it.” She laughed quietly, brokenly. “He’d furrow his brow when he read, and now she’s doing it in her sleep…”

You felt it in your throat before you even saw it—Alba, standing silently at the foot of the bed, eyes shining and glassy, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “She does,” Alba whispered. “She really does.”

You reached out without thinking, pulling her gently down beside you on the edge of the bed. She didn’t fight it—she just crumpled into your side, burying her face against your shoulder, her quiet sobs muffled but deep. You held her tightly, one arm wrapped around her back, your cheek resting on top of her head as she cried.

“She’s a part of him,” you whispered, your voice shaky, your own tears slipping freely now. “He’s still here because of her. Because of all of you.”

Alexia knelt beside her mother’s chair, one hand resting on Eli’s knee, the other gently stroking Sofía’s back. Her eyes never left them—her mother and daughter, bound now in something eternal. Eli bent her head, pressing her lips to Sofía’s forehead and lingering there. “Mi pequeña,” she whispered, “you are more than we ever dared to hope for.” And the room—filled with three generations of love, grief, legacy, and new beginnings—went quiet, except for the steady breathing of one small girl, who had no idea yet the kind of love she had been born into. But she would. You’d make sure of it.

The hours passed in a kind of dreamlike haze—a slow stretch of time that didn’t quite feel real, as though the whole day had been wrapped in cotton and warmth and the scent of your newborn daughter’s skin.

Eli and Alba never left. Not once.  

Eli sat comfortably in the armchair by the window, Sofía in her arms or resting in the bassinet beside her, her gaze never straying far from her granddaughter’s peaceful face. She was the picture of quiet awe, whispering soft Catalan lullabies and sharing little stories about Alexia’s own baby days that made your heart swell.

Alba, meanwhile, had appointed herself “gatekeeper,” posted proudly at the door like some overexcited security detail—only she wasn’t turning anyone away. She was ushering them in.

One by one, players from Alexia’s team began to filter in, each with shy smiles, quiet laughter, and hands filled with snacks, balloons, or tiny baby gifts they ‘definitely didn’t plan’ but somehow all brought.

The first to arrive was Ingrid and Mapi, Ingrid walked gently into the room with a bouquet of wildflowers and a tiny crocheted elephant tucked into her elbow.

“Oh my God,” she whispered when she saw Sofía. “She’s so small. You made that?”

Alexia grinned, her hand wrapped around your waist. “Perfect isn’t she.”

Ingrid pressed a kiss to your cheek and then Alexia’s, before quietly crouching down beside the bassinet. “She already has your eyebrows,” she whispered. “Poor thing.”

That set off another round of gentle laughter. Mapi however showed up with a pair of pink baby sunglasses and a pacifier that looked suspiciously like a miniature Barça ball.

“She’s got to be on brand,” she said proudly. “And I’m calling dibs on being the godmother who teaches her to swear in at least three languages.”

“She’s not even a day old, Mapi,” you groaned, but your smile was wide and warm.

Later, Irene arrived with a box of pastries and a letter she’d written for Sofía to read when she turned 18, sealed and wrapped in ribbon. You stared at it, speechless.

“I wanted her to know what kind of world she was born into,” Irene said, a little sheepish. “And how lucky she is to have you two as her mamís.”

Alba, already teary again, dramatically shoved tissues at everyone without being asked.

The visits continued all day—sometimes one player, sometimes two. Some stayed only for five minutes, others sat with you a while, cooing over the baby, asking you how you felt, hugging Alexia tightly like they could see how cracked open and glowing she was.

And through it all, Eli stayed. Quietly watching her daughter move around the room, introducing her daughter to her teammates—her sisters. She watched Alexia beam with pride each time someone commented on Sofía’s name, or her full head of hair, or her perfect little pout.

She leaned toward you at one point, her voice low.

“I’ve never seen her look so... full,” she said softly, eyes wet. “She’s always been strong. But this—this love—it’s made her whole.”

You nodded, unable to speak, watching your wife across the room as she gently held Sofía in her arms while Mapi adjusted the baby sunglasses over the blanket.

“She’s never going to remember today,” Eli added, looking at Sofía now. “But I will. Every second.”

And you would too.

Every smile, every cry, every soft “hola, pequeña” spoken from one loving voice to another.  

Your daughter had been born into more than a family. She’d been born into a team. One that would never let her fall.

It was early evening by the time Carla finally burst through the door, as subtle as a marching band and exactly as dramatic as you needed her to be.

“Move,” she barked playfully at Alba, who was still guarding the doorway like a loyal hound with a mild caffeine problem. “I’ve got a medical emergency.”

You blinked up from your spot in the hospital bed, where you were nestled under the covers, your daughter sleeping peacefully in the bassinet beside you, your legs stretched out and aching in that oddly satisfying I-just-made-a-human way.

Carla marched in, sunglasses still perched on top of her head despite the fact that the sun had dipped hours ago, and she was holding—no, presenting—a large brown paper bag like it contained the cure to all earthly suffering.

“I come bearing the only thing that matters right now.”

The smell hit you before anything else—greasy, salty, divine.

You sat up a little straighter, your body instinctively reacting before your brain even processed.

“Is that—?”

Carla grinned, slipping the bag into your lap like she’d just handed over a sacred text. “Double cheeseburger. Large fries. And because I’m the best friend you’ll ever have: large chocolate milkshake. And extra sweet curry sauces. You’re welcome.”

Your mouth opened but no words came out—just a small, awed sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

You looked at her with teary, desperate gratitude. “Carla… I’ve never loved you more in my life.”

Alexia laughed quietly as she peaked at the baby in her bassinet when she made a little noise. “I was literally present for the birth of our child.”

“And yet,” you said, already unwrapping the burger with shaking hands, “Carla brought me cheese.”

Eli chuckled from the armchair, watching you bite into the burger like it was the first food you’d ever tasted. “She’s earned a few points, I’ll give her that.”

Carla dropped dramatically into the empty chair beside your bed, smug. “I’m not saying I’m your real soulmate, but I did time this delivery for maximum emotional impact.”

You chewed slowly, eyes closed, groaning in utter bliss, “You did,” you mumbled around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “You so did.”

Alexia rolled her eyes but smiled, settling beside you on the bed as you reached blindly for a fry like someone starved in a desert.

“She couldn’t eat anything the whole labour,” she explained to Carla, one hand on your thigh. “She was running on adrenaline and ice chips. I offered a banana. She nearly threw it at me.”

“I told you,” Carla said proudly. “When in doubt—grease and dairy.” She leaned forward slightly, peeking at the sleeping baby in the bassinet. “She’s perfect, by the way. Absolutely worth every second of starvation. But I’m not above bribing her into loving me most. I already have a baby-sized hoodie that says ‘Team Carla.’”

You laughed mid-chew, almost choking on your fry, and reached out to squeeze her wrist. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re radiant. And hormonal. So I’ll take my compliments now, please.”

You grinned, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “You’re the best. Seriously. I love you.”

Carla softened, brushing your knuckles. “I love you too. Always. Even when you’ve got milkshake on your chin and hormones in your throat.”

“Charming,” Alexia muttered.

“Truthful,” Carla shot back, winking.

And in that room—full of fries, soft laughter, a sleeping baby girl, and the warm scent of cheeseburgers—you realised that love really did come in many forms.

Some in lullabies.  

Some in family names.  

And some in a greasy paper bag handed over at exactly the right moment.

Your first blind date with Alexia, feels like a whole other world away now, but it was the most perfect shot you ever took.

ok, damn 🥵🥵🥵

Double Exposure

sunmary: you want to go topless, alexia isn’t too pleased

warnings: mentions of smut, some vulgar language

a/n: okay a bit of context; rich!alexia inspired by that pic she posted looking hot all in black. reader was her sugar baby before things got serious and they fell in love. sugar baby = bad for image so reader was kept secret up until now. this is their honeymoon. *and breathe*

word count: 2.2k

-

“You’re not seriously going out there like that?”

Her words flat. Almost bored. Which is rich, coming from a woman who—barely ten minutes ago—was on her knees between your legs, growling into your cunt like it owed her rent and a written apology. Her voice now is the exact opposite of how it sounded then: cool, clipped, almost affronted. Like you’ve just told her you prefer supermarket olive oil. Like she doesn’t still have your taste on her mouth, drying into the fine creases of her lips, sunk into the seam where her teeth pressed down too hard on your inner thigh. Like her face wasn’t, moments ago, framed by your knees.

There’s a bruise on your hip in the exact shape of her thumb, planted like a signature. Another on the inside of your arm—darker, more controlled. Intentional. Just about composed, like something framed and hung under a spotlight. Your ribs ache faintly from where her elbows braced, sharp and functional, digging in as if she was preparing to split you apart. You haven’t seen your reflection yet, but you don’t need to. You already know what you must look like: mouth swollen and slightly parted, ribs flushed with heat, nipples still tight from her teeth and the blast of the air conditioning you forgot to turn off. Hair tangled, skin glistening at the hollows. The kind of wreckage that suggests not just sex, but possession.

You wonder what someone might assume if they saw you now. Not what, but who.

As in—Who did this to her?

As in—Who owns her like that?

The answer, of course, is already stepping barefoot onto the polished teak.

Her presence is enormous—not in volume, but in precision. In density. She radiates this sense of curation, of something not just expensive but worth owning. She moves like something honed to a point. She exists the way a Cartier Crash watch does: violently elegant, disturbing in its fluid asymmetry, confusing in its intention but undeniable in value. She is the kind of woman who doesn’t tell the time; she is the time. You once asked her for it, just to see what she’d do. She didn’t answer. Just turned your chin with her knuckle and kissed you hard enough to erase the question mid-sentence.

“I’m warm,” you say.

Which, in your shared language, means: Don’t tell me what to do.

Which also means: I want to see if you’ll still claim me in public after I deliberately ignore you.

Which, if you’re being honest, means: I’m still hungry. Even now. Even after that.

She says nothing.

You can feel her looking at you—feel her stare like fingers, counting every inch, every blemish, every trace she’s left behind. You wonder what part of you she starts with: the notched line of your spine, still red where her nails dug in; the subtle knot at the base of your shoulder from how she’d gripped it, too tight and too long; the soft under-curve of your breast now exposed to an entire sea that doesn’t give a single fuck. A sea that couldn’t care less whether you’re clothed, naked, adored or completely destroyed.

You imagine a lens somewhere. A long one. A telephoto. Some French man called Henri crouched in a small dinghy, cradling a Canon 1DX with a greasy finger and a questionable sense of ethics. You picture the headline already drafted in someone’s inbox: PUTELLAS’ MYSTERY WIFE BARES ALL OFF THE COAST OF CORSICA.

In all-caps, of course. They always use all-caps when a woman’s tits are involved.

You smile.

She walks over now, slow and certain. Picks up your discarded bikini top from the side of the lounger. Holds it between two fingers like it offends her on a structural level.

“This is literally a shoelace,” she says.

“It’s Prada.”

“It’s two triangles of fabric and the audacity of youth.”

You bought it impulsively the same day she signed the closing papers on the London penthouse, high off real estate and champagne, off her hand on your thigh beneath a linen tablecloth at Scott’s. She’d said it was too revealing, and you’d laughed directly in her face—mostly because she said it while unzipping your dress in the boutique changing room, knuckles grazing the lace you’d worn just for her. You still have the tag, folded neatly into your drawer next to a crumpled Agent Provocateur receipt and the Hermès tissue paper she tore through with zero ceremony. She, meanwhile, keeps everything. You once found an envelope in her office drawer marked in her small, upright script:

Apology Gifts – Receipts (Honeymoon Series).

Inside: three separate invoices from Van Cleef & Arpels. Two dated the same week.

“You’re topless,” she says this time. Not angry. Just too the point. Aware. Like she’s updating you on the weather.

Cloudless sky. Northeasterly breeze. Wife’s tits out.

You reach up, twist your hair into a loose knot. The strands stick slightly, damp with sea mist and the residue of her breath on your neck. Your breasts lift and settle with the motion. You can feel the weight of them shift, the sore prickle of friction where she pulled and twisted and nipped. Her eyes follow the movement, a twitch of hunger barely there in the corner of her mouth.

“I know,” you say, voice neutral. Sweet. Dangerous.

Alexia sighs. Her hand moves through her hair—shorter now, though just enough off to rifle her off split ends. There’s a dent pressed into her hairline from the fabric headband she still wears to play, out of habit more than need. You touch it sometimes in bed, when her back is to you, when her breathing’s heavy but not quite asleep. A thumb against the divot, like a priest touching his rosary.

Her wrists are bare. No jewellery today except for the platinum wedding band you places there twelve days ago, and the thin gold chain at her throat. It holds a Charles X medallion, antique, slightly tarnished. She claims it means nothing. But she wears it every time she signs a deal. Every time she fucks you after one. You’ve seen her in diamonds, emerald-cut and cruel. But nothing sits on her body like that coin.

“There could be press,” she says.

“There could be sharks,” you say. You don’t even look at her. “But that didn’t bother you when you fingered me in sea yesterday.”

You recline against the lounger, the one with the pale linen cover you never sit on dry. Your spine still stings—fibres rubbing into your back while she pinned you there, muttering things too filthy to be translated. The fabric beneath you now is cool, slightly damp from condensation or the aftermath of a very physical forty plus minutes. You cross one ankle over the other, toes flexing idly. The sun toasts your chest. You let it. You want it to tan the shape of her mouth across your breasts.

She doesn’t respond. Not immediately. You know that silence. It means she’s choosing her words, trying not to sound like her mother. Or worse—like the managers, the press officers, the people who shadowed her for years with clipboards and crisis management emails. Alexia never speaks by accident. It’s one of the things that drove you insane when you first met her—this polished, endless restraint. The way she could dress down a boardroom of men, then turn to you and call you mi amor in the same tone.

Like both were contracts. Like both were binding.

Now, she says: “You’re not used to being wanted by people who don’t actually like you.”

And there it is.

It lands like a dare. Like a diagnosis. Like she’s giving you something to chew on, not swallow.

“Is that what this is about?” you say, head tilting. “You think someone’s going to look at me and decide I’m… what? A threat?”

“I think someone’s going to look at you and decide I’m careless,” she says.

You freeze. Not outwardly. Just a beat in your breathing. That’s the thing about her—she never needs to shout. She just drops the knife and waits to see who bleeds first.

Her shadow breaks across your thighs like ink. The sun hits the length of her left leg, slicing down from hip to shin like it’s auditioning for something. She’s all lean geometry and sin. A shape so precise you’d believe it was machine-cut.

You think she might kiss you. You want her not to. Not yet.

She leans in instead, low enough that her voice barely has to travel.

“You’re covered in bruises,” she says, almost admiringly. “I fucked you stupid. You’re wearing nothing but saltwater and lip balm. And you’re sitting here like you’re not my wife, and I didn’t make you like this.”

You swallow. Your throat is dry, like it always gets after she’s done with you—used up and dusted out. Your body throbs in memory. Your cunt still pulses when you shift.

“You did make me like this,” you murmur. Soft. Sincere.

And somewhere in her expression—just for a second—you see it: that twitch of pride she tries not to show. The quiet, sinful satisfaction of ownership.

“Exactly.”

She reaches for your sunglasses—her sunglasses, black Celine with amber lenses and an arm smudged with your thumbprint—and lifts them off your face in one smooth, silent movement. Her fingers graze your cheek, knuckle to jawline, and it’s enough to short-circuit your thoughts. Your brain hums white for a moment. She’s close enough that her breath ghosts across your lips, and you can still smell yourself on her skin—rich, musky, heady, obscene.

She looks at you like she’s weighing options. Like she’s standing in front of a vitrine and trying to decide whether to sell you, pawn you, or buy you back again just to prove she could. There’s a flicker in her eyes, something almost amused. You get the sense she’d fuck you right here on the deck if she thought it would end the conversation.

“You forget this is a game,” she murmurs, voice low and even, like silk slipping through her teeth. “And the thing about games is, someone always plays dirtier than you.”

You blink slowly. Her breath smells like lime and sea salt, fresh and sharp. Her bottom lip is still slightly swollen—faintly bitten, faintly red, with a drying sheen of you along the corner. You imagine licking it off.

“Let them play,” you whisper.

And you mean it. You’re reckless with it. Bare, skin hot and mouth parted, knowing she could undo you again just by slipping her fingers into your bikini bottoms—or worse, pulling them down and walking away.

She smiles, but it’s sharp around the edges. Not cruel, just resigned. As if she already knows how this ends. As if she’s already read tomorrow’s headline and memorised the photo credit.

“You say that now,” she says. “Until they’re in your face asking how much I paid for you. How long you’ve had your tits done. Whether the bruises mean I hit you. Whether I own you or rent you.”

You flinch, but barely. Not from her—never from her. It’s not the words that land. It’s the image of someone else using them. Of a voice you don’t know, speaking in contempt and press passes. Of a cheap hotel room and a slideshow of your body from twenty different angles, taken without permission, captioned without truth.

“I can handle it,” you say, but your voice lacks the usual gloss.

“Can you?” she asks, soft as cashmere. “Because I don’t think you’ve had to yet.”

You want to argue. You want to say you’re not naive. That you’re not a doll or a trophy or some wife-shaped ornament she found at a charity gala and forgot to put down. But the sun is too warm and your skin still buzzes from where she held you down. Your cunt still aches in the best possible way. And deep down, you know she’s right.

You’ve lived wrapped in her world like a pearl in velvet. You’ve been sheltered in her storm—hidden inside her yeses, her private flights, her curated little ecosystem where nothing touches you unless she allows it.

“I like the sun,” you say.

It’s not a counterpoint. It’s not even an argument. Just a truth. You like the heat on your skin. You like being watched. You like the idea that someone, somewhere, might see what she’s done to you and ache with the knowledge that it wasn’t them.

She nods. Stands. Her shadow slips away like an expensive afterthought.

“I’ll talk to Marc,” she says. “Have him revoke the crew’s electronics permissions.”

And then she’s gone. Back into the cool interior, where everything is silent and beige and expensive and untouched. Where the floors don’t creak. Where the cameras can’t follow. Where her phone is probably already ringing and her assistant is already listening.

You stay.

The sea is stupidly blue. Aggressively blue. The kind of rich that makes you feel poor just looking at it. Your nipples are tight. Your skin smells like sweat and sex and suncream. Your pulse is low and steady, like a cat in a warm window. Your lips still taste faintly of her—salt and spit and something deeper.

You don’t know where the camera is. But you’re certain there is one.

You sit perfectly still. Posed. Cinematic. The image already forming in the lens:

Topless. Ruined. Glowing. Defiant.

The kind of wife who knows exactly what she’s risking.

And exactly how good it looks when she does.

🤣🤣

Top of the League, Bottom of the Class

Summary: Y/n’s got energy for days, jokes for every occasion, and zero patience for schoolwork. Too bad Alexia and Leah are determined to make her study, even during international break.

Warnings: Alexia is a bit...stern at the beginning, but I swear she softens up to our girl y/n!!

Word count: 7.4k

Notes: This was based on a request

Masterlist

..

The sun was setting over Barcelona's training ground, it was late already–too late for a certain player to be on the pitch. But Y/n was there, happier than ever, with her headphones on while she trained some dribbling skills with one of the dummies.

The training had ended one hour ago, but some players were still at Barcelona’s training ground, although most of them were having physiotherapy sessions or late gym hours–meaning they were far away from the pitch, so there weren’t any chances Y/n would be caught.

Y/n had a whole thing planned out. After training, she took a shower in the changing room, talked a bit with Jana and Vicky before taking her gym bag and saying goodbye, walking through the door as she rambled about how much homework she had to do when she got home.

But when Jana and Vicky took a left in the corridors, Y/n told them she had forgotten her water bottle–again, so she had to go back and get it. Jana and Vicky watched as Y/n walked. The two girls had no idea that their friend was actually planning yet another training session on the pitch.

Although no one could know about Y/n’s late-night rendezvous, because she actually wasn’t allowed to stay in the training center past 6 pm, Barcelona’s team had created this rule because Y/n got so caught up training after-hours that she didn’t do her homework.

Y/n had to balance school, in between being professional players for Barcelona and England, but the girl couldn't care less about school.

Football was her life. It wasn’t just her passion; it was the one thing that made her feel truly alive. 

She was a star on the pitch, but when it came to school, she was a different story. Books? Boring. Homework? A waste of time. For her, the only subject that mattered was football.

Her grades were slipping…badly. The headmistress at her school had to call Barcelona’s office to talk about it because Y/n’s parents weren’t in the country, and she had no one to take care of

Of course, Barcelona thought it would be a good idea to assign someone to assist and look over Y/n. A normal club would have hired a teacher, or even a babysitter, but since Barcelona had this weird "Som una família" [we’re family] vibes, they assigned no one less than La Reina, Alexia Putellas herself, to be the one to help her with geometry homework.

At first, Y/n thought Alexia wouldn't take it seriously, maybe just to go to some parent-teacher meetings when necessary. But no, Alexia had made it one of her life responsibilities to get Y/n through math classes.

And that’s why she was hiding from Alexia now. She had told the captain that she was going home just before she met with Vicky and Jana. Alexia just nodded and kissed her on the cheeks as she–very weirdly–was the first to go home.

Y/n could easily fit in another hour or two of training before the center actually closed. What if she had history homework? Barcelona had a big game coming up, plus, international dates were just a few weeks away, and she had been called up to the senior squad again–she had to be in top shape.

So Y/n stayed on the pitch. Her headphones on. 

She flicked the ball between her feet to the rhythm of Young Hearts Run Free, lost in the music and movement. She didn’t even hear the footsteps approaching. She only noticed when…

Yank.

A sharp pain ran through her ear as her headphone was pulled out of her head.

"Ouch"! Y/n turned around, rubbing the sore spot. "What the fuck?! That’s child abuse–"

Her eyes found a very, very angry Alexia. Her throat felt dry, as if she couldn't speak.

She was in so much trouble.

Alexia was right in front of her, arms crossed, looking very unhappy. Her hair was down,  her make-up was done, and…wait. Was she wearing…a dress? Huh?

"Ale? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, nena," Alexia said sternly. "How many times have I told you to go straight home after training?"

Y/n looked down, playing with the ball on her feet, feeling her cheeks blushing for getting caught.

"I asked you a question," Alexia said– before kicking the ball from y/n’s feet, sending it rolling into the net.

Goal..yay?

"I just need to train more, Ale!" Y/n said exasperatedly, pointing towards the goal as if to prove her point. “International break is c–”

"International breaks do not matter if you fail school!" Alexia said. "You know you need to present a clean school report to play for the senior squad, right?"

"Yes, I know that," Y/n muttered. 

"It doesn't seem like you do," Alexia said, casually pulling her phone from her purse and holding it up to Y/n’s face.

Oh no, Y/n knew what that meant.

"You got a 2/10 on your biology test, and then a 3/10 on your math test," Alexia said. "First of all, why am I finding out about it through an email? Why didn't you tell me?

"Because you’d get mad at me just like you’re now!" Y/n shot back

"I'm not mad!" Alexia said, voice tight. "I'm disappointed."

Y/n froze and stared at Alexia.

Y/n felt a cold rush go through her body, setting a weight on her chest.

Disappointed? She could handle being yelled at. She could deal with Alexia being frustrated or angry. But disappointment? Y/n didn’t know what to do with this. It felt wrong.

"I make time on my schedule to help you study," Alexia said, her finger counting off each point. "I buy things you need for school projects, I read the same books you need to read for Spanish class to try and motivate you, and this is what I get in return? Slack?’

Y/n felt her eyes fill with tears. She tried to find something to say, but her usual funny and witty comments that would normally get her out of any serious situation were nowhere to be found.

Alexia was looking at her, her eyes and lips tight, her foot tapping on the grass restlessly. She missed the usual gentle and patient Alexia right now more than anything.

"I know you love football, Y/n, but this," Alexia pointed towards the pitch. "Is only a small part of what your life will look like in the future; you need to be ready for more."

Y/n swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, trying not to let Alexia see her tears, but she failed. She quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of her barça hoodie while looking away.

“You need school to move forward, you can be the very best players on the pitch, but if you don’t give the same effort off of it, you’re not going to make it very far,” Alexia’s voice softened just slightly.

Alexia’s words hung in the air as she watched the girl standing in front of her.

“Sorry,” Y/n said quietly, “I shouldn't have hid it from you.”

"Have I ever made you feel like you needed to hide things from me?" Alexia said, taking a step closer and placing her hand on Y/n’s shoulder as she leaned just slightly to be the same height as her eyes.

Y/n shook her head.

“Exactly," Alexia said,  putting a hand on Y/n’s shoulder. “This is the first time I’ve been stern with you, isn’t it?”

Y/n nodded, looking away.

“Will it be the last?” Alexia asked.

Y/n wished she could easily nod along without a second thought, but she also knew how much of a hard time she had with school. But still, she couldn't let it happen again, and couldn't let Alexia get this upset with her.

So she forced the word out. “Yes.”

“Okay, good,”  Alexia said. “Let's go. It's late.”

Without another word, Alexia turned toward the exit, and Y/n followed her.

They didn’t talk on the way out, but the silence wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable. 

The steady weight of Alexia’s hand on her shoulder, and the way she effortlessly picked up Y/n’s training bag and slung it over her own–it was enough.

Y/n didn’t need to hear the words to know that she was forgiven.

They walked through the car park, the night cold and the postlight brightening the way they made Alexia's black car.

Y/n was already thinking of what to expect from the car drive as she rubbed the sting on her ear from where Alexia had oh-so-graciously removed her headphones and tugged at her ear.

They would probably be in a quiet, awkward ride–just her and Alexia’s disappointing sight and, very occasionally, passive-aggressive grips on the steering wheel as Alexia made sure to put on the worst songs ever known to humankind.

Alexia had given Y/n a bunch of rides, so Y/n followed the usual routine of going to the passenger seat, but to her surprise, there was a woman sitting there,

One Y/n had never met. 

Y/n tilted her head, trying to think of every single player of every single women's team in La Liga. No, she wasn’t in any team. Then she thought of the staff of Barcelona… also no.

Yep, Y/n had no clue who this person was.

Y/n slowed her steps, eyebrows furrowing as she took in the unfamiliar woman sitting there. 

She was pretty. Dark hair, and soft features, a warm smile was on her lips as she watched Y/n and Alexia approaching.

Y/n stopped right outside the car, looking between her and Alexia with suspicion. "Uh, Ale? Who is this?"

Alexia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as if already exhausted by the interrogation she knew was coming.

"Y/n, this is Olga. Olga, this is Y/n." Alexia said simply. "You go there," Alexia pointed at the back seat.

Olga turned fully in her seat, extending a hand out the window.

"So you’re the famous nena, huh?" Olga said, smiling genuinely. "Alexia talked a lot about you."

"Oh yeah? She did?" Y/n shook her head before immediately nodding. "I like you already… Olga."

She pulled open the back door and climbed in as Alexia slid into the driver’s seat.

Silence settled over the car as Alexia started driving. Y/n had expected her to be better at small talk, but apparently, she wasn’t.

"So…" Y/n leaned forward, poking her head between the front seats. "Who even are you, Olga?"

"Get back to your seat and put on your seat belt," Alexia said sharply. "And…we were having dinner."

"Having dinner?" Y/n asked.

"Sí"

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"It’s that Italian place near Carrer de Pàdua," Olga finally explained, noticing how Alexia seemed to only give the young girl vague answers. "It’s great!"

"Wait–did you guys go to L'Italiano Perso?" Y/n asked

"Sí," Alexia said again. "We were on a date–"

Y/n’s eyes widened. "Wait. What?" She stopped buckling herself up, being too shocked by Alexia’s revelation.

"A date, Y/n," Alexia said in exasperation, a heavy voice. "You know, when two people who like each other go out…u might not know much about it, but–"

"Since when do you date?!" Y/n interrupted. "And excuse me? I go on plenty of dates! Thank you!"

"Drop it." Alexia sought, tying her hands around the wheel, Y/n could even see the blush of her cheeks

"Oh bloody hell!" Y/n exposed, putting her hand on her own cheeks. "Does your mom know about it? Your sister?"

"If you don’t shut up, I’m stopping at the England embassy to have you deported," Alexia said, deadpanned.

"Ok, that was rude," Y/n said, finishing buckling her seatbelt and leaning her back into her seat. "I can think of a few English people who would love to have me back."

"Let’s get you back to then, maybe this way I can have a proper date once"

The drive was mostly silent after that, Y/n noticed that Alexia's awful music taste was replaced by cool, modern songs. After a few minutes thinking why Y/n saw that it was Olga’s Spotify that was connected to Alexia's car.

Hm. Good piece of information. 

That meant that it wasn’t their first date…

Wait. Fuck

Y/n’s stomach sank.  Alexia was on a date. 

A date that she had to interrupt because of Y/n's stupid irresponsibility

“Oh no!” Y/n said.

“Oh no?” Olga turned to look at her, and then at Alexia, as if the blonde could decipher everything that came out of Y/n’s mouth. “What happened?”

“I ruined your date.” Y/n’s eyes widened. “I'm so sorry, Ale!”

“Nena," she sighed as she held the wheel with one hand and rubbed her temples with the other. “You didn’t ruin anything, don’t worry.”

“No, seriously, I totally ruined your date." Y/n looked between them, horrified. “That’s why you look… so put together all of a sudden! That’s why you were in a dress! I thought that was weird! I’m so–”

“Y/n." Alexia’s voice was sharp, a blush growing into her neck as she avoided making eye contact with Olga, who was biting down a laugh. “Shut. Up.”

Y/n pouted. “But did I really ruin it?”

Alexia sighed. “We were having dinner, and then I got that email about your grades, and I got mad. So I drove to your house, and when you weren’t there, I knew exactly where you’d be.”

"Uh…oops?." Y/n cringed.

Y/n realised she could never be captain. Imagine being on a date and receiving an email from a kid–that wasn’t even your kid– saying they went bad on a test about cell division and having to drop everything to go look for them? Nope.

Olga turned in her seat again, resting her chin on her palm as she looked at Y/n. “You know, if you wanted to sabotage Alexia’s love life, there are easier ways.”

Y/n quickly caught Olga’s teasing tone and smiled at her.

"I wasn’t trying to sabotage, I was just training, I swear!" Y/n laughed, loving watching how Alexia’s eyes rolled.

"Instead of doing your homework," Alexia added, making a U-turn.

Y/n groaned, dramatically. "I get it, I get it, I’m a disappointment, bla bla bla"

"You’re not a disappointment," Alexia rolled her eyes. "Stop being dramatic, you’re just–"

“An academic disaster?” Y/n offered an awkward smile on her face.

“A headache.” Alexia finished.

“You two are fun," Olga said, placing a hand on Alexis's thigh. "It makes me laugh.”

Y/n grinned. "Does that mean I can be the third wheel all the time?"

"No," Alexia said

"We’ll see," Olga said at the same time, winking at Y/n.

Y/n sat up quickly, having a bright idea. "Well, if that’s how it’s gonna be, I might as well ask… Olga, do you know anything about mitosis and meiosis? I’ve got a test coming up..."

Alexia immediately shot a glare at her. "Y/n, no. Stop bothering Olga."

Y/n put her hands up defensively. "Hey, I’m just trying to help my education!"

"Maybe you should help yourself first," Alexia mumbled.

"You know, you should listen to your captain before she strangles you," Olga said, laughing. 

Y/n watched as Alexia smirked at Olga…Smirked!

"Okay, ew!" Y/n said, "Was that…flirting? Please stop the car so I can throw up."

"Oh Déu meu, nena, calla!" Alexia snapped.

Y/n squinted her eyes. "I have no idea what you just said, Alexia, but I bet it was rude!".

But then, Y/n noticed something strange.

Y/n leaned forward, confusion in her eyes. "Wait a minute...why aren’t you driving me home?"

"I’m going to school with you tomorrow," Alexia said casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all. "It’s easier if you sleep at mine, I’ll drop by your house in the morning so you can get your school bag and then we can head out from the..."

Y/n raised her eyebrows. "What? Why are you going to school with me?"

“They want to talk about your grades and about the next international break –you’ll be three weeks out of school, they want to see how we can organize your school work.”

"Okay, but they can talk to me about it," Y/n said. "Why do they want you there

"Why do they want me there? Nena, did I  give you an earful for nothing?" Alexia glanced at her, impatience in her voice. "I’m responsible for you! They want to make sure you’ll have an actual adult looking out for your education."

"So you’re coming with me—" Y/n said carefully.  "Like, as a parent?"

"Sí," Alexia replied, completely unfazed. 

"Oh, come on, Ale! This is so embarrassing!"Y/n threw herself back into her seat, groaning. "Don’t you have training or something better to do?"

"Sí, I do actually," Alexia simply said. “And I’ll be very happy at training tomorrow if I didn’t have to go talk to the headmistress, but since someone needs to keep an eye on you, I’ll be the one to do it."

Alexia paused for a second, then added, "Also, you’re benched for the next two games."

"What? No!" Y/n yelled.

"Sí."

"You can’t do that!"

Alexia turned to her with a calm expression. "I just did, nena.”

Y/n ran her hands through her face dramatically. “You’re ruining my career, forever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexia waved off with one hand. “You’ll survive.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“We’ll see that.”

Y/n groaned again and rolled her eyes.

"You beware, Olga," Y/n mumbled, crossing her arms and looking out of the window. "She’s always this pain in the a–"

"You just won yourself another game on the bench," Alexia said. “Wow, that’s got to be a new personal record, huh?”

Looked at Alexia through the rearview mirror, indignation on her face. 

Olga raised her eyebrows, biting back a grin as she watched Y/n’s reaction. She gave her leg a light pat, offering no real support.

"Oh, rough amiga, but maybe you can study a bit while you’re on the sideline."

"You know what, Olga," Y/n said with a betrayed look in her eyes. "I don’t like you anymore."

..

When they finally reached Alexia’s house, Y/n was determined to get back at Alexia for being so… she wasn't actually sure. A responsible adult?A good guardian? It didn’t matter the reasoning, she just wanted to annoy Alexia.

But now, after meeting Olga, Y/n realized there were even better and more efficient ways to annoy Alexia.

As they stepped inside, Y/n noticed how familiar Olga seemed with the place, so she couldn’t help but smirk, and she formulated a plan.

"It’s your first time here?" Y/n asked, casually tossing her gym bag by the door.

"Nena," Alexia warned, making sure Y/n knew Alexia was very aware of what she was doing.

"Oh, no," Olga said, flashing Y/n a smile. "I’ve been here before… You know, movie nights and stuff like that."

"Oh yeah," Y/n said, dragging out the words with insinuation. "Movie night, I get it," she winked at Olga.

"So where am I sleeping?" Y/n asked, changing her attention from Olga to Alexia.

"Guest room."

"But you only have one guest room!" Y/n protested, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah? And?" Alexia shrugged, her tone casual. "You’re only one person."

"But where’s Olga sleeping?" Y/n pressed, leaning in with a teasing grin.

"In my room," Alexia replied nonchalantly, trying not to make a big deal about it so Y/n wouldn’t make a big deal about it. 

But of course, Alexia was wrong.

Y/n shot a playful glance at Olga, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, okay," she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone then…don’t wanna get in the way of more than just the date, you know."

Olga bit back a laugh, but Alexia turned to Y/n with a look that could kill.

"Go. Now." Alexia pointed toward the stairs. "And do all your homework for tomorrow. I’ll check in during breakfast."

All the playfulness drained from Y/n’s face.

"All my homework?” Y/n whined, “It’s a lot of stuff and it’s late already!”

"Should’ve thought of that before sneaking out to the pitch," Alexia said, her voice emotionless.

Y/n groaned dramatically. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah. It’s part of the job," Alexia said, waving her off like it was nothing. "Now go."

..

Y/n did what Alexia asked of her, or at least…she tried.

She had to do homework for basically every subject because she didn’t get any work done during the week, so it was all piling up. She grabbed Alexia’s notebook from her room before accessing her school website and logging in to see every assignment and reading she had to do, and it was a lot.

She began her while lying on the bed, reading slide presentations and watching some YouTube videos about the subjects. It helped a little, but everything was still so blurry in her head.

Why did she have to learn geometry? Or learn about the deep history of every country in Europe? 

The girl groaned and closed the notebook, putting it aside.

She was dumb. That's what it was.

Y/n was always the slowest in class, the last kid to learn how to read or to spell, the one you absolutely didn't go to if you had questions about school work. Y/ns teachers also made sure she knew how bad she was compared to other students.

She felt inferior and worthless whenever she was in school. But when she was on the pitch? She was good–one of the best, even!

That’s why she didn't like to do homework, it reminded her how much harder she had to work compared to others just to get a 6/10.

Y/n rolled her eyes and turned around, she turned around a lot before she was actually able to fall asleep.

..

Y/n woke up to the sound of her phone ringing and vibrating aggressively under her pillow. She barely had time to process what was happening, and she looked at the screen on the phone, confused, reading the name Leah Williamson.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes, knowing exactly why Leah was calling. She had barely survived Alexia’s lecture, and now she is going to have to hear through another one.

With a deep breath, Y/n clicked the green button on the screen. "If this is about the email, I–"

"What email?" Leah's voice came on, slightly confused.

"Hmm… this isn’t about the email?"

"No, this is about you not doing your homework–according to Alexia" There was a pause. "Should I be checking my email too?"

Y/n cursed under her breath before replying. "No! No email. Forget I said that…I just woke up, so I must have, hm, dreamed about…emails"

"Uhum,” Leah said sarcastically. "I’ll be asking Alexia about that later…Now tell me what the hell is going on with you? Sneaking to the pitch? Really?"

Y/n winced. "Leah, I’ve already talked to Alexia about it, I don’t need you too–"

"Yes, you do need me to talk to you because it seems like you think you’re your own person, but you are only sixteen.”

“Leah!” Y/n groaned.

"No, Y/n. You don’t get to complain. You promised you’d take school seriously." Leah said, and Y/n quickly remembered the numerous times Leah had also lectured her about it during camp. "And don’t try the ‘football is all I need’ argument, because you and I both know that’s not true."

Y/n pressed her lips together, knowing full well she wouldn’t win this one. She kept quiet, scared to say the wrong thing and make Leah even more mad.

"I’m serious, Y/n. You need to get your act together. Alexia’s worried!" Leah said. "She told me it wasn't the first time that you played football instead of studying! You need to learn your responsibilities."

Y/n muttered something that Leah couldn't understand..

"What was that?" Leah asked

"I said that Alexia is a snitch."

"She’s a snitch because you didn't tell me first," Leah said. "But since I need to have the Alexia Putellas on my phone giving me updates about your school life, we both decided to do things in our own way."

Y/n gulped, scared of whatever Alexia and Leah had planned together

"You can expect a lot, and I mean a lot of textbooks in your room when you get to camp," Leah said. "I’ll keep a close eye on you here in England, and Alexia will do the same when you’re in Barcelona; we won’t let you keep this on."

"Serious kid," Leah continued. "You moved to Spain on your own at sixteen, you have your own house, you’re talented, but you refuse to do a few math exercises? Come on, mate"

"I’m sorry," Y/n muttered. "I’ll be better, I’m just…"

"What?" Leah asked, her voice softer now.

"I'm dumb, okay!" Y/n blurted out before she could stop herself. "I don’t get things quickly, and it just—it doesn’t stick like it does with other people."

"Hey, don’t say that," Leah cut in, her voice sharp with concern. "Struggling with school doesn’t make you dumb, you’re smart, kid. You wouldn’t be where you are if you weren't."

"It doesn't seem like that most of the time," y/n said in a low voice.

"You might not see it," Leah said. "But the people around you certainly do, that’s why we keep pushing you, we know you can do much better."

"Look, I have to go," Y/n sighed. "Alexia apparently has to go to school with me today."

"Okay, kid, we’ll talk later, then," Leah said. "Good luck with that! Love you, bye!"

"Love you too," y/n said before she hung up the phone and put it aside.

Y/n rubbed the sleep off of her eyes, and that’s when she heard the door crack open.

"You’re not dumb, nena," Alexia said, firm but gentle.

Y/n’s head snapped up. "Ale! Were you…eavesdropping on my conversation?"

"Sí," Alexia replied without hesitation, crossing her arms. "You’re loud, and I was coming to tell you breakfast is ready."

Y/n groaned, sinking further into her seat. "Unbelievable."

Alexia didn’t waver. She leaned forward slightly, her expression serious. "Cariño, listen to me. You are not dumb. Don’t ever say that again, do you understand?"

Y/n hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. "I just have a really hard time with…school.”

“Then we’ll get you help,” Alexia sighed, stepping closer to Y/n and sitting on the bed by her side. “But first you need to try, you can’t give up like that.”

“We’ll figure it out, sí?” Alexia continued. “I’ll talk to your teachers today, and we’ll think of something.

Y/n nodded, a little more reassured. "Okay."

“Girls!” y/n heard Olga calling from downstairs. “Your breakfast is getting cold!”

“Breakfast, huh?” Y/n nudged Alexia with her shoulder. “Should I get used to seeing Olga around?”

Alexia rolled her eyes, ignoring Y/n and extending her hand, palm open. 

“Let me see your homework.”

“Oh come on, mate!”

..

When Alexia said she'd find Y/n some help, she really wasn’t joking.

She had created a whole schedule that balanced football, school, and dedicated study time. She even printed it out and made Y/n hang it in her room, so she’d always know what her day looked like.

Since she was a student-athlete, she only attended school for half the day, doing the rest online. Her schedule was packed—morning classes, lunch, training, online lessons, more training, and homework. That last part? She used to skip it. But now, with Alexia’s plan written out for her, she actually stuck to it.

At first, Y/n thought she’d hate it. That she'd never get used to it. But having a routine was so much easier than doing whatever came to her mind. Plus, her schedule included team study nights, and those turned out to be some of the most fun days of the week.

“I don’t get it,” Aitana said, holding her biology book close to her face, eyes squinted. “It looks so weird.”

Pina turned the book, which was upside down– for her. “Maybe this way is better.”

“No,” Aitana shook her head. “Still weird.”

Y/n was in the middle of writing an essay when their conversation caught her attention. She looked up and scooted close to Aitana and Pina.

“What are you guys looking at?” Y/n asked.

“This,” Aitana said, pointing at the page.

Y/n furrowed her eyebrows “Oh, that’s how the replication of DNA goes.” Y/n said casually, coming back to her work. “You know, double string, DNA polymerase, nucleic acids.”

There was silence.

“And since when did you know that?” Pina finally asked.

Y/n shrugged, getting back at her assay. “Just do.”

“Oh,” Aitana muttered, back to the books. “Alexia is for sure going to love that.”

“Please make sure to tell her,” Y/n sighed dramatically.  “So she can take me off the bench already,” 

..

Y/n had just finished a painfully online lesson when her phone rang. She barely glanced at the screen before answering.

“What?”

“Hello to you too, sunshine,” Leah's dry voice came through.

“I’m busy,” Y/m said, taking the pencil she was holding off of her mouth before taking a new textbook and putting it on her study table.

“Too busy for your favorite captain?” Leah teased.

“Oh, I didn’t know this was Alexia,” Y/n said, teasing Leah back;

“You’re awful.”

“Not as awful as school,” Y/n groaned, letting her head fall on the open textbook.

“That bad?” Leah hummed.

“I had to write a whole page about the First Carlist War, it took like an hour!”

“Wow, a whole page,” Leah snorted. “I’m impressed you survived that.”

“You said that because you aren’t the one having to write about dead people after an excruciating training session.”

“Yeah, if you actually did your work, maybe Alexia wouldn’t have to babysit you and make that schedule.”

“She doesn’t babysit me!” Y/n scowled. Offended. “I still live alone and-”

“Oh really?” Leah interrupted. “Then what’s that piece of paper in your room that tells you exactly when to eat, sleep, study… breathe.”

“It’s a routine, Leah.”

“Yeah, routines are like fancy for babysitting teens,” Leah said. “But seriously, though, I'm happy you're actually following it, keep it up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Y/n huffed, but her lips twitched in a small smile “Don't worry.”

“Okay, kid, gotta go now,” Leah said. “I’m looking forward to your thrilling Carlist War facts when you get to camp next week.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure you listen to them,” Y/n shot back, but it sounded more like a dare.

..

“Are you really sure this is a healthy way of studying?” Salma asked, eying the situation with doubt.

When Y/n had called her, Vick and Jana to her flat for a ‘Girl’s Night’, a Don Quixote quiz wasn’t something she was expecting.

“It seems like fun to me,” Vick said with a grin. “Go on, Salma, ask her already.”

Salma sighed but turned to Y/n, while Jana stood next to her, holding a pillow threateningly close to Y/n’s face. “Alright—why is the narrator of Don Quixote so different when compared to other books?”

Y/n groaned, “Ugh– okay! The narrator is different because the author itself is the one telling the story. But he, uh, kind of switches styles to first person sometimes to give some insight about the story, so it’s like he’s the narrator and a character,” she said quickly, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the impact,

Silence.

“Oh, come on,” Vick said, disappointed, glancing down at the little card in Salma‘s hand .“She’s right.”

Jana lowered the pillow dramatically. “Salma! Ask harder questions!”

“You guys are supposed to be helping me study for my literature test, not trying to beat me up with a pillow!” Y/n complained. “Give me some credit here!”

Salma flipped through the flashcards. “Okay, fine…Um, what does the character Dulcinea mean to the story?”

Y/n widened her eyes and opened her mouth. “Oh, hm, it’s like–”

Whack.

Jana didn't even wait for Y/n to say anything before hitting her on the face–hard.

“Jana!” Y/n complained, shoving the pillow away from her face and rubbing at the sore spot on her nose. “I knew that one! She exemplifies the emptiness behind Don quixote's quest for valor and virtue or some shit like that!.”

Salma hesitantly checked on her notes. “–Hm, yeah, she’s right.”

“See!” y/n said, pointing accusingly at Jana. “I was right, you shouldn't have hit me.”

“Oh, she should have hit you harder for being such a nerd,” Vicky mumbled

“Ok, that’s bullying,” Y/n said. “I'll report you to Aitana.”

...

A week later, Alexia stood with Y/n at the airport, arms crossed as she eyed her sternly. “Do your homework, Y/n. I’m serious. And if you have trouble, FaceTime me and we’ll do it together.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Last time you tried to help me, you didn’t understand it either.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Olga helped you, though, so FaceTime her if you need to."

"You’re just trying to find reasons for me to interact with Olga because we’re like.. your favourite people in the world," Y/n smirked. 

Alexia ignored the comment and continued, “And I’ll call Leah to make sure you’re keeping up with everything we agreed on.”

"Great. Two captains breathing down my neck. Love that for me." Y/n groaned, throwing her head back dramatically.

"You’ll survive, cariño,” Alexia smirked. “Now go before you miss your flight.

..

Y/n was a smart girl, so she made sure to finish most of her homework on the flight to England. That way, when she got to camp, she wouldn’t have to stress over schoolwork too much.

“Hey,” Aggie and Grace greeted as they walked into the room.

The three of them were sharing a room at camp, though Aggie had seriously considered complaining about it. 

Every night, Y/n sprawled herself and a ridiculous number of books and notebooks across the floor, creeping very closely to Aggie’s side of the room.

“Wanna go out with us?” Aggie asked, leaning in the doorway. “We’re all heading to that restaurant we talked about.”

Y/n immediately looked up from her book, grinning as she pushed herself up, kicking her books aside. “Yes! You know I’ll never turn down a night out–”

“Have you done your math homework?”

The voice came from behind Aggie and Grace. Both girls instinctively stepped aside.

Leah.

Y/n’s excitement disappeared in seconds. Her shoulders dropped, and her grin turned into a frown. “Le, come on! It’s halfway done. I’ll finish it when I get back.”

“No,” Leah said simply. “You finish it first, then you go out.”

There was no room for argument. Leah was already disappearing down the hallway before Y/n could even think of an excuse.

“I hate this.” Y/n groaned dramatically as she flopped onto Aggie’s bed, ignoring the judgment of the girl's eyes. “I hate school. I hate math. I hate Leah.”

“I think she’s still in the hallway,” Grace whispered.

“It’s alright,” Y/n groaned, “she knows how I feel.”

Y/n mourned her lost night out for a short thirty seconds before she had a brilliant idea. She turned around on the bed, facing the girls, her best puppy dog eyes on her face as she silently pleaded for help.

Grace and Aggie exchanged a look. They both sighted, already regretting it.

“Okay, fine,” Grace said. “We’ll help you finish it faster.”

Y/n happily got off the bed and picked up the math book she had so dramatically kicked under the bed earlier. She flipped to the exercises page and showed it to them.

Both Grace and Aggie squinted their eyes.

“Wait,” Aggia frowned, looking at it closer. “What is this? Where are the–numbers?”

“It’s algebra,” Y/n muttered. “It only has letters.”

“How are we supposed to calculate anything if it doesn't have any number?” Grace asked, despair on her face.

“I'm so not going out tonight,” Y/n said hopelessly.

“I mean..” Aggie began hesitantly. “What’s the worst that could happen if you just…didn’t do it?”

“Yeah,” Grace nodded. “It’s not like Leah would, I don’t know…punch you or anything.”

Y/n went still, but then, with a slow and heavy sigh, she closed the textbook, looking at the wall, as if she was staring into the void. “She’d do something much worse than punching me.”

Aggie and Grace shared another nervous glance. “Like–?” Aggie asked.

“She’d tell Alexia,” Y/n said, eyes full of dread.

“Oh,” Grace paled.

“Yep,” Y/n nodded. “And Alexia would definitely make me do some boxing classes with her just so she could punch me in a non-illegal way.”

Aggie swallowed. “Alright,” she said, trying to shake her fear. “Let’s, hm, do some…math.”

Y/n smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

Algebra wasn't easy. At all.

Aggie, Grace and Y/n tried very hard, but they took 30 minutes to do one exercise–and they weren’t even sure if it was right.

“This isn’t working,” Y/n groaned, staring down at the ruined page in front of her. The paper was ripped in half from how many times she had erased her answer. “We need another plan.”

“I know what we could do, actually,” Aggie announced.

Y/n and Grace perked up. “What?”  Y/n asked hopefully.

“Lucy,” Aggie said in a lower voice, leaning in. “She could do that in like… 20 minutes”.

Y/n blinked. “Lucy?”

“And since when does Lucy know anything about algebra?” Grace frowned.

“She doesn’t,” Aggie admitted. “But we don’t need her knowledge. We need her personality.”

“You better not make me regret it,” Y/n said, “If Leah knows about it I'm gonna be screwed.”

“Relax, leave it out to me.” Aggia waved a hand dismissively.

With that, Aggie confidently grabbed the textbook and walked out of the room, leaving Y/n and Grace apprehensive.

Half an hour had passed before Aggie finally walked back in, holding the textbook as if she had just stolen it somewhere.

“I did it,” Aggie announced happily.

Grace and Y/n got out of the bed they were sitting on. “No way,” Grace murmured.

“How the fuck did she do that?” Y/n asked, snatching the book from Aggie’s hand, flipping the pages in disbelief.

“She did them all?” Grace asked, peeking behind Y/n’s shoulder.

All forty exercises. All done.

In Y/n’s defense, she had made twenty-five of them before Aggie and Grace had come to the room, so technically Lucy didn’t do all the homework for her– Lucy just… helped.

“What did you do, Aggie?” Y/n asked, mouth slightly open from the surprise.

“I dared her,” Aggie said, shrugging casually.

“You…dared her?” Grace asked.

“Yep! Knocked into her room and said I dared she could do those,” Aggie pointed at the book with her chin. “Lucy’s very competitive, so of course she said yes without asking any questions–she just snatched the book out of my hand and went to work.”

“Oh wow,” Y/n Grace.

“You’re like an evil genius,” Y/n said, shaking her head in amazement.

Y/n sat back, flipping through the pages in awe. “Lucy actually did it. Oh. My. God.”

“Oh, yeah,” Aggie said casually. “And then she asked if there were more.”

Y/n and Grace exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“We have got to use this against her more often,” Y/n muttered. “I feel like we just discovered a gold mine.”

“Exactly,” Aggie smirked. “Now let’s get ready, we have a night out waiting for us.”

..

The rest of the camp was unfazed. Y/n actually did all of her homework–by herself–and she didn’t even have to ask Lucy to do it. A true miracle.

It was safe to say Y/n was learning something.

Leah and Alexia were proud of her–even though, technically, she hadn’t mentioned the whole algebra episode to either of them. 

But it only happened once…It wasn’t like they were going to find out.

She just needed to make sure Lucy would stay away from Leah, or else she would be dead.

Literally dead. Gone.

Football would lose one of ot’s brightest stars.

..

The flight back home was good. 

Y/n actually enjoyed her flight this time because she had no school work to do, a feeling she hadn’t felt in weeks. And the best part? Coming back to Barcelona after winning four games during the international break.

That feeling was great. But not having to take a cab home because Alexia was waiting at the airport for her was even better.

When Y/n spotted the blonde before waving and grinning. She ran to her and practically crashed into Alexia’s arm, her suitcase rolled somewhere behind her.

“I see you missed me,” Alexia teased, wrapping the girl in a hug.

“No, I didn’t,” Y/n mumbled, her face buried in Alexia’s hoodie.

Y/n loved England. It was her home–the place where she grew up, where her real family lived. It reminded her of her childhood, of play dates with her cousin and road trips with her parents.

But Spain was hers. The place she chose, surrounded by people she picked. It was different 

“Leah told me you were actually good,” Alexia murmured. “Did everything, didn’t skip any online school.” 

Alexia and Y/n walked through the airport.

“Yeah! What can I do? I’m actually smart when I want to be,” Y/n smiled..

Alexia hummed, but this time with a hint of amusement.

“So you imagine my surprise,” Alexia continued casually. “When Lucy texted me–something she hadn't done since she left Barcelona–saying she wanted to do more of your ‘exercises’, that they were cool.”

Y/n froze.

She felt her blood run cold, and she suddenly stopped. Alesia took two steps before realizing Y/n wasn’t by her side.

Alexia turned to look at her, eyebrow raised.

Fuck you Lucy, Texting Alexia? About algebra exercises?

“I, hm– well” Y/n’s brain short-circuited. “I can explain it?”

Alexia just stared.

Y/n’s mouth opened and closed. “So, technically, I did do my algebra homework.”

Alexia gave her an unimpressed, tired look.

“Like… twenty-five of them to be more exact.”

Silence.

“Which is most of them.” Y/n continued. “So you can’t be mad at me for that.”

“Does Leah know about it?” Alexia asked.

“Yes.”

Silence again

Alexia hummed and picked up her phone from her pocket. “So if I just called her right now and asked–”

“No!” Y/n blurted out, taking the phone from Alexia’s hand, “I mean–why bother her? She’s a busy woman! Euro winner and all, let’s not waste her time with…math.”

Alexia breathed through her nose, shaking her head as she calmed down. Then, the tiniest smirk appeared on her face.

Y/n was scared of what was coming.

“You’re helping clean the training center for a month.”

“No!” Y/n said dramatically.

“Sí

“Ale! Are you serious?”

“I am serious.”

“A whole month?!” Y/n rubbed her hands through her face.

“Sí.”

“Even the locker rooms?” 

“Especially the locker rooms, nena”

Y/n groaned and dragged her feet after Alexia.

“Will you tell Leah?” Y/n asked, her voice small, hoping it would make Alexia go softer.

Alexia paused for half a second–just enough to give Y/n hope. But then Alexia turned around, an annoyingly fond look on her face.

“That depends,” Alexia said. “Will you start taking your academic responsibilities more seriously?”

Y/n placed a finger on her chin, looking up. “Hmm…define ‘seriously’ first.”

Alexia sighed, already regretting giving the girl any choice.

..

Please let me know what u guys think!! Hope you liked it!!!

Masterlist

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

And through the clouds, I see love shine

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

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

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

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

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

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

Ricardo means well, you know that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

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

Flirting is a universal language, though.

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

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

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

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

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

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

Maybe you do have a type.

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

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

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

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

“Creo que sí”

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

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

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

It’s mostly his fault.

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

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

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

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

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

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

“It was a good relationship”

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

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

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

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are, tonta!”

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

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

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

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

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

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

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

~

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

“I miss you so much, Elena”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

The guys are planning something.

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

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

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

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

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

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

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

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

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

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

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

“What if they lose?”

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

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

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

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

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you?”

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

“No way!”

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

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

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

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

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

Her smile dims slightly.

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

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

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

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

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

You’re definitely not going to complain.

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

“What if I’m not joking?”

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

Did they just raid the whole shop?

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

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

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

As simple as that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

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

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

~

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

It goes well.

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

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

“Good one?”

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

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

Sports people are scary.

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

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

With a return ticket in hand.

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

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

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

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

“You grow up so much”

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

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

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

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

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

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

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

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

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

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

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

Now you almost call it home.

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

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

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

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

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

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

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

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

Then, she speaks up.

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

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

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

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

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

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

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

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

What a mistake.

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

“That’s not–”

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

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

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

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

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

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

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

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

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

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

That's not the point right now.

~

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

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

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

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

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

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

It’s not a date.

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

It’s not a date, obviously.

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

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

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

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

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

“Fuck you”

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

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

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

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

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

She’s seen it before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

“You had fun?”

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

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

“I was waiting for you”

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

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

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know”

“That obvious?”

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you need it a lot.

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

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

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

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

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

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

But being in love?

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

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

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

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

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

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

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

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

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alba!”

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

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

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

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

“Nothing happened between us”

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

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

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

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

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

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

“Elena, I’m serious”

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

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

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

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

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

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

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

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

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

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t believe a word she says”

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

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

“She’s in the bathroom”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You dated my sister?”

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

“She said–”

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

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

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

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

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

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

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

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

You do, however, learn some new words.

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

“I said nothing”

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

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

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

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

“After more than a year?”

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

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

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

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

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

“You’re learning Catalan?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know what that means”

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

Nothing but love. 

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

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

She knows.

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together.

❤️

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 7 Other Parts

Word Count: 10K

It’s cold in the treatment room. Not freezing just sharp, clinical. The air smells like antiseptic and gauze, the hum of the fluorescent lights loud in the silence. No players. No noise. Just the slow rhythm of your breath, jagged and uneven, and the quiet shuffle of a medic preparing saline and bandages.

You’re half-seated on the treatment table, kit stripped down to your sports bra, skin blooming with bruises one across your ribs, one already formed beneath your cheekbone, angry and swollen.

The pain is sharper now that you’re still, no more adrenaline to cover it. The physio works in silence for the first few minutes. Gloves on, gentle hands, a cold compress wrapped around your ribs. Gauze pressed gently to your face.

“Breathe through your nose,” she murmurs when you flinch. “Slowly. You’re alright.” You do. You try. It hurts. She dabs the blood away. “We’ll get the doc to check for a fracture. You’ve taken quite the walk and by the swelling and bruise it wouldn't surprise me if somethings broke”

You don’t answer. You’re staring at the wall the blankness of it. The stark light of a mounted screen still looping the broadcast. It’s on mute, but you catch it:

Your fourth goal, then the replay, your head to the ball, the defender’s boot. The fall.

You turn away, the medic catches it, “Want me to switch it off?”

You shake your head. “No.”

It stays on, not because you want to see it, but because it happened and you're still here. You close your eyes for a moment just to breathe. The room buzzes around you, distant, unreal and then your phone buzzes from the counter.

You don’t look, not yet, because you know who it is and you need one more breath before you’re ready to see her name on that screen.

The doctor finishes the last stitch with practiced hands, her voice low and even as she snips the thread at your cheek. “You’re lucky,” she says, not unkindly. “Could’ve been worse.”

You’re reclined slightly on the treatment table now, eyes half-closed, one hand curled around a half-empty water bottle, the other limp in your lap.

They’ve cleaned you up mostly, your cheek still stings, numbed but tight beneath the fresh white bandage. The split skin near your eye stitched neatly, though the swelling’s already giving you a half-closed squint.

Your nose is broken but other than cleaning it up you're told there's not much else they can do, the dull ache pressing from the inside out makes you feel sick.

And your ribs bruised, not broken, but burn whenever you breathe too deeply.

“She’ll need imaging when we get back to club,” the doctor says to the medic at her side. “Hairline fracture of the zygomatic bone. Stable. Broken nose minor. Clean break. No concussion. Somehow." She says that last part with a note of disbelief.

You manage a whisper. “Just stubborn.”

She gives you a look. “You don’t say.”

There’s a pause.

Then, “I'll sure you’ll be sidelined for a few weeks. Minimal contact. You’ll be back for the end of the season for sure, but… not next week. Not the one after that.”

You nod, slow and stiff, it’s not a surprise, you felt it when you went down, you knew something cracked, but now it’s real.

She hands you a mirror, you hesitate, then lift it. Your reflection is… brutal. Your cheekbone is swollen, the stitches red and raw, your nose is taped, skin yellowing around the bridge from where the blood’s settled, your mouth is split at the corner.

You stare for a moment. Then lower it without flinching.

The doctor finishes making notes. “The pain meds should kick in soon,” she says gently. “Someone’ll check in before we leave”

You nod slowly as you move to sit on the edge of the bed, "Can you pass me that coat?" You reach your hand out

Ajan furrows his brows at you, "Why?"

"I've got no shirt on and I need some air, I want to watch the last 10 minutes"

"Y/N I don't think that's a good idea"

You slid off the bed, "I'll just get it myself"

Ajan sighed at your stubbornness turning to grab the coat, "Fine, but you're sitting next to me, I'm keeping my eye on you"

You nod sliding the coat on, he sees you fiddling to zip it before doing it for you at your pathetic attempt, "My head spins when I look down" you mutter

"Are you sure she doesn't have a concussion?"

The physio nodded, "We did the test twice, she passed both times"

⚽️

You step out of the tunnel slowly, coat wrapped tight around your shoulders, a medic still at your side even though you insisted you were fine. You’re not in boots now just sliders and bandages and the dull, echoing ache of every muscle in your body reminding you what you’ve just gone through.

The crowd doesn’t notice at first why would they? You’re not subbing on. You’re not doing anything but sitting down.

The ones who know are the ones who watched you take every hit and still make magic, they see you.

Beth lifts her head from the bench and gets to her feet to come to you as you're stood in the technical box Sarina chatting to you about your injuries, you let Beth tuck under your arm as her arms come around you.

Georgia clocks you next as she's subbed off, you give them a small nod. That’s all you’ve got right now.

You sink slowly onto the bench beside Georgia, Beth claiming the chair the other side and pull your coat tighter. The air hits your cheek and it burns, but you don’t flinch.

You’re not here to be comfortable, you’re here to finish it, and across the pitch a few figures in red shift. Mapi says something and nudges her, Jana leans forward, nodding, Patri straight up points.

And then Alexia looks up, follows the line of Patri's hand and finds you her expression shifts. Not fast. Not big. The worry is still there threaded through her jaw, her brow, but her shoulders soften.

You turn your attention back to the pitch, but the heat you feel down your spine, that’s her. Still watching.

You’re sat low on the bench, legs stretched slightly out in front of you.

The stadium is buzzing, full of that final-minute energy the game is already won, 4–1, the result never in question anymore. England’s pressing, but it’s clean now. Calm.

And then you hear it, a cheer rises not for a goal, not for a tackle, it spreads, louder, rowdier and familiar.

You frown slightly, then glance up at the screen above the far end of the pitch. It’s you, big as anything, sitting quiet watching.

Not doing much of anything at all but the crowd roar.

And then the chant starts, from one pocket of fans, rippling into another, until it takes over,

“YN’s on fire, your defence is terrified!”

You blink then laugh low, stunned as the camera lingers on your face, you go a little shy. You shake your head, ducking it slightly, lips pressed together in an embarrassed but charmed smile. One hand lifts to your cheek without thinking the good one like you’re trying to cover your face, but the camera catches the smile anyway.

And behind the noise, you steal one more glance across the pitch to the opposite stand, where red hoodies still sit Alexia is smiling, soft and proud and looking a little relieved.

You drop your gaze to your knees, smiling quietly to yourself and whisper, barely under your breath “…idiots.” But you don’t stop smiling.

⚽️

The whistle blows, the home crowd erupts, you’re already on your feet. Stiff. Slow. Pain flaring in your ribs with each shift of weight but you walk.

Wrapped in your coat, face still swollen, you step off the bench and onto the pitch, boots traded for sliders, gait uneven but steady. Determined.

Your teammates notice instantly.

Beth rushes over, throws a careful arm around your shoulders mindful of the bandage on your face. “You stubborn legend,” she says, beaming.

Georgia’s next, clapping your back a little too hard you wince, and she grimaces. “Sorry, sorry, forgot you’re held together with tape now.”

Leah appears too, hugging you gently from the side. “Still got the best chant of the night.”

You wave her off, blushing slightly. “Don’t start.”

They’re all here now surrounding you, checking, smiling. And you nod through it all, repeating the same three words, over and over:

“I’m fine. Just sore."

The lap begins slow, informal, arms waving to the crowd, you follow them around the pitch, keeping to the back coat zipped up to your throat, moving slow, ribs tight.

You pass the section where you know she’s standing, you don’t look at first, just wave to the crowd behind there section. Finally you glance sideways, Alexia is leaning forward on the barrier, her hands gripping the edge, her expression tight and concerned.

Her eyes meet yours, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just gives you a look, one you know is asking if you're ok, you don’t stop, you just nod once.

Because just behind the barrier, a familiar voice yells your name.

Your little brothers bouncing with joy, you jog over, face lighting up properly now for the first time since you left the tunnel. “You coming?” you ask, they nod, wide-eyed.

Your dad lifted the younger one over the rail while the older clambers down with help from security. He checked on you as the boys were excitedly waiting on the pitch for you, "I'm ok I promise, just a couple stitches"

"Sure? They sending you home?"

"I don't know maybe, I'm not concussed so no real reason to not play the next game if I can keep the swelling down"

"Y/N"

You laugh gently, "I'm a big girl dad I'm fine" you walk backwards, "When have I ever quit?" you holler back with a smile

"Never that's the problem!" Your dad couldn't help the smile he had shaking his head, you had that cheeky grin on your face you'd had since you were a kid as you started shimming to the music playing, "Fuck off" he jerked his thumb laughing gently at you, "Go celebrate baller"

You laugh walking away, clapping the fans and it made for a cute scene your little brothers excitedly jogging beside you to keep up, watching your every step and mimicking you clapping the fans.

⚽️

The locker room is warm. Still buzzing in low waves, not loud now the kind of comedown that only happens when everyone knows they’ve done their job.

You’re seated near the back, kit stripped away, a hoodie zipped halfway up, ribs still aching under the band of compression and bandages.

Beth sits cross-legged near you, a banana in one hand, talking to Lucy about something you’re not fully tuned into.

You’re still… elsewhere, then the door creaks open and Sarina steps in calm as ever, arms crossed lightly.

“Hey,” she says softly, voice aimed at you but measured for the room. “You’ve got someone waiting.”

You frown. “My dad?”

She shakes her head. Her lips twitch not quite a smile, but something close. “No,” she says, gentler now. “Visitor.”

You already know. You push up slowly stiff, sore and Sarina leans in slightly, voice low now, just for you.

“She said she didn't want to disturb you, but she looked pretty worried.”

You nod once. Grab your jacket. You don’t need to fix your hair. You don’t need to clean up. You just need to go.

It’s quieter outside. Just the occasional echo of footsteps from staff, the hum of faraway press chatter. The night air filters in from the side exit, cooler now.

And there she is.

Her back to you. Hands in her coat pockets. Her hair tied loosely, a few strands falling as she turns at the sound of the door. You walk toward her slowly, stiff-legged, jaw still aching.

She meets you halfway.

“I’m okay,” you say before she can even ask.

Alexia’s eyes flick to the gauze on your cheek, the swelling, your wince as you shift your weight. “You’re not,” she says quietly.

You huff a dry breath. “Not dead, though.”

That earns you the smallest eye roll. “I wanted to check before we left,” she murmurs, voice low. “I didn’t want to leave… without seeing you.”

You nod slow, grateful. “I’m glad you did.”

For a second, neither of you speaks. Then very gently she lifts her hand, doesn’t touch your face, not with how bruised it is. Just tugs at your zip. “You still scored.”

You smile barely. “Is that your version of flirting?”

She laughs softly. “No."

You nod again, for the first time since you left the pitch you breathe without pain not because it doesn’t hurt.

But because she’s here and she’s not rushing off, "Are they sending you home?"

You nod with a swallow, "Yeah, I leave soon"

"I'm coming with you" Her eyes don’t shift. She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t soften the words. “I’m coming with you.”

You blink. Your mouth opens, then closes, something caught in your throat that has nothing to do with the pain in your ribs. You try again, “No you’re not.”

Alexia takes a step closer. Just one. Enough for the heat of her coat to brush yours, her hand still light at your zip. “I am.”

“Alexia,” you say, quieter now. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You shake your head. “You’ve got camp. Whatever plan Montse’s come up with since you can't play your games.”

“I’ve already told them.”

That stops you. Your brows lift, a flicker of disbelief slipping into your voice. “Told them what?”

“That I’m leaving. I won't gain anything staying and playing games against the under 21's”

You let out a half-laugh, part incredulous, part exhausted. “You cleared that with Montse?”

She shrugs. “Told her, I wasn’t asking.”

You blink slowly. “You’re serious.”

Alexia’s gaze softens just a touch, but the weight in it doesn’t waver “You need someone. You just won’t say it.”

Your chest pulls tight. Not from the bruises. Not this time. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“I don’t,” she says.

You look at her really look, at the line between her brows where worry’s lived since the moment you hit the grass. At the way her fingers curl around the edge of your coat now, like she’s ready to tug you forward or hold you up. Maybe both. You glance down at her hand, then up your voice is almost a whisper, “I’m won't be much fun”

She exhales, a tiny smile catching the edge of her mouth. “I’m not coming for fun.”

You laugh softly. Tired. Real. “Okay,” you murmur finally. “Okay.”

Her shoulders ease and she nods once, "I'll.. text you when I land"

⚽️

You're home, in your bed under the duvet where you and Teddy are curled beneath it.

He's asleep, his head tucked under your arm, occasionally twitching a paw in a dream. You haven't moved in over an hour since you got into bed, not really. Just breathing through it. Letting the dull pulse in your face and ribs remind you, it wasn’t a dream.

You're home and you’re hurting. Your phone’s within reach on the bedside table, screen dim, the battery hanging on at 8%. You know you should plug it in but you can't will yourself to move.

A knock comes on your door one, then two, then stillness, you blink slowly. Teddy stirs. You don’t move. Can’t.

Instead, you unlock your phone, open Instagram, find her name.

alexiaputellas, then tap out one sentence,

Was that you?

Seconds later, the typing bubble returns.

Sí

Your throat tightens, your ribs protest as you shift onto your side, blinking against the light, against the tears stinging tired eyes.

You type again fast, thumbs aching, every motion pulling at the bruises.

There’s a key under the plant pot.

You drop the phone, fingers shaking just a little as you rest your hand on Teddy’s back.

A few moments pass, then the click of the door, quiet footsteps as Teddy lifts his head, ears perked.

Alexia appeared standing in your bedroom doorway, coat still on, overnight bag on her shoulder, eyes searching the room until they land on you.

Teddy is excitedly in front of Alexia instantly, whining his bum moving in time with his extatic tale, "Hola cachorro" Alexia was smiling and her giggling was the warmest sound you'd ever heard when she crouched and was getting a barrage of Teddy kisses. "Me has extrañado? Si si Se"

You smile as Teddy bounds back on the bed barking at you before looking to Alexia, "Is your friend back?" you ruffle his head and he got even more excited as she walks over slowly.

“Hi,” she whispers.

You nod, a small smile tugging at one corner of your sore mouth, "You look tired?"

Alexia drops her bag, gently peels off her coat, and without hesitation she sits on the edge of your bed. "Didn't get much sleep, tried to sleep on the plane but everyone was too loud"

Her hand finds yours on the covers, seemingly by accident as she leans back on one hand to see you better, "I lay down before making the bed up in the other room, so... um, join us"

That’s all she needed to lie down beside you not touching, just with you her presence folding into the stillness of your room like she belongs there.

You smile when Teddy put his paw onto Alexia's shoulder as he was sharing your pillow yet again as you were spooning him, Alexia looked at him and smiled, she rolled to her side to scratch his chest, "Do you need anything?" she asked moving her eyes to yours, you could do with a drink but you shook your head seeing how tired her eyes were.

⚽️

You’re not sure how long you’ve been out, but it's still dark. There’s no sound except the slow inhale-exhale rhythm of the dog curled now at the foot of the bed and the faint creak of floorboards shifting as the apartment cools.

Your eyes blink open slowly lashes sticky, face heavy, that familiar ache blooming beneath the surface again.

As you shift your head gingerly, ribs reminding you who’s boss you see her asleep.

She’s still lying beside you, one arm bent under the pillow, the other resting close to yours on top of the duvet. Her face is turned toward you, relaxed, the softest hint of breath pushing a strand of hair against her cheek.

She doesn’t move, not when you shift, not when Teddy lifts his head, tail thumping lazily against the sheets.

You lie there a minute longer, just watching her, no pressure, no noise. Just the quiet confirmation that she meant it when she was coming.

Her bag's still on the floor, her coat draped over the back of your dressing table chair, and her presence real and heavy in the best way anchors something in you that had been floating loose.

You lift your hand, slowly, carefully, not to wake her, just to let your fingers brush hers, the contact is enough to make her shift slightly eyes fluttering, not quite open, her fingers tightening around yours on instinct, not thought.

She exhales, settles again, still asleep. You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the dark pain free, knowing when you wake up again she’ll be here.

⚽️

You wake to warmth, Alexia’s still curled beside you, one leg slightly tangled with the edge of the duvet, hair mussed from sleep, the faintest crease on her cheek from the pillow.

Her hand’s still resting loosely against yours, and she’s closer than before like somewhere in the night, you both drifted that way without thinking.

She stirs as you blink your eyes open, a soft inhale, a shift of weight. “Mmm…” Her voice, thick with sleep. “You awake?”

You hum softly in reply. “Sort of.”

She cracks one eye open, then blinks it shut again. “You look slightly more beaten than before.”

You smirk, lips barely moving. “And you look like you slept through an earthquake.”

Alexia huffs a tired laugh. “I did. You’re snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do.”

"Its probably the broken nose"

You smiled, "Of course it is"

You try to argue, but the ache in your jaw reminds you otherwise, so you settle for a slow, stubborn exhale instead.

She shifts up onto one elbow, hair falling messily into her face. Her eyes scan you quiet, observant, a little guarded. “How’s your head?”

“Sore,” you admit.

“Face?”

“Still attached.”

She leans down slightly, her fingers grazing just beside the edge of your bandage, light as breath. “You’re still beautiful,” she murmurs.

You shut your eyes, only for a second, that word from her said like it doesn’t cost anything, like it’s just simply that simply true.

Teddy ever the scene-stealer picks that moment to stand with a dramatic shake, tail thumping your leg.

Alexia glances over her shoulder. “Right,” she says, stretching. “I’ll take him for a walk.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

She cuts you off gently. “I know. I want to. You need a minute.”

You look at her hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, sleep still in her voice and something in your chest tugs. “You sure he won’t walk you?”

She smiles. “Let him try.”

You laugh under your breath, then wince slightly, hand to your ribs.

“I’ll be back soon.”

Then she’s up, scooping Teddy’s lead off the hook near the door, already in motion.

You lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, heartbeat settling into something you haven’t felt in a while. Looked after.

⚽️

Teddy’s lead is looped around her wrist, his nose already glued to the pavement like he’s on a mission. His tail sways, ears perked, the soft click of his nails the only sound on the otherwise quiet residential street.

Alexia walks beside him slowly, hands in her pockets, head down beneath the hood of her borrowed sweatshirt yours, in fact. She only noticed once they were already outside. It smells like you.

She lets him lead the way, pausing every few steps as he investigates lamp posts and hedges like they hold state secrets. She doesn’t rush him. She doesn’t check her phone. She just lets it happen. He knows his walk off by heart. He'd lead the way.

She watches the way he moves alert, curious, slightly dramatic when he sniffs something he really likes. He’s got a little bounce in his step. A lot like you.

At the end of the block, he stops to sneeze three times in a row and then looks up at her like he expects applause.

Alexia crouches, brushes his fur behind one ear, and murmurs, “You’re silly." He wags his tail harder.

She pulls out her phone, snaps a blurry photo of him mid-wiggle, then types quickly:

[Image Attached] He’s already tried to fight a bird. Thought you'd want to know.

She doesn’t send it right away, she just stares at the screen for a second then tucks it away.

She walks a bit farther quiet residential corners, warm brick buildings, the occasional bike humming past. The city feels soft this time of morning, a little blurred around the edges, like it’s waiting for people to wake up.

Just as they reach the small park at the end of the street, she pauses. The wind’s gentle here, birds call, Teddy tugs toward the grass. Alexia sits on a bench, still in your hoodie, watching him sniff a bush with intense dedication.

And for a moment, just a moment, she lets herself relax completely.

No camera. No captain's armband. No decisions to make. Just your dog, and your street, and the echo of your sleepy voice in her head as you tried to argue you don’t snore. She smiles to herself.

She pulls out her phone again, opens your chat, and sends the photo.

A minute later, three dots appear. And even here, on a bench in a city that isn’t hers, she already feels like she’s safe here, with you.

Back in your apartment meanwhile, you’re still in bed.

Pillows behind your back now, blanket pooled around your hips, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands. You’ve managed to brush your teeth and wipe the sleep from your eyes, but that’s as far as you’ve made it.

Your phone buzzes. You open it, thumb slow over the screen, and there it is. A blurry photo of Teddy, tail mid-wag, fur flying, eyes wild like he’s chasing an imaginary rival probably a bird, if you know him at all.

Your lips twitch into something crooked and warm, even with the bruising.

Her message is short. You type. Pause. Then type again.

Good. Someone’s got to protect you out there. That hoodie looks better on you, by the way. Don’t stretch it.

You hover.

Then — one more thing.

Will you be mad if I've not got up when you get back?.

You hit send and not thirty seconds later you hear keys.

The lock turns. A soft click, then the door opens and Teddy barks once, triumphant.

She’s back. The door clicks shut behind her and Teddy trots ahead proudly, tail high like he just saved the world.

You hear Alexia before you see her, her soft laugh carrying from the hall as she drops her keys into the bowl, kicks off her shoes.

“Still in bed?” she calls.

You smile to yourself. “I’ve moved. I’m just… horizontal.”

She steps into your room, one eyebrow lifted. You expect a joke, but her gaze sweeps over you instead the blanket around your shoulders, the tired crease in your brow, your phone still in hand from the message you just sent.

Then she holds out her hands. “Come on. Up.”

You hesitate not from pain this time. Just from the way she’s looking at you. Steady. Amused. So soft it makes your chest ache. You shift forward, wincing a little, and take her hands. She braces her weight, pulls you gently until your feet hit the floor.

Your ribs protest but it’s manageable. What’s not manageable is the fact She doesn’t step back and now, you’re right there.

Close. Chest to chest. You meet her eyes. Neither of you says anything. Not a word. Then she leans in slowly.

Her hands slide from yours to your waist one resting carefully against your bandaged ribs, the other curling at your lower back.

And she kisses you. Softly. But with intention. No adrenaline. No tension. Just warmth. Breath. The kind of kiss you remember after because it felt like everything inside you quieted at once.

You kiss her back. Careful, but completely. When she pulls back, she stays close nose brushing yours, her lips still almost touching yours. After the kiss after the stillness, the closeness she eases back just enough to rest her hands at your hips, her eyes flicking over you once more.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you out of the room. I’ll make a cup of tea.”

You groan softly. “A cup of tea from a Spaniard, this feels like punishment.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re dramatic.”

Still, she helps.

One arm steady at your back, you shuffle together down the hallway, slow and careful. Teddy trails behind, the occasional quiet pawstep on the hardwood his only contribution.

She helps you down onto the sofa fluffing the cushion behind you, tucking a blanket over your lap without asking.

“Sit. Don’t move,” she says, gently bossy.

You watch her move around your kitchen like she’s been there for years barefoot now, sleeves pushed up. She opens the right cupboard on the first try. Fills the kettle. Pulls out mugs. Chooses the exact tea you always reach for when you’re sore by pure fluke. You lean your head back and let yourself watch.

It’s quiet. Just the whistle of the kettle. The shuffle of her feet. The soft clink of the spoon. And then she’s back, she hands you your mug, fingers brushing yours, warm and slow before sinking into the other end of the sofa, her body angled toward you, her knees folded.

You both sit in silence for a while. Your ankle rests lightly against her thigh beneath the blanket. Her fingers absently trace the rim of her mug. Outside, the day unfolds. Somewhere else, the world turns, but here, in your small living room, in the glow of mid-morning sun you sit with Alexia content.

Your eyes are on the mug in your lap, your body angled toward her, blanket still curled around your legs. Alexia sits opposite, one hand lazily stroking Teddy’s fur where he’s curled against her thigh.

She glances at you gently, her voice low. “Has your club been in touch?”

You pause. Just a second too long. Then shake your head.

Her brow furrows. “Nothing?”

You lean your head against the back of the sofa, eyes tracking the line of sunlight on the floor. “They’ll know the injury report,” you say. “Our team doctor’s already sent it through. They’ll have everything.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she says quietly.

You glance at her, she’s not accusing. Not prying. Just… confused. You sigh, “They’re not exactly rushing to check in.”

She sets her mug down. Slowly. “Why?”

You hesitate not because you’re unsure, but because you’ve been holding it in too long. “I’m not on the best terms with my coach right now,” you admit. “Haven’t been for a while.” Her expression doesn’t change still patient, still listening so you go on. “There’s tension. About my minutes. About where I’m played. About... a lot of things.” You pause, then add, “And this?” You gesture lightly toward your face, your side, your entire battered self. “Probably won’t help.”

Alexia’s gaze softens, her fingers stilling on Teddy’s fur. “You think they’ll hold it against you?”

You shrug. “I think they’ll see it as confirmation.”

“Of what?”

You glance away. “That I’m not worth the risk.”

There’s silence, then her voice steady and certain spoke, “They’re wrong.” She shifts closer. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t press. Just says, “If you need to say it out loud, I’ll sit here all day.”

And you nod once, because you know she means it.

⚽️

You’re still on the sofa, legs under a blanket, hoodie sleeves half-covering your hands. Teddy’s asleep with his nose tucked against your foot. Across the room behind you, Alexia is at the kitchen counter, focused, pouring hot water into mugs.

Your phone buzzes.

Georgia Stanway 💥 — FaceTime Incoming

You answer, already bracing for chaos. The screen jolts to life with Georgia’s face filling it way too close.

“Oi,” she grins. “You look like someone swung a frying pan at you.”

You smile, tired but amused. “That’s pretty much what happened.”

Voices pile in behind her. You spot Beth first, leaning into frame, then Leah, Keira all hovering, half-shoved together in some random lounge back at England camp.

Beth waves, smile gentle. “Hey, you okay?”

“Getting there.”

Georgia flips the camera around “We just wanted to check in. And also confirm you’re still alive.”

Keira’s voice follows, quieter. “And still... you, under all that bruising.”

Leah tilts her head, studying your bandage. “That’s definitely a fracture, yeah?”

“Yeah. Cheekbone. And the nose.”

Beth grimaces. “Still fit though.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks?”

Before anyone can ask anything else, a voice floats in from the kitchen, “Do you want sugar in this or not?”

Their faces shift. Every single one of them, Leah eyebrows shoot up and blinks, just once, Georgia’s mouth opens… and then closes, Beth straightens.

You hesitate. Then glance at the camera. “It’s… Alexia.”

Beth is the first to speak, quieter. “As in... Putellas?”

You nod, and the energy changes. It’s not tense. Just… softer, respectful.

Keira smiles gently. “Didn’t realise she was staying with you.”

You shrug. “She showed up last night. Brought tea. Took Teddy out.”

“She’s still there now?” Georgia asks.

You glance off-camera as Alexia reappears, setting a mug down beside you, her hand brushing yours briefly, before heading back to the kitchen "Yeah"

Leah's the first to lean back slightly from the screen, her smile still there, but calmer now. “Well,” she says, glancing off-camera like she’s suddenly remembered she has an actual job to do. “Guess we’ll let you rest up, then.”

Beth hums. “Yeah. Don’t want to interrupt your little… tea ceremony.”

You snort softly. “You literally FaceTimed me out of nowhere.”

Georgia grins, but she’s softer too. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t curled up in bed with no one looking after you.”

You lean your head on your hand with a smile, “I’m fine. Got someone now who keeps making me actually take my pain meds, so that’s new.”

“Growth,” Keira says with a smirk.

Georgia leans in one last time. “Message if you need anything. And I mean anything. I can be at the airport in an hour.”

You smile, genuinely now. A little cracked at the edge from the bruising, but it reaches your eyes. “Thanks, girls. Seriously.”

Beth nods once. “Love you, you idiot.”

You whisper it back. “Love you too.”

Keira blows a kiss. Leah waves and then the screen goes dark.

You’re still staring at the phone when you hear the quiet sound of a mug being placed on the table in front of you. Alexia’s returned. She doesn’t say anything just eases down beside you again on the sofa, one leg folded beneath her, her body angled toward yours.

You look over at her. “They just wanted to know I wasn’t alone.”

Alexia nods, eyes soft. “And now they know.”

You don’t have to say it but you do anyway. “Thanks for being here.”

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles once. “Where else would I be?”

⚽️

Alexia moves through your kitchen like it’s familiar now, she doesn’t ask where things are she somehow just knows.

A pan warms on the stove, low sizzle starting. The smell of garlic fills the space, you’re sat at the table nearby, wrapped in your hoodie, elbows on the wood, mug in both hands.

Teddy at your feet, completely useless now that he was fed, he was having to his post feed nap. You’re not saying much and neither is she, but it’s comfortable as usual.

Now and then you glance over. Watch her stirring something in the pan, pausing to taste it. She catches you once raises an eyebrow, smirking a little. “Si?”

You shake your head, smile low. “Nothing.”

She slides a dish in front of you a few minutes later pasta, simple, warm. Exactly what you didn’t realise you needed.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” she says, settling into the chair next to you. “I wanted to.”

You both eat slowly, between bites, the only sound is the quiet clink of forks, a bit of low music from your speaker. You don’t talk about football or your injury, instead, she tells you a story about Alba’s dog stealing someone’s flip-flop and hiding it in the garden for a week. You laugh actually laugh and it surprises you, you press a hand gently to your ribs, wincing and grinning at the same time.

She watches you through it all, grinning herself, clearly happy that she could make you laugh quite that hard.

When the food’s done, you both sit there for a while longer, Alexia shifts first not to move away, but to slide her chair slightly closer. She rests her arm across the back of yours, fingers brushing the fabric of your hoodie.

“You tired?” she asks softly.

You nod. “A little.”

“Go lie down. I’ll clean up.”

You look at her the curve of her jaw the calm behind her eyes and you nod again. “Okay.”

⚽️

You’re in bed by the time she finishes rinsing the dishes Teddy fully stretched out beside you, head resting like royalty atop the second pillow clearly unbothered, clearly home.

You hear her approach, footsteps soft on the hallway, and then she’s there in your doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, hair tied back, eyes already tired but warm when they find yours.

“You decent?” she teases.

You nod. “Teddy says it’s fine.”

She laughs and steps in, the moment she reaches the bed, though, she stops, because Teddy does not move. Not a shift. Not even a twitch. He’s laid claim to the whole left side of the bed, tucked neatly between you and the edge like he’s guarding it.

Alexia blinks. Looks at you. Then at him. “Seriously?”

You try to keep a straight face. “He’s very particular.”

She raises a brow. “He’s two feet tall.”

You shrug, clearly helpless. Teddy stretches, audibly, Alexia sighs, then grins. A proper, full smile that crinkles at the edges, without another word, she walks around the bed and lies down horizontally across the foot of it, feet dangling off one side, arms folded beneath her head.

“This is fine,” she mutters, like she’s in a hostage negotiation. “Really. Comfortable. Don't mind me Teddy, lucky you're cute”

You laugh soft, real and tilt your head to look at her. “You can push him.”

“I’m not getting into a fight with your dog.”

“You’d win.”

“I wouldn’t. He’s got your loyalty.”

You smile, and after a beat, you say quietly, “You don’t have to stay down there.”

She turns her head, rests her chin on the blanket at your feet, looking up at you with that tired half-smile. “I’m good,” she says. “It’s kind of perfect, actually.”

You look down at her the way her hair falls, the light across her face, the contentment in her voice. “Even from down there?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, smile lingering. “Especially from down here.”

Teddy exhales dramatically like this whole conversation is deeply inconvenient and shifts just enough that there’s space now, as if to say here have some room and shut up.

Alexia opens one eye, clocking it. Then glances at you, you nod, like now's your chance.

She doesn’t hesitate, she slides in beside you, careful and quiet, folding into the blanket and fitting into that space like it’s been waiting for her.

You don’t say anything, neither does she, but her fingers find yours beneath the duvet.

⚽️

The lights are off now, save for the glow of the laptop balanced between you both on the duvet, you’d picked the film without overthinking something soft, something funny, something you’ve seen before but never get tired of. Alexia hadn’t asked questions. She just rested under the covers next to you, propped herself up on one elbow, and watched like it mattered.

She’s quieter than you expected. Still focused, but then ten minutes in a scene plays out that always makes you laugh, and this time, you don’t even hear your own chuckle. You hear hers. Soft at first almost cautious. Then she really laughs. Not loud, but from her chest. Her eyes scrunch slightly. Her hand comes up to her mouth like she’s not used to letting it out so freely.

You turn your head and you watch her it's not long until she notices. “What?” she asks, still smiling.

You shake your head gently, lips pulling at the corners. “You have a good laugh.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real deflection. “You didn’t warn me this was funny.”

“I said it was my comfort film. That should’ve told you everything.”

She giggles again at a throwaway line something no one ever laughs at but you and it makes you like her even more.

You’re not close enough to be tangled. Not with the bruises. Not yet, but her foot brushes yours under the blanket, neither of you moves it.

The film soon winds down with softer music, a slower pace characters finding their happy endings, screen fading to dusk-toned resolution. You’re half-watching, half-feeling the warmth of Alexia still beside you.

Her head’s slid a little lower on the pillow, elbow tucked under it, you can feel the heat of her arm through the duvet. You glance sideways, er eyes are still open. Barely. When the credits start to roll, she exhales a long, quiet breath like it had been caught in her chest the whole time. “That was good,” she murmurs, voice raspy with sleep.

You nod, turning the laptop screen slightly so the light doesn’t hit her face. “I’ve watched it a dozen times,” you whisper.

She glances at you through lashes. “You always watch it alone?”

You pause. “Mostly"

A slow smile creeps onto her lips. “Lucky me.”

You huff a laugh. “Lucky Teddy, really. He got the best side of the bed.”

Teddy, for his part, is completely unconscious snoring lightly the other side of Alexia, oblivious to anything other than his dreams.

Alexia shifts just slightly closer, enough that her arm brushes yours now, warm and gentle. She rests her head against the corner of your shoulder, careful not to jar your ribs.

“I could fall asleep like this,” she murmurs.

You whisper back without thinking, “Then do.”

And she does. Slowly her body softening into stillness, her breathing evening out, her hand brushing yours one last time before it goes still too.

You stay awake just a little longer then you shift your head to the pillow and sleep finally comes.

⚽️

The light is barely golden through the blinds, soft and angled across the floor. You blink awake slowly, the room still warm under the weight of night, the quiet so complete you almost forget where you are.

Until you feel her. Alexia is still there but closer.

One leg draped lightly over yours, face tucked into the pillow, your pillow, hair fanned messily behind her. Her hoodie has slipped upwards sometime in the night giving you a glimpse of her many tattoos. Her hand, still curled lightly near your side, is close enough that her fingers just barely brush the hem of your shirt.

She’s still asleep, but only just. You lie there watching her the rise and fall of her back, the faint crease between her eyebrows even in sleep, like she’s already starting to think her way into the day.

You shift slightly enough to ease your arm beneath your head. Your ribs ache, but less. Your face is still tender. But manageable.

She stirs, her foot twitches against yours beneath the blanket. Her brow smooths. And then, softly “Mmm… morning.” Her voice is thick with sleep, half-buried in the pillow, her accent always thicker of a morning,

You smile. “Morning.”

She doesn’t open her eyes yet. But her fingers slide just slightly toward yours under the blanket. Not holding. Just finding. “You sleep okay?” she murmurs.

“With a human-sized guard dog on my bed and you stealing half my pillow?” you whisper back. “Best night I’ve had in weeks.”

Her lips twitch into a sleepy smile. “Still sore?”

“Yeah. But I don’t care.”

She opens her eyes now and tilts her head just enough to look at you and in that morning light, with no makeup, no cameras, no expectations she’s never looked more real.

She blinks slowly. “I’ll make coffee.”

You whisper, “You really don’t have to.”

“I know. But I know you like coffee in a morning and if I ask you'll say no.” She’s already starting to move, careful not to jostle the bed. Teddy stirs, yawning like he’s done all the hard work.

Alexia leans over, presses the softest kiss to your hair, not your face, not your mouth just there, warm and simple.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

And you lie there, letting yourself breathe into the stillness as Teddy stands stretches and moves to reclaim his rightful spot next to you.

⚽️

You’re curled back on the sofa after breakfast, Teddy making up for the lack of bed time cuddles he was deprived of.

The painkillers are doing their job the dull ache behind your cheekbone has faded to something manageable and the silence feels earned.

Alexia comes down the hall, hair still damp from her shower, pulling a long sleeve down one arm, phone tucked under her chin. “...yes, I’ll text when I’m on the way,” she says softly in Spanish, and then clicks it closed.

You glance up lazily.

She looks over at you, a sly smile already forming. “Get dressed.”

You blink. “What?”

“Lunch.”

You hesitate, don’t even mean to, just long enough that she knows you’re about to resist. “I’m fine here.”

“You’ve been horizontal for almost two days.”

“I’ve been injured.”

“You scored four goals while injured. You can manage a salad.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not how medical rest works.”

She walks toward you, all effortless confidence now tugging her hair into a loose twist as she goes, eyes locked on yours. “It’s your city,” she says. “And I have to leave soon.”

That lands, you pause. Then sigh. “Fine. But I’m wearing a hoodie.”

Alexia shrugs. “I wasn’t expecting anything else" She crouches to grab your trainers from beside the door, holds them up with a smirk. “Want me to help you put them on, too? Or just carry you to the car?”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re very smug when you get your way.”

“And you’re cute when you pretend you didn’t want to say yes the whole time.”

You shake your head, smiling. Teddy hops off your lap as you push yourself upright with a groan.

She holds out a hand, you take it and just like that you’re on your feet.

⚽️

You haven’t changed much just swapped joggers for something slightly less 'bedridden', and pulled a clean hoodie over your still-tender ribs. You’re standing in the mirror now, fingers running lightly along the edge of the bandage on your cheek, trying not to wince when you touch the swelling.

Alexia’s in your bathroom, sleeves rolled up, tugging a brush through her hair with one hand and wiping mascara from under her eye with the other. The door’s cracked open, the mirror catching both your reflections at odd angles hers polished, yours getting there.

She leans around the frame. “You okay?”

You nod. “Just wondering if I look more like a footballer or a getaway driver.”

She grins. “Definitely the latter. But like... a charming one.”

You glance at her in the mirror. “You flirting with me again?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You want me to stop?”

You don’t answer just reach for your water bottle on the dresser, smile pressed into the curve of it.

A minute later, she steps out of the bathroom in her jacket simple, low-key, hair twisted into a loose bun, gold chain tucked just under her collar.

You stare for a second longer than you mean to. She catches it. Doesn’t call it out. Just smiles like maybe she needed the same moment of quiet admiration.

She walks over, tugging the hem of your hoodie straight, her fingers brushing against your side like she’s checking the bruises still haven’t won. “You good?”

“Getting there.”

Her eyes soften. “You ready?”

You take a breath deep, slow, steady. “Yeah.”

And when she grabs the keys off the hook and holds the door open for you like it’s already her place too, you follow without hesitation.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sun warming the steps as you both reach the car parked out front, you’re halfway there when you realise something’s off.

Alexia’s already heading for the driver’s side.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

She holds up your car keys, dangling them smugly from her index finger. “Driving.”

You stop. “No, you’re not.”

She looks at you, tilts her head slightly. “Yes, I am.”

“Alexia.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m not concussed.”

“You have a broken face.”

You fold your arms gently, because of the ribs and narrow your eyes. “I can drive with a broken face.”

“Not when I’m in the car.”

You scoff, taking a slow step forward. “It’s my car.”

She shrugs. “You let me stay in your flat, hijack your tea selection, and share your bed but driving your car is a step too far? I think the keys are a fair trade”

You blink, mouth twitching. “That’s not how this works.”

“I’m your medically appointed chauffeur.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

You’re trying not to laugh. “Have you even driven in Munich before?”

She lifts her chin, smirking. “It’s Europe. It’s fine.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“I’m exceptional at roundabouts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You know you can’t flirt your way into controlling my car.”

She grins and walks backward toward the driver’s side door. “No, but I can look this good while holding your keys and watch you fold.”

You stare at her hoodie, sneakers, hair pulled up like she’s not even trying and you hate how right she is.

You sigh. Dramatically. “I’m putting the seat back the second I get in.”

“You can try.”

She opens the driver’s side door with a flourish.

And you walk around the car muttering, “This is so humiliating.” But you’re smiling the whole way.

⚽️

The café is tucked onto a quiet side street ivy crawling the walls, chalkboard menu out front, the kind of place you always mean to revisit and rarely do.

You take the window table in the corner. Alexia claims the chair beside you not across. Beside. Her leg brushes yours as she crosses it, casual and completely on purpose.

She’s already stolen two of your fries before you’ve even touched your fork.

You look at her, unamused.

She smirks. “You’re a very generous host.”

You pluck a tomato off her plate in retaliation. “And you’re a menace.”

She shrugs. “I get that a lot.”

You shake your head and pop it in your mouth. “I bet you do.”

There’s a lightness to her here a kind of ease you hadn’t seen in her before. She leans back in her chair, elbow draped over the back of yours like she’s not going anywhere for a while.

“You know,” she says between sips of sparkling water, “you’re actually fun when you’re not grimacing in pain.”

You look at her, deadpan. “I’ll keep that in mind next time someone boots me in the face.”

She grins. “You were impressive, though.”

“Were?”

“Are.” She corrects herself so smoothly it’s like the word always belonged there.

You go quiet for a second, letting the moment settle. She watches you over the rim of her glass. There’s something almost uncharacteristically soft in her eyes now like she wants to say something, but also doesn’t want to ruin this exact second.

So instead, you both eat. You steal fries, she steals glances. You let her as the afternoon hums around you quiet voices from other tables, clinks of cutlery, the low sound of a playlist drifting through the café speakers. But it all feels muffled, like you’re sitting in a pocket of space that exists just for the two of you.

Alexia’s drink has condensation running slowly down the glass, her fingertips idly trailing through it. Every so often, she reaches across to steal another fry, but this time she doesn’t just grab it.

This time, she holds it up. You glance at her, one brow raised. “Really?”

She nods slowly, holding the fry closer. “Open.”

You huff. “Absolutely not.”

She tilts her head. “I drove.”

“Into a roundabout the wrong way.”

“I recovered quickly.”

You squint at her. She’s still holding the fry up, pinched between her fingers, her smile small but stubborn. So you lean forward bite it right out of her hand, eyes never leaving hers.

She blinks once. Smirks. And then, under the table, you feel her foot nudge against yours. Not a kick. Just… a press. Slow. Familiar.

“Careful,” you murmur as you chew. “Keep that up and I’ll start thinking you like me.”

She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “And what if I do?”

You don’t have a comeback for that. Not one that doesn’t involve kissing her at the table and you’re trying to be good. So instead, you finish chewing. Pick another tomato from her plate slow and deliberate and pop it in your mouth with a shrug. “That’s between you and my fries.”

Alexia laughs not her polite laugh, not the quiet one she gives during press conferences. The real one. Soft and unguarded. Like she’s surprised by how easy this is.

When she looks at you again, her gaze lingers, her hand finds yours on the table not a grab, not a hold. Just fingers tracing the edge of your wrist. Idly. Warm.

You glance down at the contact, then back at her, she doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. Just sits there, leg still pressed to yours, her fingers drawing slow circles into your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t pull away, you don’t want to and when she says, almost shy but not quite, “This is nice,” you nod once and reply just as simply

“It really is.”

⚽️

You’re leaning back slightly in your chair now, hand half-curled around your glass, watching as Alexia reads through the dessert menu like it’s a match preview.

Her brow furrows in mock seriousness. “You’re telling me you’ve never had the banana split here?”

You shake your head. “We usually don’t make it past mains. It’s a rare event when I don’t roll out of this place.”

She snorts. “You say that like you haven’t played a full ninety minutes with a busted rib.”

“That’s different. Dessert’s voluntary pain.”

She closes the menu with a decisive snap. “We’re sharing it.”

You arch a brow. “Are we?”

Her eyes flick to yours. “Unless you’re afraid of me stealing all the whipped cream.”

You lean in slightly. “That sounds like a challenge.”

It is and you both know it.

Ten minutes later, the sundae arrives in a glass dish that’s clearly made for two people who aren’t pretending they’ll share nicely. It’s ridiculous, stacked with three scoops, cream, sauce, half a banana sliced down the middle, and a cherry teetering at the top like a dare.

Alexia eyes it. “We should’ve ordered two.”

“We’re not animals,” you say, even as you reach for a spoon.

She takes the first bite, of course. You jab your spoon in and immediately miss the ice cream, nearly flicking sauce onto the table, she laughs, mouth full.

“Oh, wow,” you mutter. “This is going to end with me wearing this, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

She slides the dish slightly toward you, letting your spoons clink. You scoop a bit of strawberry, then nudge the cherry across the top toward her. She smiles, just barely. You trade jabs between bites accusing her of hoarding the chocolate sauce, her accusing you of 'clearly favouring vanilla.'

“You’re impossible,” you say, laughing softly, spoon clinking in the glass again.

“You like that about me.”

You glance at her and you do.

The dish is nearly empty when she finally rests her spoon on the edge and leans back with a sigh. “You’re going to have to roll me back to the car.”

You wipe a bit of cream from your lip and smirk. “Don’t look at me. You insisted.”

Alexia grins and then, with a surprising tenderness, she leans forward and gently wipes a streak of chocolate from your cheek her thumb brushing just near your bandage.

You freeze, just for a second, she doesn’t say anything, she just smiles at you like she’s still amazed you’re hanging out with her.

“You ready?” she asks, voice soft.

You nod once and as she stands, her hand finds yours again briefly. Firmly. This time, you let her hold it a little longer.

The drive is quiet in the best way. Windows cracked because now of course Alexia feels sick with the amount of chocolate sauce she apparently never ate. her playlist humming low through the speakers. One of her hands is on the wheel. The other occasionally reaches out adjusting the volume, brushing her fingers near yours on the centre console but never quite holding.

You don’t talk much. You don’t have to.

She pulls into the drop-off zone and shifts the car into park, already reaching for her bag in the back seat. You sit there for a second, looking at the terminal, then at her.

Then, dramatically, “So… how exactly am I supposed to get home? My medical chauffeur’s abandoning me.”

She turns, smirking, lips parted to reply but then pauses, there’s something just a little sad behind her grin. “I could cancel my flight,” she says, only half-joking.

You lift your brow. “Would that be for me or for Teddy?”

She leans across the console, presses a kiss gentle, sure, and lasting to the corner of your mouth. “Both.”

You try to play it cool. You fail.

She pulls back, her eyes warm. “You’ll text me when you get home?”

You nod. “And you’ll let me know when you land.”

She nods back. Then her hand lingers on yours, just a moment more and then she’s gone.

The door closes, you watch her walk into the terminal without looking back.

You sit in your car her scent still in the seat beside you and whisper to yourself, “Why would she not just kiss me?” You sigh open your car door to head to the drivers side.

You’re walking around the front of your car, your keys in hand, mind still replaying the soft goodbye. Her lips so close to yours. The brush of her hand before she turned away.

You open the driver’s side door grimacing slightly, already planning how to adjust the seat back to your exact angle when you hear footsteps.

Fast. Light on the pavement. You glance up and she’s there.

Alexia. Back. Not running, but moving with a kind of certainty you’ve never seen from her in public. She doesn’t say anything. Just closes the distance, shuts your car door closing the gap and kisses you.

Not gently. Not cautiously. Not like the first time. Like she means it.

One hand lost in your hair the other in your hoodie, pulling you in like she doesn’t care who sees. Her mouth finds yours with a kind of ache, like the second she stepped away she regretted it like everything she didn’t say at lunch, in the car, at the curb has gathered here, in this.

You drop your keys as her tongue pushes entry into your mouth, one of your hands fists into her jacket, the other finds her waist, as she kisses you like she’s afraid not to.

When she finally pulls back, breath catching, she keeps her forehead against yours. Eyes closed. Voice low. Almost shaky.

“I didn’t want to leave like that.”

You’re stunned heart racing, ribs tight, lips still parted. You barely whisper, “What was that?”

Her eyes open and for once, there’s no shield. No mask. “Great restraint on my part”

You stare at her this woman who came back just to be certain she presses one more kiss to the corner of your mouth slower this time, tender.

Then she steps back gives you her little smile and walks into the terminal again, she looks back this time that smile still there as yours only grew. As you dip into your car you exhale, "I need a cold shower" as you sort your seat out, you enter into an external monologue the old man stood at the curb seemingly looks concerned for your mental capacity that you're talking to yourself "Fuck me" you mutter, then laugh at yourself, "Wish she would. No Y/N. We made a promise to ourselves no more diving in too quickly. You put out far too easily, learn the lessons from your past discretions." You rest your head on the steering wheel after you groan, "This woman has me talking to myself, I need help"

this is the fluff i need i’m my life

Sleep? Never.

It’s so peaceful here. The sun is warm, wrapping around you like a blanket. The waves roll lazily in the distance, their rhythmic crashing blending with the occasional seagull call. You’re stretched out on your stomach, the sand soft beneath you, eyes closed, completely weightless.

Next to you, Alexia flips through a book, one hand resting on your lower back, tracing lazy circles. The food was incredible, the drinks even better. You could stay here forever, basking in the sun, in the quiet, in—

A cry.

A sharp, piercing cry slices through the tranquility. It sounds robotic, unnatural.

Maybe it’s not real.

Maybe the beach isn’t real.

The cries grow louder, like a personal concert—one you’d never pay to attend. Something tugs at your arm.

"Baby."

Is this real?

"Baby, wake up."

No, no, no, no, no.

"I don’t want to."

"She’s hungry."

"So go feed her."

"I physically can’t."

You groan, rubbing your eyes, and glance at the baby monitor. Alice’s face, red with frustration, fills the screen.

"Alexia, I’m so tired it’s not even funny."

"I know, baby," she sighs, already swinging her legs off the bed. "I’ll go get her."

You wave a lazy hand. "It’s the least you can do."

Alexia doesn’t dignify that with a response—smart move. She disappears down the hall, and a few moments later, returns with a very angry, very hungry Alice.

You blink, groggy. "Didn’t I just feed her?"

"It’s been four hours."

You’re already adjusting your pajama blouse, making room for the tiny milk addict currently squirming in Alexia’s arms.

Alice immediately wiggles toward you, desperate, latching on with the urgency of someone who has been completely neglected for decades. Her tiny fingers clutch at your shirt like she’s afraid you might disappear.

"I wonder where she gets it from," you murmur, narrowing your eyes at Alice’s sheer determination.

Alexia raises an eyebrow. "Gets what from?"

You gesture vaguely at the baby. "The dramatics. The belief that the world revolves around her."

Alexia scoffs, leaning against the headboard. "Wow. No idea where she could’ve picked that up, remember when you cried because someone at the store got the last bag you wanted?"

Your jaw drops. "That was a devastating loss, Alexia. That bag and I had a connection."

Alexia crosses her arms. "You never even touched it."

You throw your head back against the pillow. "Because I was savoring the moment! And then—boom—stolen from me."

Alexia rolls her eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. "Right. Just like how the universe ‘betrayed’ you when your favorite pen ran out of ink."

You scoff. "That pen and I had history."

Alexia shakes her head, but she’s smiling, fingers grazing over Alice’s back. "She’s cute when she’s not screaming."

You smirk. "So, like, ten percent of the time?"

Alexia huffs, nudging you with her knee. "Don’t be mean."

"I’m not! I love her. Even when she’s screaming in my face."

Alice sighs against you, her little body going limp, milk-drunk and utterly satisfied. Her tiny eyelashes flutter as sleep creeps in.

Alexia watches her, softer now. "She’s getting so big."

You hum, stroking Alice’s back. "She drooled in my mouth today."

Alexia snorts. "That’s disgusting."

"It was. I think I saw my soul leave my body."

Before Alexia can respond, Alice suddenly unlatches with a loud, unapologetic burp—straight onto your pajama top.

You freeze. Alexia claps a hand over her mouth, her whole body shaking with barely contained laughter.

You slowly look down at the damage. Then back up at Alexia. "Oh. My. God."

Alexia loses it.

She wheezes, wiping fake tears from her eyes. "I love her so much."

"You’re supposed to be on my side."

Alexia grins, already grabbing a clean pajama top for you. "I am. I just really enjoy watching you suffer."

She helps you change, pressing a kiss to your cheek as Alice gives a sleepy little sigh against your chest.

Once Alice is full, her tiny fingers unclench, her whole body relaxing. Alexia laughs under her breath before carefully lifting her from your arms. "I’ll put her back in her crib."

You nod, already sinking into the pillows, exhaustion pulling at you again. Alexia cradles Alice to her chest, murmuring something too soft to hear as she disappears down the hall.

But then—

Minutes pass.

And Alexia doesn’t come back.

You groggily peek at the baby monitor on the nightstand.

She’s still in there.

You watch as Alexia stands beside the crib, swaying slightly, her fingers brushing over Alice’s tiny back. Even after Alice has fully drifted off, she doesn’t put her down right away. She just stays, watching her with a quiet smile.

Through the baby monitor, you see her finally tuck Alice in. But instead of leaving, she lingers, adjusting the blanket, smoothing a hand over Alice’s hair.

You should sleep. You should take the chance while you can. But you can’t, because the bed feels too empty.

You roll over, rubbing your face, and press a button on the monitor.

"Babe."

A second later, the monitor crackles.

"What?"

"Come back to bed."

"She’s just settling, give me a second."

"She’s asleep. You’re just staring at her."

A guilty pause. Then, "Maybe."

You groan, rolling onto your back. "Alexia, I can’t sleep without you."

The monitor crackles again. "You are so dramatic."

"Says the person who’s been watching a sleeping baby for twenty minutes."

Silence. Then, "Okay, fair."

A minute later, the bed dips, and Alexia slides under the covers, immediately curling into your side.

"You’re obsessed with her," you mumble, half-asleep.

"She’s my child," Alexia deadpans.

You peek one eye open. "I was starting to think you were gonna move in there."

Alexia sighs, pressing her face against your shoulder. "And leave you alone in this state? You’d probably stage a protest."

You smirk, nuzzling into her. "I was already drafting a strongly worded letter."

Alexia chuckles, her arms tightening around you. "I don’t doubt it."

Your breathing slows, warmth settling over you.

And just like that, with Alexia beside you, sleep finally comes.

alexia said it best here in her post-match comments:

"it's difficult to make an analysis straight out of the game, but in the end we weren't accurate. even though we've won by big scores before, real madrid is a good team. we're fucked. a defeat always leaves you feeling affected, but this is part of sport, and that's why we never take victory for granted.

it was a move i was convinced wasn't offside because caro was the one who gave me the pass before i played it in. the referee said it was offside on her part, so it was impossible. that was in the 80th minute; it would have certainly been a determining factor, but there are 80 minutes before then to improve and see what we did well to enhance them and what we did poorly to correct them.

we did something wrong, and the opponent did something right. we're now 4 points ahead, but we have to get back to picking up 3 points next week."