I'm Such A Softy For Getting All Emotional Over This 🥹🥰⭐️❤️

lucy really meant it when she said she’s lucky to play with her for both club and country bc 😮‍💨😮‍💨

tutors from hell | something blue

pairings: barcelona femeni x teen!reader

summary: azulita is slacking in the education department and the team decides to help

notes: this was requested and unfortunately i lost the request but i am so happy it was omg 😭

“For such a smart person, you are acting so dumb right now,” Olga snapped, pacing back and forth like she was trying to wear a hole in the carpet. Her hands were flailing, hair slightly frizzy from how many times she’d pushed it back in frustration. You sat in the chair across from her, arms crossed, expression unreadable… at least until you threw your head back with a sigh.

“This is so dramatic,” you muttered, just loud enough.

Alexia winced from the corner of the counselor’s office, like she’d just seen a red card about to be raised. She pressed her fist to her mouth, trying not to say anything. The counselor, bless her soul, had already peaced out ten minutes ago, sensing the storm brewing and deciding that this was very much a family problem.

“You’re this close to getting benched,” Olga warned, pinching her fingers together. “You think it’s a joke? You think any of this is a joke?”

“I already have a job,” you shrugged, like you weren’t actively poking the bear. “A full-time job. School is the thing that’s optional.”

Alexia let out a low, horrified groan like she could already hear the explosion coming.

“Oh, you are so right,” Olga said, her voice going calm in a way that meant danger. “If you think school is optional, then let’s make football optional too. If your grades aren’t up by the end of the week, no more football. No training, no matches, nothing.”

Silence.

You stared at her. Alexia stared at her. The silence stretched into disbelief.

Alexia was the first to break. “Mi amor, let’s talk about this! We play Madrid on Saturday! She’s been holding the back line like a champ! You want me to play center-back? I’m going to snap like a breadstick!”

“Then I guess she should’ve thought about that before deciding to tank her education like an absolute lunatic,” Olga said, pointing straight at you. “D’s? Straight D’s, Azulita? D’s?”

You muttered something about the system being rigged, which only made it worse.

Alexia made a panicked gesture like she was conducting an orchestra. “Wait, wait, wait, just—let’s not threaten suspension! Maybe a compromise. Like…no boots until homework’s done. Or she has to write a three-page essay on defensive formations to practice. Or—or—”

“No.” Olga’s tone was final. “End of the week. Passing grades or she doesn’t step onto a pitch.”

Then she walked out.

You and Alexia both sat frozen for a moment, then turned and looked at each other in slow motion.

“We’re dead,” Alexia whispered.

You nodded. “She’s actually gonna do it.”

Alexia stood up like she was preparing to sprint the 100m. “Come on, car, now. Recovery session in ten and we are not being late, especially not today, especially not looking guilty.”

You scrambled after her, backpack half-zipped and bouncing.

In the car, Alexia had her head against the steering wheel before she even started the engine. “Okay. Okay. This is fine. We can fix this.”

You snorted. “I mean…we probably can’t.”

“No! No, no. You are going to get your grades up. I am not letting you get benched before Madrid. You know what? I’m calling Frido. She likes math. I bet she’ll make you a study plan.”

“She’s scary when she’s serious,” you mumbled.

Alexia turned to look at you. “And you need someone scary right now. Aitana will do history. Maybe we bribe Patri with snacks for science.”

“What about English?”

Alexia paused. “…You’re on your own with that one.”

You groaned, slumping down in your seat as the car pulled out of the school lot.

“Start mentally preparing,” Alexia added. “You’re about to have three teammates dragging you through academic bootcamp. You don’t pass, you don’t play. And if you don’t play, Olga’s going to revoke your football privileges and I’m going to have to explain to Pere why our defensive line collapsed. I can’t live like that, Azulita.”

You stared out the window, quietly panicking. But somewhere underneath the panic was a flicker of something else, reluctant amusement. If nothing else, you had to admit, this team really didn’t let you fall. Even if it meant turning into your personal homework army.

The gym doors burst open with a loud clang, and everyone inside turned just in time to see you and Alexia practically trip over each other. You were both slightly out of breath, bags bouncing off your backs, faces flushed with panic and urgency.

Sydney raised an eyebrow from where she was stretching. “Y’all good?”

“No,” Alexia said immediately, grabbing your wrist and dragging you forward like she was offering you as tribute. “No, she is not good. Tell them what you did.”

You blinked. “Why do I have to—”

“Tell. Them.”

The room went quiet as your teammates gathered around, sensing drama like sharks sniffing blood. Vicky stopped juggling a ball. Ingrid paused mid squat. Even Pere, leaning against the far wall with his clipboard, looked over with curiosity.

You shoved your hands into your hoodie pocket and mumbled, “I’m failing all my classes.”

An audible groan rippled through the room like a wave. Aitana literally flopped backwards onto a mat and threw an arm over her face like she’d just been hit by a car.

“Oh, come on, Azulita! We’ve talked about this!” she started, already in full rant mode. “Education is fundamental to personal growth, and statistically—”

“I’m not done,” you interrupted, deadpan. “Olga said if I don’t have passing grades by the end of the week, I’m benched.”

Dead silence. Someone dropped their resistance band.

“She’s gonna kill you!” Jana yelped.

“You’re doomed!” Ona added.

“She’s actually gonna do it, too,” Vicky muttered, horrified. “She benched me once for not eating a vegetable for three days.”

Alexia held up her hands, trying to calm the chaos. “Okay! Okay! Let’s not panic.”

“You were the one sprinting into the gym like a horror movie victim,” Ingrid said.

“I was panicking internally, Ingrid. There’s a difference.”

Fridolina crossed her arms. “So what’s the plan? Or are we all just going to sit around and let her get benched before the Madrid match?”

“I cannot defend without her,” Ona said immediately. “No offense, Jana.”

“None taken,” Jana replied.

Aitana sat up, rubbing her temple. “Fine. I’ll help her with history. Again.”

Frido stepped forward. “Math is mine.”

“Wait, wait,” Pina said, turning toward the weight racks. “Patri! Get over here! You’re doing science.”

Patri was mid-bicep curl, headphones still in. “What?”

“You’re tutoring Azulita in science.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are now!”

Patri sighed the sigh of someone who regretted every decision that led her here.

Ingrid cleared her throat. “I’ll help with English. She’s writing an essay, right?”

“Trying to write an essay,” Alexia corrected.

You held up your hands, overwhelmed. “Okay! Whoa! Everyone calm down.”

“No,” said Aitana, pointing at you like you were a criminal. “You don’t get calm. You get studious.”

Pere walked over, flipping his clipboard around and looking amused. “Well, in light of the collective meltdown, I’m shortening training for the week. Azulita, consider this an intervention-slash-academic bootcamp. The rest of you, don’t let her fail.”

“Teamwork,” Alexia said solemnly.

“Dreamwork,” Sydney added, patting your shoulder like she was prepping you for war.

You groaned and pulled your hoodie over your head. “This is so humiliating.”

“No, this is love,” Frido said, pulling out her glasses like she was about to run a TED talk. “Aggressive, slightly terrifying love.”

And so began the most chaotic tutoring schedule ever created, powered entirely by panic, guilt, and pure Barça girl drama.

Frido had commandeered one of the smaller tactical briefing rooms in the facility for your “academic rehabilitation,” as she called it. She had her hair up in a bun, glasses perched on her nose, and a whiteboard already filled with lines of numbers and equations by the time you shuffled in, dragging your backpack like a bag of bricks.

She turned to face you, marker still in hand, and gave you a tight nod. “You’re two minutes late.”

“We just finished recovery,” you mumbled, slumping into a chair. “I had to fight for the last protein shake.”

“No excuses,” she said, pointing at her self-made schedule taped on the wall with big, aggressive bullet points like “DERIVATIVES = SURVIVAL.” “We only have an hour, and we’re not wasting time.”

You groaned dramatically. “This feels illegal.”

She handed you a thick stack of worksheets. “Calculus. We start here.”

You blinked. “We’re starting with Calculus?! Shouldn’t we, like, build up to it?”

She sat down, glanced at the top sheet, and paused. “Wait a second… this is AP Calculus.”

“Yeah?” you shrugged. “I was in honors before all the truancy.”

She gave you a flat stare. “You’re doing Calculus? Like, actual Calculus?”

You gave her a look. “Frido. I’ve been smart this whole time. I’m just selective with what I care about.”

She shook her head slowly, muttering, “Wow. You’re actually smart.”

“Actually?! What the hell, Frido!”

“I’m just saying! You come off very…” she waved vaguely, “…feral.”

You rolled your eyes. “So do you!”

She smiled. “Fair.”

The session started off okay. She went full professor mode, standing in front of the whiteboard and writing down a series of derivative rules. Her accent made it sound cooler than it should’ve been.

“This,” she said, underlining with dramatic flair, “is the power rule. You’ll need it for every problem in this set. Now, what is the derivative of x to the fourth?”

You squinted. “Uhh… 4x cubed?”

She looked genuinely delighted. “YES! See? I knew you had it in you.”

You grinned and leaned back in your chair a bit, feeling good about yourself. Unfortunately, that moment of comfort was your downfall.

Thirty minutes later, she was halfway through explaining implicit differentiation when she turned around to check your work—only to find you completely slouched in your chair, eyes fluttering shut, head bobbing like a baby goat.

“Azulita,” she said sharply.

You jerked awake. “Huh? Yes? Derivatives?”

Fridolina narrowed her eyes. “Stand up.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if you sit, you sleep. Up.”

Groaning, you stood, grumbling under your breath. “This is abuse. I’m telling Alexia.”

“She’s the one who begged me to help you,” Frido said, grabbing her marker again. “Now. Chain rule.”

You stood awkwardly near the whiteboard, trying to keep your eyes open. Frido kept writing and lecturing, but your eyelids were traitorous. One second you were watching her explain u-substitution, the next your chin was resting on your chest.

“Are you falling asleep standing up?” she said, genuinely offended.

“I have low iron!” you cried, jolting awake.

She walked over and handed you a protein bar. “Eat this. And march in place.”

You stared at her. “Fridolina.”

“March.”

So there you were, chewing a protein bar, knees lifting like a sad little soldier, trying not to pass out while Colonel Frido ran the most intense Calculus bootcamp in the entire European football circuit.

“Can I at least sit for integrals?” you begged.

She thought about it. “Only if you can explain what an antiderivative is without blinking.”

You blinked.

She pointed to the floor. “Keep marching.”

By the end of the hour, you were sweaty, slightly smarter, and deeply traumatized. Frido patted your shoulder. “You did good. We’ll go again tomorrow.”

You stared at her, dead inside. “What if I just accept benching?”

She laughed and pushed you out the door. “Not happening. Go get Aitana. It’s history time.”

You groaned, dragging your feet. “Can’t wait to cry over kings and queens.”

Aitana was ready before you even walked in. She’d chosen a meeting room next to the physio suite, claiming the vibes were “conducive to intellectual flow.” There was a whiteboard, a projector (which she did not know how to use), and most alarmingly, a stack of her own handwritten notes with highlighters color-coded like a textbook on steroids.

“Sit,” she said, not looking up from her packet. “We are beginning with the Catholic Monarchs.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“The Catholic Monarchs. Isabel and Fernando. Los Reyes Católicos. Spain’s unification. Come on, Azulita, this is basic stuff!”

“Yeah, basic for you,” you muttered, slumping into the chair.

She was already pacing. “So, 1469, Isabel of Castile marries Fernando of Aragon. Boom. Political union. Not total unification yet, but close. Then, they finish the Reconquista in 1492, Granada falls—and the same year, they finance Columbus. That’s the big year. It’s always 1492.”

You stared at her blankly, eyes slightly glazed over. “Why are there so many numbers already?”

She didn’t hear you. “Then you have the Alhambra Decree, expulsion of the Jews, and—are you writing this down?”

You glanced down at your notebook. It was open to a page that said “I’m hungry” in very neat block letters.

Aitana stopped. “Azulita. Focus.”

“I am focusing,” you said, even though you absolutely weren’t. “You just talk so fast. Like… I’m not catching a single thing. Not even fragments. I think you said something about bananas.”

She stared at you in disbelief. “Bananas? I said Granada! That’s a kingdom!”

“Okay, well, the way you said it sounded like fruit.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alright. I’ll slow it down.”

She tried. She really did. She said the words slower, drew timelines, even mimed the marriage of Isabel and Fernando using two highlighters like Barbie dolls. But you were still staring at her like she was reciting an IKEA manual in Swedish. Eventually, she threw her hands up. “Why are you like this?!”

You blinked. “Because I’m American.”

Aitana growled something under her breath in Catalan, then paused like a light bulb went off in her head. “Okay. Fine. Football terms.”

You perked up. “Now we’re talking.”

She took a deep breath. “Isabel is the captain of Castile. She’s smart, she runs the midfield, very Alexia. Fernando is from Aragon, think like Patri. Strong, solid, a little less flashy but reliable. When they get married, it’s like… combining Barça and Madrid—not as rivals, but as a superteam.”

“Ooh, okay. Superteam.”

“Exactly. Together, they ‘win’ Spain. That’s their La Liga title. And Granada—not bananas—is the final match of the season. The final point needed to clinch the title.”

You nodded slowly. “And Columbus?”

“He’s like… the wildcard signing they bet on. Like when a club spends big money on a young player who ends up changing the game.”

You gasped. “So Columbus is like… Lamine?”

“Kind of, but more controversial and with colonization,” she said dryly. “It’s a metaphor.”

“Oh. Okay. Keep going.”

She was on fire now. “The Alhambra Decree? That’s the scandal after the championship. Like a PR disaster. A very bad press conference.”

You were nodding enthusiastically now, scribbling notes. “Expelled the Jews = red card?”

“YES! For the entire team!”

“Oh my god! Aitana, this makes so much sense now!”

She dropped her marker, exhausted. “I hate that this is what works for you.”

You grinned. “Admit it, you love teaching me.”

She sighed but smiled anyway. “You are the most frustrating academic experience of my life.”

“I’m honored.”

You both looked up as the door cracked open and Alexia popped her head in. “How’s it going in here?”

“She thought ‘Granada’ was fruit,” Aitana deadpanned.

Alexia nodded like that tracked. “Yup. That sounds right.”

“She’s learning now!” you said proudly, holding up your notebook. It now read:

“1492 = La Liga win. Isabel = Alexia. Fernando = Patri. Columbus = controversial signing. Granada ≠ fruit.”

Alexia laughed and left. Aitana rubbed her temples again. “Okay. Now we move to Carlos V.”

You raised your hand. “Is he also a football player?”

She sighed. “No, but… maybe we can say he’s like Erling Haaland.”

You snapped your fingers. “Say less.”

“God help me,” she muttered, turning back to the board.

Patri had been reluctant from the start.

“She doesn’t respect science,” she grumbled when Aitana cornered her at lunch and practically shoved a study packet into her hands.

“She doesn’t respect anything unless it’s shaped like a football,” Aitana replied. “But she’s smart, just lazy. Treat her like an annoying prodigy.”

So that’s how you found yourself sitting in a conference room with Patri Guijarro, a giant periodic table taped to the wall, three notebooks, two water bottles, and exactly zero interest.

To her credit, Patri tried to set the mood.

“We’re doing biology,” she said, with the energy of someone heading into war. “Specifically cell respiration and photosynthesis.”

You nodded solemnly. “Let’s get this bread.”

She stared at you. “Bread has carbs. Not relevant. Focus.”

Ona and Pina were already seated in the back like neutral witnesses. Pina had snacks. Ona had the patience of a monk.

“I needed backup,” Patri said, adjusting her marker. “In case I snap.”

“Snap from what?” you asked innocently.

Patri didn’t answer. She launched into the Krebs Cycle.

Everything went surprisingly well. She was clear, concise, writing big diagrams on the board, and for once, you were actually following.

Until she got to the second step and mixed up the order of ATP and NADH.

You raised your hand. “That’s backwards.”

She turned around, eyebrows lifting. “No it’s—” She paused. Looked at the board. Sighed. “Okay, maybe it is. Not the point.”

She corrected it. Two minutes later, she wrote “mitocondria” instead of “mitochondria.”

You raised your hand again. “There’s an H in that.”

“I know,” Patri said, eyes twitching.

“You forgot it.”

“I know.”

She fixed it.

Ona and Pina exchanged glances but said nothing.

Then, the final straw. You were halfway through photosynthesis when Patri cheerfully transitioned to the Calvin Cycle and said, “And that’s why, in the mitochondria, the Calvin Cycle takes place after glycolysis.”

You blinked. “Wait. That’s the Krebs Cycle. Calvin is in the chloroplast.”

Patri froze mid-marker stroke.

Ona instantly moved from her seat. “Okay. That’s enough.”

Pina stood and held onto Patri’s arm as the midfielder muttered, “I swear to God, I am going to put her in the fume hood and close the door.”

You leaned back smugly, arms crossed. “Just saying. Someone needs a refresher.”

Patri gave you a look that could curdle milk.

“She’s doing it on purpose,” she hissed to Pina.

“Probably,” Pina said, tossing you a gummy worm.

“You’re so annoying,” Patri snapped.

“You love me.”

“I barely tolerate you.”

“You were the one who volunteered to help.”

“I was blackmailed!”

The room descended into bickering until Ona clapped once and everyone went quiet. “Enough. Patri. Breathe. Azulita. Lock in.”

You sat up straighter, still grinning. “Okay, okay. I’m serious now.”

Patri grumbled something under her breath but went back to the board. “Alright. Where were we?”

You looked at the diagram. “You were about to redeem yourself after the most embarrassing biology lesson in history.”

“I will throw you out of this room.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re right,” she muttered. “Because I’m a professional.”

To your surprise, she actually managed to finish the lesson without any further interruptions. And you, to everyone’s shock, actually retained information. Enough to answer questions. Correctly. On the first try.

Patri stared at you at the end like you’d just shapeshifted.

“I told you I was smart,” you said smugly.

“You are the most insufferable intelligent person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Pina tossed you a second gummy worm in celebration.

“Okay,” Patri said, dropping her marker. “You’re done with science. Never speak to me again.”

You gave her a thumbs up. “Love you too, Professor Guijarro.”

As you left, Ona patted your shoulder. “That was impressive.”

Pina just muttered, “She’s chaos. But she’s our chaos.”

Ingrid had come prepared.

She entered the media room like a woman on a mission, armed with a copy of Macbeth, three highlighters, a thesaurus, a laptop, and a look that said I will not be defeated by a teenager who thinks Shakespeare is boring.

You were already seated with your hoodie pulled up, looking like you were preparing for battle, too. The difference was: Ingrid had a plan. You had a headache.

She dropped the book in front of you dramatically. “Let’s begin.”

You squinted at the title. “Do we have to?”

“Yes.”

“Do you even know what it’s about?” She nodded confidently. “Of course. It’s about ambition, power, guilt—”

“No, no, like… plot-wise. Like, who dies?”

“Lots of people. That’s not the point.”

“It’s kind of the point.”

Ingrid sighed and sat down beside you. “Alright. Let’s do a quick rundown before we write your essay.”

“Okay.”

She pulled out a sheet of paper and started asking questions.

“What’s Macbeth’s fatal flaw?”

“His name?”

She blinked. “What internal conflict does Lady Macbeth face?”

“Being married to Macbeth?”

“What does the ‘Out, damned spot’ scene symbolize?”

“A really bad laundry day?”

Ingrid stared at you. “Have you even read the book?”

You hesitated. “…Not exactly.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

You shrugged. “I read the Wikipedia summary.”

Ingrid groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “Azulita, you have to read it.”

“I tried!” you said, dramatically slumping over the table. “But it’s all in Old English! Every time I read a line, I feel like I’m decoding a secret message from 1603. Why does everyone talk like they’re in a riddle?”

Ingrid tapped her fingers, clearly thinking.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Then we’re going to act it out.”

You sat up. “We what?”

She stood, already flipping the book open. “Come on. On your feet. I’ll be Macbeth. You’ll be Lady Macbeth. Or Banquo. I don’t care. We’re going full theatre kid now.”

“God help me,” you muttered, dragging yourself up.

Ingrid cleared her throat and began in a booming voice, “‘Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?’”

You blinked. “Why are you yelling?”

“It’s theatre!” she snapped. “Commit to it!”

She handed you a prop dagger from the physio cart… okay, it was an ice roller, but still, and pointed at you. “React!”

You raised the ice roller. “Yes, my king, I… see the dagger too?”

She groaned. “No! You’re not supposed to see it!”

“Then why am I holding this thing?!”

“You’re Banquo now. Pretend to be suspicious.”

You arched an eyebrow dramatically. “Sir, why are you talking to thin air?”

Ingrid burst out laughing. “Okay, now you’re getting it.”

The two of you spent the next thirty minutes yelling dramatic lines, sneaking around the media room, and using physio props to represent swords, goblets, and ghosts. At some point, Patri walked by, stared at the scene, and just kept walking without a word.

Finally, exhausted but victorious, Ingrid plopped back into the chair and handed you your laptop.

“Okay,” she said, panting slightly. “Now write the essay. You have to understand it now.”

You opened a blank doc and stared at the blinking cursor. Then, something miraculous happened. You started typing.

Your fingers flew over the keys as you wrote about Macbeth’s descent into madness, Lady Macbeth’s guilt and unraveling psyche, and the tragic consequences of unchecked ambition. You even used quotes. Properly cited.

Ingrid leaned over your shoulder, stunned. “Wow. That’s actually good.”

You grinned. “Told you I was smart.”

“You just needed to sword fight your way through Shakespeare.”

“Exactly.”

She patted your back. “You’re gonna pass. Maybe even get a B.”

“B for ‘blood on my hands,’” you said in your best Lady Macbeth voice.

Ingrid laughed. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“And you made me act out a ghost scene in the physio room. We’re both weird.”

“Fair point.”

And just like that, Macbeth was conquered—ice roller daggers and all.

The locker room felt like a pressure cooker.

Everyone was in their pregame rituals, headphones in, stretching, pacing, but there was a quiet tension that had nothing to do with kickoff. The whole team kept glancing at the door, waiting. You were in your locker, hunched over, retying your boots for what had to be the sixth time. Your foot had gone numb three reties ago but you weren’t stopping. Not until you knew.

Aitana, sitting on the bench across from you, whispered, “You’re going to cut off circulation.”

You ignored her and pulled the knot tighter. Just then, the door opened. Heads snapped up. Someone gasped.

There stood Olga, wearing her visitor’s badge like a press credential, and behind her, Alexia, already fully kitted, shin guards in, captain’s armband tight around her bicep. She looked like she’d walked straight out of a propaganda poster: determined, majestic, and definitely hiding nerves.

Olga held up a large manila envelope.

“Oh my God, it’s happening,” Ingrid muttered.

“Everybody gather up!” Alexia clapped, her voice firm and tinged with a smile. “Grades are in!”

There was an actual stampede. Pina tripped over her own boots. Ona shoved Aitana out of the way like it was a loose ball. Patri literally climbed over a bench. Within seconds, they’d formed a tight semicircle around Olga, who was holding the envelope like it was the final rose on The Bachelor.

“Do I have everyone’s attention?” Olga asked, dramatic as ever.

“Yes!” half the locker room yelled.

She peeled the envelope open slowly. Too slowly.

“Olga, please,” Frido said, clutching her heart. “Just open it. I can’t take it.”

She pulled out the paper with your grades and scanned it for a moment, face unreadable.

Alexia whispered, “Oh no. She’s doing the neutral face. I hate the neutral face.”

Olga looked up and cleared her throat. “First subject… History. Grade: A.”

The room erupted. Someone screamed. Patri started shaking you.

“Math,” Olga continued, “B+. Science, A-. English…”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“…B.”

The cheers were deafening.

“A B in English?!” Ingrid hollered. “That’s my girl!”

“I’m a genius!” you screamed, even as Patri launched you into the air like a sack of flour.

“PUT HER DOWN!” Frido shouted, already grabbing at your ankles like you were a loose balloon.

“NEVER!” Patri roared, spinning you around.

Aitana burst into tears. “She was failing two weeks ago!”

“She was using Wikipedia as a source!” Ingrid yelled through laughter.

“She said Macbeth was about a haunted kitchen!” Ona cried.

You were red-faced and breathless as Patri finally dropped you onto the bench. Alexia clapped her hands loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“Okay, okay, we’re proud. We’re happy. But we also have a Clasico to win. Let’s focus up!”

Everyone grumbled and slowly began returning to their gear, re-tying boots, slipping into jackets. The energy was lighter now, buzzing with excitement and joy.

You looked over and saw Olga quietly stepping back toward the door, her visitor pass swinging on her lanyard, ready to head up to her seat in the stands. You rushed to her, catching her just before she disappeared out of sight.

You threw your arms around her without saying a word, squeezing her so tightly she made a soft “oof.”

She hugged you right back, warm and steady, hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“Thank you,” you whispered into her shoulder. “For caring. Not just about the grades. About… all of it.”

She leaned back and smiled at you with those familiar, gentle eyes, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“I will always care,” she said softly. “You’re my little sister. That means you get nagged and loved.”

You laughed a little, wiped your eyes.

“You’re still grounded if your next essay is late.”

“Olga!”

She winked and ducked out the door, leaving you standing in the hallway, grinning like a fool.

From behind you, Alexia called out, “Let’s go, genius! You’ve got a game to save.”

You turned, squared your shoulders, and jogged back into the locker room, head high, heart full, and for the first time in weeks, completely present.

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

🏀

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

Number 11.

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

Alexia Putellas.

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

Focus. It’s just a game.

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

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

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

The crowd erupts in a tidal wave of cheers.

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

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

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

Game.

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

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

Then she appears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nice shot tonight.🏀🔥

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

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

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

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

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

The flirting starts subtly.

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

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

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

You reply with a simple: Doubtful.

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

Your pulse quickens. I stand corrected.

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

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

And now, the communication continues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes later, Alexia replies

 @alexiaputellas: Like? 🤭

You laugh, shaking your head before firing back.

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

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

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

Maybe I should learn from you after all…🤔

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

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

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

Alexia: Let them.

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

Let them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grin before typing back.

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

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

@alexiaputellas liked your post.

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

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

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

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

Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you type:

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

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

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

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

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

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

The internet lost it.

Your teammates lost it.

And you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" you asked, feigning innocence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had nothing to say to that.

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

Your teammates snickered from across the gym.

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

"Oh, shut up," you muttered.

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

You grinned. "I’ll let her know."

🏀

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

well good morning to me, cold shower time 🥵

tied | alexia x reader

— You agreed to keep your relationship with Alexia a secret, thinking you could handle it. But when she ties Kika’s hair before your first El Clásico, doing the pre-game ritual she used to do only for you, the jealousy hits harder than you expect. So, Alexia decides to remind you that it’s just you who she wants.

tags/contains:: 18+, mdni, hair pulling, strap r!receiving, rough sex, dom!Alexia, secret relationship, dirty talk, tldr: you get jealous that alexia ties kika’s hair before a game so she makes it up to you by using her hands as a ponytail in bed, not edited or proofread, 6.5k words inspired by hair tie— ty for the inspiration! @elliesanqel

masterlist | do not repost or plagiarize

When you were newer to the team, Alexia took you under her wing – adjusting your shin guards, including you in team banter, buying you snacks randomly, giving you a ride to training whenever you needed it. Everyone joked that she was your "team mom" or "older sister," which always made you uncomfortable because that wasn’t how you ever saw her. 

To you, she was never the “team mom”... mainly because you had a massive crush on her.

And with every nice thing she did for you, and every game you played with her, your infatuation with the Barcelona captain grew. You never said anything to her or to anyone about it though because you never thought that you’d have a chance. She was seven years older, and your captain. There were also probably a hundred thousand other girls who were lined up for her. 

Besides, you always thought she just saw you as another one of the younger players who she felt responsible for. No matter how badly you wanted to believe that the way she was treating you was different or special, it just felt safer to assume you weren’t.

Then came the night after the team party. She had offered to drive you home, like she had so many times before, and you, a little too drunk and reckless, agreed. You don’t know how it happened but somehow your inebriated self thought it would be smart to confess your massive crush on her, which turned out to be the right thing to do because soon enough, you were making out in her car. 

And luckily for you, you started dating Alexia after that.

Alexia and you agreed that you wouldn’t tell anyone. It wasn’t about shame, just… caution. You were still figuring each other out, and with the age gap, the team dynamic, Alexia just ending a previous long-term relationship, and her being your captain, you didn’t want complications. 

Besides, you were only a few months into dating. It just felt right to keep it a secret until you two were dating long enough to figure out your relationship dynamic.

Keeping it a secret was okay for you, even thrilling at times. Sneaking kisses in the locker room when no one was around, catching her hand just for a second too long, playfully patting her ass to see her jump. Alexia played along but was always the careful one.

So careful, in fact, that she never treated you any differently from the rest of the team. She teased the others the same way she teased you, adjusted their shin guards before matches, and even took different teammates out for coffee or dinner to check in on them. You never questioned it. That was just typical Alexia. That was what made her a good captain. None of it remotely bothered you.

That was until Kika arrived.

You liked Kika. She was funny, full of energy, and a ridiculously good player. The two of you hit it off immediately, even making plans to hang out outside of training. Everything was fine… until you started noticing how close she and Alexia had gotten.

Alexia always made an effort with new players, but this felt different. She was always touching Kika, throwing an arm around her shoulders, picking her up and spinning her around like it was nothing. They had inside jokes, little moments of shared laughter that you weren’t part of. You tried not to let it bother you. When you brought it up casually, Alexia just shrugged and said she saw Kika as a little sister, but something about it didn’t convince you. Maybe it was because months before when one of the players was teasing her about you, she said the same thing.

But your last straw came right before a game. You had approached Alexia like you always did, holding out your hair tie and giving her that familiar look. By now, it had become a ritual.

You had grown superstitious over the past season, convinced that whenever Alexia tied your hair before a match, she passed some of her midfield skills onto you. It sounded ridiculous, but the results spoke for themselves. Almost every time she did it, you either scored or assisted.

Alexia never questioned it. She always agreed, sometimes teasing you about it but never refusing. She liked doing it, or at least you thought she did.

It had become a quiet moment between the two of you, something intimate before a game that never gave away the nature of your relationship to others. It was one of the few intimate, personal things you could do in the locker room without getting an eyebrow raise. 

However, this time, she held up a hand before you could even get closer.

"Wait, Kika asked me to tie her hair too." Alexia said it casually, as if she didn’t know just how important it was to you. “I’ll tie your hair after I do hers.”

You froze, dumbfounded, staring as she turned to sit beside Kika, brushing her hair and chuckling about something.

You were seething. You’ve been trying to keep your jealousy in check, always convincing yourself that Alexia was just being the good captain she always was, but this just felt different. It wasn’t just that she turned you down; it was the way she did it so easily, like it wasn’t even a second thought. She knew how much this meant to you, especially today. This was your first time starting against Real Madrid. 

Superstition aside, you also needed that quiet moment with her to keep your nerves grounded before an important game. You took a deep breath and made your way to Aitana instead.

“Can you tie my hair?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

Aitana’s face lit up with surprise. “It’s your first time asking me,” she said, grinning as she patted the space on the bench beside her. You sat in front of her, letting her use her comb to brush your hair up. Aitana was happy to help you out, knowing how important this superstition was to you, even feeling honored you allowed her to take part in it but her curiosity got the best of her. 

She snuck a glance toward Alexia, who was now playfully tugging on Kika’s ponytail, laughing at something she said. “Are you just asking me cause Alexia’s not available?” She asked, as she began tying your hair up neatly. 

You huffed, rolling your eyes at the sight of your girlfriend playfully pulling Kika’s hair. “No, I just thought you’d be luckier this time,” you lied.

Aitana hummed, smiling. “Aw, that’s cute,” she commented. “Seriously thought you were only going to me cause you got replaced.”

Even though you knew Aitana was teasing, it stung a bit. You pouted. “Not at all,” you responded, loud enough for Alexia to hear. “Especially since you’re my favorite Ballon d’Or winner.”

Aitana laughed, shaking her head. “Okay, okay,” she said, tapping your shoulder to signal that she was done. “Since you’re such a kiss ass, I’ll give you one of my lucky headbands to wear.”

You smiled at Aitana, thanking her as she handed you one of her headbands. “Thanks, Aitana!” You gushed loudly before wrapping the tiny girl into a hug.

You surreptitiously looked over to see if Alexia was looking but she was too busy playfully swatting Kika with a brush. Oh, she’s so gonna pay for that.

A goal, three assists, a nearly perfect passing rate, and a Player of the Game title later, you were practically beaming as you were getting interviewed about your performance. 

After all the talk about the game and the team’s performance, you made sure to throw in a comment about how you couldn’t have done it without Aitana helping you out with your pre-game superstition, joking with the reporters that you were gonna have her do your hair every game from now on. Everyone in the team seemed to poke fun at it, teasing Aitana that they also wanted their hair done before every game now.

Alexia didn’t react differently, laughing along with everyone else, completely oblivious to the fact that you had been rubbing it in her face that you were pissed off at her and even pointedly ignoring her after the match. 

She only noticed something was off when you told her you were grabbing your stuff from her car and hitching a ride with Jana instead, who had asked you to go out for some drinks.

Her eyebrows furrowed as she followed you to her car, confusion all over her face. “Are you mad? What did I do?” she asked, genuinely baffled. “Why are you riding with Jana? I thought you were staying over for dinner.”

You pulled your overnight bag from the backseat of her car and slung it over your shoulder. “If you think you did nothing wrong,” you said vaguely. “Then maybe you didn’t.”

Alexia groaned. “Can’t you just tell me?” she pressed, her tone edging into frustration. “Why are you in such a pissy mood? We literally won today because of you. We should be celebrating.”

“I know,” you shot back, shutting the car door. “Also, just so you know, Aitana will be doing my pre-game ritual from now on.”

Alexia blinked, still lost. She stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing,” you shrugged. “I just think she’s luckier, that’s all.”

You tried to move past her, but she was faster, pressing both hands against the car on either side of you, caging you in.

“Cariño,” she huffed, exasperated. “I’m tired from the game. I’m starving. I just wanna go home, order takeout, and cuddle. Can you please just tell me what the fuck I did wrong so we can make up and do that already?”

Before you could answer, a voice called out. “Capi?”

You both turned to see Sydney standing a few feet away, looking awkward. Her eyes widened slightly as she registered that you were the one Alexia was practically pinning against a car.

You both stepped apart immediately.

Sydney hesitated. “Uh… was I interrupting…”

“No, no, it was nothing. I was just—”

“She was just putting her bag in my car,” Alexia cut in smoothly. “She needs a ride, and who am I to say no to the MVP, right?”

Sydney gave a cautious laugh. “Uh… okay…” She didn’t look convinced. “Jana and Ingrid are getting dinner and asked me to find you guys.”

Alexia shook her head, smiling at the teenage Swede. “I’d love to, but Y/N’s in a hurry cause she has to meet her landlord, and I have to drive her.”

You shot her a look in disbelief that she was blatantly lying to Sydney just to trap you in the car. Alexia met your gaze with a pointed one of her own. “Right? You said your landlord said something about a leak.”

“Yeah… my landlord…” you muttered through gritted teeth.

Sydney still looked skeptical but nodded. “That sucks, but we should all hang out soon.”

Alexia beamed at her, reopening the back door and gesturing for you to put your bag inside. Reluctantly, you tossed it in, playing along for Sydney’s sake. The second Alexia shut the door, she immediately opened the passenger side and motioned for you to get in.

You forced a smile at Sydney before climbing inside, seething at Alexia’s trickery. The moment she got into the driver’s seat, you groaned, already beyond irritated.

“Drop me off at my place,” you said flatly. “I’m not in the mood for dinner with you.”

Alexia frowned as she pulled out of the parking lot. “What is up with you? You never act like this. What did I do?”

“You don’t think you did anything wrong, so why does it matter?” you shot back, crossing your arms and staring out the window.

Alexia groaned. “Obviously, I fucked up, but can’t you just tell me what I did?” She complained. “Is it because I told Pere to sub you out at the 80th? You were obviously tired and Sydney needed minutes too, you know.”

You scoffed. “Why the fuck would I be mad about not playing a full 90? I was exhausted.” You retorted. “I want Sydney to get her minutes in too, y’know?”

“Then what is it?” Alexia demanded.

You ignored her. Alexia sighed, feeling annoyed by the fact that you were choosing to be passive-aggressive instead of talking it out with her. She looked over to you, hair still damp from your quick shower after the game. You were dressed in your typical, post-match gear of sweats and a tank top but this time, you had a new thin headband hanging from your neck. 

She furrowed her eyebrows, as she looked back onto the road. “Since when do you wear headbands?” She asked sincerely. “Those don’t look like mine either.”

You rolled your eyes ignoring Alexia, who hummed in thought as she tapped her steering wheel. “Oh, is that one of Aitana’s?”

“Yeah, what does it matter?” 

Alexia hummed again. “Nothing, I just… didn’t notice you wearing it a while ago on the pitch.”

“Yeah, cause I’m sure your eyes were somewhere else.” You muttered it under your breath but Alexia was still able to hear most of it.

She frowned. “Huh? What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing,” you responded, much to her annoyance.

At the stoplight, Alexia reached over, resting a hand on your thigh. “Come on, baby. Just tell me what I did wrong.”

You finally looked at her. Her eyes were soft, searching yours. As much as you wanted to stay mad, you just sighed and turned away again.

“You just seem into someone else,” you admitted quietly.

Alexia’s brows knitted together. “Someone else? Who?”

You continued to ignore her, perceiving Alexia’s genuine confusion as feigned perplexity. Why does she have to play dumb about it?

She started thinking, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “Is this because I hugged Ona after I scored?”

You didn’t respond. She glanced at you, then back at the road. “Because I said ‘you too’ to a fan who called me pretty?”

Still nothing.

Alexia sighed, drumming her fingers on the wheel. She chuckled. “Because I stole a fry off Ingrid’s plate at lunch?”

You clenched your jaw. It was obviously none of those things. Alexia took another look at you, gaze falling once more on the headband around your neck. Then she realized.

“Wait… are you jealous of Kika?”

Your body tensed before you could stop it.

Alexia let out a small laugh. “No way. Is this about me tying her hair?” She shook her head, still grinning. “Cariño, it was just a ponytail. You think I’m cheating on you because I tied someone else’s hair?”

That was it.

“It’s more than that, Alexia.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through her amusement. You turned to her, face clearly pained. 

Her smirk faded.

“You’ve been paying attention to her all day and ignoring me.” Your voice didn’t waver, but there was something raw underneath. “You used to always hug me a lot before a game but now you just hug Kika and Patri and everyone else, and you don’t even hug me or even give me a pat on the back.”

“And you’ve also been joking around with Kika a lot and you don’t even bother to tell me what your inside joke is. I just feel like a third wheel whenever I hang out with you two.” You felt kinda embarrassed showing her your jealous side like this but you couldn’t help but explode at her poking fun at you being upset.

You paused to breathe, cheeks growing flush. “And yeah, I’m mostly mad cause you didn’t tie my hair before this game.You know how important that ritual is to me.” You explained. “Especially now. It was my first time starting against Real Madrid and you just left me hanging.”

You turned away from her again. “I just feel replaced and forgotten, okay?” You said, voice low. “I agreed to keep us a secret cause I thought you’d at least do a good job of reassuring me about your feelings.”

Alexia exhaled, nodding as she gripped the steering wheel. She finally understood. In trying so hard to avoid showing favoritism toward you as her girlfriend, she had gone too far in the opposite direction: ignoring you without even realizing it.

The truth was, she had only been spending so much time with Kika because the Portuguese player was the only one loud and energetic enough to keep her distracted. It was easier to let Kika shove her phone in her face, forcing her to watch ridiculous TikToks, than to risk staring at you too much, making it obvious to everyone how much she wanted you.

She sighed again, her voice softer this time. “I’m genuinely sorry, cariño.”

You didn’t respond.

Alexia reached over, squeezing your thigh gently. “How can I make it up to you?”

Silence.

“Just tell me what to do,” she added, eyes flicking to you briefly. “I don’t want you feeling like this.”

Still, you said nothing, arms crossed as you stared out the window. Alexia sighed, accepting your silence but refusing to let it stay this way.

By the time you got to her apartment, you were still upset. You had tried arguing with her, insisting she take you home, but Alexia had ignored every protest, pulling into her parking spot like it wasn’t even up for debate.

Now you sat at the edge of her bed, back turned against her. You tapped through your phone, eyes scanning the Uber app for a car to ride, hoping you could still meet some of your teammates for some drinks. You knew if you went home, Alexia would just follow you there and badger you. At least with friends, there was no way Alexia would talk to you about it or even follow you; she was way too cautious about keeping your relationship a secret.

Behind you, Alexia was changing into a tank top and soft cotton shorts. As your girlfriend peeked at you, checking to see if you were still upset, she immediately sees you trying to book an Uber. “Cariño,” she groaned. “Don’t go.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond.

She walked over and crouched in front of you, putting her hands on top of your phone so that you’d be forced to look at her. Her hazel eyes searched yours, earnest and a little tired. 

“I’m sorry I brushed you off earlier,” she said. “You know I wasn’t trying to ignore you. We agreed to keep things quiet, so I was just trying to play it safe. That’s all.”

You looked at her, jaw tense. “I know but you didn’t even bother talking to me before the game and you know how important that game was to me.”

Alexia exhaled, slow and quiet. “You’re right. I should have. I’m trying now, though. Can we please just... stop fighting?”

“It’s too late, Alexia.” You said it low, averting your gaze from her. “Let’s just talk about it some other time. I’m not in the mood to talk.”

She held eye contact for a while before deeply sighing. She just stood up, gave a small nod, and stepped away. You assumed that was the end of it; Alexia never liked fighting. You returned to your phone, starting a message to Jana to let her know you’d catch up soon.

Alexia sighed again as she walked towards her closet, reorganizing some things. Once she left the room, you felt more at ease texting your friends, telling them you’ll be booking an Uber to the bar to meet them. You presumed Alexia left the room to do some chores; she always got into tidying whenever you two fought. She said it helped her clear her brain and calm down. 

But your time alone in her room was short-lived. Just moments later, your girlfriend was back and you were suddenly feeling the bed dip beneath you as she crawled onto it.

“What are you doing?” You furrowed your eyebrows, looking over your shoulder.

Alexia settled on her knees behind you, already running her fingers through your hair. “Let me tie it up for you,” she murmured.

You turned slightly, confused. “Now? What’s the point?”

“Just let me,” she said, tone even. “Then you can go, if you still want to. I just want to know I did something to make things right. Even if it’s inconsequential.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. Your attention returned to your phone, typing half a sentence before her hands began to move again. Fingertips gliding gently against your scalp with a slight firmness to them, massaging, tugging through tangles with careful ease. You felt your shoulders drop and your eyes flutter, your body betraying you. 

Alexia noticed.

She smiled faintly as she worked, kneading slow circles into your scalp, brushing your hair back before gathering it into a neat ponytail. Her fingers moved with precision, like she had done this a hundred times.

Then she paused.

Her hand tugged gently at your hair, tilting your head back slightly. Her face was close now, just beside your cheek. You could feel the warmth of her breath. “Let me make it up to you,” she whispered. “I’ll show you that I only want you.”

Before you could answer, she tilted your head to the side and pressed her mouth to your neck. Her lips were soft and warm, taking in the flesh of your neck between them. You gasped, resting your phone beside you, afraid you’d drop it with your now trembling hands. 

While one of Alexia’s hands held your hair in a firm ponytail, the other slid around your waist, creeping up beneath your shirt. Her fingers grazed the edge of your bra, moving slowly, deliberately. She traced the lace of your bra with her fingertips, teasing you.

You should have stopped her and snapped at her. You should have told her that sex wasn’t gonna make you less upset and jealous, but something about her mouth on your neck rendered you speechless and weak.

Her hands slid higher, fingers curling over the fabric of your bra cup before tugging it down. Your breath hitched as she took your breast out of your bra, letting it hang over the bra. She cupped your bra with her hands, feeling the plush flesh against her palms. Then, sge rolled your nipple between her fingers, teasing, as her mouth slowly latched to your neck again.

You bit your lip, torn between moaning and moving away. 

Alexia’s hand let go of your hair as she used both her hands to swiftly take your top off of you. She threw it off the bed before she continued planting wet, deep kisses on your neck, both hands playing with your nipples, rolling and pinching them in between fingertips. 

Her mouth peppered kisses from the base of your neck to your ear. You could feel her lips on the curve of your ear and the warmth of her breath emanate into your skin. Her breath sent a shiver through you. “You wanted your hair tied so badly, yeah?” she murmured.

Before you could even respond, Alexia pulled you by the waist, moving you further into the bed. She got up from the bed as swiftly, moving back to the side of the bed where your feet were still hanging. Her expression was unreadable, but her hands were impatient, tugging at your sweats and sliding them down with a rough kind of urgency. You barely had time to react before her hands gripped your thighs and pulled you toward the edge.

Suddenly, Alexia had placed her hands under your thighs, pulling you towards the end of your bed, now just clad in your underwear. With fluid control, she flipped you over, easing you on to your stomach. Her hands positioned your legs apart, hips raised, body exposed to her entirely. You gasped as she gathered your hair again, holding it tight like a makeshift ponytail.

You gasped as Alexia took a handful of your hair, pulling your head back with it. She gathered all the other loose strands, using her hand as a makeshift ponytail. You could feel the stinging pain radiate through your scalp, making you wince. “You want this, cariño?” she asked, voice low and close. “Is this what you’re in such a bad mood for?”

You bit your lip, then felt her weight settle against you, the front of her body pressing into your cunt. She pulled your hair a little harder, hips rolling into yours, and the sensation made your breath hitch. That was when you felt it, the bulge underneath her shorts. It was undeniable. You could easily tell from the shape of it, the feel of it against your clothed cunt.

Did she actually put on a strap while I was pissed off at her.

“Answer me,” she whispered in your ear in a calm voice, distracting you from your thoughts.

You gulped and hesitated, only for Alexia to pull back again on your hair. You gasped at the stinging pain. “Yes,” it came out hoarse and strained from your throat.

Alexia smiled as she adjusted so her hand was balling up your hair closer to your scalp, making it less painful. It was a looser grip but she was still in control of you clearly. She used the same hand to push your head down onto the bed. You moaned out as you felt her fingers press from behind you. She teasingly traced the folds of your cunt that were now soaked and clinging to the almost translucent fabric of your underwear. A whimper escaped your lips as she used her hand to pull your underwear to the side, your wetness practically dripping as she did. 

Alexia licked her lips subconsciously as she let go of your hair, swiftly pulling down her shorts to expose the silicone member attached to your waist. You were able to look back behind you without your girlfriend holding your hair, and your eyes widened as you saw that it was the translucent dildo that you both never bothered using because you always thought it was too big for you.

“You’re gonna take all of this for me,” Alexia said. “I want you to take all of this in so I forget about how big of a brat you’re being even when I already apologized for nothing.”

She pulled open the drawer beside the bed, grabbing the familiar bottle of lube. Without hesitation, she poured it over the length of the thick toy, spreading it with slow, deliberate strokes. Her eyes met yours and she smirked. “Take a deep breath, cariño.”

You inhaled deeply, feeling your heartbeat quicken as you felt the tip of the toy press against you. “Now exhale.”

Your breath left you in a shaky moan as Alexia pushed forward, driving the toy inside you in one deep, controlled motion. The force sent you sprawling onto your forearms, cheek against the sheets, hips still tilted up for her.

She started a slow rhythm, her hands firm on your hips, then one hand tangled roughly into your hair again, keeping your head pressed down onto the bed. As soon as she was more confident about her thrusts and her pace quickened, she pulled your head up with a practiced grip, your back arching with the pressure. A smirk grew on Alexia’s face as you moaned out loud at the pain you felt with your hair being pulled. 

“Even when you’re being a pain about it,” she murmured, breath catching with effort. “The way you get jealous? It’s so hot.”

Another string of moans spilled from your lips as she kept driving her strap into you. The room echoed with the slick sound of your wetness and the sharp slap of her thighs against your ass. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as the thick toy stretched you open and your head throbbed with the pain from the hair pulling, and somehow, the sting only made the pleasure sharper.

“It’s hot because I get to remind you just how much I want you,” Alexia growled, voice low and ragged from exertion. “I get to remind you I’m the only one who gets to pull your hair like this. The only one who gets to fuck you dumb with my dick.”

Alexia always loved dirty talk but not like this – not so raw, so unfiltered and filthy. The edge in her voice made you tremble, made your moans louder. Her grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you in place as she picked up her pace, every thrust deeper, rougher. With her other hand she pulled on your hair firmer, keeping a steady control of you. 

The head of the strap kept nudging at your cervix, pushing you closer to the edge. It was the first time that a strap was so massive that it was practically filling you completely; you knew you’d have a bruised cervix after this but right now, all you could feel was Alexia and every inch of her inside you.

“F-fuck,” you moaned, tension twisting tight in your stomach like a knot ready to snap. Your back arched instinctively, hips grinding in small, desperate movements, chasing every inch of sensation. Alexia saw it in the way you moved, the way your thighs trembled. A knowing smirk curved her lips as she let go of your hair, letting your face drop against the mattress.

“Put your hands behind your back,” she said, voice calm but commanding.

You didn’t even think twice. Moving quickly, you brought your arms behind you, wrists meeting at the small of your back. Alexia’s large fingers wrapped firmly around them, holding you in place.

She pushed your wrists deeper into the curve of your back, forcing your face and chest into the sheets. The position felt humiliating in the best way, like you were giving her complete control of your body. The mattress was cool against your cheek, the contrast sharp against the heat radiating from your skin.

Alexia moved behind you with ruthless precision, her strap hitting deep with each thrust. Her hips met the backs of your thighs with a wet slap, over and over. Your moans came louder now, obscene and desperate, as the sensation became almost too overwhelming. Her grip on your wrists only tightened, steadying you as your body started to shake beneath her.

Your head pressed further into the bed, cheek dragged across the sheets, makeup smeared into pale linen. But none of it mattered to Alexia. If anything, it turned her on seeing you dishevelled and leaving your mark on her pristine bed.

“You like that?” Alexia said with some roughness to her voice. “Being held like this. Now do you believe me when I say I only want you? That you’re the only one who I get to fuck like this?”

You tried to answer, but only a muffled whimper came out. Your body was already betraying you, back arching harder, thighs quivering under her touch. Alexia just laughed softly and adjusted her grip. “Good girl,” she whispered, before slamming her hips into yours again, harder this time.

“Alexia!” You moaned out loud as you felt the tension in your stomach build up even more, almost pushing you over the edge. “I’m going to cum.”

She smiled, propping one leg up on the edge of the mattress to give her more leverage and control. She let go of your wrists to hold on to both sides of your waist, firmly keeping you where she wanted you. She continued to thrust against you. The sensation of the base of the strap bumping against her own clit was also pushing Alexia towards an orgasm, but she didn’t wanna cum until you did. 

Just as your orgasm surged closer,your phone suddenly rang. The sound sliced through the moment like a knife. You flinched. Alexia stilled mid-thrust, glancing at the screen lighting up beside you.

It was Jana.

Just as your finger hovered above the decline button, Alexia spoke up. “Answer it. She might still think you’re still on the way to meet them.”

You hesitated, biting your lip, then reluctantly took the call. Awkwardly angling your body, you glanced back at Alexia — her strap still steady inside you, her gaze unreadable. She simply raised both brows and nodded at the phone.

“Hello, Jana?” you said, putting the call on speaker, since holding it to your ear was impossible in your current position.

“Hey, are you on the way?”

“Oh, I don’t KNOW–” you gasped, the words escaping louder than intended as Alexia suddenly thrust into you again You looked back at her, eyes wide in disbelief. She just smirked, continuing her rhythm, slow but deliberate. You clenched your jaw, trying to swallow a moan.

“Oh my god, what happened?” Jana asked, alarmed. “Did you slip? It sounded like you saw a ghost.”

“N-no, I just…” You couldn’t continue your thought, trying too hard to focus on choking down your moans as Alexia thrusted into you. “I just gotta finish something real quick.”

Jana paused, then asked, voice audible confused. “Wait, so, are you still coming?”

Alexia let out a quiet laugh at the phrasing. You shot her a glare, but she only shrugged. You struggled to form a coherent sentence, brows furrowed as Alexia picked up her pace again. “Uh, I think – uh…”

Alexia chuckled again before bending over slightly, resting some of her weight on your back as she plucked the phone from beside you. “Jana, she’s gonna have to cancel.” Alexia said, speaking for you.

“Alexia?” Jana’s voice through the phone said, audibly confused. “Wait what happened? Is she okay?”

You looked back, breath caught, locking eyes with Alexia. A mischievous smile curled at her lips. “She’s fine,” she said sweetly. “She was just shocked now because I asked her out on a date.”

“A date?!” Jana shrieked, voice crackling through the speaker. But before she could say more, Alexia ended the call and tossed your phone aside. Her eyes found yours again.

“No more sneaking around,” she said, her voice low and certain. “And you don’t have to act like a possessive, jealous mess anymore.”

Alexia’s smile grew more mischievous as she rested her hands on your hips again. “Now, let me fuck you like a good girlfriend.”

You smiled, dazed and breathless but the expression barely lasted a moment. Your face contorted again, eyebrows knit together, a sharp gasp escaping your parted lips as Alexia thrust into you once more. Her thrusts were fast and unrelenting. Each stroke was deep, purposeful, her hips snapping forward with precision and hunger.

You could feel your moans grow louder, any attempt at control long gone, your voice trembling with every punishing thrust.

Alexia could feel the tension coiling in her core, her own orgasm building rapidly. But she held it back. Her rhythm grew messier, less measured but it didn’t lose its urgency. If anything, she fucked you harder, grunting low under her breath as her thrusts remained quick and relentless.

Your moans turned to desperate, near-incoherent sounds, your hands now gripping the sheets like a lifeline. Each movement of her hips drove you closer to the edge until one deep thrust completely sent you over it.

Your entire body arched, a broken moan of her name spilling from your lips as the climax crashed into you like a wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. Pleasure flooded every nerve, and your limbs went slack beneath her.

Still, Alexia didn’t stop right away. She kept thrusting, riding the high of your release, chasing her own. A few more messy, fast strokes… and then she cursed under her breath, the tension finally snapping inside her.

She stepped back with shaky legs, pulling the strap out of you slowly. Then she collapsed beside you on the bed, her body half-draped across the sheets, chest rising and falling rapidly as she caught her breath.

You were still on your stomach, eyes fluttering open only when you felt her gaze. You turned your head just enough to meet her eyes. She smiled at the sight of you, exhausted and used, covered in your own sweat but still utterly gorgeous with cheeks flushed and lips swollen. She felt that you were always at your prettiest whenever she just fucked the living shit out of you.

“Did that make it up to you?” she asked, breathless but cocky, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. 

“No,” you responded, pouting before pointing at your disheveled hair. “Does that look like a ponytail to you?”

A couple days after the game, you were back to training. You had expected things to be a little different, expecting Jana to have spread the news already but it just seemed normal… a bit too normal.

Everyone seemed to not want to bring it up, staying quiet as you walked into the locker room. But there were subtle hints that told you everyone knew.

Patri winked at you when you passed by her. Ingrid tried to act normal but she nudged Mapi in a not-so-subtle way, wiggling her eyebrows and pointedly looking towards Alexia shortly after. Jana widened her eyes at you with an annoyed look, probably pissed you didn’t call her back to tell her everything.

You did your best to pretend not to notice, not knowing how to react to it. When you thought about being more public with Alexia, you didn’t think about how much teasing you’d potentially face with your teammates.

After putting on her boots and straightening up her clothes, Alexia walked up to your locker, putting a hand up on the door of your locker. She smiled warmly at you, eyeing you. You felt a blush spread across your cheeks, suddenly feeling everyone’s eyes on you.

You blinked at her. “What?”

She nodded toward your wrist. “Hairtie,” she smirked. “I know it isn’t a game but I just wanna do it for you.”

You hesitated for a second, but she gave you that look — the are you gonna make this weird or not? one — and you sighed, turned around, and handed it over. Alexia started tying your hair with practiced ease. No teasing, no flirtatious whispering. Alexia knew that your relationship was known by all your teammates at this points but that didn’t mean she had to put on the PDA everytime. She was still a captain after all.

The second she finished, there was a beat of silence. 

Until Aitana, who had been previously left out of the loop by the other teammates, pulled back from Ona whispering to her. She had a shocked look, visibly surprised by the news that you two were apparently now dating.

 “Wait… so is the hair tying a kink?” Her voice came out a little too loud, cutting through the silence.

The room erupted. 

Cata let out an actual shriek. Patri nearly fell off the bench laughing. Everyone started laughing loudly as if they had been holding in the entire time.. Even Pere paused in the doorway, eyebrows slowly rising.

Alexia just looked at you with a smile, “She’s not completely wrong.”

The locker room exploded again. You covered your face with both hands, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“No more secrets, right?” Alexia said as she shrugged, clearly enjoying herself.

a/n: sorry this took too long. i was TIRED ASF after a job i had to do last saturday and had to rest the day after then i had class and yeah whatever. i hope this is worth it! i started doubting myself with this fic and nearly did not post it so please BE NICE and dont send hate if u think this sucked ass aaaaa masterlist taglist: @write287 @idonhaveablog12345 @ace-of-baked @maeshoneyles @pinkygirliee @haloo256 @wosolipa @tenyleas @lynchloverr @footy-lover264 @kellyscooneycross @rikuwashere24 @barcelonafem24 — @gozzi-1154 @floppy-03 @daniwhatwhat @sapphicdarlingx @dfwspky @miss-americana22 @lilibach @liloandstitchstan @tikitakatia @beeversblues

Tia Alexia And Her Mascot

Alexia Putellas x Mila

The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of Alexia Putellas’ breathing and the occasional clang of weights hitting the floor. She was deep into her training session, pushing herself to be in the best shape possible. The Champions League quarterfinal second leg was coming up, and nothing mattered more than being ready. Her focus was razor-sharp, her expression serious, and her mind locked in.

That was, until she heard the unmistakable sound of tiny feet running across the gym floor.

Alexia barely had time to put the weights down before a small, dark-haired blur skidded to a stop a few feet away from her.

Mila.

With her messy hair, rosy cheeks, and an ever-present twinkle in her eyes, Mila was a walking ball of energy. She had likely spent the entire morning running around, climbing on things she shouldn’t, and making her mothers chase after her.

But right now, something was different. Instead of launching herself at Alexia like she usually did, Mila hesitated. She fiddled with her fingers, glancing at the ground, looking almost… unsure.

Alexia wiped the sweat off her face with a towel, then sat down on the bench. She narrowed her eyes slightly, studying the little girl in front of her.

“Mila?” she called softly.

No response.

Alexia’s brows furrowed, concern creeping in. Mila was rarely ever quiet, let alone hesitant around her.

“Come here, pequena,” Alexia said, patting her lap.

Finally, Mila took small steps toward her, her usual confidence replaced by shyness. She climbed onto Alexia’s lap, wrapping her arms around her neck in a tight hug before pulling back slightly.

“Tia… I have a question,” Mila mumbled.

Alexia smirked, tilting her head. “A question? That sounds serious.”

Mila nodded solemnly.

“Okay,” Alexia said, gently brushing a few strands of hair from Mila’s face. “Ask away.”

Mila took a deep breath, playing with the hem of Alexia’s training shirt. “This week is the semifinals.”

Alexia chuckled. “Oh really? I had no idea.”

Mila giggled, but her nervousness quickly returned. She hesitated for a moment, then finally said, “I want to be your mascot.”

For the first time in a long time, Alexia was truly caught off guard. She blinked, her usual intensity softening into pure surprise.

She had thought about this before, of course. She had watched Mila walk out onto the pitch as a mascot for her moms, for Caroline, for Esmee, Frido, and Kika. And while Alexia had secretly dreamed of having Mila by her side one day, she never wanted to pressure her. She had been waiting—waiting for Mila to come to her.

And now, here she was, asking all on her own.

A slow, wide smile spread across Alexia’s face. Without hesitation, she stood up, lifting Mila into her arms effortlessly.

“You want to be my mascot?” she asked, her voice filled with warmth.

Mila nodded eagerly. “Yes!”

Alexia let out a joyful laugh and tossed Mila up into the air, catching her as the little girl giggled uncontrollably. “Of course, you can!” she said, pressing a loud kiss to Mila’s cheek.

Then, still holding her niece, Alexia turned toward the other players in the gym. “MILA IS GOING TO BE MY MASCOT!” she announced proudly.

Her teammates laughed, some clapping, others shaking their heads in amusement. It was rare to see Alexia like this—so open, so unguarded. But with Mila, she was always like this. Always soft. Always full of love.

---

The tunnel was filled with tension, the anticipation of the match pressing down on everyone. Barcelona was minutes away from stepping onto the pitch, and the entire team was locked in.

But Alexia?

She was looking down at Mila.

Dressed in a tiny Putellas jersey, her dark hair neatly braided, Mila was practically vibrating with excitement. Her small hand was wrapped around Alexia’s, gripping tightly.

Alexia crouched down, her serious expression melting into something gentler. “Are you ready?” she asked.

Mila beamed. “Of course!”

Alexia smirked. “You think we’re going to win?”

Mila gasped, placing her hands on her hips. “Obviously! You have to score a goal for me, though.”

Alexia chuckled, shaking her head in amusement. “I’ll do my best.”

Before she could say anything else, the signal came. It was time to walk out.

Alexia took Mila’s hand again, squeezing it gently as they stepped forward. The moment they emerged from the tunnel, the stadium erupted into cheers, but all Alexia could focus on was the small figure beside her.

This—walking out with Mila, her niece, her little partner in crime—was one of the proudest moments of her life.

She could feel the cameras capturing the moment, but she didn’t care about that. All that mattered was that Mila was there, standing tall, looking up at her with nothing but admiration and love.

As the anthem played, Mila stood in front of Alexia, glancing back at her every few seconds. When it ended, she spun around and opened her arms wide.

Alexia crouched down again, embracing her tightly.

“Good luck, Tia,” Mila whispered.

Alexia kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, mi nina.”

Mila was led off to the bench, where she sat with some of her other honorary aunts.

---

The final whistle blew. Barcelona had won.

Alexia was shaking hands with the opposing players, still catching her breath, when she heard it.

“TIA!”

She turned just in time to see Mila sprinting toward her at full speed.

Alexia barely had time to react before the little girl launched herself at her. Without hesitation, Alexia caught her, lifting her effortlessly into her arms.

“You did it!” Mila cheered. “You scored!”

Alexia grinned, pressing another kiss to Mila’s cheek. “Of course, I did.” She tapped Mila’s nose. “You gave me good luck.”

Together, they made their way around the stadium, applauding the fans. Mila never left Alexia’s side, her little arms wrapped around Alexia’s neck, her head resting on her shoulder.

For Alexia, victories were always special.

But this one?

This one, with Mila by her side?

This one was perfect.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar

Alexia Putellas x Explorer!R

8.5k Fluff, Fun, Minor Angst

Hi Guys,

This is pt4. in the 'I Would Climb Every Mountain With You" otherwise known as Explorer!R Universe. TW: description of killing an animal.

Highly recommend you read those 3 first, as this is entrenched in lore. Pt 1 can be found here.

It's developed from an ask I received from @karsonromanoff so thank you so much for the idea! I hope I did it justice and I'm sorry for the delay and the words. ha.

This is the first time I've written since my dad died. I'm not being emo or heavy about it but I am asking to please, be kind. I know there's nice people out there but often they're drowned out by the loud haters.

So throw us a comment, like or reblog if you enjoyed. I'm just trying to get back into something that brought me joy. I know I enjoyed writing it.

Also, may be weird for a fic about a spanish gay footballer, but you probably need a good working knowledge of Bear Grylls to understand 80% of this. ha.

As has become tradition, here's the song running though my head when writing! Yes, my music taste remains to be that of someone born in 1962. God love Helen Reddy.

“Vamos Ale! I don’t like to make Miguel wait…” you shout from the kitchen, bag resting on the countertop as you try to fix your bracelet with your left hand,

“Deja de preocuparte, a él no le importa, I will be one minute…” you head called back from the bedroom where your wife had been getting dressed for 2 hours now.

Yes.

Your wife.

Sometimes you couldn’t believe it.

Sometimes the weight of the band on your finger catches you by surprise and you’d remember.

Sometimes Alexia would place her hand on your bare thigh and you could feel the cool metal on your skin and you’d remember.

Sometimes you’d get called “Mrs Putellas” at a school talk, or at the Doctors, and you’d remember.

It felt so natural that sometimes you’d forget that you weren’t always Alexia's wife.

But now you are. And had been for almost 6 months. And married life couldn’t have suited you more.

Your wedding ring was your new favourite accessory, you never took it off.

In a fire you would save Alexia and your ring.

Maybe even your ring first.

It was embossed with the imprint of grass that Alexia has been collecting from each pitch of each game she had played in since you had met. The intricate design brought tears to your eyes as soon as you saw it. Made even worse by the inscription “’cause you are my goal”. 

You would be embarrassed if Alexia hadn’t cried like a toddler when you presented her with the ring you had made for her, which had rock from each of the 7 peaks you had scaled, as well as a granule of sand from the Dead Sea set within it. Integrated into the metal, visible but smooth to the touch. 

The inscription 'every mountain high, every valley low' on the inside of the band.

You knew you’d done good and you knew your Ale well enough to anticipate the absolute mess she would be when presented with it, ensuring you had a pocket full of tissues for the inevitable waterfall.

You weren’t wrong.

You had to assure a passing couple on the trail you had chosen that she was fine, not having a medical incident and you were definitely not mid break-up but in fact exchanging wedding bands early because you knew your fiance well enough she didn’t need her teammates to witness this much of her soft side.

Though you tried, they still saw enough on your wedding day to tease her for the last 6 months with no sign of slowing down.

Though right now your wife's behaviour was nothing but unexpected. You had agreed to attend one of Alexia's events this evening. Since getting married you had felt more of a duty to attend and make up for the years you’d left her carrying her own handbag whilst you trotted over mountains on the other side of the world. 

She insisted that you didn’t have to. Like she always did. You weren’t one for the fancy dresses and the flashing cameras. But you saw the gleam of hope in her eyes as she insisted she would be fine on her own.

You couldn’t let that sparkle dim.

Also you had to set off for a camp in a few days and you had gotten seriously stuck in the honeymoon phase meaning that an evening without your wife by your side wasn’t something you could stomach.

Not that you would admit to being so clingy.

But it wasn’t like Ale to take so long to get ready, neither of you being particularly fussy, usually she would throw on some light makeup, smack your bum whilst you ate nutella off a knife under the hob light, procrastinating getting ready until she dragged you and dropped you into the ensuite, steal a kiss and a spray of perfume, and wait for you whilst watching old football clips in the living room.

But now, as you still struggled to attach the clasp of your bracelet and you had one eye on the poor Barca driver, Miguel, waiting in your driveway, you started to grow frustrated at your wife's sudden vanity.

You smelt her perfume invading your senses as you felt her arms envelope you from behind, moving your uncoordinated left hand away and easily attaching the clasp of your bracelet for you, pressing a kiss to your neck as she did so.

“Finalmente… Let’s g-...” you spoke as you turned in her embrace, finally taking in her attire which stopped you in your tracks.

“Boobs”

You had suddenly turned into a 14 year old boy and you couldn’t explain it.

You had seen your wife naked hundreds of times.

Hundreds of fantastic times.

But here she stood looking, regal. Her hair falling lightly over her face, her dark sparkly dress with wide shoulders and only what you could describe as a boob portal you had been rendered speechless. Mouth gaping open like a fish.

“...Amor?...” you heard the delight in her voice. “Are you listening to me… my eyes are up here.” she jokingly clicked her fingers in front of your face which took you out of your breast-inspired trance.

“Ale you are so beautiful” you looked deeply into her eyes but you didn’t miss the blush rising from her neck. And you meant it. She was. Wow. 

“Do you like it?” she asked, shyly, “You don’t think it’s too much? It’s just the first event we’ve gone to together since we got married and I wanted to…”

You interrupt her but pressing a kiss to her lips, and, well, if you slipped a little tongue in there then fine. She was your wife after all.

“What? Show the world what they're missing out on? I am so proud to stand by your side, my love.” you whispered into her lips, as you toyed with her wedding band. 

You couldn’t help yourself…”and your boobs are fantastic.” 

She barked out a laugh as you leaned back into where you left off, but she took a step back, her heel clicking against the tile floor, to which you let out an annoyed grumble.

“Oi Oi, Mi Amor. What about poor Miguel, he is waiting, Si?” she teased.

“He doesn’t care… Cálla y bésame.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You took a deep breath and leaned back on your chair at the round table you found yourself at. Alexia had been pulled from your side which she had stuck to like glue all evening,  to go and present the final award of the evening which she had just done, very sexily if you do say so yourself. All confident and boob-y.

You smiled, imagining her now making small talk backstage, eyes bored but a smile plastered on her face as she tried to make her way back to your table.

Your other table-mates seemed to take the opportunity of the break in the ceremony to raid the free bar put on by the charity. Which seemed very uncharitable of them. But, as you toyed with the rim of your glass, who were you to judge?

Stomach full from a mediocre-mass produced meal and head happily fuzzy from the bubbles you had consumed you found yourself oddly satisfied as you sat here. In this conference room-turned auditorium in the middle of Barcelona, here, loudly and proudly as Alexia's wife.

Mrs Putellas.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, you felt weirdly grown-up. With your wife, your house, and your business. You blinked and missed yourself becoming so settled and for once in your life you weren’t terrified of the idea.

You saw the glint in Alexia's eye. When Irene and her wife would come round for dinner and bring their kid. She’d surrender all hostess duties and sit on the living room floor, crawling around at the beck and call of whatever imaginary game the 5 year old insisted on. You’d seen her perfect her lion roar in that very spot. It probably matched the glint in yours when you were grocery shopping and a child being pushed in a trolley would go past shoving cookies into the trolley without their Mother seeing.

Maybe, you thought, maybe it was time…

“It is you! I am so sorry to interrupt. I had to come over to introduce myself. I am such a fan…”

You glanced around, expecting Alexia to be standing over your shoulder and smiling politely at the person who had approached your table to meet her… but you were met with blank space and then you engaged your silly brain and realised the person was speaking English and looking at you and…

Oh My God.

It’s Bear Grylls.

“Oh My God. You’re Bear Grylls.” 

You let out. 

Stupidly.

Standing and thrusting your hand out like an idiot to your legitimate childhood hero.

You and your brother would watch his series for hours as children. Sat cross-legged 2 inches from the TV on your living room floor, eating up every second of his adventures. Your mum had to stop you from eating a woodlouse once in your garden because you’d seen him eat a cricket in the Amazon the evening before. Your brother smacked upside the head for trying to drink a cup of his own wee for the same reason.

Now you were a well-seasoned adventurer yourself you knew that all of that was for theatricks. 

You had spent more than 7 weeks wandering the Amazon yourself once, and not one drop of urine passed your lips. Not one 8 legged insect had you gulped down in one.

But still.

Hero.

He took your hand graciously, as you both sat back down you prepared to barrage him with questions but before you could he jumped right in…

“I have been wanting to meet you for years. But my team said you had disappeared off to Spain and couldn’t be tracked down. Please, I've been desperate to know. .. Tell me all about summiting Orjas del Salado…”

So you told him, and you asked him about his adventures, and you chatted for what could have been hours, sharing stories and advice with Bear-fucking-Grylls.

He blushed as you pointed out his for-TV tricks and you thanked him for being a portal into the wider world from your living room.

At some point you felt Alexia return, a strong hand on your shoulder. You paused your monologue about Patagonia and giddily took her hand in yours, introducing them to each other. 

Polite pleasantries exchanged you could tell she had legitimately no idea what was going on or who this middle-aged English guy at your table was, but judging from your excited eyes, she didn’t need to interrupt.

It didn’t take too long for someone from his team to pull him away for an interview with the charity. But as you stood to say your goodbyes he made an offer, “You know, me and the production company are making a special about survival in the Alps… I would love for you to be a guest star.”

You stood there like a gaping fish for a moment. “Really?” you asked, in wonder, your 7 year old self spinning around in glee in your chest. Alexia smiling up at you from her chair at the joy in your voice.

“Of course! I would be honored, it’s especially about how to survive in an Avalanche situation. Obviously, with what happened in Nepal…you are an expert in that fie…”

At that point, Alexia stopped her polite silence she had been maintaining whilst you had your moment with your childhood hero. And abruptly stood, clutching your hand hard in both of hers, stern look on her face.

“No.”

From the look on his face you gathered that this successful upper-middle class white English man had not been told no too often, and a beat of silence followed which Alexia was more than happy to fill.

“Sorry Señor Oso. She doesn’t do snow now. Thank you for the offer though.”

She said it with such finality that even you didn’t think to question it. Her mis-translation brought a smile to your face. Her hands still encompassed yours, her eyes didn’t leave his face. As though daring him to rebuff her.

He looked at you as though to confirm she could answer for you. Of course she could. But you knew this refusal wasn’t just about you, but about her also. You knew the anxiety it would cause her for you to put yourself in that situation wasn’t worth anything on this planet.

Nevermind the trauma it would dredge up for you. So obviously, you agreed.

“Sorry Mr Grylls. Not my rodeo anymore. I’ve got some contacts though who you could work with” you politely confirmed your refusal and felt Alexias hands lessen their grip on yours in relief.

“No, no, of course. Sorry. But no. I would really love for you to be involved in the series. We have an episode about promoting women in outdoor pursuits. It's still on the drawing board, but if you are interested I’ll get our people to liaise with each other!”

“That sounds amazing but… I don’t have any people for you to…”

“Don’t be silly Mi Amor” Alexia interrupts again, hand still in yours and the other expertly reaching into her clutch and pushing a card into his outstretched hand… “We have people. Please, Oso, be in touch.”

Smiling vaguely and confusedly at your wife, still clearly mildly terrified of her, he takes the card as he's dragged away by his handler. He's probably still in hearing distance as you squeal in glee and throw yourself into your wife's arms, making her spin with the momentum.

“Ale, Ale, Ale!!! Do you know who that was….” you exclaim.

She can’t help but laugh aloud at your antics, soft look on her face as she lifts you lightly off the ground to stop your spin.

“Si Mi Amor, ese era el hombre oso de la televisión. Tu favorito.” she replies with a smile on her face, speaking softly, somehow, in the middle of this event where she was the guest star, making you feel as though you were the only person in the universe.

“No.” you corrected “..eres mi favorito.” You sealed your words with a light kiss to her lips, chaste but warm.

“Ah, Si. And you have had some wine. You always get soft after wine.” she lightly rolls her eyes with affection at your gushing over her.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes as you pull her into a soft sway, your childhood hero quickly forgotten now you’re in the company of your wife.

Though the giddiness in your bones from your encounter remains.

“Si the wine.” you agree moving your lips close to her ear as you whisper, breath dancing against her cheek, your hand moves to her chest and you feel her breath falter at your closeness,

“but also your boobs.” and you quickly poke her exposed chest between her breasts before she can stop you, and you move away from her pulling her behind you as you rush off to the bar.

“Amor!” she cackles.

“Vamos Ale! A La Barra!”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Estoy Muerta.”

You grumble in complaint into the chest of the warm and moving pillow that you had clearly settled on in the night.

“Shh Ale.”

“Me estoy muriendo y a mi esposa no le importa.”

“You are not dying Ale. You are hungover and over 30”, you mumble in reply, moving away from resting on her chest, the heat becoming too much for your own fuzzy brain.

“Explain to me how that is different.” she doesn’t take kindly to your light chuckle in reply, as you move your hand to cover your eyes from the sunlight starting to bleed through the curtains.

You peek an eye open and see the remnants of your previous night strewn across the bedroom floor.

You take in the glorious dress of your wifes thrown across your chest of drawers. You recall unzipping it with your mouth after making very good use of the boob portal. Much to Alexia's delight.

You had probably taken it a little bit too far at the bar. Your giddiness let your binge-drinking brit out a little too much.

You had a flash of memory at dancing on a table at a dive bar in the town centre, before being brought down by Alba who you had called and demanded come and dance the night away.

Meanwhile Alexia had been in the corner trying to drunkenly explain to Mapi a set of complicated tactics that they should try out at an additional training session in the morning.

“I thought you had scheduled extra training today Ale” you teased after taking in her pasty complexion as you rolled over and settled back down onto your, cooler, side of the bed.

“I hate you.” she replied, quite seriously, as she moulded herself against your back, taking your hand in hers and burying her face into the back of your neck.

“Of course you do, dear, it feels like it.” you tease again, wiggling yourself and making her grumble again.

You rest there for a few moments, before you’re dragged onto your back again and pulled into Alexia's embrace as she moves you around like her own personal teddy bear.

You go with the flow, quite used to your wife's clingy nature, especially when she didn't feel well.

But your silence doesn’t last two minutes before she rolls you over again, now onto your back, “Oh bloody hell, where are we going now.” you mumble, as she rests her head on your chest this time, nuzzling into your breasts.

“me estoy poniendo cómodo.” she mutters into your bosom, “allá. ahora estoy cómodo”. You run your hands through her hair, smiling down at your wife who is practically purring at the attention.

“Bebé…”, you make a noise of affirmation.

“Will you…” you know what she wants, and you know she must be feeling bad if she’s asking for attention.

“Si, my love. voy a trenzar tu cabello. One big plait or lots of little ones?”. 

“The tingly ones por favor” she mumbles into your chest. Your heart expands at her adorableness, never quite learning the English for ‘french plait’ they became known as the ‘tingly ones’ in your household, because of the feeling she would get as you plaited her wet hair after a game, hands working through her scalp. 

It brings a smile to your face and you can see the lovesick smile on hers where it is squished against your chest.

You start to section out her hair as she lies still, your ministrations slowly putting her to sleep, working methodically in the quiet morning.

Moving strand over strand in intricate braids, lightly tugging her scalp and undoing when it's not perfect and redoing, giving her an extra scratch to the soft skin behind her ear when you get there, knowing it's her most sensitive spot. Receiving a sleepy purr in satisfaction as your reward.

You hear the animals from the national park outside, feel the sun starting to warm the room around you. Her chest rising and falling against yours hypnotising you further into the moment. You’ve got grand plans, brunch and a walk along the beach in your mind, maybe a lazy afternoon swim, hold on no. Maybe a lazy afternoon skinny dip. Yeah.

That sounds good.

You’ve almost finished tying off the last plait when you are startled back into the moment by the buzzing of your wifes phone on the bedslide table.

You fight back a smile at the groan that is emitted from your fully grown-pro-athlete-wife.  It resembled that of a teenager who’d been asked to clean their room or no dessert. When she doesn’t go to make a move you nudge her shoulder.

“Ale. Ale, your phone."

“No.”

“Yes."

“No."

“C'mon Ale.” you reach across and pick the phone up. “It could be important. It could be your secret wife wondering where you are.”

She rolls off you at your tease, throwing you a glare that resembles more of an angry kitten than anything, “It could not be, she knows where I am. I snuck out whilst you were dancing on the tables in that last bar to make plans for dinner.”

“Ah, Si of course. My mistake.”

She surges up and gives you a completely unnecessary chaste kiss, as though even the joke is too much and she has to confirm she’s kidding. The phone has stopped vibrating against the bedside table and the silence that settles over you both is welcome.

“How are you so okay? I feel like I have been run over by a truck.” she states as she rubs her face, finally sitting up to start the day.

“You are old.

“I am 2 months older than you.”

“Two, very long, months my darling.” you tap her cheek lightly as you move to get out of bed, throwing on one of her oversized t-shirts you find on the floor.

“Seria, how?” she asks again, now sprawling across the space you have vacated.

“I am English. I once did a vodka shot through my eyeball in the park. I was 14.” you state, plainley, eyebrow raised in challenge as she just looks at you, open mouthed.

“Ojalá no hubiera preguntado.” she mutters, as her phone starts to ring again.

“Ale, phone.” you say, just to annoy her.

“¡lo sé!” you hear thrown at you, as you head downstairs to set some food out for Billy-the-Goat, and make a coffee for your dying wife.

Soon after, you feel her presence behind you as you stir her coffee, turning as you feel her hands wrap around your waist and presenting her coffee and she takes it from you as though it's a ballon d’or. She takes a sip before she presses a kiss to your head.

“That was my agent.”

Your heart drops, and you can’t help the petulant whine that leaves your lips.

“No, Ale! I wanted to spend the day together. Try that new brunch place Alba told us about. Have a swim, just be together. Whatever brand needs you can wait. Tell them no, please” you finish your little monologue with a pout, and you feel a childish frustration rise as a laugh teases against her lips.  You don’t get very far when a kiss is pressed against your lips.

“Well that sounds like the perfect hangover cure Mi Amor. Do you not want me to tell you what it is before I tell them no though?” there's something in her taunt, a glint in the eye that makes you think twice as your mouth already wraps around the refusal.

You take a moment too long apparently, and she takes things into her own hands as she clutches her coffee happily and spins around, “I’ll tell them no! Don’t worry Mi Amor…” teasing lilt in her tone. Whatever the news is, it has pulled her from her hangover.

You wait a beat

Another.

“Fine, What is it!” you groan out in defeat, hands raised to the sky, Alexias t-shirt riding high on your thighs as you raise your arms.

Your wife turns and is distracted momentarily by the flesh on display. Before you cough and she remembers what she's supposed to be doing. Coy smile on her face returning.

“That was my agent…” you huff out at her drawing out the anticipation. “Or should I say our agent.” your brow furrows in confusion as she continues… “she has been contacted by a muy interesado oso.”

Realisation starts to dawn on you, memories of the previous night flashing in your mind and you can’t help the grin that forms.

“Si, Mi Amor. It turns out he really meant it. She said they were willing to offer anything to get you on. She’s getting the details now and will contact us again after our day together today to see if you are interested”.

“I am interested!” you exclaim with glee, Alexia throwing her head back in laughter.

“I know Amor, but let's let them sell it to you. You need the details. Though… I am sure it is no more dangerous than ojos de vodka.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hola, love!” you shout into your empty hallway, hands full of groceries, you shuck off your trainers, hearing them thump against the wall as you struggle into the kitchen.

Tonight was the premiere of “Man Vs Woman” , the special episode of your and Bear's adventure. After the offer was made you met with the TV production company via Zoom to go through ideas.

You pretended you didn’t know Alexia was standing just outside the door to your study, listening and clearly deciding if she thought it was too dangerous or not. At least that's what you deduced from her interrupting with a cup of tea every time a particularly hairy idea was mentioned.  

When you brought this up with her you pretended you didn't see her blush creeping up from her neck. Because you’re her wife and it was the wifely thing to do.

The concept was a really cool one. You were excited from the start. The idea was that you and Bear would both be dropped in an inhospitable environment with a map and a knife and nothing else. Neither of you would be told what type of environment but you had assurances in your contract that it wouldn’t involve snow. You had 28 days to get to the muster point. Whoever got there first won.

Simple.

Convincing Alexia it was really cool. Less simple.

“Amor what if there are animals!”

“I know how to avoid dangerous animals. And there will be a medical team on standby,”

“What if you fall and cut yourself on your knife."

“What if you get tackled and break your leg?”

“That's different. What if you lose your map and can’t find your way out and you have to live out there forever”

“I will always find my way back to you.”

“What If-”

“Ale.”

You stopped her rambling with a kiss and when you pulled away you looked deeply in her eyes.

“Que pasa I miss you too much?” eyes wide and vulnerable.

There we go. Her real source of anxiety.

You had spent more time apart than most couples but since you scaled down your travels you had fallen into a sweet domesticity you could admit was a struggle to pull yourself from. 28 days plus the week before to get to the location is longer than you’d like. But it was an adventure of a lifetime. Maybe… maybe your last adventure? The thoughts had been creeping in more and more recently.

Of early mornings chasing more than sunrises, maybe rising due to a baby's babble instead?

You’d made sure that Alexia really knew how much you’d miss her the night before you flew out. On reflection maybe you should have rested your muscles a little more before such a physically demanding month but. Be serious. Look who your wife was. 

You are not God's strongest soldier.

So, off you had gone. Competing against your childhood hero for all of womanhood. And you couldn’t lie. You loved it.

Being blindfolded and dropped in an unknown location was exhilarating. Learning the land as you went, with only a map and a knife in hand it was one of the biggest challenges of your life.

The team had made good on their promise and the tropical rainforest you were in couldn’t be further from a snowy mountain range.

You’d refused to let anything slip to Alexia in the 3 months you’d been back. Lips tightly sealed no matter what she tried. You wanted her to be surprised and watch it in real time with you. In all the games you'd attended since you had to deal with an injured Mapi yapping your ear off whilst you tried to concentrate on the game, probing for hints about if you won, what you won, where you were, if you wrestled a snake, how big was the snake you’d wrestled.

“Maria stop with the snake!” you’d finally snapped during the tense quarter final of the Queen's cup.

Which had worked.

For all of two seconds.

“What did the snake taste like?”

You’d originally planned to go home to England with Alexia to watch the premier with your family. But then a schedule mess-up in the league had meant that Ale had to play in a rescheduled game the day after the premier. It just didn’t work for her to come to England.

She insisted you still go, but you refused. You wanted to watch her game. And you knew she’d need you when the show was on. Even if she didn’t know that yet.

You started to unpack your groceries mindlessly, you’d picked some great snacks for the evenings viewing, you suddenly were hit with how suspiciously peaceful your house was, though, you were sure you’d seen Alexia's car in the drive.

“Ale! Love!, ¡Estoy en casa! Come help me unpack!” You shouted into your empty kitchen, back turned to your living room, you had a few hours before the show was on air, “I got that ice-cream you like! I know it gives you a tummy ache sometimes but don’t worry, I'll rub your tummy how you like afte…”

“Amor!”

You turned around at the panic in her voice, “Wha–”

“SURPRISE!”

Ale stood in your living area, face reddening, surrounded by her closest Barca teammates as well as Mario, his ever pregnant wife and his kids, your mum and brother as well as Eli and Alba. Everyone comically in paper party hats and some lop-sided bunting was up above your couch,

“HOPE YOU BEAT THE BEAR SNAKE!” it read, and you immediately knew who was on the decoration committee.

You jumped in surprise, dropping the ice cream and immediately ran into your mum's open arms, “Mum! You’re here!” you squealed into her neck, hiding the tears that had appeared in her presence.

“I am, love. Alexia literally wouldn’t let us refuse the flight. She pretended she didn’t understand English when we tried to at least pay for it. And you know I have a 265 day streak on duolingo but my accent must need work because she didn’t understand my Spanish.”

You pulled yourself from her neck with a wet laugh and transferred yourself into your wifes open and familiar strong arms. “Aleeee” you whined. She knew you meant thank you. And I love you. And you mean the world to me. But you were too British to do that infront of people.

“You need to stop pretending you don’t speak English when you don’t like what you hear.” you muttered without malice after placing a kiss below her ear.

“I know amor. I love you too. And your family needed to be here for your big moment! You couldn’t miss this with them because of me. And then also. Mapi happened and now we’re having a viewing party! There's a cake!”

“And Ice Cream Ale! Don’t worry, I’ve saved it! Though we don’t want your barriga to hu-” Mapi stands the space you'd just vacated holding up the abandoned and slightly battered carton of ice cream. She's stopped from her gleeful teasing by Ingrid covering her entire face with one big palm.

“We wanted to be here to support you.” Ingrid interrupted her girlfriend, addressing you kindly.

“We all did!” you hear from Alba in the back, already tucking into the buffet set up on the coffee table, paper hat skew-whiff on her head. You have never felt so loved. It was perfect.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, when are you going to tell her you’re ready for them?”

You are brought out of your daydream by Ingrid sidling up to you and addressing you with her familiar soft lilt.

“Huh?”

She doesn’t reply vocally, just nods her head towards your wife, who is currently having a very intense game of 2v2 in your garden with 2 of Marios youngest and Mapi.

The kids little legs making them toddle around after the small ball adorably, Mapi and Ale giving soft touches they would easily catch up with.

You can’t help but laugh out loud as Ale takes Mapi by surprise and takes a shot against her hard, the ball catching her bare thigh in a manner which must have left a sting much to the small Spaniard's disdain.

Her and the two kids start to chase Alexia around the garden, dramatically tackling her as she suddenly becomes some sort of football monster, rolling around and blowing raspberries on their stomachs as Mapi cheers her toddler army on from the sidelines.

You feel another knock against your arm, dislodging your hand which is supporting your head as you lean over the breakfast bar facing the garden. Lovesick looks clearly on your face, going off Ingrid's coy smile.

“You know, barn. Kids. Munchkins…”

“Yeah, Yeah I get it Ingrid…” you steal another look outside at your more-often-than-not-stern wife getting grass stains on her comfy shorts for the entertainment of your best friends' kids, suddenly you feel like being really really honest. You turn to Ingrid with a shy smile of your own, “soon.”

Her face lights up, teeth on display unable to disguise her smile. “Yeah?” she asks, before turning to look towards the garden, “Me too.”

You smile to yourself and drop your head onto the dark haired girl's shoulder, you both taking a moment to watch your partners play with the kids. The moment is ruined by your mum mussing up your hair on her way past,

“Come on Love, we need to wrangle these last-minute spaniards, it starts in 10 minutes!”

She had a point to be fair. A very chaotic 8 minutes later you practically push Eli into her seat on the couch after she tries to get another plate full of food for Mario’s wife, “¡Está llena de Eli! ella esta embarazada no tiene hambre!” you cheekily remind her, your wife looking up at you from her place on the floor with tender eyes.

“And you…” you turn your attention towards her as you make your way to your seat, “get up here.” you demand, patting the empty space next to you.

“I’m bueno down here Mi Amor, me and Bruno can watch from down here.” she insists. the 4 year old of Marios nestled on her stomach, her arms wrapped around his sleeping form where he attached himself to her after being forced back inside.

You hesitate for a moment, not watching to make a scene or be too needy in front of all your closest family and friends, but you knew that Ale would need to be within touching distance of you in the next hour. 

You’re about to make your peace with it when Mario glaces your way. You and Mario have worked together for years. Years before you met Ale and the girls.

You’ve battled more than just bears together. Weeks spent isolated in the mountains. And a bond like that means that you can communicate with just a look.

With just that glance he’s up and pulling his toddler into his own burley arms. Bruno remaining in his deep sleep through the change.

“I’ve got el monstruo Ale. Go sit with your wife."

She doesn’t need any more direction, the small interaction is subtle and missed by everyone, except your brother who sends you an exaggerated puppy dog look.

“Fuck off” you throw at him, finger in the air, quickly grabbed by Alexia, “Hey, I thought you wanted me to sit here!” she teases, sending your brother a wink.

“Stop ganging up on me…!” you’re about to protest further before you’re shushed by Mapi, of all people, sitting on the floor between Ingrid's legs who sits on the couch above her. “It's about to start!”

She has a point, a familiar British accent fills the living room, Spanish subtitles appearing on the bottom of the screen for the Spanish contingent. Bear’s voice is as dramatic as ever, long sweeping scenes fill the screen of intense jungle, a crocodile and an action shot of a snake thrown in for good measure.

“Serpiente!” Mapi shouts, pointing at the screen, before Ingrid hushes her and pulls her back against her legs. 

           “We all know by now that humans are masters of the jungle. But the unanswered question remains. Is it the King, or Queen of the Jungle? Find out tonight in Man V Woman.”

The title fills the screen with a dramatic crescendo of music. Your friends and family whooping as though it's the champions league final. Alexia barely contains her excitement next to you. You had been steadfast in your refusal to tell anyone the outcome.

The next shot is a recognisable one, the sound of trees being hacked with a machete accompanies a close up of a muddy puddle set deep in the jungle, until the water is disturbed by a ever-familiar battered boot stomping in the puddle, blaugrana laces pulled tight, as proudly as ever.

This prompts another wild round of jeering from the crowd around you as the camera pans out and reveals your full profile as Alexia places a loving kiss onto your shoulder, “That's my wife!” she shouts, proudly, making you laugh. 

Bear's voice over continues as you pull Alexia's hand into yours, half pulling her on top of you, she gives you a peculiar look, this being more PDA than you would usually allow in front of your English family, but she goes with it, too full of pride to be worried otherwise.

As the voiceover continues, highlights of your career flash across the screen to introduce you to the audience.

Mountains in Peru, Arctic Explorations, Treks across Siberia, all flash across the screen, mixed in with childhood pictures your mum must have supplied painting a picture of your career so far and your expertise in your career.

The music turns more dramatic as you shift uncomfortably, being the only one to realise in the room what's about to happen.

A picture of you smiling with Arjan at the peak of Everest, ice picks raised proudly in the air. You feel Alexia stiffen on your lap, ever so subtly. Stock footage of snow hurling down a mountain as Bear describes the avalanche you got trapped in.

He gives out stats and figures to heighten the drama… “your chance of survival drops 3% every minute you are trapped after the first 15 minutes… being trapped for 2 days… our guest star did the unthinkable…”

The room is bathed in a white light as the screen changes. Camera shaky and audio changing to the shouts and heavy breaths of whoever the body worn camera is strapped too. “Yahām̐, Yahām̐, she is here!”

The camera catches Arjan digging desperately, it's clear now the camera is strapped to a rescuer on the slopes of Everest, the TV production company having access to the footage through a sister company who were filming a documentary about altitude rescue at the time.

It shakes as the man helps dig, grunts of exertion as the spade digs desperately. A flash of colour and your snow suit is revealed, face pressed up against the rock you had found shelter near.

Arjan clears snow from your face desperately and puts his head close to yours, “She’s breathing!” he pulls you up and your hand, satellite phone frozen in place, falls from the side of your ghostly white face as the camera fades out.

The whole segment couldn’t have lasted more than 32 seconds. But it had felt like time had slowed. You could feel from her placement on you that Alexia hadn’t taken a breath. Her eyes remained wide as she stared at the screen.

There was a heaviness in the room around you. 

The voiceover continued, explaining the challenge to the audience but the silence continued. Eli glances at her daughter worriedly, every few seconds.

Just as you thought the tension couldn’t get any more intense… “That's what Alexia looks like when she visits England for Christmas and mum won’t let us put the heating on.” your brother jokes, awkwardly, a crooked smile on his boyish face. 

The room is silent, your mum hiding a smile behind a hand only you notice. He goes to speak again, probably to apologise when-

Alexias' laugh shocks even you, bubbling up from deep within her chest. She closes her eyes, a stray tear escaping at the pressure. Laugh still rumbling deep in her chest, slowly the room joins in, as though they’ve been given permission, and soon your in a choir of laughing spectators, your brother blushing deep red at the attention.

“Thank you” you mouth to him across the room, as you wrap your hands around your wife, whos body still shakes with the odd giggle.

He tips an imaginary hat at you in return.

Because he is an idiot.

The challenge begins, unhelpfully, with you throwing yourself out of a helicopter into the rainforest, “Oh Dios Mio” she mumbles, heard subtly under Mapis, “Cool!”.

You press your lips against her shoulder again and mutter into her skin; “I am here, I am warm, I am Safe.” Like a mantra, you feel her nod and grip your hand tighter.

The thing about being in the environment completely opposite to an avalanche inducing mountain range, was that it was hot. Hot and wet. The camera follows both you and Bear as you struggle through the elements seperatly, deciding when to camp down and preserve energy and when to try to gain more miles.

Bear goes hard, and Mapi looks up at you aghast as you decide to build a shelter and bunker down for seven days straight. The heat zapping any energy you had.

“What are you doing! It's a race!” she exclaims, to which you laugh and zip your mouth closed with your fingers, cocking an eyebrow at her as she eagerly looks back towards the TV like a small child.

You spend two days collecting water and, seemingly, according to Mapi, wasting time cutting palm leaves and collecting bark to make twine. Meanwhile Bear is hacking down trees, making spears out of sticks and rock and throwing himself at seemingly anything that would give him a bit of protein on the move.

You’ve ridden yourself of most of your clothing due to the heat. Smothering yourself in mud from the riverbank you were camped next to, you explain to the camera its sun-cream qualities and how it’s safer than clothing as it also protects you from dehydration. 

All the while you weave and weave and weave your leaves together, quietly, assuredly.

You explain to the camera; “I am a master weaver. My wife likes it when I plait her hair. Alot. She’s cute. Sorry Ale.” you wink at the camera as your wife groans on your lap and  her teammates start to tease her, “Amor! Why!”

“Now. Let's see how this works!”  you grin and pull up a large basket to the camera.

The screen shows you scantily dressed, boots safely on a rock in the background, in the river, moving twigs into position to make a run for the fish to swim directly into your basket.

You explain the contraception, set some bait and say your goodnights to the camera, crossing your fingers for a full basket in the morning.

Cheerful music begins as the camera fades back into your campfire, fish on a stick roasting and cooking heavenly, your muddied but smiling face coming into view.

“Bear can eat his roaches and drink his wee. I’ll be here with my fish buffet!” You joke, under your shelter, camera panning to tens of fish in your basket waiting to be smoked.

The next scene shows Bear explaining the protein benefits and the unusual flavours of a witchetty grub as he struggles against the rainstorm. 

The music begins to ramp up. Graphics on the screen showing both of your progress. Bear has made much more progress than you. But struggling physically. He’s developed a terrible case of trench foot but was still making steady progress with his machete.

You chose to travel up the river. Walking along its bed you are able to make more direct progress, but it’s more energy draining wading through water. You have, however, had a relatively strong diet over the last 3 weeks.

You’re sitting on the river bed, tending to your basket of smoked fish you’re carrying with you for energy when you suddenly remain completely stock still. Dramatic music begins. Your head raises subtly and then out of nowhere.

“Serpentine!”

A snake strikes at you from the shallows, clearly after your basket, or you, or whatever it can get its fangs in. You react quickly, crouching down to your knees, keeping a low centre of gravity to keep your balance as your right hand reaches into the shallows.

You and the snake strike at the same time, and you throw yourself to the side as you bash a jagged rock against its head.

The next scene shows you taking a mouthful of grilled snake; “Tastes like chicken!” you joke at the camera. Before popping a piece of charred snake skin into your mouth.

You feel Alexia shudder in your arms.

"I'm never kissing you again" she lies.

Mapi slowly turns around, mouth agape, gobsmacked look on her face. “Snake!” she whispers, in disbelief. “You beat a snake!” You can’t help but laugh and lean over to turn her head back to the TV.

“Told you you’d find everything out tonta.”

The map on screen shows the last day of the challenge, Bear's voice over explaining distances to the muster points, as well as geographical challenges. The screen swaps quickly between the two of you, running, climbing and swimming to where you both believed the finish line to be.

You were making good progress, as was Bear.

A close up of a Brazilian flag on the edge of a waterfall.

A close up of you throwing yourself into the river.

Bear gripping a cliff edge and heaving himself up. The camera shows the bottom of the flag pole as he pulls himself up. The camera pans up. And the flagpole is bare.

The screen changes to you.

Standing, still relatively scantily clad in your battered boots, your hiking shorts cut down to short-shorts and thin vest muddied and holey, fish blood staining your arms,holding the flag proudly up in one arm.

The room around you erupts. “She did it!” “¡Jefe de la Jungla!!!!” “I always knew!”, “She killed a snake!”. You find yourself at the bottom of a pile of bodies as Alexia's teammates celebrate in the way they know how. Which is apparently to throw themselves at you in a pile up.

“That's my wife!” Alexia chants proudly from within the pile, laughing gleefully, all earlier angst forgotten.

The screen goes blank, and the image shows you and Bear embracing, laughing as the voiceover continues; “... at least this time. It's a Queen of the jungle… or should I say. La Reina de la Jungla.” Bear quips, as Alexia groans, forever hating her nickname, and the screen cuts to black.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s hours later, many more plates of food, celebration toasts and questions from Mapi about the snake later. That you're finally in the quiet of your bedroom in your wife's arms.

Your mum and brother are set up in the spare rooms and you have all got plans to meet up with the Alexias family at the game tomorrow before going out for a meal.

Your head is settled on her chest as she plays on her phone above you, struggling to calm down from the evening's events, and as usual, struggling to sleep before a game.  You play with her wedding ring on her spare hand. Feeling the cool metal beneath against her warm skin.

You feel her swipe furiously through her phone, getting more agitated as time passes, grumbles that are not-quite words emitting from her chest.

“Hey. Love.” you sit up and pull her phone away. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” she replies, bottom lip out in a pout, pulling her phone back into her hand.

“It’s not nothing. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Alexia.” you sigh, “We aren't doing this.. What's got you so…” you look down onto her phone and see. Yourself? It's her tiktok open and you see an edit of the show being played over… “Hot Stuff? Ale. What's this?” you glance at the comments section and see a selection from seemingly anon accounts;  

‘I have never understood Alexia more’, ‘I wonder who calls who capi.’ ,‘Capi, your wife's thighs are bigger than yours’.

“Nothing!” she grabs her phone back from your grip… you arch an eyebrow at her which crumbles her resolve in 3…2…

“Fine! It's all over my TikTok.  The comments about you. The fans have made these edits. Of you! All, wet and… muscley and… nearly undressed.”

“And you…don’t… like me wet, and muscled and… naked? Cause, love, I have evidenced otherwis…”

“Shut up! Of course I do but you're mine!”

Oh. Realisation dawns on you and you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t laugh!” she grumbles. “You’re jealous….” you tease in a sing-song voice. “I am not jealous!” she insists, “It's just… tu eres mio! And these people are all looking at you”.

“I am,” you agree, with a smile. “But, love. Try being married to Alexia Putellas. Maybe you’ll keep your shirt on at games now.” you tease, making her smile and roll her eyes.

Eyes softening as you pull her phone from her grip and plug it in for her. Settling back into her chest, nuzzling against the warm skin you find there.

“I am so proud of you.” she whispers into the now dark room, placing a kiss on your head. The moment became more serious and tender.

“I love you” you reply, softly, the moment feels weighted, and you’re not sure what makes you do it. Maybe it's the adrenaline of the evening, having completed your life's ambition, or maybe it's the wine you drank.

Though, really, you know it's because of the images of your lanky wife curling herself onto the rug in the living room because Bruno had decided she was the world's best pillow again. But you can’t stop yourself.

“Ale. I want to have kids with you.”

Her hand stops its movement in your hair and she rushes over to turn the bedside lamp back on.

“Que?” she breathes out. Hands finding their place softly on your cheeks, a look of urgency in her eyes.

“I want us to have kids. Me and you. I want that with you. Is that something you’re ready for?” you whisper, eyes looking deeply into hers.

“En serio?” she asks, as though she's afraid of the answer.

You nod in response. Moving your hand to wipe away the tears that have appeared on her cheeks.

“Sí, Mi Amor. Quiero eso contigo. Mucho.”

You're both smiling too much to kiss, but you make a good go of it anyway. And as you bury yourself into your wife's arms. Hands roaming and adrenaline of a decision made rushing through your body you can't help but think.

This is the beginning of the biggest adventure of your life. 

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 11 Other Parts

Word Count: 7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mateo’s brows furrow, suspicious, but curious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene exhales slowly. “That’s rough.”

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

"I'm ok coco"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia mutters, “Apparently.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He asked for you,” you say softly.

Alexia arches a brow. “Is he okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another beat. You shift your weight, shoulders tense.

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

Alexia stays where she is, quiet as a ghost.

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

Another pause.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I will be.”

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

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

“Long enough,” she says gently.

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

“I know,” she replies.

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

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

“My head coach got let go this morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⚽️

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

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Comfortable?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile into her hair. “No promises.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oof this is so good 🔥

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

When you reached Estadi Johan Cruyff, the atmosphere was electric—every pulse in the stadium throbbed with raw energy. The crowd roared in anticipation, chanting, hoisting banners high, all set to witness another blazing Barcelona masterpiece.

But for you? It was all about one singular presence. You hadn’t come for just the spectacle of the game—you were there for her. Alexia Putellas. With Maya and Liv tagging along, their eyes wide with amusement and intrigue at the public sparking between you and Alexia, the stakes were impossibly high.

"So, how are we feeling?" Liv pressed, nudging you as you sank into your front-row seat—exactly where Alexia had directed you. Wearing a cap to blend in proved futile amidst the contrasting white Nike hoodie chess move blazoned across your chest and cap that screamed for attention. Smartphones thrust in your direction, recording every moment of your bold stance. Front row wasn’t just a seat; it was a declaration.

"Nervous? Excited? Sweating a little?" Liv prodded.

You smirked, a hint of challenge in your eyes. "She’s the one who should be nervous."

Maya scoffed. "You talk as if she isn’t about to go full Ballon d’Or just to impress you."

And you weren’t hidden at all. The crowd’s buzz, with Maya and Liv flanking you from either side, was relentless. Despite your low profile—hood up, hands buried in your jacket pockets—it wasn’t long before gazes locked on you.

Not solely from the crowd.

From her.

The instant Alexia stepped onto the pitch for warm-ups, the atmosphere charged further. Every stretch, every pass, every jog was precise, yet her eyes inevitably wandered toward your section. She knew you were there.

A smug grin curled your lips as you leaned back, relishing the anticipation building just before kickoff.

The game exploded into life, and Alexia was a blur of speed and purpose. From the very first whistle, she was consumed—each move calculated, each touch a masterstroke. Every motion was deliberate as she dominated the midfield with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

You leaned forward, elbows locked on your knees, poisoned with admiration and raw anticipation as she sliced through defenders as if they were mere phantoms.

"Jesus," Maya gasped, half in awe, half in disbelief. "She’s insane."

Liv burst out laughing. "She’s putting on a damn show."

You couldn’t tear your eyes away as Alexia collected a pass at midfield. A single, piercing glance upward, and then—like lightning—she burst into action. Effortlessly, she ghosted past one defender, spun with unreal grace, then twisted her hips to leave the next flailing in empty air.

By the time she stormed into the box, the crowd erupted in a deafening roar. A thunderous strike—top corner, a missile that sent ripples through the net like an explosion. The stadium convulsed with energy. Without a second thought, you sprang to your feet; the shot was seismic. And then, as if electrified by the moment, Alexia turned. She didn’t celebrate immediately. 

Instead, she locked her gaze onto you—a small, impish smirk playing on her lips that screamed, I did that. It cut through you like a jolt. Your heart pounded uncontrollably as you clapped slowly, your applause a mixture of pride and challenge.

Liv whistled beside you. "Oh yeah, that was definitely for you."

Maya teased, nudging you. "Still think she should be the nervous one?"

You sank back into your seat, arms crossed as you feigned cool detachment. And if you thought Alexia’s performance had peaked, you couldn’t have been more mistaken.

For the remainder of the match, she unleashed a barrage of jaw-dropping moves—impossible one-touch passes, laser-accurate through balls, flicks and turns that mocked the bewildered struggles of defenders. It was an onslaught, as if she was playing in a realm where gravity didn’t exist, while everyone else fought a losing battle.

Each spectacular feat was punctuated by a glance thrown in your direction—as if daring you to react, as if stoking the flames of a private duel. And, yes, you were reacting fiercely. But you refused to let her see the depths of your admiration and desire. So you maintained your cool. You smirked when she executed a flawless pass. You nodded when she navigated through chaos. You tilted your head ever so slightly when she caught you staring—a silent conversation woven into the game itself.

And Alexia reveled in it.

As the final minutes neared, a decision formed in your mind. You weren’t going to stay until the final whistle.

Just before full-time, you surged upward, preparing your exit strategy.

Maya’s eyes lit up immediately. "Oh my god, you’re running away."

You grinned wickedly. "Strategic retreat."

Liv snorted. "This is diabolical."

You simply shrugged. "Let her wonder where I went." Let her chase the elusive mystery. Because this game? It was far from over—never even close.

Outside the stadium, you resisted the urge to check your phone. You knew that the moment you did, notifications would flood in—teasing texts from your teammates, maybe even a message from Alexia herself.

Instead, you let the silence build. Let her pace her thoughts. Even as you returned to your place, messages began appearing.

Maya: You’re actually evil.

Liv: Alexia was looking for you after the game lmaooo. She looked pissed.

A smirk tugged at your lips. Then another message popped up.

Alexia: So you left.

Short. Direct. The unimpressed tone practically sizzled through the screen. You paused before replying.

You: Front row or nothing, right? You saw me.

Alexia: I did.

Leaning back against your couch, you savored the rising smirk on your face. She wasn’t done yet.

Alexia: And yet, when I looked again, you weren’t there.

Her irritation was palpable, but so was the thrill—she was still texting you.

You: Had to leave you wanting more.

Alexia: Dangerous game you’re playing.

Your stomach churned with a delicious mix of adrenaline and anticipation. You were relishing every moment. After all, nothing was ever going to happen—at least not the way the game was played on and off the pitch.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared as Alexia composed her response. You held your breath without realizing it.

Alexia: Did you at least enjoy the show?

Your fingers hovered over the screen. Of course you'd enjoyed it—every mesmerising second. But admitting that would shift the power balance too far in her direction.

You: I've seen better.

Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, then reappeared, again. She was crafting her response carefully.

Alexia: Liar.

The single word sent a jolt through you. She saw right through your facade, and that both thrilled and terrified you.

Your phone buzzed again before you could respond.

Alexia: I scored a hat trick for you today. To prove my point.

You hadn't stayed to see the third goal. The realisation hit you like a physical force. She'd continued her rampage even after you'd left—perhaps driven by your absence.

You stared at the screen, the revelation of her hat trick leaving you momentarily speechless. Three goals. For you. The audacity of it made your heart race.

You: Trying to impress me, Putellas?

The response came almost instantly.

Alexia: Did it work?

You bit your lip, considering how to maintain the upper hand in this delicious standoff.

You: Maybe if I'd stayed to see all three.

Alexia: Your loss.

Alexia: Did you at least notice how I don’t just play. I dominate.

Heat rushed to your face. The double meaning wasn't lost on you. You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth had become.

Alexia: You should have stayed.

Something in her tone made your stomach flip. You imagined her face as she typed it—that determined set of her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows.

You: Why? So I could watch you take your victory lap?

The response came faster than you anticipated.

Alexia: No. So I could find you afterward.

Your heart stuttered. The directness of her reply left no room for misinterpretation. She'd wanted to see you—to find you in person after the game. You swallowed hard, your fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard.

You: And what would you have done if you found me?

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. The anticipation was excruciating.

Alexia: I guess you'll never know.

The challenge in her words was unmistakable. You could almost see her smirking on the other end, confident in her ability to make you regret your early departure.

You: Maybe next time I'll stick around.

Alexia: Maybe next time I'll score four.

A laugh escaped your lips. Her competitive nature was relentless, even in text form.

Your phone buzzed again before you could respond.

Alexia: There's a team celebration tonight at La Mar. Private room.

It wasn't a question or even an invitation—just information dropped casually into your conversation. Your pulse quickened as you considered your options. Going would mean surrendering some ground in this delicate game you were playing. Not going would mean missing an opportunity to see her again.

You: Is that an invitation?

Alexia: Take it however you want.

You bit your lip, weighing your response carefully.

You: Congrats on the hat trick. Truly impressive.

There. A small concession that acknowledged her skill without fully surrendering.

Alexia: You haven't seen impressive yet.

The boldness of her reply sent a rush of heat through your body. This was beyond flirting now—this was a declaration of intent.

You: Careful, Putellas. Your confidence is showing.

Alexia: It's not confidence when it's fact.

A knock at your door startled you from the exchange. You glanced at the time—nearly eleven. Who would be visiting at this hour? With a sigh, you set your phone down and that was this evenings interactions over with when your teammates had arrived with pizza and wine for a self invited movie night at your place.

The next morning greeted you with a whirlwind of chaos. The internet had erupted over your absence during the match's climax. Everywhere you looked, clips of Alexia’s breathtaking goal flooded the digital world, accompanied by heated speculations about the way her eyes had lingered on you after she scored. Twitter threads, TikTok videos, and Instagram comments meticulously picked apart every second of the exchange. Yet, perhaps most compelling was the footage capturing her scanning the stands at the match's end, unmistakably searching for someone.

That someone was you.

And when she failed to spot you, the brief flicker of disappointment that crossed her face? It was a moment the fans relished and replayed.

"Alright, so when’s the wedding?" your coach quipped the moment you stepped onto the practice field.

You groaned, exasperation evident. "Not you too."

Laughter erupted from Liv, Maya, and half of your teammates. Your coach, arms confidently crossed, remained unfazed. "What? It’s all over social media. ‘Alexia Putellas left searching for Barcelona basketball player after stunning performance.’ That’s you, by the way."

You shook your head in denial, picking up a basketball and dribbling it lazily to divert the attention. "She wasn’t searching for me."

Maya, ever perceptive, arched an eyebrow. "Wasn’t she, though?"

You chose to ignore her. However, your coach wasn’t finished. “Invite her to our open training session, she can run some drills.”

You smirked at the thought. "She’d probably crush them."

"That’s what worries me," your coach muttered, a trace of concern in her voice as she shook her head.

Later that day, while scrolling through Instagram, you saw it. A new post. Alexia, mid-game, in full focus. The second photo? A replay of that smirk after her goal.  And the caption?

Always front row

Your eyes widened. You knew exactly what she was doing. The comment section was already going insane.  So, naturally, you had to comment.

@yourusername: Didn’t think you noticed.

@AlexiaPutellas: You should know by now. I notice everything.

Your teammates were going to have a field day with this one. But at this point? You didn’t care. Because this wasn’t just some casual online banter anymore.  This was a full-on game. And neither of you were backing down. The second you hit send on your comment, you knew it was over. Not the game. Not the tension. Over in the sense that you were never going to hear the end of this from your teammates.

Because within minutes, your reply to Alexia’s post had gone viral. Fan accounts were already reposting it, making edits, analysing every single word. People were invested. And Alexia? She was definitely enjoying this.You could tell by the way she waited.

She let your comment marinate for a little while. Let people freak out over the interaction. Let the suspense build. And then her notification popped up.

@alexiaputellas: Pinned your comment.

You stared at your screen.

She pinned it.

Maya was the first to send a message in the lively group chat you shared with the two Americans, with whom you were swiftly forming a close friendship. Her text arrived with the familiar ping that signalled the start of another engaging conversation, and you could almost picture her typing away, her fingers dancing over the screen with excitement.

Maya: Oh, she’s COOKING you now.

Liv: You gonna let her get away with that?

You exhaled slowly.

No, you were not.

You scrolled through Alexia’s tagged photos fans had already clipped your interactions into threads, debates, and ridiculous theories.

And then you saw it. A perfect opportunity. A fan had posted a slowed-down video of Alexia’s goal celebration, zooming in on the exact moment she smirked at you.

Their caption?

She knew EXACTLY what she was doing. This is pure flirting.

So you took your shot. You commented on it with three simple words:

Did she, though?

Not even five minutes later Alexia fired back. You had no idea how she had even see your comment until you checked your replies on your comment and every single one she had been tagged in.

She had found a different clip of the goal, this time, it was a wide-angle shot, clearly showing you standing and reacting in the background. She tagged you in her comment, 

I’d say so.

You almost choked on your drink.

Your teammates, once again, were all over it, but this time Maya stupidly found her way into the teams group chat, engaging the rest of the team into making comments and screenshots galore firing into the chat when some were clueless

Maya: NAH SHE’S ACTUALLY INSANE FOR THIS.

Liv: She just destroyed you in 0.2 seconds lmfaoooo.

Your coach: I don’t know what’s happening, but please don’t start missing layups.

You just stared at your screen, heart racing. Because Alexia wasn’t just matching your energy. She was escalating it.

And now? You had to respond. You took your time, scrolling through your camera roll. And then you found it. A photo from your first game with Barcelona.

You, mid-celebration, number 11 bold on your back.

And the caption you chose, 

11 looks good on me, don’t you think? @alexiaputellas

You hit post.

And you waited.

The world exploded. People lost their minds in the comments. You weren’t sure if Alexia was going to reply immediately or let it sit—let the internet spiral first. But then, a new notification popped up.

Alexiaputellas: Liked your post.

Alexiaputellas: Commented: I prefer it on me.

You actually gasped. Because holy shit.

Liv called you immediately, cackling. "Oh, you’re DONE for."

Maya was losing it in the team group chat. Your coach just sent a 😐 emoji.

But all you could do was stare at Alexia’s comment. Because this? This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was personal.And now, you had to figure out what came next.  

The rush of adrenaline hit you like a well-timed screen, leaving you dizzy with possibilities. Your fingers hovered over the screen, reply options racing through your mind like fast breaks.

Direct message? Too private.

Another comment? Too expected. You opted for something different. Opening your Instagram stories, you snapped a picture of your practice jersey draped over your locker, your name clearly visible.

With steady fingers, you typed: Some things look better in person. Open practice tomorrow, 3PM.

No tag.

No direct mention.

Just an invitation hanging in digital space. Within minutes, your story had been screenshot and circulated across fan accounts.

The basketball facility's social media coordinator messaged you almost immediately. Just a heads up, we've had an unprecedented number of inquiries about tomorrow's open practice. Should we... prepare for something?

You sent back a casual Probably just the usual, knowing full well it was anything but.

That night, sleep evaded you. Your phone continued to buzz with notifications, each one a reminder of the public spectacle unfolding. Maya and Liv had transitioned from teasing to strategy sessions, sending you potential outfit options and suggesting pre-practice hair appointments.

You: This isn't a date

You insisted in the group chat.

Maya: Not yet it isn't.

Liv: Wear the black compression shorts. Trust me.

Morning arrived with your coach calling an emergency team meeting before practice. "I've just received word that we'll have additional security tomorrow," she announced, eyeing you specifically. "Apparently, we're expecting quite a turnout for our humble little practice." The team erupted into knowing laughter and whispers. "I don't care who shows up," your coach continued, "we run drills as normal. We're professionals." She paused, then added with the hint of a smile, "Though perhaps we'll showcase some of our more... impressive plays."

Practice that day was intense, everyone performing as if scouts were watching. You pushed yourself harder than usual, aware that tomorrow carried stakes beyond basketball. Later, as you scrolled through social media, you noticed Alexia had been conspicuously quiet. No response to your story. No new posts. The silence was more nerve-wracking than any reply could have been. Just as you were about to put your phone down for the night, it vibrated with a notification.

Alexiaputellas: Viewed your story.

And then, moments later,

Alexiaputellas: Posted a new story.

You tapped on it immediately. It was a simple image: a clock showing 3:00, with the caption Some invitations are impossible to decline. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was happening.

The next morning dragged endlessly. You spent an embarrassing amount of time on your appearance before reminding yourself that you'd be sweaty and disheveled within minutes of practice anyway. When you arrived at the facility two hours early, the staff was already setting up additional seating.

You nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all, extra seating for a practice that usually drew maybe a dozen die-hard fans and curious tourists. "We've never had this many RSVPs for an open practice," the facility manager explained, looking both stressed and excited. "Social media team is setting up additional cameras too."

"There's media outside," one of the assistant coaches informed you, eyebrows raised. "ESPN, local stations, even some international press."

"You've got to be kidding me," you muttered, Maya sudden voice from behind making you jump.

"This is what happens when two elite athletes flirt publicly," Maya said, appearing beside you with a knowing grin. "The world wants a love story."

"We're not—" you began, but the protest died on your lips. What exactly were you doing? The line between playful banter and genuine interest had blurred somewhere between her goal and your invitation. You nodded, trying to appear casual while your stomach performed Olympic-level gymnastics.

The locker room was unusually quiet when you entered—your teammates all paused mid-conversation, watching you with barely concealed amusement. "So," Maya drawled, "just another Thursday practice, huh?"

You rolled your eyes, pulling your practice jersey over your head. "Can we please act normal today?"

"Define normal," Liv chimed in, "because I just saw three news vans in the parking lot."

Your coach entered, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable. "Listen up, team. Whatever circus is happening outside those doors, in here we're basketball players. Focus on the game." She paused, then added, "That said, management has requested we run some of our more... crowd-pleasing drills."

By 2:30, the facility was humming with activity. The usual trickle of spectators had become a flood. The bleachers filled with fans, students, and—most intimidatingly—media. You kept your eyes averted during warm-ups, concentrating on the familiar rhythm of your dribble, the perfect swish of the net. Your teammates were unusually focused during warm-ups, occasionally stealing glances at the rapidly filling stands. Your coach maintained a facade of normalcy, but you caught her instructing the team to run their most visually impressive drills.

At 2:55, the doors opened for the final wave of spectators. You kept your eyes deliberately fixed on the ball in your hands, refusing to look up despite the increasing murmurs rippling through the crowd.

At precisely 2:58, a ripple of excited murmurs swept through the crowd. You didn't need to look to know what had caused it. Or rather, who.

"Don't look now," Liv whispered as she smirked, "but your girlfriend just walked in with half the FC Barcelona women's team."

"Don't you dare look," Maya whispered as she jogged past you. "Make her wait."

So you didn't.

Through passing drills and shooting exercises, you maintained your focus on the court, on your teammates, on anything but the section of bleachers where you knew she must be sitting. The weight of her gaze felt like a physical touch across your skin.

Coach called for a water break, and Maya nudged you none-too-subtly. "She's in the third row, centre section. Wearing your number." Your hands fumbled the ball, and it bounced away traitorously. When you straightened up after retrieving it, you allowed yourself one quick glance toward the entrance.

Alexia stood there, flanked by several teammates you recognised instantly. She wore casual clothes, jeans and a jacket, but somehow managed to look more put-together than anyone else in the building. Her eyes scanned the court methodically before your eyes connected.

Alexia Putellas, football royalty, casually dressed in a Barcelona basketball t-shirt with your number prominently displayed. When your eyes met, she offered that same smirk from the football match, and raised her water bottle in a small toast.

The gym seemed to hold its collective breath.

You raised your own water bottle in return, allowing yourself a small smile before turning back to your teammates.

"Oh, you're good," Maya approved. "Very cool, very collected."

Coach blew her whistle, signalling the start of a scrimmage. "First team versus second team. Full court, game conditions." As you took your position, your coach passed by with a final instruction: "Show her what you've got." Your coach clapped her hands loudly. "Alright, ladies, let's show our guests what Barcelona basketball is all about!"

The practice session began with standard drills, but there was nothing standard about the energy in the room. Every move you made felt magnified, every successful shot drawing louder cheers than usual. You were hyper-aware of Alexia's presence, feeling her eyes track your movements across the court. The scrimmage began, and something electric took over. You played with a ferocity and precision that surprised even yourself, no-look passes that threaded between defenders, drives to the basket that left the defence scrambling, and shots that seemed to defy gravity before swishing through the net.

During a particularly intense sequence, you stole the ball, dribbled behind your back to evade a defender, and launched into a perfect fast break. As the last defender approached, you executed a spin move that had the crowd gasping, finishing with a layup that even your coach applauded.

You couldn't help it then – you glanced toward Alexia.

She was leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching with an intensity that matched your own. When she caught your eye, she didn't smirk this time. Instead, she offered a slow, appreciative nod that felt more intimate than any verbal compliment. The scrimmage continued, your team pulling ahead as you distributed the ball with precision, finding teammates in perfect position.

In the final minutes, Maya set a screen that freed you at the three-point line. Without hesitation, you received the pass and launched a perfect arc that sailed through the net just as the buzzer sounded. Without thinking, you glanced over. Alexia was on her feet, clapping with genuine appreciation, her teammates beside her looking equally impressed. She was watching you intently, that competitive spark in her eyes that you recognised from her matches.

She gave you a small nod, one athlete acknowledging another's skill, and something about that simple gesture felt more intimate than any flirtatious comment. Coach called for a final water break before the last segment of practice.

As you wiped sweat from your forehead, Liv sidled up beside you. "She hasn't taken her eyes off you once," she whispered. "And I'm pretty sure there are at least three photographers who haven't taken their lenses off either of you."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't suppress your smile. "Let them look."

The final portion of practice was designated for individual skill showcases. When your turn came, you felt a surge of boldness. 

Instead of your usual routine, you incorporated moves you'd been perfecting privately, a crossover that had defenders stumbling, a step-back jumper from well beyond the arc. Each successful demonstration drew appreciative murmurs from the crowd, but you found yourself caring only about one spectator's reaction. As practice wound down, Coach gathered everyone for closing remarks. "Thank you all for coming today. We appreciate the support and hope you enjoyed seeing what these incredible athletes can do." 

Coach called an end to the practice with a satisfied smile. "Cool down and stretches, then you're free to go," she announced, adding under her breath to you, "Nice work today. Funny how motivation works, isn't it?"

As the team dispersed for cool-down exercises, you noticed a small commotion near the bleachers. Several fans had approached Alexia for photos and autographs, which she was graciously providing while her teammates formed a protective semicircle around her.

You deliberately took your time with your stretches, uncertain of the protocol for this unprecedented situation. Was she going to approach you? Should you go to her? The questions buzzed in your mind as you towelled off the sweat from your face.

YES!!! Love it 🩵

now a culer | something blue

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: school is still… rough, so alexia finds a solution

warnings: school fight

notes: i am genuinely loving writing for azulita

Don’t get it wrong. you didn’t hate Barcelona. It was a beautiful city, full of life, history, and football. The architecture was stunning, the beaches were nice, and the food, objectively, was good. But nothing— nothing could ever compare to LA.

LA had everything for you. Your friends, your school, your culture. You knew every street, every corner store, every mural that decorated the sides of buildings. The people in your neighborhood weren’t just strangers, you knew them, and they knew you. You had history with them. Mr. García, who owned the corner store, always had something for you when you stopped by, chips, a drink, a free snack, as long as you swept up the front of his store. Mrs. Alvarez, the seamstress down the block, had been patching up your old clothes for years because you couldn’t afford new ones. The local grocery store let you stock the juice shelves in exchange for a small bag of groceries. The paletero man that always made sure your favorite paleta was in stock People took care of each other in your LA. It was unspoken, but it was understood.

Barcelona had its own community, its own culture, its own way of life. But it wasn’t yours. It didn’t have your people. It didn’t have the same music blasting from car windows, the smell of carne asada grilling on the sidewalk, or the summer block parties that lasted until sunrise where you danced bachata til your feet hurt. It didn’t have the sound of Spanish and English blending together in a way that felt like home. It wasn’t the streets you grew up on. It wasn’t the familiar faces who had watched you grow. It wasn’t the city that had shaped you. It wasn’t home.

And the culture shock? It hit hard.

The Spanish spoken in Barcelona wasn’t even the same as what you grew up with. You could understand it, sure, but sometimes, the slang threw you off completely. The food was different, too—no more corner taco stands or elote vendors pushing carts down the street. No more bodegas where you could grab a pack of Hot Cheetos and a can of Arizona for a dollar fifty. And the people? They didn’t move like LA people did. Back home, you walked with a purpose, always aware of your surroundings. Here, people strolled leisurely down the sidewalk like they had nowhere to be, like they had never had to be in a rush a day in their lives.

But the biggest difference? The way you carried yourself. In LA, you had to be on guard. Always. You had to be sharp, ready, because life had never given you the luxury of relaxing. You were always prepared for something to go wrong, because it always did. Here, though, everything was so… safe. People left their doors unlocked. Kids walked home alone at night. You saw people with their phones out, not even looking over their shoulders. It made you uneasy. You didn’t know how to exist in a place where you weren’t constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Olga just could not get it. She didn’t get why you always seemed tense, why you jumped at sudden noises, why you always had to sit facing the door whenever you went out to eat. She didn’t get why you never let yourself fully relax, why you kept waiting for something to go wrong. She didn’t understand because she had never had to live like that.

And then there was the biggest adjustment of all: actually living with Olga.

For years, she had been a figure in your life. A presence. Someone who popped in and out, who you called and texted, who sent you money when you needed it. But you had never lived together. You had never had to share space. And now, suddenly, she was supposed to be responsible for you.

And it was a disaster.

You weren’t used to having anyone tell you what to do. You had been living on your own for months, doing whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. So, naturally, you didn’t see a problem with leaving your stuff wherever you felt like it.

Your shoes? Kicked off in the middle of the living room. Your jacket? Draped over the back of a chair. Your gym bag? Somewhere. (You’d find it eventually.) Olga, however, was losing her mind.

“Do you not see the mess you’re making?” she snapped one afternoon, hands on her hips as she glared at the chaos you had left in the living room.

You barely spared her a glance from where you were sprawled on the couch. “I’ll clean it up later.”

“Later when? Next week?”

You shrugged.

And the music. You had always blasted your music at ungodly hours, back when there was no one around to complain. So, why would you stop now? Except now, you had Olga banging on your door at two in the morning, looking absolutely murderous.

“Are you serious right now?” she hissed, shoving open the door. “Turn that down!”

“It’s not that loud.”

“IT IS!”

And then, of course, there was the hoodie situation.

Olga owned nice hoodies. You had noticed this immediately. You had also decided, just as quickly, that they were now yours. You never asked— you just took them. Which made Olga’s blood boil.

“Where is my hoodie?” she demanded one day, hands on her hips.

You pulled the sleeves of said hoodie over your hands, looking at her blankly. “What hoodie?”

“That hoodie! The one you’re wearing!”

“Oh. This? Thought it was mine.”

“It’s not!”

Alexia just watched it all unfold with an amused smile. She had no intention of stepping in. In fact, it would only make it worse. The best thing for her to do was to let the two of you argue then drop you off at school.

You flex and extend your fingers as you stare down at your raw knuckles, the skin cracked, bruised, and stinging with every slight movement. Your hands tremble slightly, and not just from the pain. You sit on a bench outside the principal’s office, your legs bouncing restlessly, teeth clenched, chest tight. You’re trying to breathe, trying to calm down, but the fire inside you is still burning too hot. Why do you keep losing it like this?

You wrack your brain for answers, frustrated and ashamed. You didn’t come here to be the angry kid. You didn’t come to Spain to fight. But everything felt wrong. Your body was tense from the moment you stepped off the plane a few weeks ago. Everything’s been off.

You hate how different the Spanish sounds. Everyone speaks fast, sharp, clipped, nothing like the Spanish you grew up with back home. Your classmates either don’t understand you or mock your accent. Teachers correct you like you’re stupid. You’re constantly trying to translate everything in your head, to blend in, but all it does is make you feel more alone. You squeeze your hands into fists again. The pain grounds you, just for a second.

The door creaks open, and your head jerks up. Olga steps out of the office, her jaw clenched, eyes blazing. Alexia follows behind, calm as ever, but her gaze flicks to you quickly, assessing. She says nothing.

Olga doesn’t waste time. “In the car,” she snaps, voice low and furious. “Now.”

You don’t argue. You stand silently, walking past them both with your head down. It’s déjà vu, the second time in a month. You can feel her eyes on the back of your head, and you’re already bracing for it.

And sure enough, as soon as the car doors close, Olga turns on you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she explodes. “Do you even care about staying here? Do you want to get kicked out of every school in the city?”

You stare out the window, jaw tight, refusing to say anything.

“I’m trying, okay?” she continues. “I’m trying to make this work. I’m trying to give you a good life here. But you’re making it impossible!”

“He was talking about you,” you mutter suddenly.

“What?”

You finally turn, meeting her eyes. “The guy I hit. He was saying disgusting stuff about you. I told him to stop. He didn’t. So I made him.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Nobody disrespects my sister,” you say simply.

Olga exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose as her anger starts to crumble.

“I… okay,” she says softly. “Okay. But Azul, this can’t keep happening.”

You don’t respond. The car ride home is quiet, tense.

Once you pull into the driveway, Olga tries again. “Can we talk more about—”

“I’m miserable here,” you cut in, still staring ahead. “I can’t keep up with the Spanish, people make fun of how I talk, I have no friends, and there’s no girls’ football team for me to play with. I feel stupid all the time. I feel… wrong.”

It hangs heavy between you. You blink back the sting in your eyes, suddenly too tired to fight.

Alexia, who’s been watching from the driver seat, finally speaks up. “I’m taking her to the pitch.”

Olga hesitates but nods. “Go. Just— be careful.”

The second Alexia nods toward the passenger seat, you perk up.

The Barcelona training grounds are quiet, bathed in the soft amber glow of the setting sun. You’re in your element the second you step onto the pitch, your body relaxing as you lace up your cleats. You and Alexia stretch in silence before falling into a one-on-one. The rhythm is familiar, the tension in your chest starts to melt away.

She’s good, obviously, but you manage to dust her with a ridiculous feint and spin move that has her stumbling, arms flailing as you laugh and tuck the ball into the net.

“Not bad,” she says, grinning as she shakes her head.

“You’re getting old,” you tease, jogging backward toward the penalty spot.

“Oh, please.”

Now she’s in goal, sleeves rolled up, expression focused as you line up your shots. One by one, you fire them in. She saves a few, but not all. The pop of the ball hitting the back of the net fills the air.

As you take a breather between kicks, you speak again. “I feel out of place at school. Like I don’t belong. It’s not just the language… it’s everything. I don’t talk like them. I don’t think like them. And there’s no football team. No girls to play with. I feel like I’m wasting my time.”

Alexia watches you carefully from the goal, nodding. “That’s not fair. School’s supposed to be a place that supports you.”

“It’s not,” you mutter. “I don’t even want to go anymore.”

Alexia stands up, brushing her hands on her thighs. “Don’t worry about that part.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just keep playing. We’ll figure the rest out.”

You take your last penalty kick, driving it hard into the top corner. The sound is clean, crisp, perfect. You grin.

Unbeknownst to you, two figures sit higher in the bleachers: Joan Laporta and Pere Romeu. They’ve been watching in silence, tracking your every move.

“She’s raw,” Pere murmurs. “Rough around the edges. But you can’t teach instinct like that.”

“She plays like she’s been fighting her whole life,” Laporta adds. “Because she has.”

“Alexia says she’s a winger, no?” Pere asks.

“Could be more than that, if someone gives her the right support.”

They keep watching as you and Alexia walk off the pitch together, sweaty and smiling, shoulders bumping. You don’t know it yet, but everything is about to change.

Back in the locker room, you clean up side by side, tying your hair back and trading casual banter. Your body aches, but your mind is calm for the first time in days.

The sound of your alarm blaring through your room was what, unfortunately, ripped you from sleep. You groaned, rolling over and slapping your hand against the snooze button with more force than necessary. Your eyes were crusty, your body stiff, and for a moment, you considered staying in bed and faking a stomachache. But you knew Olga would never fall for it.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on your face, and slowly made your way down the hallway toward the kitchen. Your hoodie was hanging half off your shoulder, socks mismatched, and your curls were a disaster. Typical school morning. You already dreaded the day.

What greeted you in the kitchen, though, made you pause. Alexia was standing by the counter, humming softly to herself as she tossed fruit into a blender. She was dressed, calm, and already looked like she had been awake for hours. There were slices of toast on a plate, eggs still steaming, and fresh juice already poured. You blinked slowly at the surreal domesticity of it all.

“Morning, ’Lexia,” you mumbled, rubbing at your eyes as you crossed the kitchen. “Have you seen my backpack? I swear I left it by the couch.”

Alexia didn’t even turn around at first. You heard the whir of the blender as she held the top down, blending with ease. When it finally stopped, she looked over her shoulder at you and that’s when you saw it. The smirk.

“You don’t need it today, nena,” she said coolly, pouring the smoothie into a cup. “You’re coming with me.”

You squinted at her. “Huh?”

She just handed you the smoothie. “Drink this. Get dressed.”

You stared at her like she had grown two heads. “Wait, what do you mean I don’t need it? I have school.”

“No, you don’t,” she said simply. “Not today.”

“Okay… am I in trouble again?”

She snorted and shook her head. “Just get dressed.”

The cryptic vibes were off the charts, but you went upstairs anyway, tugging on some joggers and a fresh hoodie, brushing your teeth quickly before grabbing your sneakers. When you came back down, Alexia was already at the door, keys in hand, sunglasses on like some undercover spy. The whole thing was sketchy—and a little exciting.

In the car, you peppered her with questions.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because it’s a surprise.”

“Is it good or bad?”

“That depends.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “You sound like Olga.”

“She learned it from me.”

You pouted, leaning your head against the window as you watched the city blur past. The sun was barely up, streets still quiet. Your nerves were growing by the minute.

When the car finally pulled up to the FC Barcelona training facility, your brows furrowed.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, genuinely confused now. “Am I in trouble for playing here the other day?”

Alexia just gave you a tight-lipped smile and stepped out of the car. “Come on.”

You followed her slowly, legs stiff, anxiety kicking up. It was one thing to kick the ball around with Alexia when the place was empty— it was another thing entirely to walk through the main building in broad daylight. Your eyes darted around as you passed by trainers, staff members, and a couple of players you recognized. No one stopped you, though. Everyone just nodded at Alexia and let her through.

Finally, she led you to a quiet room off one of the main hallways. It looked like an office, kind of. You hesitated at the door, but Alexia gently nudged you forward.

Inside sat a man you recognized from TV—Pere Romeu. He stood when you entered, smiling warmly, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk.

“Buenos días,” he said kindly. “Alexia told me you go by Azulita”

You nodded slowly, heart pounding.

He motioned for you to sit. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

You looked from him to Alexia, then back again. “Um… okay?”

He chuckled. “Relax. You’re not in trouble. Quite the opposite, actually.”

You sat stiffly in the chair, hands fidgeting in your lap. Alexia took the seat beside you, legs crossed casually.

“So,” Pere said, folding his hands. “The other day, Joan Laporta and I were here late, handling some administrative business. On our way out, we noticed someone playing on the pitch. You. With Alexia.”

Your mouth went dry.

“We watched for a while,” he continued. “And what we saw was raw talent. Instinct, drive, creativity, all of it. You play like it’s the one place you feel safe. And when we see a player like that… we pay attention.”

You blinked. “Wait… you were watching?”

He nodded. “Yes. And we’d like to offer you a place here. Not just training— on the senior team.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

“We’ll handle all of your schooling through La Masia’s internal academic program. You won’t need to return to your current school unless you want to. You’ll train, you’ll play, and you’ll study here with people who understand what it means to be an athlete. You’ll be surrounded by others like you. And more importantly, you’ll belong.”

You couldn’t speak. Your brain had stopped processing words somewhere around senior team.

“I know it’s a lot,” Pere added. “But we believe in you. And we want to help you grow not just as a player, but as a person. So… what’s your decision?”

He leaned back in his chair, patient, while your heart thundered in your chest. Alexia turned to you with a soft smile.

And all you could do was sit there, wide-eyed, the weight of everything hanging in the air.