Alexia Era @alexiaputellasera - Tumblr Blog

IBIZA Chapter One

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Alexia woke the way she only ever woke after Jay had decided sleep was optional and worship was not.

Slowly, first of all. As if her body had been lowered back into itself piece by piece and no one had bothered to tell her brain the work was finished. There was the warmth of the sheets against her bare legs, the faint ache low in her hips, the languid heaviness in her muscles that made the simple act of breathing feel indulgent.

This was her body stretched out in the aftermath of pleasure, smug and useless and completely unwilling to be captained into movement.

For several seconds, she did not open her eyes. She let herself remain inside that soft, golden nowhere between sleep and waking, where the world had no demands and no one needed anything from her. No team sheet. No press conference. No video analysis. No captaincy. No hand on her shoulder from a younger player asking, silently or otherwise, whether everything was going to be okay.

Just the quiet.

Just the pleasant, ridiculous knowledge that she was thirty one years old, captain of Barcelona and Spain, winner of more trophies than she sometimes knew what to do with, and still capable of being reduced to a trembling, breathless disaster before breakfast because her girlfriend had woken up horny and apparently declared war on Alexia's nervous system.

She smiled before she could stop herself.

The smile faded only when her hand moved automatically across the mattress and found nothing.

That registered first as absence, then as information. The space beside her was empty, the sheets rumpled and cool enough to tell her Jay had been gone for more than a minute, but not so long that the room had forgotten her. The pillow still carried the shape of her head. The air still held traces of her: warm skin, expensive laundry detergent, the faint salt of sweat, and the sharper, cleaner note of the body wash she used after training because she insisted the club stuff made her smell "like a medical cupboard with dreams." Alexia's fingers curled for a moment in the empty sheet, not worried, only aware.

After a year together, Jay's absence had become something Alexia could read. There were different types of it. The peaceful kind, where she had gone to make coffee and would return with two mugs and a story she had already started laughing at before she reached the bedroom. The chaotic kind, where a cupboard would slam, a curse would follow, and Alexia would have to decide whether the situation required intervention or simply patience. The dangerous kind, rare now but not forgotten, where silence became too careful and Jay disappeared inside herself.

This was not that.

This was running absence.

Alexia could feel it before she remembered it. The bed alone. The faint sound of the city beyond the windows. The fact that Jay's trainers were not in their usual place, which meant she had put them on, which meant she had left with good intentions and terrible time management.

The season was over.

Officially, gloriously, impossibly over.

Three days ago they had won the treble, and Alexia still could not quite hold the fact in her hands. It existed in flashes rather than one clean memory: the roar of the crowd, the weight of the medal against her chest, the smell of grass and smoke and sweat, Jay sprinting full speed across the pitch after the final whistle as if she had personally been released from a laboratory, Patri crying so aggressively she had looked angry about it, Mapi attempting to climb Ingrid like a tree, Cata screaming something entirely incomprehensible into a camera, and Jay lifting Alexia off her feet in front of everyone with absolutely no regard for photographers, dignity, or the fact that their teammates were already making gagging noises behind them.

"You are so fit," Jay had said into the side of her neck while the confetti came down.

Alexia, still holding the trophy, still captain, still supposed to be the face of composure and historic achievement, had hissed, "Jaycee, behave."

Jay had pulled back just enough to look wounded. "I waited until after we won."

That was, unfortunately, true.

Alexia had kissed her anyway.

The photo had been everywhere within ten minutes.

Mapi had sent it to the team group chat with the caption: I AM REPORTING THIS CLUB TO HUMAN RIGHTS.

Jay had replied: jealousy is a disease, María, get well soon x

Alexia had pretended not to laugh and failed so badly Irene had taken one look at her and muttered, "We have lost her. The captain is gone."

Now, three days later, the medal was somewhere on the chair beneath the blazer Alexia had meant to hang up, the trophy celebrations had finally stopped vibrating under her skin, and she had slept past nine on a Saturday without guilt. Or she would have slept without guilt if Jay had not used the first official morning of their off season to behave like a woman who had never encountered self control and had no plans to be introduced.

Alexia stretched, carefully.

Her body answered with a slow, deep ache that made her close her eyes again and press her lips together against a sound that was half laugh, half memory. It was not pain. Not exactly. It was the physical echo of being loved thoroughly by someone who considered Alexia's composure both a challenge and a personal insult.

The memories came back in pieces, each one vivid enough to warm her face.

Jay's mouth against her neck.

The roughness of her voice, still thick with sleep.

The heavy certainty of her hand slipping under Alexia's shirt with a familiarity that still, somehow, had the power to undo her. A year together should have softened the effect. It should have made Alexia more immune. It had not. If anything, knowing Jay had made it worse. Knowing the exact shape of her hands, the rhythm of her breath when she wanted something, the tiny pause she took before touching Alexia somewhere she knew would make her lose control. There was no novelty anymore, not really, and yet there was intimacy in its place, which was far more dangerous.

Jay had kissed the spot below Alexia's ear and murmured, with atrocious confidence, "Buenos días, guapa."

Her Spanish pronunciation remained a war crime, but it was a very beloved one.

Alexia had been face down in the pillow, hair everywhere, body still drunk on sleep. "¿Qué hora es?"

"It's stop asking questions and let me make you feel good o'clock."

Alexia had tried to turn her head enough to glare. The effort had been weak and largely symbolic. "We have things to do."

"Incorrect. We have one thing to do."

"We have to pack."

"That is tomorrow's problem."

"We leave tomorrow."

"Exactly. Tomorrow's problem."

"Jaycee."

"Alexia."

The way she had said her name had been the real problem. Not teasing. Not entirely. Low and warm and far too pleased with itself, yes, but underneath it was something softer, something that belonged only to mornings like this, when neither of them needed to perform being strong. Jay had sounded young and happy and desperately in love.

That was always where Alexia lost the argument. Not at the flirting. She could resist flirting when she wanted to. Not always successfully, but in theory. She had discipline. She had survived finals, injuries, media storms, tactical meetings that lasted so long she had begun to hallucinate freedom.

But Jay looking at her like loving Alexia was the easiest thing she had ever done?

No. There was no defensive structure for that. No midfield compact enough. No press resistant enough. Love simply walked through her lines and scored.

"You are terrible," Alexia had murmured.

"I'm actually brilliant. You'll see in a minute."

"Mm. Very arrogant."

"Confident. There's a difference."

"Not with you."

Jay had laughed against her skin, and Alexia had felt it more than heard it. That was the thing about being with Jay for a year. Alexia had learned her in ways no camera could catch. She knew the weight of her laughter when Jay was truly amused, how it moved through her chest before it became sound.

She knew the difference between Jay's restless energy and her anxious energy. She knew the set of her jaw when she was pretending not to be hurt. She knew how Jay's hand always found some part of Alexia in public without thinking: fingers at the small of her back, a thumb under the hem of her training top, a kiss pressed to her temple between drills as if the concept of professionalism was something that happened to other people.

Everyone complained.

Lucy had once walked into the dining room, seen Jay sitting with Alexia in her lap while Alexia calmly ate yoghurt as if this was normal captain behaviour, and said, "I hope you both get fined."

Jay had pointed her spoon at her. "For what? Love?"

"For making the rest of us witness it before coffee."

Patri, traitor and best friend, had not helped. "I think it's beautiful."

"You would," Mapi had snapped. "You're immune. You had to live with Jay's flirting before Alexia took one for the team and absorbed it."

"I did not take one for the team," Alexia had said.

Jay had kissed her shoulder. "No, baby, you took several."

Alexia had considered resignation.

Now, in the quiet of their bedroom, with the sunlight touching the walls and her body still humming from the morning, she found herself smiling again at the memory of how impossible Jay was. How impossible they both were, really. Because Alexia complained. She corrected. She lifted one eyebrow and said Jay's full name in public when Jay got too bold. But she also leaned into every touch. She turned her face for every kiss. She let Jay lace their fingers under tables and wrap both arms around her waist in the corridor outside medical while everyone groaned like they were being personally persecuted.

She let it happen because she wanted it.

Because after years of being controlled, careful, watched, consumed, admired, criticised, photographed and discussed, Jay's affection had never felt like another demand.

Jay loved loudly because Jay had grown up with too little of it. Alexia understood that now. In the beginning, she had thought Jay simply enjoyed attention. She did, of course. Jay enjoyed attention the way plants enjoyed sunlight and Mapi enjoyed inserting herself into business that had absolutely nothing to do with her. But it was more than that.

Jay touched to reassure herself that what she loved was still there. She kissed because sometimes words took too long to reach the truth. She made jokes around the edges of feelings that frightened her, then gave herself away completely with one hand resting open and steady on Alexia's thigh.

This morning had been like that too, beneath the mischief. Jay had woken full of energy, full of want, full of off season joy that had nowhere sensible to go. So she had put it into Alexia with devotion and terrible smugness, and Alexia, who understood a lost cause when she was lying under one, had surrendered with what little dignity remained available.

It had not been elegant.

Alexia would have preferred to believe she was elegant in bed. Composed, perhaps. Passionate, yes, but still recognisably herself. This was a lie Jay had personally and repeatedly disproved.

By the time Jay had finished with her, Alexia had been speaking three languages, only two of which she actually knew.

"Please," she remembered gasping at one point, her hands in Jay's hair, her voice breaking around the word. "Por favor, no more teasing. I need... dios, Jay, I need..."

Jay, evil woman, beloved woman, had lifted her head with eyes dark and mouth curved. "You know, I always think Spanish is a beautiful language, but it really does reach its full potential when you're threatening to murder me if I stop."

"I am not threatening."

"You just said you would throw me from the balcony."

"I said maybe."

"Romantic."

"You are torturing me."

"I'm loving you."

"Same thing when you do it like this."

That had made Jay grin, and Alexia had hated how much she loved that grin. It was too sharp to be innocent, too warm to be cruel, and too familiar now to be anything but home. Jay had always looked like trouble. Even before Alexia knew her properly, before the year that had brought them here, before shared drawers and matching keys and Jay's protein powder taking over half the kitchen like an occupying force, Alexia had known instinctively that Jay Jones was the type of woman who could turn a room without trying. Tattoos up her throat. Shoulders like a threat. Blue eyes too bright behind tinted glasses. A mouth built for bad decisions and worse timing.

But home had softened the danger without removing it.

Jay could still walk into a room and make half of it forget basic manners. She could still smirk at Alexia from across a crowded event and make her feel, instantly and embarrassingly, like they were alone.

But now Alexia also knew the version of Jay who cried at animal rescue videos, who once spent forty minutes trying to assemble a flat pack shoe rack before giving up and sitting inside the frame like a defeated Viking, who left love notes on the bathroom mirror and forgot them there until the steam made the ink run.

Jay was trouble, yes.

But she was Alexia's trouble.

That was different.

Afterwards, when Alexia had finally pushed weakly at her shoulder and said, "No más. No more. I am serious, amor, I will die," Jay had collapsed beside her with the self satisfied expression of a striker who had just completed a hat trick and expected the match ball.

"Good morning," Jay had said, far too brightly for someone who had just destroyed the nervous system of Spain's captain. "Happy first official day of off season. I'd like it noted that I have already contributed significantly to your relaxation."

Alexia had stared at the ceiling, chest still rising too fast. "You are insane bebe."

"I prefer attentive."

"Three times."

"Efficient."

"Before coffee."

"Hydration is important, but priorities are priorities."

Alexia had turned her head slowly, because sudden movement seemed ambitious. Jay was lying on her side, propped on one elbow, hair wild from Alexia's hands and eyes shining with that unbearable mix of humour and tenderness. There were faint marks on her shoulder from where Alexia had gripped too hard.

"Do you ever wake up and think normal things?" Alexia asked.

Jay considered this seriously. "Define normal."

"Breakfast. Coffee. The weather."

"I thought about breakfast."

"When?"

"Briefly. Around the second time you said my name like you'd seen God."

"Jay."

"What? It made me hungry."

Alexia covered her face with both hands. "Madre mía."

Jay kissed the edge of her wrist. "For the record, I am an excellent girlfriend."

"You are a dangerous girlfriend."

"Hot dangerous or legally dangerous?"

"Both."

"Nice."

"This is not a compliment."

"It felt like one."

"Because you have problems."

Jay had smiled then, softer at the edges. "Yeah. But you love me."

Alexia lowered her hands and looked at her. There were jokes she could have made. She often did. Their relationship had grown strong partly because both of them understood humour as a kind of doorway. Jay used it when feelings were too large to carry plainly. Alexia used it when tenderness threatened to show too much.

But sometimes there was no need to hide.

"Sí," Alexia said quietly. "I love you."

Jay's face changed. It always did when Alexia said it like that. Not the quick te amo thrown across the kitchen, not the love you murmured into a kiss at the training. This was different. Direct. Still. Something Jay could not dodge with a joke quickly enough.

Alexia watched her absorb it. Watched the confidence flicker, not disappearing but settling into something less performed. Jay could accept praise, desire, admiration, attention. She wore all of those easily. Love, though. Love still sometimes entered her like a language she had learned late and worried she might forget under pressure.

"I love you too," Jay said, voice lower now. "So much it's actually embarrassing. Like, professionally. I should speak to someone."

"You do speak to someone."

"Yeah, and she says I'm doing great."

"Does she?"

"She says other words, but I understand subtext."

Alexia laughed, and Jay looked absurdly pleased with herself for causing it.

Then, because peace in their relationship was a delicate creature rarely allowed to live undisturbed for long, Jay had announced, "I'm going for a run."

"You cannot be serious."

"I'm always serious about cardio."

"You just spent two hours doing cardio."

Jay sat up, stretching her arms above her head in a display so unfair Alexia briefly forgot her argument. The sheet fell to her waist. Morning light moved over the hard lines of her shoulders, the ink across her ribs, the muscles of her back shifting beneath skin with a casual kind of power that still made Alexia's mouth go dry despite the fact she had seen this woman naked hundreds of times. It was offensive, honestly. There should be laws about looking that good while being that irritating.

"That," Jay said, climbing out of bed, "was love."

"That was attempted murder."

"That was devotion with stamina."

"That was you making sure I cannot walk properly."

Jay glanced back over her shoulder, grin immediate. "I mean, yeah. Bit of that."

"Proud of yourself?"

"Deeply."

Alexia threw a pillow at her. It missed because her arms were not functioning with their usual precision, and because Jay had the reflexes of a professional athlete and the instincts of a smug cat. She caught it one handed and bowed.

"Still got it," Jay said.

"Run, then come back, then we pack."

At the word pack, Jay's expression performed a fascinating series of movements. Confidence. Avoidance. False innocence.

Alexia narrowed her eyes.

Jay pointed at her. "Do not look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you already know I'm guilty."

"You are guilty."

"I haven't even done anything."

"Exactly. Ibiza tomorrow. Suitcase empty. Clothes not selected. Passport probably somewhere stupid."

"My passport is not somewhere stupid."

"Where is it?"

Jay opened her mouth.

Looked briefly towards the ceiling, as if divine intervention might provide documentation.

Alexia sat up on her elbows, slowly enough that her body did not stage a full rebellion. "Jaycee."

"It's in the apartment."

"Excellent. Very specific. Shall I inform the airport?"

Jay picked up her running shorts from the floor and stepped into them, hopping once when her foot caught in the fabric. "You worry too much."

"You once packed one football boot for an away game."

"It was a mistake."

"You packed seven sports bras and one boot."

"In my defence, the boot bag looked like the wash bag."

"It did not."

"It was dark."

Alexia sighed, though the corner of her mouth had already betrayed her. This was the problem with Jay. She was impossible to discipline because she was funny, and she was funny in the exact way that got under Alexia's control and loosened it.

"You need to pack today," Alexia said, choosing firmness because someone had to preserve civilisation. "We leave at six tomorrow morning."

"Plenty of time."

"Jay."

"A luxurious buffet of available hours."

"You are going to run, come home sweaty, shower, kiss me in the kitchen, convince me that packing can wait, then somehow I will be folding your shirts at midnight while you sit on the bed saying helpful things like, 'Do I need trousers in Ibiza?'"

Jay pulled on a sports bra, then one of her cropped running tops, the black one that made her shoulders look ridiculous and therefore should have been banned from all domestic negotiations. "That is not fair."

"It is exact."

"I would never ask if I need trousers."

"You did last summer."

"I was making conversation."

"You were holding trousers."

"I was seeking collaboration."

"You were trying to make me decide so you could blame me later."

Jay looked genuinely offended. "I would never blame you."

"Madrid. Blue shirt."

"That shirt betrayed me independently."

"You said I told you to bring it."

"You did tell me to bring it."

"Because you asked me."

"Exactly. Collaborative betrayal."

Alexia laughed despite herself, and Jay, who always noticed laughter like a dog hearing the treat cupboard open, immediately brightened.

"There she is," Jay said, coming back to the bed instead of leaving, which was exactly the kind of poor decision making Alexia had predicted. "There's my happy captain."

"Do not."

"I'm just saying hello."

"You already said hello. Extensively."

Jay planted one knee on the mattress and leaned over her, hands braced on either side of Alexia's hips. Her mouth was close enough that Alexia could see the faint indentation on her lower lip where she had bitten it earlier, trying and failing not to smile while Alexia cursed at her in Spanish.

"Extensively," Jay repeated, very pleased. "That's a good review. I'll take that."

"You are meant to be leaving."

"I am. Momentarily."

"You have been momentarily leaving for ten minutes."

"Time is fake during off season."

"Six am taxi is not fake."

Jay made a face. "Why did we agree to six?"

"Because Cata booked the flights."

"That explains a lot."

"She booked them because you said, and I quote, 'Earlier is better because then we get a full day in Ibiza.'"

Jay frowned. "That sounds like something a productive person would say."

"It was you."

"Maybe I was concussed."

"You were eating crisps on our sofa."

"Emotionally concussed."

Alexia reached up and caught her chin between her fingers. Jay went still at once, the easy obedience of someone who was entirely unashamed of being weak for her. Alexia loved that too much. She loved the way Jay could fill a room with energy, mouth, body, laughter, and still quiet instantly under Alexia's hand. Not because she was controlled. Because she trusted the touch. Because after everything life had taught her about being handled, moved, judged, and managed, she had decided Alexia's hands were safe.

"Listen to me," Alexia said.

Jay's eyes flicked over her face. "Always."

"Run. Come home. Shower. Eat something. Then we pack."

Jay nodded solemnly. "Run. Shower. Eat. Pack."

"No seducing me."

"Define seducing."

"No taking your shirt off in the kitchen and stretching like you are in a Nike advert."

"That's just my body existing."

"No coming up behind me while I'm making coffee and putting your hands under my shirt."

"That sounds more like affection than seduction."

"No kissing my neck and saying you missed me when you were gone for forty minutes."

"What if I do miss you?"

"You can miss me silently."

Jay looked horrified. "That's unhealthy."

Alexia's thumb moved once along her jaw, softer now. "We need to pack, amor."

Jay's face gentled at the word. Amor still did that to her, even after a year. Especially after a year. In the beginning, Jay had smiled at it like a flirtation. Now she received it like something more permanent. A name. A place. A hand held out.

"I know," Jay said. "I'll pack."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Alexia studied her.

Jay sighed. "I promise I will attempt to pack before seducing you."

"Bebe...."

"I promise I will pack while thinking respectfully about seducing you later."

"Acceptable."

Jay leaned down to kiss her, and Alexia let her because she was only human and also because refusing Jay's mouth in their own bedroom after being called beautiful with those eyes on her seemed unnecessarily cruel. The kiss was supposed to be quick. It was not.

Kisses with Jay rarely obeyed their assigned purpose. This one began soft and affectionate, a warm press of lips, but Jay made a small sound when Alexia's hand slid into her hair, and then the kiss deepened by mutual failure.

Eventually, Alexia pulled back first, because someone had to be the adult and, inconveniently, it was often her.

Jay remained hovering over her, eyes half-lidded. "This is why packing is hard."

"Because I kiss you?"

"Because you exist."

"Tragic."

"It is. I'm very brave."

"You are very dramatic."

"I contain multitudes."

"You contain no clean socks if you do not do laundry before Ibiza."

Jay froze.

Alexia watched realisation dawn.

"My socks," Jay said.

"Yes."

Jay rolled off the bed with renewed urgency. "Right. Run. Then laundry. Then packing. Then seduction as a reward based activity."

"No reward seduction unless suitcase is complete."

"Harsh but motivating."

"Passport found."

"Fine."

"Medication packed."

"Already in the travel case."

Alexia paused, pleasantly surprised. "Really?"

Jay tapped her temple. "Look at me. Growth. Development. Character arc."

"Very proud."

"You should be. I'm basically a documentary."

"You are basically a problem."

"Your favourite problem."

Alexia did not deny it. Jay grinned, triumphant, then crossed to the wardrobe and pulled on her running trainers with the restless efficiency of someone whose body needed movement as much as air. Even after a year, Alexia watched that transition with quiet attention.

Jay needed running on mornings like this. Not only for fitness. Not only because she had spent years building her body into something strong enough to survive the noise in her head. Running gave her somewhere to put the excess. The joy. The pressure. The adrenaline of winning. The strange emptiness that came after a season ended and structure fell away overnight.

Alexia understood structure. She understood what happened when it disappeared.

She let her run because the woman who came back was usually calmer, brighter, more able to stay in the day without vibrating out of her own skin. Sometimes love was knowing the difference between avoidance and regulation.

And sometimes, apparently, love was threatening to withhold sex until a grown woman packed socks.

Jay stood in the doorway a minute later, hair tied, watch on, keys in hand, all restless brightness and broad shoulders and completely undeserved beauty.

"I love you," she said.

Alexia leaned back against the pillows, the sheet pulled up around her waist, body still deliciously heavy. "I love you too."

Jay's eyes swept over her with open adoration. Not lust this time, though that was never far away with them. This was simpler. Softer. The look Jay gave her when she forgot to be funny. Alexia felt it settle somewhere beneath her ribs.

"You're beautiful," Jay said. "Like, offensive levels. Genuinely inconvenient."

"You said this already."

"I know. I'm checking if it's still true."

"And?"

"Worse now. Sunlight situation is outrageous. Hair situation very unfair. Post orgasm glow honestly disrespectful to the general population."

"Go run."

"I'm going."

"You are standing still."

"I'm admiring."

"Amor."

"Fine." Jay backed into the hallway, walking backwards because apparently leaving normally was beyond her. "But when I get back, I'm kissing you."

"After packing."

"One kiss before packing?"

"No bebe."

"One emotionally supportive kiss to ease the transition into packing?"

Alexia picked up the second pillow.

Jay pointed at her. "Violence from the captain. Noted."

"Vamos bebe."

"I'm gone."

"You are still here."

Jay blew her a kiss, then finally disappeared down the hall. A few seconds later came the sound of the front door opening, then Jay's voice calling from the apartment entrance, "Do not start packing without me because you'll do it too well and make me feel inadequate."

Alexia shouted back, "Then come home and be useful."

"Impossible ask, but I'll try!"

The door closed.

The apartment settled.

For the first time all morning, Alexia was truly alone.

She lay there for a while, listening to the quiet that Jay left behind. It was never the same quiet as before. Before Jay, silence in Alexia's apartment had been ordered, clean, controlled. A place for recovery. A place for thinking. A place where nothing was out of position unless Alexia herself had chosen to leave it there. Now, the quiet held evidence. An open drawer. A water glass on Jay's bedside table. A hoodie abandoned over the chair. Two medals tangled together beside a half empty packet of electrolyte tablets. Running shoes missing from the doorway. A suitcase still in the closet, empty as a threat.

Their life was everywhere.

Messy. Warm. Shared.

Alexia looked at the empty side of the bed and smiled again, helplessly.

Then her phone buzzed on the bedside table.

Once.

Twice.

Then repeatedly, which meant either the team group chat had awakened or someone had made a mistake large enough to require witnesses.

Alexia reached for it with the slow resignation of a woman who captained Barcelona and therefore had never truly known peace.

The screen lit up.

BARÇA WOMEN OFF SEASON CHAOS

Mapi: Whoever let Jay plan anything about this Ibiza trip needs prison.

Cata: SHE SAID SIX AM WAS A GOOD IDEA

Lucy: To be fair, she said it with confidence.

Patri: That is how she gets us every time.

Mapi: Confidence is not a qualification.

Ona: Has everyone packed?

Cata: Don't be disgusting.

Mapi: Ingrid packed yesterday because she respects society.

Ingrid: I packed because María panicked about swimwear and then lay on the floor.

Mapi: Private information.

Patri: Jay has definitely not packed.

Lucy: Jay has not packed. I can feel it in the English part of my soul.

Cata: Ale please confirm if your wife has packed.

Alexia stared at the message.

Then at the empty doorway.

Then back at the phone.

She typed slowly.

Alexia: She has gone for a run.

The response was immediate.

Mapi: JAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJA

Cata: Oh my god.

Lucy: Thoughts and prayers

Patri: So no.

Ona: Alexia, do you need help?

Mapi: SHE DOES NOT NEED HELP SHE NEEDS A MIRACLE

Cata: Or a second suitcase for Jay's emotional support chaos.

Lucy: Jay will pack four bikinis, no underwear, twelve sports bras and a leather jacket.

Patri: And one boot.

Alexia, against her will, laughed so hard the movement hurt.

She pressed one hand to her stomach and fell back into the pillows, phone held above her face, sunlight warm across her skin and the entire team apparently united by the certainty that Jay Jones should not be trusted near luggage. It should have annoyed her. Perhaps another morning it would have. But today, in the soft aftermath of love and victory and a season finally put to rest, the teasing felt like part of the same life as everything else. The medals. The bed. The empty suitcase. Jay's voice in the hallway. The groans from teammates who complained because they had been close enough to witness joy.

Alexia typed again.

Alexia: She promised she will pack.

There was a pause.

Lucy: Oh babe.

Mapi: Captain, respectfully, you are in love and therefore stupid.

Patri: Extremely stupid.

Cata: Historically stupid.

Ona: Lovingly stupid.

Ingrid: She will not pack.

Alexia stared at the screen, offended on principle and worried in practice because Ingrid was rarely wrong.

From somewhere far below, faint but unmistakable through the open window, came the sound of Jay's voice on the street.

"Morning, mate! Yeah, treble winners, baby!"

Alexia closed her eyes.

Dios mío.

The woman had been outside for less than three minutes and was already speaking to strangers.

Her phone buzzed again.

Patri: Also tell Jay if she forgets her passport I'm not lending her mine again.

Alexia frowned and typed.

Alexia: Again?

A second later, Patri sent a single voice note.

Alexia did not play it.

Not yet.

Some information required coffee.

She placed the phone facedown on the bed, inhaled slowly, and looked once more towards the wardrobe where Jay's empty suitcase waited in the shadows like a prophecy.

Then she smiled, because she already knew exactly how the day would go.

Jay would run too far because she felt too good. She would come back sweaty and bright eyed and starving, kiss Alexia in the kitchen despite being explicitly instructed not to, eat half the fruit from the fridge standing barefoot by the counter, remember three separate stories she needed to tell immediately, forget laundry existed, rediscover it in crisis, become briefly convinced that packing was an attack on her freedom, and then eventually sit cross legged on the bedroom floor while Alexia folded clothes into neat stacks and Jay contributed by holding up tiny bikinis and saying, with great seriousness, "This one feels important for morale."

They would be late to bed.

They would probably argue about shoes.

Jay would absolutely try to seduce her at least twice.

Alexia would resist once, maybe twice if she was feeling particularly disciplined, then fail in a way that would surprise no one and least of all herself.

And tomorrow morning, at five, while Barcelona still slept and the taxi waited downstairs, Jay would kiss the back of her neck in the hallway and whisper, "See? We made it," as if surviving the consequences of her own chaos counted as victory.

Alexia should have been irritated.

Instead, she felt something wide and quiet open in her chest.

Because this was their life now. Not perfect. Not orderly. Not always easy. But theirs. A life with open drawers and group chat abuse and trophies on chairs. A life where Jay's love filled every corner, where Alexia's control made room for laughter, where even the inconvenience of packing for Ibiza could become another small proof that they had built something real.

The season was over.

The treble was won.

The woman she loved was somewhere below, probably turning a simple run into a public relations incident.

And Alexia Putellas, captain of Barcelona, La Reina, the woman everyone believed impossible to rattle, lay in bed sore, smiling, and completely, hopelessly gone.

Her phone buzzed again.

Jay: Forgot my headphones. Don't laugh. Coming back up.

Alexia looked at the message.

Then at the bedroom door.

Then at herself, still half naked in a bed that smelled like both of them.

She groaned.

"Of course," she muttered.

The front door opened fifteen seconds later.

"Babe?" Jay called, voice bright and entirely too pleased with the world. "Tiny logistical issue."

Alexia closed her eyes and smiled despite herself.

"Your headphones are on the kitchen counter."

A pause.

Then, softer, closer, dangerous.

"Are you still in bed?"

Alexia opened her eyes.

The bedroom doorway filled with Jay: flushed from the stairs, hair already messy, running top clinging to her shoulders, grin starting slow and wicked.

Alexia pointed one finger at her.

"No."

Jay blinked, innocent as a prison break. "I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"I was going to say you look comfortable."

"No."

"Beautiful."

"No."

"Like maybe you need one small goodbye kiss before I go for my run properly."

"No, Jaycee."

Jay leaned against the doorframe, gaze moving over her with such fond, shameless appreciation that Alexia felt heat climb her throat even after a year of being looked at exactly like that.

"One kiss," Jay said.

"We have to pack."

"I'm not packing right now. I'm running."

"You are delaying running."

"I am emotionally preparing for running."

"You forgot your headphones."

"Because I was distracted by how much I love you."

"That is not a medical condition."

Jay's eyebrows lifted. "You sure? Because it feels chronic."

Alexia bit the inside of her cheek.

Jay saw it. Of course she did.

"Oh, you liked that."

"I did not."

"You did. Tiny mouth twitch. Very small. Elite level detection required, but I saw it."

"You are annoying."

"And yet." Jay pushed away from the doorframe and walked towards the bed with the slow confidence of someone who had been told no many times and interpreted at least half of them as negotiations. "You love me."

Alexia held her ground for exactly four seconds.

Then Jay bent down, kissed her once, soft and warm and smiling, and pulled away before Alexia could decide whether to deepen it or murder her.

"See?" Jay murmured. "Responsible. Respectful. Barely even harassment."

"Go."

"Going."

"Headphones."

"Kitchen."

"Then run."

"Then shower."

"Then eat."

"Then pack."

Alexia gave her a look.

Jay placed one hand over her heart. "Then pack. I swear on the treble."

"That is serious."

"I know. I nearly said swear on Mapi's dignity but we both know there's not enough collateral."

Alexia laughed before she could stop herself.

Jay's grin softened into victory, but not the smug kind. The tender kind. The kind that said she would spend the rest of her life making Alexia laugh if Alexia let her.

"I love you," Jay said again, quieter.

Alexia's answer came just as quietly. "Te amo."

Jay stood there for one more second, as if storing it somewhere safe.

Then she winked, turned, and left the room again.

This time, Alexia heard her collect the headphones from the kitchen. Heard the front door open. Heard Jay call, "For real this time!"

The door shut.

Silence returned.

Alexia counted to ten.

Then she picked up her phone and opened the group chat.

Alexia: She came back for headphones.

Mapi: I hate being right.

Lucy: She tried to kiss you, didn't she?

Alexia considered lying.

Alexia: Yes.

Patri: Did you let her?

Alexia looked towards the door, touched her fingers briefly to her lips, and smiled.

Alexia: Also yes.

The replies arrived so quickly they blurred together.

Mapi: DISGUSTING

Cata: CAPTAIN PLEASE

Lucy: At least one of us is having a nice morning.

Patri: Love wins. Packing loses.

Alexia laughed again, rolled onto her side, and let the sunlight cover her.

For one more minute, she allowed herself not to move.

One more minute before coffee.

One more before the suitcase.

One more before the day became laundry, lists, passports, sunscreen, chargers, team messages, and the beautiful disaster of getting Jay Jones ready for an Ibiza trip.

One more minute of being simply Alexia, in the bed she shared with the woman she loved, in the home they had built together out of routine and chaos and touch and trust.

Then she would get up.

Then she would captain the packing.

Then, when Jay came home sweaty and radiant and absolutely convinced she was going to be helpful, Alexia would try very hard not to let herself be seduced before noon.

She gave herself decent odds.

Not good odds.

But decent.

Outside, Barcelona shone gold through the curtains, bright and warm and waiting.

Alexia closed her eyes, still smiling.

Off season had officially begun.

God help them all.

Almost an hour passed before Alexia accepted that lying in bed and calling it recovery was no longer a defensible life choice.

She had given herself one minute, then five, then what she considered a reasonable extension on the grounds that her body had endured significant emotional and physical events before breakfast. Eventually, however, discipline returned to her like an old friend with a clipboard. Not loudly. It never did. Discipline did not burst through the door and drag her upright by the ankles. It simply appeared beside the bed, silent and familiar, and reminded her that suitcases did not pack themselves, Jay Jones could not be trusted with international travel preparation, and Ibiza was not going to become easier to manage simply because Alexia enjoyed the way sunlight felt on her skin.

So she got up.

Slowly.

With dignity.

Or as much dignity as a woman could have while muttering, "Madre mía," under her breath because her thighs had decided stairs were now a theoretical concept rather than a practical one.

The shower helped. Not immediately, because the first blast of hot water against her skin made her close her eyes and lean one hand against the tile as if she were having a private religious experience, but eventually. The heat softened what Jay had left aching. Steam gathered thickly around the glass. The bathroom mirror blurred until Alexia existed only as a vague shape behind it, all brown hair, bare shoulders, and the kind of expression she would have denied under oath if anyone had caught it. She took her time because she could. That was still new enough to feel luxurious. During the season, showers were efficient things. Necessary, planned, fitted between recovery protocols and meetings and media and nutrition and sleep. Even in her own apartment, Alexia often showered like someone might call her name at any second and require her to become captain again.

Today, no one called.

No one knocked.

No one needed her to interpret a coach's mood, calm a teammate's nerves, answer a journalist's question, lead a rondo, give a speech, or remind half the squad that winning one trophy did not mean they could all start behaving like unsupervised exchange students in a city with beaches.

So she used the good shampoo.

The one Jay called "the expensive emotional support bottle" because Alexia had once made the mistake of telling her not to use too much of it and Jay had spent the next week treating it like a sacred relic.

She conditioned her hair properly. She exfoliated. She stood under the water long enough for her thoughts to loosen and settle into something quieter. She washed away sweat and sleep and the evidence of Jay's mouth with a care that was less about cleanliness than ceremony. The season was over. The treble was real. Her body belonged to itself again, at least for the length of a shower. No kinesiology tape. No ice bath countdown. No physio asking if that tightness had been there yesterday. No camera. No crowd. Just hot water and steam and the faint echo of Jay saying, I love you, like she was still learning how to trust the words after a year of using them.

By the time Alexia stepped out, wrapped a towel around herself and wiped a circle in the fogged mirror with her palm, she looked softer than she had in months.

Not less strong.

Just less armed.

She studied her reflection for a moment, not with vanity exactly, though she was not above vanity and anyone who claimed otherwise had never watched her choose a suit for an awards night. It was more a quiet taking stock. Her face was still a little flushed. Her hair, wet and dark, clung to her neck. There was a mark just below her collarbone that had not been there yesterday, faint enough to hide beneath clothing, obvious enough that Jay had done it on purpose and would look infuriatingly proud when she noticed Alexia noticing.

"Cabrona," Alexia murmured, but she smiled as she said it.

Dressed, she felt more herself.

Not captain herself. Not yet. She chose softness deliberately: black shorts, clean socks, and one of Jay's oversized Barcelona hoodies that had started its life as Jay's property and, through the natural legal process of girlfriends, had become Alexia's.

The theft had occurred approximately three months earlier after an evening match in the rain, when Jay had given it to her in the car because Alexia was cold and then made the rookie mistake of saying, "Keep it for now." For now had become indefinitely. Jay had mounted several campaigns for its return, each one more ridiculous than the last. There had been pleading. A ransom note. A formal written request slid under the bedroom door. Once, Alexia had found Jay standing in front of the wardrobe wearing a different hoodie and staring mournfully at the stolen one on Alexia's shoulders.

"That used to be mine," Jay had said.

Alexia had taken a sip of coffee. "Many things used to be yours."

"My hoodie."

"Our hoodie."

"My initials are on the tag."

"I sleep with you every night. I think I have access rights."

Jay had stared at her for three full seconds, then nodded once. "That argument is annoyingly sexy, so I'm going to allow it."

The hoodie still smelled faintly of Jay despite repeated washing. Not sweat, not perfume, nothing so obvious. Just Jay in the way clothes held memory. Clean detergent, warm cotton, the trace of something sharper and alive beneath it. Alexia pulled the sleeves down over her hands and let herself enjoy it for exactly one breath before she walked into the kitchen and began trying to impose order on a day that had already shown signs of resistance.

Their apartment looked like two professional athletes lived there and one of them had the executive functioning of a firework.

It was beautiful, because Alexia had made sure of that. Light filled, high ceilinged, calm in its bones. Pale walls, dark wood, framed photographs placed with intention rather than clutter. A long dining table that had hosted family dinners, team chaos, contract discussions, and at least one disastrous attempt by Jay to make homemade pasta because she had watched one video online and declared herself "spiritually Italian."

The sofa was deep and soft, the kind Jay sprawled across like gravity had personally offended her. The shelves were full of books, trophies, candles, a few ceramics Alba had chosen, and objects Jay had slipped into the space until Alexia stopped noticing they had not always been there. A tiny rubber duck in Barcelona colours. A framed photo of them on the pitch after the Champions League final, Alexia holding the trophy while Jay looked at her instead of the camera. A small stone from a beach Jay had once shoved into Alexia's hand and said, "It looks like a heart if you're delusional."

Alexia had kept it.

Of course she had kept it.

This was the real danger of living with Jay. Not the mess, though there was mess. Not the noise, though there was certainly noise. It was how easily Alexia's life had made room for evidence of her. How the apartment had not become less Alexia, but more alive. More interrupted. More touched. Jay's keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. Her recovery bands looped over the back of a chair. Her book upside down on the arm of the sofa, open to a page she would never find again because bookmarks were apparently "too controlling." A half built Lego car on the sideboard because Mapi had given it to her as a joke and Jay had become immediately, violently competitive about finishing it without instructions.

The suitcase remained in the wardrobe.

Empty.

Waiting.

Judging.

Alexia ignored it for another twenty minutes with the kind of composure that would have impressed people if the task she was avoiding had not been folding swimwear.

She made coffee in the expensive machine the team had given them for Christmas, a gift wrapped with an alarming amount of smugness because apparently the squad had held a private vote and decided Jay and Alexia were "least tolerable before caffeine." The card had been signed by everyone. Mapi had written, For the safety of the group. Lucy had added, Especially Jay. Patri had drawn a heart and then, because she was Patri, written, I support love but not at 7am.

The machine hissed and steamed. The smell of coffee filled the kitchen, rich and dark and grounding. Alexia stood barefoot on the cool floor, Jay's hoodie hanging loose around her body, and drank the first sip in silence while watching Barcelona move beyond the windows. Late morning had sharpened the city. Sunlight flashed on glass balconies. Laundry fluttered from a building across the street. A cyclist shouted at a taxi. Somewhere below, life continued with the beautiful arrogance of a place that had no idea Alexia Putellas was currently facing the greatest tactical problem of her off-season.

Packing.

Specifically, packing with Jay.

She answered messages while leaning against the counter. Her mother first, because Eli had already texted twice asking what time Alexia would drop off the spare key and whether Jay had remembered sunscreen. Alexia replied that she would come by later in the afternoon before dinner, that yes, she would bring the key, and no, Jay had not packed sunscreen because Jay had not packed anything. Eli sent back a string of laughing emojis, then a voice note that began with, "Mi niña, you knew who she was when you fell in love with her."

Unhelpful.

True, but unhelpful.

The team group chat had become a logistical swamp. Thirty seven messages about taxis, luggage weight, who had checked in online, whether anyone had booked the restaurant for the first night, whether Cata was allowed to bring a speaker in her hand luggage after the incident in Lisbon, and whether Mapi's inflatable flamingo counted as sporting equipment.

Ingrid: It does not count as sporting equipment.

Mapi: It supports team morale.

Irene: It supports nothing. It punctured last year.

Mapi: Because Pina attacked it.

Pina: I sat down.

Mapi: Aggressively.

Lucy: Please can everyone remember passports.

Patri: This feels aimed at someone.

Lucy: It is aimed at several people.

Cata: Why are you all acting like losing a passport once is a crime.

Ona: You lost it in your own backpack.

Cata: Exactly. It was never lost. It was hiding.

Jay had not replied, which meant she was still running or had become distracted by someone's dog, a street performer, a market stall, a child wearing a Messi shirt, a stranger who recognised her, or the general existence of the world.

Alexia checked the time.

Still no Jay.

Good.

Also not good.

The longer Jay ran, the more endorphins she would come back with. Jay on a mild runner's high was manageable. Bright, hungry, tactile, likely to sing badly while showering. Jay on a full runner's high was a public safety concern. She would come through the door glowing, sweaty, affectionate, and absolutely convinced that the universe was a beautiful place made primarily of opportunities to kiss Alexia against kitchen counters.

Alexia had known chaos before Jay. She captained Mapi León, for God's sake. She was not inexperienced in the management of impossible personalities. But Jay's chaos was different because Alexia was not professionally detached from it. She could not substitute her off, give her tactical instructions, and send her to press the left centre-back. Jay existed inside Alexia's weak points with keys and full legal access.

Alexia had faced Lyon in a Champions League final with more confidence than she currently felt about resisting her girlfriend after a run.

She drank more coffee and looked around the apartment, searching for something to control.

The throw pillows on the sofa were slightly crooked. She straightened them.

The books on the shelf had been nudged out of alignment, probably by Jay looking for the television remote and refusing to accept that it was exactly where Alexia always put it. She realigned them.

There were crumbs on the kitchen counter from whatever Jay had eaten at some point between last night's celebrations and this morning's offensive enthusiasm. Alexia wiped them away.

She rinsed two glasses, folded the blanket on the sofa, moved Jay's recovery bands into the basket where they belonged, and placed the half built Lego car on a tray so the small pieces would stop migrating across the sideboard like brightly coloured ants. All of it was useful. None of it was packing. She knew this. She was not confused. She simply preferred meaningless tidying to opening the wardrobe and confronting the empty suitcase, because the empty suitcase represented not only a practical task but a philosophical truth.

Jay would not pack unless compelled.

Alexia would do the compelling.

Jay would attempt to make the compelling sexy.

Alexia would fail.

History was clear.

Pattern recognition, she had told Jay earlier.

Pattern recognition was, unfortunately, one of Alexia's strengths. She could read a defensive line by the tilt of a shoulder. She could sense pressure before it arrived. She could predict when a teammate was about to lose patience, when a coach was hiding concern, when a journalist was angling for a headline. And she could predict with absolute certainty that within twenty minutes of coming home, Jay would be showered, half dressed, and pressing Alexia against something while murmuring, "We have loads of time, baby," as if time itself had ever once survived contact with Jay's plans.

The worst part was that Jay would not be wrong to try.

That was where Alexia's irritation lost its moral advantage.

She wanted her to.

She wanted the warm weight of Jay coming up behind her, the kiss beneath her ear, the hands sliding under the stolen hoodie with that easy entitlement Alexia had allowed and then encouraged and now could not pretend to dislike. She wanted Jay's laugh against her neck when Alexia tried to sound stern. She wanted the delicious stupidity of being desired in the middle of normal things. Coffee. Laundry. Suitcases. Sunlight. The banal architecture of adult life made suddenly electric because Jay looked at her and forgot the world had other contents.

It was absurd.

It was wonderful.

It was going to ruin the day.

Alexia set her mug down, picked up her phone, and stared at it.

There were captains who called team meetings under pressure. Captains who gathered information, adjusted tactics, made substitutions. Captains who understood that when an opponent had a known strength, you did not simply hope it would not appear. You prepared.

Jay's known strength was seduction.

Alexia's known weakness was Jay.

Therefore, logically, reinforcements were required.

She scrolled to Alba's contact before she could think too much about the fact that she was a grown woman about to call her sister for emergency assistance because her girlfriend was too attractive after cardio. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

Alba answered bright and breathless, which meant she had either just finished exercise or was already doing something irritatingly productive. "Hola, hermana."

Alexia closed her eyes.

She could still hang up.

She did not.

"Hola."

There was a pause. Alba was annoyingly good at pauses. She had inherited their mother's ability to hear entire emotional landscapes in one syllable.

"What did Jay do?" Alba asked.

"Why do you assume Jay did something?"

"Because you said hola like a woman standing at the edge of a cliff."

"I always say hola like that."

"No, you say hola like that when there is either football politics, family drama, or Jay Jones. And because the season is over and Mama has already sent me three pictures of tomatoes from the market, I am choosing Jay."

Alexia looked out of the window, where Barcelona glowed as if mocking her. "Jay has not done anything yet."

"Oh, dangerous."

"She has gone running."

"Terrifying."

"She is not packed."

Alba gasped with theatrical horror. "No. Jay? Disorganised? This cannot be. Alert the Vatican."

"Alba."

"I am sorry. Continue. I am listening with compassion."

"You are smiling."

"I can do both."

Alexia rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. "We leave tomorrow morning."

"At a disgusting hour, yes. Miri and I are packed."

"Of course you are."

"We packed last night."

"Of course you did."

"We also printed boarding passes."

"You do not need to print boarding passes anymore."

"Miri likes paper."

Alexia could hear Míriam somewhere in the background saying, "Because phones die, Alba."

Alba covered the receiver badly and called back, "She says because phones die."

"I heard her."

"She is correct."

"That is not the point."

"No, the point is that you are not packed and Jay is running, which means Jay is going to come home looking like an advert for irresponsible life choices, and you are going to forget every leadership quality you possess."

Alexia went silent.

Alba made a delighted sound. "Ay, I knew it."

"You know nothing."

"I know everything. I have eyes. Unfortunately, because the two of you make that a burden."

Alexia turned away from the window and walked slowly through the living room, phone pressed to her ear. She passed the sofa, the folded blanket, the straightened books, the tiny domestic proofs of avoidance she had left in her own wake. "I need help."

The admission came out lower than she intended.

Alba's humour softened, but only slightly. She knew better than to become too gentle too quickly with Alexia. "With packing?"

"With focus."

"Yours or Jay's?"

"Both."

"Oh, this is serious."

"I am serious."

"Are you?"

"Sí."

A beat.

Then Alba said, very carefully, "Are you asking me to come over and help you pack because you believe your girlfriend is too sexy for you to complete a basic adult task?"

Alexia stopped walking. "That is not how I would phrase it."

"But it is spiritually accurate."

"No."

"Ale."

Alexia looked down at herself: barefoot, wearing Jay's stolen hoodie, drinking coffee in an apartment full of evidence that she had spent the morning cleaning everything except the thing that needed to be done. "Maybe."

Alba screamed.

Not a frightened scream. A delighted one. The kind of sound she had made as a child when she found Alexia doing something embarrassing and knew she would be dining out on it for weeks.

"Do not scream," Alexia snapped.

Míriam's voice came faintly through the line. "What happened?"

Alba shouted away from the phone, "Alexia needs us to come over because Jay is too hot and she cannot pack."

"That is not what I said!"

Míriam, very clearly, laughed.

Alexia stared at the ceiling and asked it for patience.

Alba came back on the line breathless with joy. "This is the best day of my life."

"You are my sister. You are meant to support me."

"I am supporting you by appreciating the historic nature of this moment."

"There is no historic nature."

"The captain of Barcelona, La Reina, two time Ballon d'Or winner, tactical genius, emotional fortress, has called her little sister because her girlfriend is going to come home sweaty and she fears for the structural integrity of her own decision making."

Alexia closed her eyes. "I hate you."

"You love me."

"Less today."

"Still enough to call me when you require cockblock reinforcements."

"Alba."

"What? That is what this is."

"No, it is not."

"It absolutely is. You want me and Miri to come to your apartment and place our bodies, our jokes, and our fully packed suitcases between you and Jay's post run seduction campaign."

Alexia felt heat rise beneath the collar of Jay's hoodie. "I want you to help me pack."

"And prevent sex."

"Help me pack."

"And prevent sex."

"Alba."

"Fine. We will call it tactical intimacy prevention."

"That is worse."

"Anti horny task force?"

"Worse."

"Operation Keep Alexia's Hands To Herself?"

"Impossible. I am hanging up."

"No, no, no, wait. I am sorry." Alba was laughing so hard her apology barely qualified as words. "I am sorry. I will be serious."

"You do not know how."

"I know how. I choose not to when my sister gives me gifts like this."

In the background, Míriam said something too quiet for Alexia to catch.

Alba relayed it immediately because Alba had never respected privacy as a concept. "Miri says we should come because otherwise Jay will win."

"Miri is correct."

"Miri also says Jay probably already knows she is going to win."

Alexia opened her mouth, then closed it.

Because yes.

That was the terrible thing. Jay probably did know. Not arrogantly, though she had enough arrogance to power a small island. Not cruelly. Simply with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly how much Alexia loved her and had chosen to use that knowledge for joy, mischief, and occasional logistical sabotage.

"She is strategic," Alexia said.

"She is horny."

"She can be both."

"Unfortunately, yes."

Alexia leaned her hip against the dining table and lowered her voice, though there was no one in the apartment to hear her. "You do not understand. She has tactics."

"Ale, everyone understands. We have all unfortunately witnessed some version of them."

"You have not witnessed the full version."

"Thank God."

"She comes back from running with the hair and the shoulders and she smells like outside and sweat and that stupid deodorant she uses."

"Terrible. Horrific. I am grieving for you."

"And she is happy, because running makes her calm, and then she gets soft, and she looks at me like..." Alexia stopped, suddenly aware she had said too much.

Alba's silence changed.

Not teasing now.

Alexia looked towards the framed photograph on the shelf, the one from the Champions League final. Jay looking at her, not the camera. Always her.

"She looks at you like what?" Alba asked, gently enough to be dangerous.

Alexia swallowed. There were many ways to answer. Like she wants me, yes. Like she is thinking things that would ruin packing and possibly her ability to stand. That would be funny. That would keep the conversation where it belonged, ridiculous and safe. But the truth was quieter.

"Like I am home," Alexia said.

Alba said nothing for a moment.

Alexia regretted it immediately. Not because it was untrue. Because true things in the middle of jokes had weight.

Then Alba sighed, soft and fond. "Ay, Ale."

"Do not."

"I am not doing anything."

"You are making the voice."

"What voice?"

"The voice where you feel things at me."

"I am allowed. You are my sister."

"I called for packing assistance, not emotional analysis."

"You called because you are so loved you have become useless."

Alexia pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is not helping."

"It is a little helping."

"It is not."

"It is. Because you are laughing."

She was. Not loudly. Not even obviously. But enough that Alba heard it, because Alba always heard everything that mattered.

Alexia exhaled. "Can you come?"

"Yes."

"With Miri?"

"Yes."

"Soon?"

"Immediately. We were doing nothing important."

Míriam said something again in the background.

Alba added, "Miri says we were having a peaceful morning, actually, but this is better."

"Tell Miri thank you."

"Miri says she expects full access to the drama."

"She can have partial access."

"She says unacceptable."

"She gets what I give her."

"She says you are no fun."

"Tell her Jay is the fun one."

"Miri says obviously."

Alexia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling again. That was the problem with her family. They could be unbearable, intrusive, smug, and relentlessly correct, but they could also make the ground feel steadier beneath her feet without asking permission. Alba had been doing it Alexia's whole life, first as the little sister following her around, then as the woman who could look at her across a room and know when the captain mask had been worn too long.

"How long?" Alexia asked.

"Fifteen minutes."

"That soon?"

"We are packed, Ale. Some of us respect tomorrow morning."

"I regret calling you."

"No, you do not. You are relieved."

"I can be both."

"That is very mature of you."

"Alba."

"We will bring coffee?"

"I have coffee."

"We will bring judgement."

"You always do."

"And Miri says we should bring snacks because Jay will come back starving and if we feed her immediately, she may be less likely to attempt sexual ambush."

Alexia considered this. "That is actually useful."

"I know. Miri is clever. This is why I keep her."

Míriam shouted, "I heard that."

"You were supposed to," Alba called back, then returned to Alexia. "Right. We are coming. Do not let Jay start anything before we get there."

"She is still running."

"Jay can start things from another postcode."

That was also, annoyingly, true.

"She forgot her headphones earlier," Alexia said.

Alba made a sound that suggested she had just been handed another treasure. "And came back up?"

"Yes."

"And kissed you?"

Alexia looked at the floor.

"Ale."

"Yes."

Alba laughed so hard she had to move the phone away from her mouth. Alexia could hear Míriam asking for details and Alba failing to provide them because she was too busy wheezing.

"It was one kiss," Alexia said.

"Of course."

"One."

"Sí, sí. One tiny logistical kiss."

"She was leaving."

"Naturally. Many athletes require mouth to mouth before cardio."

"You are disgusting."

"You called me."

"Big mistake."

"Huge. But productive." Alba's voice brightened with purpose. "Okay. We are on our way. Hide anything you do not want Miri commenting on."

Alexia looked around the apartment automatically.

A mistake.

There were many things Míriam could comment on. The hoodie. The mark on her collarbone if the neckline shifted. The fact that Jay's suitcase was untouched. The medal on the chair. The group chat still buzzing with people calling them stupid. The general atmosphere of a home where two women had spent the morning very enthusiastically not packing.

"Too late," Alexia said.

"Excellent. See you soon."

"Alba."

"Sí?"

"Please do not call it cockblocking when Jay arrives."

A pause.

A very bad pause.

"I will try."

"That means no."

"It means I will aim for subtlety."

"You do not have subtlety."

"I have charm."

"You have volume."

"And yet you called me."

Alexia closed her eyes. "Fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes. Do not have sex."

"Alba."

"I am hanging up because you are embarrassed and it is making me want to bully you more."

"Goodbye."

"Love you, hermana."

Alexia's irritation softened despite herself. "Love you too."

The line clicked dead.

Alexia lowered the phone and stood in the middle of the living room, suddenly aware of the silence again. It pressed in for half a second, not unpleasantly, just full of consequence. She had done it. She had brought in reinforcements. She had made a tactical decision. It was rational. It was necessary. It was also, she suspected, the kind of decision she would regret the second Jay walked in and found Alba and Míriam sitting on their sofa with snacks, judgement, and the expressions of women who had arrived specifically to ruin her plans.

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