Summary - 4 times you maybe had a mother and 1 time you definitely did
Word Count - 24.3k
1:
The restaurant is small and loud in the comfortable way places in Barcelona often are, packed with overlapping conversations and clinking glasses and the smell of garlic and fresh bread drifting through the open space.
You trail beside Alexia as she guides you through the crowded entryway with a hand resting lightly against your upper back, steering you without really thinking about it, the touch casual and familiar enough now that you lean into it automatically.
You’re halfway toward your table when someone calls her name. “Alex!”
Alexia turns immediately, her face shifting into surprised recognition as a woman near the bar stands from her seat with a wide grin already spreading across her face.
“Madre mía,” Alexia laughs softly as they pull each other into a quick hug. “How long has it been?”
Too long, apparently, because the conversation starts moving immediately, fast and overlapping in the way it does when people already know each other well enough to skip all the polite pauses.
Alexia asks about family, about work, about mutual friends whose names mean absolutely nothing to you, and you hover awkwardly at her side for a second before taking a small step back, instinctively trying to disappear from the interaction altogether.
Until Alexia’s hand lands on your shoulder, warm and firm. “And this,” she says easily, her mouth curving into quiet pride as she gently nudges you forward, “is my kid.”
You go completely still as she introduces you. Your eyes snap to her so fast it almost hurts.
But Alexia has already turned back toward her friend, already moving seamlessly into the next part of the conversation like she hasn’t just detonated something directly in the center of your chest.
Her kid. Not the kid I mentor. Not a player from the team. Not even family, which is already enough to make your throat tight every time she says it.
Her kid.
The words settle somewhere deep and immediate. They ping around your chest in a way that makes it difficult to focus on anything else for the rest of the conversation happening around you.
You barely hear the rest of it, only catching fragments while Alexia and her friend continue talking easily beside you, her hand still resting absently against your shoulder the entire time like she doesn’t even realize she’s keeping you anchored there.
She calls a lot of people affectionate things. You know that.
She calls Vicky hermanita. She calls Patri hermana. She says those words casually, affectionately, naturally, like they belong perfectly to the person she is assigning them to.
But this feels different. Your relationship with Alexia is different.
They don’t wake up in her house every morning and fall asleep there every night. They don’t rely on her for rides and meals and doctors appointments and reassurance after nightmares they pretend not to have. They don’t know where she keeps the extra blankets or which tea she makes when someone can’t sleep or how she hums quietly under her breath while cooking dinner when she thinks no one is listening.
They don’t know the version of her that pads downstairs half-awake in oversized sweatpants to make sure you took your pain medication for your broken foot at three in the morning. They don’t see the way she checks the weather before your appointments so she can hand you the right jacket without asking, or the way she bought you those jackets to begin with after quietly realizing the warmest thing you owned was a worn-out hoodie that barely counted as winter clothing.
They don’t know how instinctive it has become for her to reach for you in crowded spaces, how automatically she glances over to make sure you’ve eaten enough, how quickly her attention finds you no matter how many people are around her.
You do.
And suddenly the distinction between hermanita and my kid feels enormous.
You always call her Ale. Never Alexia. Just Ale. Other people call her that too sometimes, teammates and old friends and family, but it still feels strangely personal to you, like something that belongs more to the two of you than it should.
You like the way it sounds. You like the way her attention always finds you when you say it, the way her head turns immediately no matter how distracted she is, like your voice reaches her differently from everyone else’s. Teammates can be calling her name directly beside her and she’ll still miss it, but you can mutter “Ale” from across the room and watch her attention snap toward you before you’ve even finished the word.
You’ve never known what to call her beyond that. Not because you don’t feel it. Because you feel too much of it.
Maybe hermana could make sense in theory. Vicky calls you hermanita often enough, usually with an expression that suggests she enjoys watching you turn bright red every single time she says it. But even then, when you try to place the word onto Alexia inside your own head, it feels slightly wrong, slightly off-center, not big enough somehow for whatever this is between you.
Because sisters are equals. And you have never once mistaken the way you lean on Alexia for equality.
You’re so deep in your own thoughts that you barely register the conversation winding down. It’s only when the woman turns fully toward you again that you realize she’s leaving.
“It was very nice meeting you,” she says warmly.
You straighten slightly at the sound of your own existence being acknowledged again, your brain scrambling to catch up with the moment as you offer her a small smile in return.
“Adéu,” you reply politely. “And… yeah, nice to meet you too.”
She smiles once more before disappearing back toward the front of the restaurant, leaving you standing there beside Alexia with your thoughts still spinning in slow circles around something you don’t quite know how to process yet.
Alexia glances down at you then, her expression relaxed and easy again, completely unaware of the crisis currently unfolding in your head, and places a light, guiding hand against your upper back again as she steers you further into the restaurant.
“Wow,” she says lightly, shaking her head with a faint laugh, “what a small world, huh? I haven’t seen her since high school.”
You swallow down the confusion before it can reach your face too obviously, forcing yourself to let it go for now, because the familiar smell of grilled chicken and fried potatoes is already wrapping around you, warm and comforting and distracting enough that your stomach immediately starts paying more attention than your thoughts.
Questions can wait. Food feels more urgent.
So instead of asking what my kid was supposed to mean, you tilt your head toward her and decide to tease her instead.
“Is it really a small world,” you ask dryly, “when you literally know every person in Barcelona… and probably most of the surrounding suburbs too?”
Alexia lets out an offended little scoff, rolling her eyes dramatically before bumping her shoulder lightly against yours.
“That is not true.”
You stare at her flatly. “Ale,” you say with mock seriousness, gesturing vaguely around the restaurant, “you are on a first-name basis with the entire wait staff and the valet.”
“Well, that’s called being polite,” she replies without missing a beat, already steering you toward your usual table. “And it is not my fault this is your favorite restaurant and we come here every week.”
You narrow your eyes at her suspiciously. “I’m pretty sure the waiter started bringing you sparkling water before you even sat down.”
“That’s customer service,” she says easily. “Very normal.”
“The hostess literally called you mi reina.”
Alexia only shrugs, playfully unashamed now. “What can I say? I’m beloved by the people.”
Despite yourself, a real laugh escapes you. Alexia’s expression softens immediately at the sound of it, warmth and quiet relief flickering across her face before she reaches over to ruffle your hair affectionately as you slide into the booth beside her.
And just like that, some of the strange tightness that had been sitting in your chest ever since she introduced you loosens enough for you to breathe around it again.
2:
You’ve been no contact with your foster parents ever since you moved in with Alexia.
You’re still not entirely sure what happened behind the scenes to make that possible.
You had asked Alexia about it once, only once, sometime during that first week after your surgery when the pain medication made you a little braver about asking questions you normally swallowed down. She had gone strangely quiet for a moment after you asked, her expression flattening into something unreadable before she finally told you, very simply, that she had “taken care of it,” and that you did not need to worry about ever going back there again.
There had been something distant in her eyes when she said it, something cold and controlled underneath the softness she usually reserved for you, like she was remembering the hospital room, remembering the way your foster mother had stood over your bed with alcohol and cigarettes still clinging to her breath while she hurled insults at you like they were nothing.
You hadn’t pushed for details after that. Partly because Alexia clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Partly because you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know.
But you knew she must have gone back to that house at some point, because not long after you moved in permanently, she had shown up carrying the limited possessions you actually owned, your clothes folded neatly in laundry baskets, your old childhood plush tucked awkwardly under one arm like she hadn’t quite known what to do with it.
She never told you what the house looked like when she got there. Never repeated a single thing your foster parents might have said to her.
But you noticed the way she carefully washed every piece of clothing before putting it away, the way she ran your plush through the laundry twice until it no longer smelled faintly of smoke and mildew and instead carried the soft clean scent of her detergent.
You noticed the way her jaw tightened the first time she saw you instinctively flinch at a slammed cabinet door.
You noticed how she quietly started knocking before entering your room, even when the door was wide open, as though she wanted to make absolutely certain you never had to wonder whether your space would be respected.
You noticed a hundred little things like that. Things she never pointed out. Things she never took credit for. Small adjustments made so naturally and consistently that it would have been easy to miss them if they weren’t all designed to make you feel safer.
That had been months ago now and since then, life had settled into something quieter, steadier, the rhythm of school and training and recovery blending together until it almost felt normal. Almost.
Today, training has ended but no one seems particularly eager to leave yet, the late afternoon sun still warm against the pitch as players linger in small groups, stretching or passing balls around lazily before heading inside.
You’re near the edge of the field with Clara, both of you goofing around more than actually training, trying to nutmeg each other in increasingly ridiculous ways while arguing loudly over what should and should not count as a successful attempt.
“That one doesn’t count,” you insist after she barely clips the ball through your stance. “Your first touch was terrible.”
“My first touch was genius,” Serra shoots back, already grinning. “You’re just slow.”
“Please, I’m coming back from injury and still better than you.”
She gasps theatrically at that, clutching her chest like you’ve deeply offended her, before lunging forward to try again, the two of you laughing as you dance around each other near the sideline.
Then you hear it. A familiar raspy voice. Too familiar.
“So this is where you always ran away to…”
Everything inside you stops. The laughter dies instantly in your throat as your body goes rigid, your stomach dropping so hard it feels almost painful, every muscle locking before your brain even fully catches up to what’s happening.
Your foster father stands just outside the fence surrounding the training ground, one hand hooked lazily through the metal bars like he belongs there. He’s wearing a collared shirt you didn’t even know he owned, the fabric wrinkled but cleaner than anything you ever remember seeing him in, and his usually greasy hair has been combed carefully to one side in a way that feels deeply unsettling, like someone trying too hard to look respectable.
Beside him, your foster mother stands stiffly with her purse tucked under one arm, her chin tilted upward slightly as she stares directly at you, her eyes narrowed like she’s daring you to ignore them.
Your blood turns cold.
Beside you, Serra finally manages to knock the ball cleanly through your planted feet.
“Yes!” she celebrates, throwing her hands up triumphantly before noticing you haven’t reacted at all. The smile drops from her face almost instantly.
You are completely frozen. Your expression has gone blank in that terrible, distant way she’s never seen before, your shoulders tense, your breathing suddenly too shallow.
Serra follows your line of sight toward the fence, her own posture straightening slightly as she takes in the unfamiliar couple standing there.
“Can I help you?” she asks cautiously, stepping half a pace closer to you without even realizing she’s doing it. “This is a closed practice.”
You could kiss her for speaking because your own voice feels trapped somewhere far away from your body.
Your foster father sends Serra a fake smile, the kind that never quite reaches his eyes, before dismissing her entirely with a lazy flick of his gaze.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “I don’t need any help from you. Just from my beloved foster daughter here.”
Serra’s expression changes instantly when the words click into place, her eyes darting sharply toward you, panic and understanding colliding there all at once.
You don’t actually know how much the girls know. You had told Serra and Vicky pieces of it over time, small fragmented explanations about why you had moved in with Ale, enough to satisfy their concern without fully opening the door to everything behind it. But judging by the horrified look spreading across Serra’s face now, Alexia must have filled in a bit more of the gaps at some point, enough that she understands this is not a normal family visit.
She turns on her heel without hesitation.
“Alexia!!” she shouts across the pitch, her voice loud enough to cut cleanly through the noise of training.
Alexia looks up immediately, her attention snapping toward the panic in Clara’s voice before her eyes even fully locate her. Her gaze sweeps across the field quickly, searching, and the second she spots your rigid posture near the fence she drops the ball at her feet and starts running toward you without another thought.
Halfway there, she realizes who is standing on the other side of the barrier. Her expression instantly changes from worry to anger.
“This is a closed practice,” she says sharply as she closes the distance, stepping between the girls and the couple at the fence without even seeming to think about it. “How did you get in here?”
Serra instinctively shifts farther behind Alexia the moment she reaches you, clearly unwilling to stand anywhere near the people who have managed to make their captain look this furious.
You still haven’t moved. But Alexia notices the way your hands have begun trembling at your sides, subtle enough most people would miss it, violent enough that she catches it immediately. Something in her posture hardens even further.
“So good to see you again, Ms. Putellas,” your foster mother says sweetly, her tone dripping with something artificial and ugly beneath the mock politeness.
Alexia ignores her completely. Instead, she turns slightly toward Clara, her voice dropping into quiet, urgent Catalan. “Take her away and tell Pere to call security.”
That finally jolts you out of your frozen haze. Your hand shoots out, grabbing onto Alexia’s arm before Clara can move you anywhere, your fingers tightening around her sleeve hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.
Your eyes drag desperately to hers, panic finally surfacing fully there as you try to communicate something you cannot possibly say out loud in front of them.
Please don’t leave me here. Please don’t make me deal with them alone. Please protect me.
Alexia’s entire expression softens the second she looks at you. Her hand comes up to cover yours where it grips her arm, squeezing once, firmly, grounding you. Her eyes hold yours for a long moment, steady and reassuring despite the fury still simmering underneath them. Then she nods very slightly. A promise.
She turns back toward Clara, gesturing more gently this time for her to take you away from the fence. You let yourself be guided backward then, your legs unsteady beneath you as Clara carefully pulls you toward the rest of the team clustered farther down the pitch.
As you approach, Patri and Irene brush past you, each squeezing your shoulder gently as they move by, silent reassurance before taking up positions on either side of Alexia like some terrifyingly beautiful version of the queen’s guard.
“Security is on their way,” Patri says coldly, her arms folding across her chest as she fixes your foster parents with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.
“Oh perfect,” your foster mother replies smoothly. “Perhaps they can escort us to your legal department. Or should it be the financial department?” She glances toward your foster father with faux thoughtfulness. “Which do you think, dear?”
“Better to be safe and stop by both,” he replies with a grin.
Alexia’s shoulders go rigid. “What business do you have here?” she asks, her voice low and dangerous now, every word edged with barely restrained fury.
Your foster father gives a lazy shrug. “Well, when a football club breaches the terms of a foster arrangement and effectively steals a child from a legal guardian…” he says casually, “there are usually financial consequences attached to that.”
Your stomach twists violently.
Your foster mother reaches into her purse and pulls out a folded newspaper. Even from across the pitch, you recognize it immediately. The cover story from after the Clásico.
A giant photo of you and Alexia celebrating your brace together, her arms wrapped around you while you laughed breathlessly into her shoulder beneath the stadium lights.
The Heir to the Throne? the headline had read in massive letters across the front page.
You had been mortified when you first saw it. Alexia had been delighted. She’d brought it home grinning like she’d won another Champions League and hung it proudly on the fridge despite your dramatic complaints about how embarrassing it was. You remember eventually grinning right back at her anyway because she’d looked so impossibly proud of you.
Alexia clearly recognizes it too. You can see it in the way her back stiffens even more.
“Imagine my surprise when I saw this on the way to work yesterday,” your foster mother says lightly, shaking the paper once for emphasis. “Who would’ve thought our little girl was such a big star?”
Her gaze drifts over Alexia’s shoulder until it lands directly on you. Her lips curl slightly as she raises her eyebrows mockingly.
“Well,” she says sweetly, “at least now we understand why everyone suddenly wanted to play hero.”
Alexia moves forward so quickly it surprises even Irene and Patri.
One second she is standing between them and the rest of the team, controlled and rigid with anger, and the next she is directly in your foster mother’s space, forcing the woman to tilt her head back slightly just to maintain eye contact.
“She is not yours,” Alexia says, her voice low and sharp enough to slice cleanly through the entire pitch. “She has never been yours.”
She doesn’t shout. Doesn’t shove or push, even if every instinct in her body clearly wants to. She just stands there with the full weight of her captain’s authority pressing down around her, shoulders squared, expression cold in a way you have never seen directed at anyone before.
“I saw the way you treated her,” she continues, her tone turning even harsher. “Do not stand here and pretend you have ever cared about her.”
“Watch your tone,” the husband snaps suddenly, stepping forward as he yanks his wife backward by the arm hard enough to make her stumble.
Several of the girls tense immediately. Alexia doesn’t even flinch. If anything, she steps closer.
“No,” she says coldly, her eyes locking onto his with terrifying steadiness. “You watch your tone.”
The entire field has gone silent now.
Alexia’s voice never rises, but somehow that only makes it more frightening, every word deliberate and controlled in a way that feels infinitely more dangerous than yelling ever could.
“I could ruin you,” she says plainly. “I have eyewitnesses, doctor’s reports, photographs. I have everything.”
Your foster father’s expression flickers for the first time.
“The only reason I haven’t filed a police report already,” Alexia continues, “is because that girl over there is finally happy, and dragging her through a court case after everything she has survived would hurt her more than it would help her.”
Her jaw tightens visibly then. “But if either of you ever come near her again,” she says quietly, “I will make absolutely certain you regret it.”
The husband and wife both go still. Your foster mother swallows hard enough that you can see it even from a distance.
“You’re bluffing…” she whispers finally, though the confidence from earlier has completely drained from her face.
Alexia tilts her head slightly. “Do you really want to test that theory?” she asks. “Against me, my legal team, and my mountain of money?”
That lands. You see it right away in the way both their expressions shift, the realization finally settling in that this is not the scared little girl they used to corner in cramped hallways anymore, and more importantly, that she is no longer alone.
Alexia steps forward once more, fury simmering just beneath the surface now. “You disgust me,” she says, every word filled with quiet contempt. “Not only did you abuse her for years, but the second she experiences even an ounce of the joy and success she deserves from her hard work, you show up like vultures looking for more to take from a literal child.”
Her eyes narrow slightly as her lip rises in a snarl. “You are not worthy of cleaning the dirt off her boots.”
Beside her, Irene finally reaches out and catches Alexia lightly by the arm. “Ale,” she says quietly, her tone gentler now. “Security’s here. Let them handle it.”
Alexia’s chest rises sharply once before she finally breaks eye contact, glancing toward the three security guards now approaching quickly from the far entrance to the pitch.
“These people are trespassing,” she tells them, her tone clipped and commanding again as she gestures toward your foster parents. “Please remove them from the premises and take their photographs. They are never to be allowed back here again.”
“Sí, capitana,” one of the guards replies without hesitation. They move forward, taking hold of your foster parents’ arms despite their immediate protests.
“This is ridiculous-” your foster father starts loudly.
“You can’t seriously-” your foster mother adds over him.
But their voices sound weaker now, smaller.
The moment security begins escorting them away, Alexia immediately turns toward you. Like the rest of the world stops mattering the second they are no longer a direct threat.
You hadn’t even realized tears were running down your face until she reaches you, her expression changing the closer she gets, all that cold fury melting into something softer, steadier, protective in a way that nearly undoes you completely.
“Hey,” she says gently the moment she reaches you, both hands coming up to cradle your face without hesitation. “Hey, look at me.”
You try. God, you try. But your breathing is uneven now, panic and adrenaline crashing together so violently inside your chest that it feels impossible to steady yourself.
Alexia notices immediately. “Okay,” she murmurs softly, her thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as she guides you a little farther away from the fence. “That’s okay. Just breathe for me, mi amor. They’re gone now. You’re safe.”
Safe. The word hits something deep inside you, something bruised and terrified and far younger than sixteen.
Your hands grip the sleeves of her training jacket tightly before you even realize you’re doing it. Alexia lets you. Of course she does.
Behind her, you can vaguely hear Patri telling the coaches to cancel the rest of training while Irene quietly herds the younger girls farther away to give you privacy.
But all of that feels distant compared to the way Alexia is looking at you right now. Like you matter more than any of it. Like she would burn the entire world down before letting them touch you again.
Your fingers twist tighter into the sleeves of her jacket as another shaky breath catches painfully in your chest, the adrenaline still tearing through you too fast for your body to keep up with.
“I thought…” Your voice breaks, forcing you to swallow hard before trying again. “I thought they were going to take me from you.”
The words come spilling out after that, messy and frightened in a way you usually work so hard to hide.
“I don’t care about the money or whatever they wanted,” you rush out quietly, your eyes fixed somewhere near her collarbone because looking directly at her suddenly feels too vulnerable. “I don’t care about any of that, I just…” Your throat tightens again. “I just want to stay with you.”
Alexia’s expression changes so quickly it almost hurts to look at, something fierce and heartbroken flashing across her face all at once before she pulls you even closer against her, one arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders while her other hand cradles the back of your head protectively against her neck.
“Petita,” she says, her voice firm in a way that cuts cleanly through your panic. “You are not going anywhere.”
Her grip tightens slightly, like she’s emphasizing every word through touch as much as speech. “No one could ever take you away from me,” she says again, slower this time, making absolutely certain you hear her. “No one.”
Something inside you cracks open completely at that. You bury your face against her shoulder with a small, broken sound before you can stop yourself, your body finally giving in to the panic you’d been holding rigidly at bay since the moment you heard that terrible voice at the fence.
Alexia just holds you tighter as you sob into her neck. One of her hands slides slowly through your hair while the other stays firm against your back, grounding you against her as she presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head, then another, murmuring soft reassurances between them so quietly only you can hear.
“I’ve got you.”
“You’re safe.”
“You’re mine and you’re not going anywhere.”
Your breathing stays uneven for a while, hitching painfully every few seconds despite your attempts to calm down, but Alexia never rushes you, never loosens her hold or asks you to pull yourself together. She simply stands there in the middle of the training ground, holding you like protecting you is the most obvious thing in the world.
Eventually, slowly, your breathing begins to settle against her shoulder. And even then, she doesn’t let go.
3:
You’re not someone who shows pain easily.
You learned a long time ago that discomfort was something to survive quietly, that weakness only became dangerous once other people could see it, so you got very good at swallowing it down before anyone noticed. Bruises, exhaustion, hunger, fear - it all gets tucked away behind clenched teeth and stubbornness until it eventually passes or breaks you, whichever comes first.
It is almost certainly a trauma response. You know that. And you are fairly confident your new therapist is eventually going to have a field day unpacking it once she notices the pattern, but thankfully the conversation hasn’t quite gotten there yet.
Still, now that your life has become something steadier, safer, warmer in ways you’re slowly beginning to trust, it feels like some hidden switch inside you has flipped without permission. Because suddenly there is someone you’re allowed to lean on. Someone who doesn’t recoil from it.
And apparently, once your brain realized that, it decided to overcorrect dramatically. Which is why being sick has transformed you into the most pathetic version of yourself imaginable.
Affection is not something Alexia withholds from you even under normal circumstances. She hugs you constantly, ruffles your hair whenever you walk past her, presses absent-minded kisses to your forehead while talking to you like it’s second nature.
But you almost never initiate it yourself. It’s not like you don’t want to. There’s just some deeply ingrained part of you that still feels like you need a reason first, an excuse solid enough to justify asking for comfort out loud.
So most of the time you wait for moments that already leave you cracked open enough to make the reaching unavoidable - after big matches when the adrenaline is still humming through your veins and you throw yourself into her arms without thinking, after nightmares when you wake up shaking and find yourself drifting toward her room before your pride can stop you, after injuries or panic attacks or bad days when the need outweighs the fear of being too much.
Those are the only times it feels acceptable to you, like there has to be a visible wound before you’re allowed to ask to be held. And even now, after everything, there is still a tiny hesitant part of you that waits for permission before reaching too far.
Except today you have an excuse. And you intend to exploit it fully.
You wake up feeling awful, your body heavy and achy beneath the blankets, your skin too hot while somehow still leaving you shivering hard enough to make your teeth chatter slightly.
By the time you make it downstairs, wrapped dramatically in one of Alexia’s oversized hoodies, you apparently look rough enough that Alexia takes one glance at you from the kitchen and immediately abandons the coffee she’s making.
“Oh, no,” she murmurs, crossing the room quickly.
Her palm settles against your forehead first, cool enough that you practically melt into it on instinct, your eyes fluttering shut as your overheated body chases the relief.
“You need to go back to bed,” she says gently, her brows pulling together in concern. “You have a fever.”
You lean farther into her hand shamelessly, your body practically draped against hers now as she moves her other hand to the back of your neck, checking there too with the same careful focus she uses for injuries.
“Mhm,” she hums softly. “Definitely a fever.”
You groan weakly in response, mostly for dramatic effect.
“No training today,” she continues firmly, already slipping fully into caretaker mode. “Your body is fighting something and you need to rest, okay?”
Instead of answering properly, you let out a miserable little whine and throw your entire body weight against her dramatically, nearly folding yourself straight into her chest.
Alexia immediately smiles, because despite your theatrics, she knows exactly what this is.
The clinginess. The deliberate helplessness. The fact that you are absolutely milking this illness for every ounce of affection possible.
And unfortunately for her, she finds it deeply endearing.
“Ay, petita,” she laughs softly, pressing a kiss against your sweaty temple before rubbing a soothing hand up and down your back. “Come on. Let’s get you back upstairs.”
You make absolutely no effort to move. In fact, you go limp on purpose, forcing her to support most of your weight while you cling dramatically to her shoulders like a very sickly koala.
Alexia snorts out a laugh. “You are unbelievable,” she mutters affectionately, half carrying and half dragging you toward the stairs while you continue pretending your illness has rendered your legs entirely useless.
“If I have to go back to bed,” you mumble against her shoulder, “can I at least lay in your bed?”
Alexia glances down at you suspiciously. “Why do you want to be in my bed?” she asks, amused already. “Is something wrong with yours?”
You shake your head quickly, suddenly a little embarrassed now that you’ve actually said it out loud, but also painfully aware that in your current fragile, feverish state, Alexia would probably hand you the moon if you asked convincingly enough.
“Noooo,” you whine softly. “But yours is more comfy.” You tilt your head back just enough to hit her with your best miserable puppy eyes. “And I think it’ll make me feel better.”
Alexia stares at you for a long moment, clearly trying and failing not to smile too much.
“You’re such a princess,” she informs you finally, though her voice is fond enough to ruin the accusation entirely.
“Please?” You grin weakly.
She shakes her head affectionately, already defeated. “Okay,” she sighs dramatically. “But you go upstairs now and get cozy while I bring you medicine and a cold cloth, alright?”
You nod immediately, suddenly cured enough to become energetic again as you peel yourself off her and start hurrying toward the stairs.
Well “hurrying” might be generous. You bound up the first three steps with surprising enthusiasm before your feverish body immediately reminds you that you are, in fact, sick, your legs turning heavy and achy fast enough that you slow to a sluggish climb while Alexia watches from below with deeply entertained concern.
“There she is,” she calls up dryly. “Miraculous recovery lasted almost seven seconds.”
You glare weakly at her over the railing. “I’m fighting for my life.”
Alexia laughs softly to herself as she watches you continue your painfully dramatic ascent upstairs.
You enter her room slowly, pausing briefly in the doorway as your eyes sweep across the familiar space with a strange sort of caution, like you’re stepping into somewhere important.
You’ve been in here before, of course. Tentatively wandering in while she finished getting ready in the bathroom, sitting carefully on the edge of her bed while she did her makeup and talked to you about training or school or whatever ridiculous thing Alba had texted her that morning. Sometimes you would lay on the rug near the window while she folded laundry, listening to her hum absentmindedly under her breath while she worked.
But you’ve never really been in here without her.
Privacy is still something that feels oddly sacred to you, mostly because before Alexia you’d never actually had any. Bedrooms had always been shared or temporary or entered without knocking, your belongings touched and moved around whenever someone else felt like it.
So even now, after finally feeling settled, you try carefully not to intrude on spaces that belong entirely to her, the same way she has always been so deliberate about respecting yours.
But now you have permission and apparently being feverish has dissolved whatever remaining boundaries your pride normally clings to.
You wander farther into the room slowly, your neck craning slightly as you take everything in with fresh eyes. The large landscape paintings above her bed, all soft blues and golds and coastlines. The oversized cream chair tucked near the windows where she sometimes sits to read scouting reports. The walk-in closet slightly ajar, revealing rows and rows of neatly organized clothes, more than you think you could realistically wear in five lifetimes.
Your gaze drifts toward the chest of drawers against the far wall, lined with framed photographs.
There’s the picture of Alexia and Alba as children missing half their front teeth while grinning at the camera with grass stains all over their knees. A photo of her father with his arm around her shoulders that you’ve seen before because she pauses at it sometimes when she thinks no one notices. Another of her mom and Alba smiling on some beach vacation somewhere impossibly beautiful.
Then your eyes catch on one you don’t recognize. You stop moving entirely.
It’s a picture Alba took after the Clàssic a few weeks ago, sometime during the celebration after the final whistle when everyone had still been riding the high of the win. Alexia’s arm is wrapped securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss against your forehead, and you’re looking directly at the camera with this huge unguarded grin that almost startles you to look at now, because you look so undeniably happy in it.
Happy and safe and loved.
You stare at the photograph for a long moment, your chest tightening strangely when you realize she didn’t just save it on her phone somewhere. She printed it, framed it, and put it here. In her room. Among the people she loves most.
Your stomach erupts into butterflies so violently it’s honestly embarrassing, and you quickly force yourself to look away before your tired brain spirals into something unbearably emotional about it.
You eventually drift toward the bed and sit down carefully near the edge.
It’s perfectly made, obviously, the duvet smooth and crisp enough that it looks like it belongs in a magazine because perfectionist Alexia is physically incapable of leaving a bed messy.
You sit there for a second debating with yourself. Going on the bed feels normal enough. Going under the covers somehow feels far more intimate. Too much, maybe.
Your brain briefly considers staying politely on top of the blankets like a civilized person. Then another violent shiver wracks through your body hard enough to make your teeth chatter.
Yeah. Forget civilized.
You pull back the duvet clumsily and shimmy beneath the soft sheets with absolutely zero dignity, immediately sinking into warmth that smells faintly like Alexia’s detergent and vanilla and something else distinctly her. You let out a small, involuntary sigh the second your head settles against her pillow.
A few minutes later, Alexia nudges the bedroom door open carefully with her hip, balancing a steaming mug of tea in one hand while the other holds a damp cloth, a bottle of medicine tucked securely beneath her arm.
She pauses when she sees you fully cocooned beneath her blankets, only the top half of your face visible above the duvet, your fever-flushed cheeks pressed into her pillow. The look that crosses her face then is so openly fond and tender it makes you blink.
“What?” you mumble suspiciously, your voice rough and scratchy from sleep and fever as you squint at her from beneath the blankets.
“Nothing,” she says quickly, though the smile tugging at her mouth makes it obvious it’s absolutely not nothing. She shakes her head lightly as she walks toward the bed. “You’re just very cute, petita, and I love you a lot.”
Something warm and embarrassingly emotional unfurls in your chest immediately.
“I love you too,” you mumble back automatically, already burrowing deeper into the pillow afterward like hiding inside her bedding might somehow protect you from the vulnerability of saying it out loud so easily now.
Alexia’s expression softens even further at that, though thankfully she decides not to make a big deal out of it. Instead she sets the tea carefully on the bedside table before moving closer, one hand sliding gently behind your shoulders.
“Okay, sit up for me a little,” she murmurs.
You immediately groan in protest. “Noooo.”
“Yes,” she counters calmly, already helping guide you upright despite your dramatic suffering. “Medicine first, then you can go back to being tragically ill.”
You grumble something deeply pathetic under your breath while she laughs quietly, steadying you carefully against her chest as she hands you the pills and then the tea.
“Take it, okay?” she says gently. “It’ll help with the fever.”
This time you obey without argument, mostly because your head feels like it’s being split open from the inside and your bones ache in a way that makes existing feel exhausting.
Once you finish, Alexia takes the mug from your hands and helps lower you carefully back against the pillows, fussing with them afterward until they’re arranged exactly how she wants, fluffing one beneath your neck before tucking the duvet securely beneath your chin.
“There,” she murmurs approvingly. “Better.”
Her fingers brush gently through your hair, sweeping the damp strands back from your forehead before she places the cold cloth there with careful hands. Relief floods through you instantly. You let out a small sigh, your eyes falling closed as the coolness settles against your overheated skin.
“Gràcies,” you mumble weakly.
“Of course, bebé.”
You stay still for a moment after that, hovering somewhere between awake and asleep while the medicine slowly begins dulling the sharp edges of your fever.
Eventually you feel the mattress shift beside you and your eyes shoot open. Alexia pauses halfway into climbing onto the bed, clearly catching the surprise on your face.
“Is it okay if I lay with you?” she asks softly, one knee still pressed into the mattress while she watches you carefully. “Or would you rather rest alone?”
“Yes,” you answer so quickly it almost overlaps her question. Then you blink, suddenly aware of how eager that sounded. “I mean…” you mumble awkwardly, tugging the blanket slightly higher. “It’s your bed.”
Alexia smiles, warmth flickering across her face at your obvious embarrassment, but mercifully decides not to tease you for it. Instead she settles beside you carefully, laying on her side with one arm tucked beneath her head so she can look at you properly.
Her hand reaches out to adjust the cold cloth slipping crookedly across your forehead, her fingertips brushing softly along your cheek afterward. You lean into the touch without even thinking about it, fever and exhaustion stripping away whatever pride normally slows you down. The corners of her mouth twitch upward faintly at that.
“Come here, carinyo.” She opens her arms toward you slightly and that’s all the invitation you need.
You immediately curl toward her, pressing yourself against her chest while she wraps both arms securely around you, one hand sliding up into your hair while the other settles warmly between your shoulder blades. Somewhere in the process you tug the now-warm compress off your forehead and let it fall forgotten off the bed because honestly this feels infinitely more healing anyway.
You burrow closer instinctively, your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of her shirt while her fingers continue moving slowly through your hair over and over again, rhythmic and soothing in a way that makes every tight, aching part of you slowly start to loosen.
You breathe in deeply. Vanilla lotion. The soft floral scent of her perfume lingering faintly against her skin. The smell fills your lungs and something in your body finally unclenches completely, your shoulders relaxing against her for the first time all day as exhaustion begins pulling you steadily toward sleep.
Above you, Alexia presses another gentle kiss into your hair and tightens her arms around you slightly, like she can physically hold the fever away if she tries hard enough.
“Sleep, mi vida,” she murmurs against the top of your head, her voice warm and impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”
Words of affection are not something Alexia ever withholds from you either.
She tells you she loves you every single day with the same easy certainty other people use to comment on the weather. She calls you every nickname imaginable, each one somehow sounding entirely natural coming from her mouth - petita, bebé, amor meu, carinyo, mi vida. Sometimes she invents new ones on the spot just to make you roll your eyes dramatically at her.
And every single time, something warm blooms inside your chest so quickly it almost hurts. You’ve never really had names for her in return. Not beyond Ale. Because anything else has always felt too big somehow, too vulnerable to say out loud when you still aren’t entirely sure what you’re allowed to call someone who has become this important to you.
But apparently your feverish, exhausted, emotionally defenseless brain has decided that problem no longer matters.
Because right as sleep finally starts dragging you fully under, your body warm and heavy against her chest while her fingers continue combing slowly through your hair, the words slip out completely unprompted.
Soft and sleepy. Barely more than a whisper.
“T’estimo, mama.”
You are already too far gone to really process what you’ve said. Too exhausted to feel the way Alexia’s entire body stills beneath you. Too close to sleep to notice the sharp inhale she takes, or the way her hand pauses in your hair for just half a second before trembling slightly when it starts moving again.
You don’t see the tears immediately gathering in her eyes either, bright and sudden and entirely vulnerable in a way almost no one ever gets to witness from her.
For a long moment, she simply looks down at you curled trustingly against her chest, your breathing finally slow and even now, your feverish face relaxed in sleep while one of your hands still grips loosely at the fabric of her shirt like even unconscious you want to stay close.
Something in Alexia’s expression breaks open completely then. Like some final wall inside her quietly giving way. She lowers her head and presses another kiss into your hair, more delicate than any she’s ever given you before, lingering there for an extra second as her eyes close briefly.
“T’estimo, filla,” she whispers back, her voice thick with emotion. “Moltíssim.” [I love you too, daughter. So, so much.]
4:
You should have known right from the start of the night that it was going to end badly. In hindsight, the warning signs had been everywhere.
You had just won the league, the locker room still buzzing with the kind of happiness that only comes after months of work finally paying off. Music blasted from someone’s speaker, bottles of water had already become makeshift champagne replacements, and every few seconds another player would get dragged into a celebratory hug whether they wanted one or not.
Naturally, Alexia was attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Which, considering the circumstances, was a completely hopeless endeavor.
“We have a Champions League semifinal in one week,” she reminded everyone for what was probably the third or fourth time that evening, standing in the middle of the locker room with her arms folded across her chest. “So celebrate, enjoy yourselves, have fun, but please try not to do anything stupid.”
Her gaze landed directly on Pina and Cata.
Pina immediately looked offended. “Why are you looking at me?”
“Because speaking from experience,” Alexia replied without missing a beat, “you’re usually involved when something stupid happens… CATAchaça and PINAcolada.”
The locker room erupted into laughter while Pina clutched her chest dramatically. Cata just pointed and laughed, not even trying to defend herself.
Alexia remained completely unmoved. “One week,” she repeated firmly. “That is all I am asking for.”
The problem was that while her attention was fixed on the usual suspects, she was completely missing the real danger. Because on the opposite side of the room, Vicky and Serra had already made eye contact and were wiggling their eyebrows at each other conspiratorially.
Some sort of plan was already forming. You saw it happen and maybe you should have been concerned but instead, you laughed. Which was probably your first mistake.
By the time the official celebrations begin winding down and players start splitting into smaller groups, you have forgotten about the look they shared earlier. You’re standing near your locker packing the last of your gear into your bag when Vicky suddenly appears on one side of you and Serra appears on the other, the coordinated maneuver suspicious enough that alarm bells should probably start ringing immediately.
“We’re going out tonight.”
You blink at them. “What?”
“We’re going out tonight,” Vicky repeats, as though she has just informed you of something obvious.
Your eyes widen instantly. “But Ale just said-”
“What Ale doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Vicky interrupts, lowering her voice mischievously as a deeply concerning grin spreads across her face.
Beside her, Serra nods with complete confidence. “Exactly.”
You stare at both of them. “That feels very much like the opposite of how that works.”
Neither of them looks remotely convinced.
You hesitate, your mind immediately jumping to all the reasons this is probably a bad idea, the most obvious being that Alexia would absolutely hate it. But when you look between them, both of them watching you expectantly, something warmer pushes against your reservations.
Over the past several months, your friendship with them had grown in ways you never really expected. What had started as occasional lunch invitations and persistent attempts to drag you into conversations had gradually become coffee runs after training, afternoons at the beach, movie nights, and group chats that somehow accumulated hundreds of messages while you were asleep.
For the first time in your life, friendship felt easy.
You didn’t spend every interaction waiting for the other shoe to drop or wondering if people were only being kind because they felt obligated to be. When Clara texted you to come get coffee or Vicky showed up at your door demanding you go watch the sunset with them, it was because they genuinely wanted you there.
They aren’t including you because Alexia had asked them to. They didn’t keep you around out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way they had simply become your friends, and you had become theirs.
Maybe that’s why saying yes feels so important.
Because when you look at them now, both practically vibrating with excitement as they wait for your answer, you can’t help feeling excited too. It feels good to belong somewhere, to be wanted without having to earn it first, and for a girl who had spent most of her life expecting connections to disappear the moment she relaxed, that feeling was still a little bit miraculous.
“Okay,” you finally say, a smile spreading across your face despite yourself. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
The reaction is immediate. Both of them cheer loud enough that several nearby teammates turn to look.
“I’ll go tell Ale,” you say, already turning toward where Alexia is finishing an interview with club media.
You make it exactly three steps before Vicky grabs your arm. “No.”
You look back questioningly, “Why not?”
The look Vicky and Serra exchange makes your stomach drop. Because whenever those two share a glance like that, it usually means they’re about to do something incredibly stupid. And worse, they’re usually very proud of it.
“Because,” Vicky explains patiently, like she’s speaking to a particularly slow child, “if we tell her we’re going out, she is never gonna let you come.”
You huff at that, a little embarrassed to be reminded of your age in front of your cool older teammates.
You’re only a few weeks away from seventeen, but unfortunately that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone. Being the youngest player on the team means everyone treats you like some combination of little sister, mascot, and their mildly accident-prone child. Being known as Alexia’s kid - whatever that meant - certainly doesn’t help matters either.
“It’s all good though,” Serra says, clapping a hand onto your shoulder. “We have a plan.” That sentence immediately makes you nervous. “We’re going to tell her we’re having a sleepover at Vicky’s.”
You stare at both of them. Neither looks remotely concerned by how terrible that plan sounds. Eventually, against your better judgment, you nod and allow yourself to be dragged across the room toward your guardian.
“Hermanaaaa,” Vicky calls dramatically as soon as she’s within earshot.
Alexia looks up with immediate suspicion. You watch her eyes narrow before they slide past Vicky’s shoulder and land directly on you. The look she gives you is unmistakable: What are they doing?
You can only shrug helplessly and point toward Vicky.
Alexia somehow grows even more suspicious and Vicky throws an arm around your shoulders before she can ask questions.
“So,” she begins casually, which is already a terrible sign, “Clara and I were thinking that since we just won the league and everything, maybe we could have a little sleepover tonight. At my apartment.”
Alexia says nothing so Vicky continues talking. Which is another terrible sign.
“You know, just movies and junk food and celebrating.”
Still nothing. Alexia’s gaze slowly shifts toward you. You immediately become fascinated by a nearby wall.
“Uh-huh,” she says.
“We’ll be very responsible.”
“Mm.”
“And try to go to bed early?”
“Mhmm.”
Vicky is starting to sweat. You can tell. Unfortunately, Alexia can too.
The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable before Alexia finally sighs and rubs a hand across her forehead.
“Fine.”
Vicky’s entire face lights up. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Both Vicky and Serra let out triumphant cheers and jump around you.
“But you bring her back in one piece, you hear me?” Alexia says, pointing a warning finger at them.
The girls are already celebrating too hard to listen. Alexia watches them for a moment before her expression softens slightly.
Truthfully, she isn’t entirely convinced this is a good idea. You usually crash hard after big matches, especially emotional ones, and she can already see the exhaustion lurking beneath your excitement. But at the same time, seeing you build friendships with people your own age has been one of her favorite things to watch this season.
For a long time, your entire world had revolved around her. And while Alexia secretly loves that more than she should, she also knows it isn’t healthy for a teenager to spend every waking moment following a thirty-two-year-old woman around. You deserve friends. You deserve people who understand what it’s like to be your age. You deserve a life that exists outside of her.
So she ignores the small voice telling her this is probably a terrible idea.
Vicky and Clara sprint off to collect their things before she can change her mind.
You linger for a moment after the girls disappear, your feet rooted to the floor even as the rest of the room continues moving around you. Alexia notices immediately, as she always does, her attention finding you as naturally as breathing.
“You sure you’re okay going to Vicky’s?” she asks, her voice softening slightly now that the others are out of earshot. “You know you’re allowed to say no, right? They won’t be upset if you’d rather come home.”
The concern is genuine. If you told her right now that you wanted to leave with her instead, she would text Vicky an apology and have you in the car before either of them could protest.
You nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, I know.” You glance toward the door where your friends disappeared. “I think it’ll be fun though.”
Alexia studies your face for another moment, making sure you’re telling the truth and not just agreeing because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her because her shoulders relax and a smile slowly appears.
“Okay then,” she says warmly. “Have fun, and be good.”
Before you can respond, she pulls you into a hug, one arm wrapping securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss to the top of your head. The affection is so familiar now that you instinctively lean into it.
“I’m very proud of you, petita,” she murmurs.
Something in her voice makes you look up. Her eyes are a little shinier than usual when she pulls back, her hands settling on your shoulders as she holds you at arm’s length for a second, like she’s trying to memorize the moment.
“Your first league trophy,” she says softly, a smile spreading across her face. “I know it’ll be the first of many for you, but the first one is always special, no?”
The pride in her expression is almost overwhelming.
“I still remember mine,” she continues with a quiet laugh. “You spend years dreaming about it and then suddenly it’s real and you’re standing there holding it thinking, that’s it? That’s what all those years felt like?”
You laugh softly.
Alexia’s smile widens.
“Maybe tomorrow we celebrate properly,” she suggests. “Just us. We could get a pizza and take it to the beach, sit by the water for a few hours.”
She says it so hopefully and there is so much pride behind it that your stomach twists painfully with guilt.
Because she’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. Because she’s trusting you. And you’re lying to her.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I’d like that a lot.”
Something softens immediately in her expression. “Good.”
She pulls you into another hug before you can say anything else, holding you close for a moment while she presses another kiss into your hair.
And as you hug her back, surrounded by her warmth and her pride and her absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, the guilt settles a little heavier in your chest than it did before.
------
The guilt doesn’t disappear entirely. It just gets drowned out.
First by laughter then by music then by the simple, unfamiliar joy of being sixteen years old and surrounded by people who genuinely want you there.
It's difficult to dwell on guilt when you’re doubled over laughing in the middle of Vicky’s apartment while Serra attempts to explain why her outfit absolutely qualifies as “subtle.”
The evening starts innocently enough.
There are bags of chips spread across the coffee table, half-empty boxes of fries balanced on the kitchen counter, and a movie playing on the television that nobody is actually watching because the three of you keep talking over it every thirty seconds.
And technically - technically - nobody has lied yet. You are at Vicky’s apartment. You are having a sleepover. There is a movie playing.
If Alexia suddenly called right now, every word Vicky told her would be true. Mostly. That technicality makes you feel significantly better.
At least until Clara disappears into the kitchen and returns carrying three drinks. Your eyes immediately narrow. Vicky immediately starts grinning.
She places one in front of you before settling back onto the couch. You stare at it for a second. The drink itself isn’t particularly intimidating, but it’s still enough to make you hesitate.
You’ve never really been interested in alcohol before. Between football and school and trying to survive the rest of your life, it simply never felt important enough to think about.
But tonight feels different. It’s not like anyone is pressuring you and you’re not trying to impress anybody. You’re just sitting on a couch with your friends after winning the league and for once there isn’t a single responsibility demanding your attention.
So when Clara lifts her glass toward you, you find yourself lifting yours too.
The first sip makes you wrinkle your nose. The second is considerably better. By the third, you’re laughing again as Vicky dramatically insists the drink tastes sophisticated while Clara informs her that nothing containing that much soda and fruit juice qualifies as sophisticated.
By the time you’re piling into a taxi half an hour later, a warm pleasant feeling has begun spreading through your chest and shoulders, softening the edges of everything around you.
The city lights seem brighter. The music seems better. Your teammates seem even funnier than usual.
Vicky spends most of the ride talking with her hands while Clara argues passionately about something neither of them can fully remember anymore. You jump into the conversation whenever a thought occurs to you, and almost every time you do, the entire backseat dissolves into laughter.
You find yourself smiling constantly.
It’s not even because of the drinks but because you’re happy. Because for the first time in your life, celebrating success doesn’t feel lonely.
For so many years every achievement had been followed by the same thing: going home, sitting quietly with it by yourself, and trying not to think too hard about how nobody was waiting there to be proud of you.
Tonight is different. Tonight there are people beside you who understand exactly how hard you’ve worked for this. People who were there for the early mornings and the extra sessions and the tears and the setbacks. People who know exactly what this trophy cost.
And they want to celebrate it with you.
The realization settles warmly in your chest as the taxi turns a corner and the club finally comes into view.
The place is absolutely packed. Music pours into the street every time the front doors open, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your feet while colorful lights flash across the crowd gathered outside. A line stretches halfway down the block, groups of people talking and laughing beneath the glow of the signs overhead.
You can’t stop yourself from staring. Even from here you can feel the energy rolling out of the building.
Vicky notices immediately, a grin spreads across her face. “First club?”
You shoot her an unimpressed look. “You know it’s my first club.”
“Fair.” She looks entirely too pleased by that fact.
The three of you make your way toward the entrance, weaving through clusters of people who instantly begin recognizing them. Congratulations are called out from several directions. Someone asks for a photo. Another person shouts something about the league title that makes Clara laugh. None of it seems unusual to either of them.
When you finally reach the front, the bouncer takes one look at Vicky and immediately breaks into a smile. “Well, if it isn’t our champions.”
Vicky bows dramatically. “Thank you, thank you.”
He rolls his eyes before stepping aside. “Congratulations on the league. Let’s bring home that European title too, ok?”
As he opens the rope, his gaze drifts briefly toward you. Recognition flickers across his face and his eyebrows rise slightly.
“Look at that,” he says with an amused smile. “They even brought Alexia’s kid.”
Your stomach does a strange little flip and heat rushes to your face. Because apparently even here, miles away from the training ground and Alexia’s watchful eyes, everyone still knows exactly who you are. Or maybe more accurately - whose you are.
Before you can formulate any sort of response, Vicky hooks her arm through yours and begins dragging you toward the entrance.
The club is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Hundreds of people move together beneath flashing lights that change color every few seconds, washing the crowd in alternating shades of blue and pink and purple. The bass is so loud you can feel it vibrating through your ribs, while somewhere above the dance floor a DJ stands on an elevated platform, one arm raised triumphantly as the crowd roars back at him.
It’s overwhelming and somehow energizing at the same time.
You’ve never really been the type for house parties, partly because nobody ever invited you to them and partly because spending your weekends training had always felt more important than sneaking around looking for trouble. Left entirely to your own devices, you probably never would have found yourself somewhere like this.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who was telling the story, you have Vicky and Clara.
The two of them immediately hook their arms through yours as soon as they notice your attention wandering, creating a human chain as they guide you through the crowd.
“We’re not losing you in here,” Clara informs you.
“Stay between us, rookie.” Vicky squeezes your arm affectionately.
The three of you weave through the sea of people until you finally reach the bar, where Vicky turns toward you with an expectant look. “Do you want water?”
You glance at the drinks everyone around you seems to be holding.
“No,” you decide. “I’ll just have whatever you guys are having.”
It turns out their choice is tequila. A decision you regret almost instantly.
The shot burns all the way down, your face scrunching up dramatically as you cough and grab for the nearest glass of water.
“Oh my god.” Your eyes begin watering immediately. “That is disgusting.”
They double over laughing while you glare at them through watery eyes.
“You looked so confident,” Clara manages between laughs.
“I was confident.”
“Clearly...”
“I thought it would taste better.”
That only makes them laugh harder.
Vicky slings an arm around your shoulders. “We’re teaching you how to do that properly.”
“No.”
“Hmmm… yes!”
She and Clara exchange another one of those eyebrow wiggles that have never once led to anything good.
You immediately decide you don’t want to know what they’re planning.
Fortunately, the conversation dies when a new song starts and the crowd erupts around you. Vicky lets out an excited gasp. Clara points dramatically toward the dance floor. And before you can object, both of them are dragging you back into the crowd.
The next hour passes in a blur of music and laughter.
Your hands are in the air more often than not. Your hair sticks to your face. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
At one point Vicky nearly falls over trying to spin Clara. At another, Clara accidentally elbows three people around them and spends the next five minutes denying it happened despite multiple eyewitnesses.
You laugh until your stomach hurts. You dance until your legs ache. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, surrounded by music and flashing lights and your friends singing lyrics they barely know, a warm feeling settles in your chest.
For so much of your life, happiness had always come with conditions attached to it. There was always something waiting on the other side - a problem to solve, a consequence to avoid, a voice reminding you not to get too comfortable because good things never seemed to last very long.
But tonight feels different. Tonight there is only the music vibrating through your ribs, Clara nearly losing a shoe in the crowd, Vicky screaming every chorus directly into your ear, and the strange, wonderful realization that nobody here expects anything from you besides showing up and having fun.
You think maybe this is what being normal feels like. The thought makes you smile.
Vicky is in the middle of passionately explaining why she should be the team DJ and not Patri when her eyes suddenly slide past your shoulder.
Her sentence cuts off and her expression changes. A grin begins spreading across her face.
“Oh.”
“Oh what?” you ask.
Vicky doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs your arm and physically pulls you closer, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal classified information.
“Don’t look now,” she says. “But there is a really pretty girl staring at you by the bar.”
Which, naturally, guarantees that you immediately look. Your head whips around so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
Vicky lets out a horrified groan. “Oh my God.”
“What?” you ask defensively.
“You looked!”
“Well how else am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
Vicky presses a hand dramatically to her forehead. “Young padawan,” she says solemnly, “I have so much to teach you.”
You ignore her and glance back toward the bar. The girl is still looking at you and now she knows you’ve caught her. Heat rushes into your face.
She smiles. You smile back.
The girl lifts her hand in a small wave. Your stomach immediately does something deeply embarrassing.
Beside you, Vicky makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a proud parent. “Oh she’s cute.”
“Vicky please stop.
“And she’s definitely looking at you.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. Unfortunately, that only encourages them.
For the next several minutes they proceed to hype themselves into a frenzy while you repeatedly insist that you are absolutely not going to walk across a crowded club and introduce yourself to a stranger.
Eventually Clara has enough and physically places both hands on your shoulders and turns you toward the bar.
“Go.” Clara punctuates the command with a gentle shove between your shoulder blades before you can come up with another excuse.
You stumble forward a step and immediately turn back to glare at them. “Traitors.”
Neither of them looks remotely guilty. In fact, they look delighted.
“Good luck!” Vicky calls after you, cupping her hands around her mouth like she’s sending a soldier off to war.
Clara is laughing too hard to contribute anything useful, though she does give you an enthusiastic thumbs-up that somehow makes the entire situation feel even more humiliating.
You spend the walk to the bar trying desperately to remember how normal human beings are supposed to interact with attractive strangers.
Unfortunately, this is not a skill you’ve ever really had reason to develop. Football has always made sense to you. Defensive structures make sense. Pressing triggers make sense. The correct weight and angle of a through ball make sense.
This? This feels significantly more complicated.
By the time you reach the bar, you’ve completely forgotten whatever plan you had managed to come up with.
“Hi…” you manage awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck as you stop beside her.
The girl’s entire face brightens immediately. Up close she’s somehow even prettier than she looked from across the room. Her features are softer than you’d realized beneath the flashing club lights, and she looks younger too, probably close to your own age rather than the university student you’d imagined from a distance.
“Hi,” she says warmly, like she’s genuinely happy you walked over. “I’m Lia.”
You tell her your name.
Her smile widens. “I know.”
That should probably register as strange. It should probably make you wonder how she knows who you are. Instead, your brain becomes completely occupied with the fact that she’s smiling at you.
The conversation starts easily after that, which surprises you almost as much as it relieves you. You’d expected awkward pauses and forced small talk, but somehow neither ever arrives. Lia has an effortless way of keeping conversations moving, jumping between topics so naturally that before you realize it the two of you have been talking for nearly half an hour.
Even more surprisingly, she somehow gets you talking. Usually you’re content to let other people carry conversations while you listen from the sidelines, but Lia keeps asking questions that are easy to answer and then actually seems interested in what you have to say. Before long you’re talking about music and school and football and the absurd things your teammates do on a daily basis.
Somewhere along the way she offers to buy you a drink. You agree without thinking much about it. Then later she offers another. And later still, another.
You don’t really notice the pattern forming. You’re too busy enjoying yourself.
The warm buzz that had started earlier is becoming stronger now, making everything feel a little softer around the edges. The music seems better. Your jokes seem funnier. Lia’s smile seems brighter every time she directs it your way.
Which is probably why it takes you much longer than it should to notice when the questions start to shift, drifting away from the playful, harmless things you’d been talking about earlier.
At first it doesn’t seem strange.
“So what’s it actually like playing for Barça?”
You shrug and answer. You tell her about training and travel and how surreal it still feels sometimes when you walk into the locker room and realize you’re surrounded by the players you idolized as a child.
She laughs in all the right places. Nods attentively. Seems genuinely interested. A few minutes later she asks another question.
“What’s Alexia really like?”
That one feels normal too. Everybody asks that. Fans ask it. Reporters ask it. Even your classmates ask it whenever they find out who you live with. Any connection with one of the most famous footballers in the world means that sooner or later every conversation circles back to her.
So you smile and say, “She’s great.”
Lia laughs. “That’s the boring answer.”
You grin despite yourself. “She’s also bossy.”
“There we go.”
You tell a story about Alexia confiscating your phone during a movie because you’d been playing some ‘stupid game’ instead of paying attention. Lia laughs hard enough that you find yourself relaxing again.
For a few moments the conversation continues comfortably. Then Lia tilts her head.
“She’s basically your mom, right?”
You blink. The question catches you so off guard that you genuinely don’t know how to answer for a second.
“What?”
Lia shrugs lightly before taking another sip of her drink. “I mean, everyone says you’re her daughter.”
You let out an awkward laugh. “No.”
The answer comes automatically. It’s the same answer you’ve given a dozen times before. But this time you hesitate. Because that isn’t entirely true either... not anymore. Not after everything that’s happened.
Not after hospital rooms and physical therapy appointments and sleepless nights spent sitting beside your bed. Not after being tucked into blankets when you were sick or picked up from school when it rained or scolded for skipping breakfast before training. Not after being loved so thoroughly and consistently that somewhere along the way you stopped feeling like a guest in her life and started feeling like you belonged there.
The simple answer should still be no. And yet it doesn’t feel quite that simple anymore.
“Well…” You run your fingers through your hair awkwardly. “Not really.”
Lia leans forward slightly. “Not really?”
You shrug. “I live with her. She’s my guardian.”
The words feel strangely inadequate. Like they leave out all the important parts.
Because guardian is technically correct. Guardian is what the paperwork says. Guardian is what the lawyers and social workers and club officials call her. But guardian doesn’t really explain why she kisses your forehead when you’re tired or why she still checks that you’ve eaten after training or why hearing her call you petita feels more like home than any place you’ve ever lived.
Still, it’s easier than trying to explain all of that to a stranger.
Something flickers across Lia’s face. It’s gone so quickly you almost miss it. Interest.
But not the warm kind she’d been looking at you with earlier. It’s sharper and more focused. Like a person who has just stumbled across a detail they weren’t expecting and suddenly wants to know everything about it.
A small knot has begun forming somewhere deep in your stomach, tightening a little more every time she asks another question.
At first you try to ignore it. Maybe it’s the alcohol or you’re overthinking things or maybe you’re just not used to talking to pretty girls and your brain is finding new and creative ways to embarrass itself. But the feeling refuses to go away and the questions keep coming.
She doesn’t ask about music anymore or about school or even really about you. The questions keep circling back to Alexia, to the team, to your life in ways that feel increasingly specific.
You try to pivot and move the conversation forward, but it’s almost like each answer is leading to the next question rather than satisfying it.
You glance down at your drink then back at Lia then down again. Trying to figure out exactly when the evening changed. Trying to figure out why you suddenly feel so exposed. Like you’ve accidentally said too much. Like you’ve wandered into a conversation without understanding what it was actually about.
The music feels louder now. The lights harsher. The alcohol no longer warm and pleasant but heavy and dull. And for the first time since you sat down at the bar, you find yourself wishing you were back on the dance floor with your friends.
Because this doesn’t feel like flirting anymore. It feels like an interview.
You glance around the room, your eyes moving over the sea of strangers and flashing lights until they finally land on Vicky across the dance floor.
The panic on your face must be far more obvious than you realize because her smile instantly vanishes at your eye contact. One second she’s laughing at something Clara is saying, and the next her attention is completely focused on you. Her eyebrows draw together slightly as she follows your gaze back toward the table, taking in Lia, your half-finished drink, and the uncomfortable way you’re sitting in your chair.
You watch understanding settle across her face.
Without hesitation, she reaches out and grabs Clara’s arm. Clara stumbles slightly, looking annoyed for all of half a second before Vicky points in your direction. Whatever expression is on her face must explain everything because Clara’s posture immediately changes too.
The two of them start quickly moving toward you. The relief that floods your chest is so immediate it almost makes you dizzy.
“There you are!” Vicky announces brightly the moment she reaches the table, sounding exactly like someone who has been searching for you for hours rather than dancing twenty feet away the entire time.
The lie is so blatant that under normal circumstances you might have laughed. Right now you’re too grateful to care.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Lia’s eyebrows lift slightly. You don’t miss the way Vicky positions herself beside your chair, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours, creating a subtle barrier between you and the conversation. Before anyone can respond, she reaches down and takes your hand. The simple gesture feels strangely grounding.
“Come on,” she says. “Clara needs to go to the bathroom.”
Clara blinks. For a brief moment she looks completely confused before realization dawns.
“Oh.” A beat passes. “Right.” She nods seriously. “I do.”
Vicky gives her an approving look before turning back to you. “Can you come with us?”
The answer leaves your mouth immediately. “Yeah.” The relief is so overwhelming that you don’t even attempt to hide it.
You offer Lia a small apologetic wave before allowing yourself to be pulled away, stumbling slightly as Vicky immediately increases her pace and starts weaving through the crowd with Clara close behind.
The second you’re far enough away that the music and bodies swallow the table from view, Clara turns toward you with wide eyes.
“What the hell was that about?”
You let out a long breath, running both hands through your hair as you try to organize your thoughts through the haze of alcohol and the lingering discomfort still crawling around in your stomach.
“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. “She was cool at first. Like really cool. We were just talking about music and school and random stuff, and then…” You trail off, frowning slightly as you try to pinpoint exactly when the conversation changed. “I don’t know. Suddenly she started asking me all these weird questions.”
“Weird how?” Vicky asks immediately.
You shrug. “Just… invasive, I guess. About Alexia. About where I live. About the team. About contracts and who hangs out with who and what everyone is like behind closed doors.” The more you list them, the stranger it sounds.
Clara’s face twists in distaste. “Yeah, that’s weird.”
“Right?” You point at her emphatically. “That’s what I thought.”
“That’s not flirting.”
“No!”
“That’s legit an ESPN exclusive.”
The three of you burst out laughing. Some of the tension finally leaves your body.
Vicky wraps an arm around your shoulders and squeezes. “Well congratulations.”
“For what?”
“You survived your first fan girl. The first of many I’m sure.”
You groan dramatically. “Please never let me do that again.”
“Oh don’t worry,” Clara says. “We’re screening all future applicants.”
“You don’t get applicants.”
“I absolutely do!”
“You looked at one pretty girl and immediately got trapped for thirty minutes.”
You bury your face in your hands while both of them laugh.
The embarrassment lasts all of thirty seconds before the music from the main room swells again and Clara grabs both of your wrists. “Okay, enough of that. We came here to celebrate!”
The reminder settles something inside you. Because she’s right. You didn’t come here for some girl.
You didn’t spend the entire season training and fighting and sacrificing and pushing through injuries just to spend your night answering questions from a stranger.
You came here with your friends, people who wanted to celebrate with you.
When you look at Clara and Vicky now, both smiling at you expectantly, the lingering weirdness of the conversation suddenly feels insignificant compared to that.
“Come on then,” you say, grabbing both of their hands. “Let’s go dance.”
Within minutes you’re back on the dance floor, laughing hard enough that your stomach hurts while Clara nearly starts another incident by repeatedly stepping on strangers’ feet.
And little by little, Lia fades from your mind entirely.
What you don’t know is that she hasn’t forgotten about you.
Earlier in the night, while you and your friends had been dancing beneath the flashing lights, she’d quietly taken photos. Photos of the three of you celebrating, of you laughing, of you with drinks in your hands.
And later, after you’d left the table, she posted them.
Alongside those photos came a short series of tweets recounting parts of your conversation, including the casual admission that Alexia was your guardian and that you lived with her.
Within an hour, the posts have begun spreading.
The Barça Femení fanbase has been speculating about your relationship with Alexia for months. About how close you two seem. About why she looks after you the way she does. About why everyone on the team treats you like her child.
Now, for the first time, they think they have confirmation.
And to make matters worse, the photos show exactly where you are. At a club. On a night when Alexia believes you’re safely sleeping at Vicky’s apartment.
The posts begin spreading long before the night is over.
And with every share, every repost, every comment and screenshot, they move a little closer toward the one person you least want to see them.
------
An hour later, you are definitely drunk.
Not dangerously drunk or stumbling-unconscious drunk, but drunk enough that the world feels pleasantly softened around the edges, drunk enough that dancing has gradually devolved into jumping and yelling lyrics that none of you actually know, and drunk enough that every joke Vicky makes somehow feels like the funniest thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life.
Your feet ache from spending hours on the dance floor and your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, but neither sensation is enough to dampen your mood. If anything, they feel like proof of how much fun you’re having.
The three of you are gathered around Vicky’s phone near the edge of the dance floor, supposedly trying to order an Uber home, though the process is moving significantly slower than it should because Clara keeps offering increasingly terrible suggestions while you provide enthusiastic support for all of them.
“No, look at that one,” she insists, pointing vaguely at the screen. “We should definitely get an XL.”
You immediately nod. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Vicky stares at both of you like she’s questioning every life decision that led her to this moment.
“There are only three of us, why would we need a car that big?!”
You and Clara promptly dissolve into more laughter.
The night feels perfect. Messy and loud and ridiculous, but perfect. The sort of night that you’ll all spend years talking about afterward.
Which is probably why none of you notice the shift in the air.
It begins at the edge of the crowd. A subtle ripple of movement that works its way through the room as heads begin turning one after another, conversations faltering as people glance toward the entrance and then glance again.
You barely register it at first. Your attention is still fixed on Vicky’s phone and Clara’s increasingly passionate argument about why party buses should be an option on Uber.
Clara suddenly goes quiet. The change is so abrupt that it catches your attention. You look up just in time to see all the color drain from her face and her eyes widen.
“Oh fuck.” The words are barely audible.
Vicky frowns. “What?”
Instead of answering, Clara grabs her arm. Vicky follows her gaze and immediately freezes. The smile falls off her face so quickly that it feels unnatural.
Your stomach drops before you even turn around. Some internal warning that whatever is standing behind you, you aren’t going to like it. Slowly, you lift your head and the world seems to stop.
Alexia is standing in the middle of the club.
For a brief, disorienting second your brain refuses to process what you’re seeing because it simply doesn’t make sense. Alexia isn’t supposed to be here. Alexia is supposed to be asleep. Alexia is supposed to think you’re curled up on Vicky’s couch watching movies and eating junk food.
Instead she’s standing ten feet away, still dressed in the oversized sweatshirt and gray sweatpants she wears around the house, the sleeves pushed up unevenly and her hair pulled back in a hasty bun that looks like she threw it together while walking out the door.
The expression on her face makes every trace of alcohol evaporate from your system.
You have seen Alexia angry before. You’ve watched her argue with referees. You’ve watched her tear into rivals who commit dirty tackles. You’ve watched her stand in front of cameras after painful losses with frustration burning behind her eyes.
This is different. This is somehow worse. She isn’t making a scene, there is no yelling or dramatic explosion of emotion. Instead all of her anger has condensed into something frighteningly controlled, something sharp and deliberate and impossible to ignore.
The music continues thundering around you, lights still flashing overhead, hundreds of people still dancing and talking and laughing, but it all feels strangely distant now, muffled beneath the pounding of your own heartbeat.
Alexia’s gaze moves slowly between the three of you before finally settling on you.
The look in her eyes makes your stomach twist. Underneath the fury you see the hurt, and somehow that feels infinitely worse.
When she finally speaks, her voice is calm enough that anyone passing by might miss the danger entirely.
“We are leaving.” No one argues. No one even considers it. The authority in those three words is absolute. “Now.”
Then she turns around and starts walking toward the exit.
The three of you follow immediately. Your earlier laughter has vanished completely, replaced by a heavy silence that follows you all the way through the crowd and out into the cool night air beyond the club doors.
Nobody speaks. Not Vicky. Not Clara. Certainly not you. The only sounds are your footsteps against the pavement and the distant pulse of music spilling out behind you.
Alexia doesn’t slow down or look back as she leads you toward her car, parked carelessly at the curb in a place that is almost certainly illegal. The security guards standing nearby don’t seem particularly interested in mentioning that fact, which is probably the smartest decision anyone has made all night.
You can feel her watching you occasionally from the corner of her eye as you walk, tracking every uneven step.
You make a conscious effort to walk in a straight line, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and willing your body to cooperate, but the attempt feels almost laughable. Your head is buzzing, your limbs feel heavier than usual, and every movement requires just a little more concentration than it should.
You know she can tell and normally, if she saw you struggling even a little, she would already be beside you. She would have a hand hovering at your elbow, ready to steady you before you even stumbled, and she would probably be asking whether you’d had enough water or if your feet hurt from standing all night.
Tonight she does none of those things.
She reaches the car first, unlocks it with a sharp press of the key fob, and slides into the driver’s seat without waiting for any of you. The door slams behind her with enough force to make all three of you flinch.
The sound echoes in your chest.
Vicky is the one who helps you into the passenger seat.
The gesture is careful, almost overly so, like she’s afraid that if she moves too quickly she might somehow make the situation worse. Normally she would be teasing you mercilessly by now, making jokes about your terrible flirting skills or your complete inability to handle tequila, but tonight she doesn’t say a word.
As soon as you settle into the seat, you squeeze your eyes shut. Partly because the alcohol is making your head spin slightly. Mostly because you know that if you open them, you’ll have to look at Alexia and you aren’t sure you can handle seeing how angry she is.
The back doors open, then close. You hear Vicky and Clara climb into the backseat, suddenly so quiet that it’s almost unnerving.
The contrast is startling. The drunken giddiness that had carried all three of you through the night has evaporated entirely beneath the weight of your captain’s disappointment.
The car pulls away from the curb. Nobody speaks. Not at the first red light. Not after the second. Not even when Clara accidentally drops something and the noise makes all four of you jump.
The silence stretches longer and longer until it becomes a physical thing, heavy enough that it seems to fill every corner of the vehicle. You have never heard Vicky remain quiet for this long. You aren’t entirely convinced it’s medically possible.
Eventually curiosity gets the better of you. Very carefully, you crack one eye open.
Alexia is staring straight ahead at the road. The dashboard lights cast faint shadows across her face, highlighting the tight set of her jaw and the way her hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough that her knuckles have gone pale.
The sight makes your stomach sink. Underneath the anger, she looks tired. Exhausted, even. Like she was ripped out of sleep and immediately thrown into the worst possible version of her night.
“Ale…” you start quietly, your voice sounding much smaller than you intended. “It’s not-”
“We are not discussing this right now.” The interruption is immediate and final. The kind of tone that leaves absolutely no room for argument.
Your mouth snaps shut. Your eye closes again.
Very rarely do you find yourself on the receiving end of Alexia’s anger, and even when you do, it is usually brief and contained. She corrects you when you’ve crossed a line, makes sure you understand why, and then moves on because holding grudges has never been part of her nature.
This feels different, heavier. Like she’s still trying to sort through her own emotions before she says something she’ll regret.The realization does absolutely nothing to ease the knot growing in your stomach.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. The silence never breaks. The only sounds in the car are the hum of the engine, the occasional click of a turn signal, and the distant noise of the city drifting past outside the windows.
Eventually Alexia pulls up in front of Clara’s parents’ house. The car sits idling at the curb while Clara gathers her purse with shaking hands.
For perhaps the first time since you’ve known her, she looks genuinely nervous.
“I’m really sorry, Ale.” The apology comes out barely above a whisper.
Alexia keeps her eyes on the windshield for several seconds before finally giving a stiff nod.
She doesn’t tell Clara it’s okay. She doesn’t reassure her. She doesn’t soften the blow. And somehow that hurts worse than a lecture ever could.
Clara swallows hard. “Goodnight.”
Alexia nods again. Nothing more.
Clara climbs out of the car and shuts the door quietly behind her. Alexia waits until the front door opens and Clara disappears safely inside before putting the car back into drive.
The drive toward Vicky’s apartment somehow feels even worse. Without Clara there to absorb some of the tension, the atmosphere inside the car becomes almost unbearable.
You can practically feel Vicky’s anxiety building behind you.
“Ale, porfa,” Vicky finally says from the backseat, her voice sounding much smaller than usual after nearly twenty minutes of silence. “Please say something.”
For a moment Alexia doesn’t respond. She keeps her eyes fixed on the road ahead, the glow of streetlights sliding across her face as she drives, her expression unreadable except for the tension still visible in her jaw.
When she finally speaks, her voice sounds tired more than anything else. “Telling you how disappointed I am isn’t going to change what happened tonight.”
The words settle heavily over the car. Vicky immediately shrinks into her seat. “Ale…”
“No.” Alexia shakes her head. “No, because I honestly don’t know what you expected to happen.”
The frustration is becoming harder for her to contain now. “I’m just so disappointed in all three of you.”
You physically flinch.
Alexia notices but keeps going. “You should have known better.”
“We were safe, I swear,” Vicky rushes to say, leaning forward in her seat. “Nothing happened. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to them.”
Alexia lets out a short laugh, but there is no amusement in her tone. It’s the kind of laugh people make when they’re too frustrated to do anything else.
“Really?” The single word makes the car feel even colder. “Because from where I’m sitting, that’s clearly not true.”
Vicky opens her mouth again, but Alexia beats her to it.
“You know… considering my daughter is currently going viral on Twitter.”
The words hit the car like a grenade.
“What?!” The response comes from both you and Vicky at the exact same time.
Alexia doesn’t even look away from the road. “You heard me.”
The knot in your stomach immediately twists tighter.
Behind you, Vicky is already digging frantically through her purse for her phone, nearly dropping it in her haste. The glow of the screen illuminates her face as she scrolls, and within seconds she lets out a string of curses so creative that under different circumstances it might have made you laugh.
“That dumb fucking-” She cuts herself off before finishing the sentence. “Alexia, she was set up! You have to understand that this isn’t her fault.”
The reaction is immediate. “You think I don’t know that??” For the first time that night, Alexia’s voice rises. The sudden spike in volume is enough to make all of you jump.
She takes a long breath through her nose, visibly forcing herself to calm down before she says something harsher than she intends.
When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, but only just.
“You two need to understand something,” she says, words are directed at both of you, but her eyes flick briefly toward you. “You are public figures. You play for the biggest club in the world and because of that there are expectations whether you like them or not. Every place you go, every person you meet, every mistake you make, somebody is always watching and somebody is always recording.”
The city lights flicker across her face as she drives.
“So tonight, I honestly don’t care that some wannabe journalist decided to leak information she had no business posting online. I will deal with that in the morning.”
The promise sounds less like a possibility and more like a threat. You suddenly almost feel sorry for Lia… almost.
“What I care about is that the two of you looked me directly in the eye and lied to me. What I care about is that you knowingly ignored my instructions and deliberately put yourselves into a situation where something could have happened.” Her grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“She is sixteen, Vicky.” The disappointment in her voice somehow hurts more than the anger. “What the fuck is she doing in a nightclub?”
“Ale, it’s not her fault.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. You twist in your seat slightly, trying to look at her despite how worried you are about her reaction.
“She got me out of there when things got weird. The second I looked uncomfortable, she came and got me. Both of them did.” Your voice grows stronger as you continue.
“That girl started asking all these strange questions about you and us and the team and where I lived and stuff. I didn’t know what was happening, but Vicky did. She got me out of there right away.”
You glance back at your teammate. “She was protecting me the whole time.”
The silence that follows lasts several seconds. Long enough that you wonder whether Alexia is going to argue.
Instead, she sighs - a long, exhausted sound. “I know.” There is no uncertainty in her tone. “I know it’s not her fault.” For the first time all night, some of the anger leaves her voice. Not all of it, but just enough to reveal the fear hiding underneath.
“But that’s exactly my point.” She shakes her head. “You three should never have been in that situation to begin with.”
Nobody has an answer for that. Because she’s right.
The silence stretches again. Eventually Vicky drops her gaze to her lap.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks. “I really am.” She wipes quickly at her eyes.
“I know I lied.” The words seem to cost her something.
“I just wanted to hang out with her.” She laughs weakly, though it sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
“I wanted us to make memories together. She’s always training or studying or doing something responsible and I thought…” She pauses to wipe her eyes again. “I don’t know. I thought we could do something fun.”
Her voice drops lower. “And I was worried you’d say no.”
The confession hangs in the air. Alexia doesn’t answer, but she must notice the quiet sniffing coming from the backseat because when she finally pulls into Vicky’s apartment complex, she doesn’t immediately put the car back into drive after parking. Instead, she sits there for a moment with both hands resting on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on something beyond the windshield, before letting out a slow breath and opening her door.
Vicky follows right away.
You watch them through the passenger window as they move a few steps away from the car and stop beneath one of the streetlights lining the sidewalk. The yellow glow casts long shadows across the pavement and illuminates the tear tracks still visible on Vicky’s face. For a second neither of them says anything. Then Alexia opens her arms.
That is all it takes before Vicky folds into her instantly. The younger woman practically collapses against her, burying her face in Alexia’s shoulder as the sobs she has clearly been fighting for the last twenty minutes finally win.
You can’t hear what they’re saying through the closed windows. You can only watch.
You watch the way Alexia’s arms tighten around her. You watch the way she lowers her head so she can speak directly into her ear. You watch her rub a hand slowly up and down Vicky’s back with the same patient rhythm you’ve felt yourself more times than you can count.
Months ago, a sight like this might have hurt. Months ago, before you understood what Alexia’s love actually looked like, you might have felt that familiar sting of jealousy. You might have watched someone else receive her comfort and wondered whether there would be less left over for you afterward.
Now you simply feel relieved.
Because if Alexia is still standing there holding Vicky after everything that happened tonight, then maybe the world hasn’t ended after all. Because if Vicky is still allowed to cry into her shoulder and be forgiven, then maybe there is still hope for you too.
Eventually Alexia leans back just enough to cup Vicky’s face between both hands, wiping away tears with her thumbs while speaking softly enough that the words never reach you. Whatever she says causes Vicky to laugh through a fresh wave of tears, which in turn makes Alexia smile sadly before pulling her back into one final hug.
The entire interaction is so painfully familiar. The comfort, the reassurance, the certainty. The unspoken promise that she is angry but still loves you. That she is disappointed but not leaving and whatever happens next, she will still be there when the conversation is over.
When they finally separate, Alexia presses a kiss to the top of Vicky’s head before walking her all the way to the building entrance, waiting patiently while she punches in the code and steps inside. Even then she doesn’t leave right away, lingering on the sidewalk until the door closes behind her. Only then does she return to the car.
The difference in her is obvious. The anger that had been keeping her upright for the last hour seems to have drained away, leaving behind something far more difficult to look at.
She looks exhausted. It’s not even physical exhaustion, though there is certainly some of that too, but emotionally exhaustion in a way that makes her seem older than usual.
She settles into the driver’s seat and closes the door quietly behind her. Neither of you speaks. The car remains parked.
Outside, Barcelona continues sleeping around you, occasional headlights drifting past and distant conversations floating through the night air, but inside the vehicle everything feels strangely still.
Her phone vibrates in the cup holder. The sound breaks the silence. Alexia glances down at the screen and some more of the tension leaves her shoulders. It’s Vicky letting her know she made it upstairs.
Only after reading the message does Alexia put the car into drive and pull away from the curb.
The city slides past outside the windows in a blur of streetlights and empty sidewalks while neither of you says anything for several minutes.
Eventually, without looking away from the road, Alexia finally speaks.
“I was really scared.” The confession is so quiet and so unexpected that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard her correctly.
You turn toward her. The stoplights ahead paint soft shadows across her face, highlighting the tiredness around her eyes and the way she keeps worrying at her lower lip with her teeth.
“I thought you were at Vicky’s apartment,” she continues after a long pause. “I thought you were safe. I thought you were asleep on the couch watching movies, and then suddenly my phone started ringing.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel.
“First it was messages. Then it was people calling. Then somebody sent me photos.” She swallows. “And for twenty minutes I didn’t know where you were.”
The words make your heart ache. Because this isn’t about the club anymore. It isn’t even about the lie. It’s about fear. Real fear. The kind that had apparently been eating her alive while she was driving across the city looking for you.
“I didn’t know who you were with,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know whether those people posting photos were the same people you were with. I didn’t know if someone had given you something. I didn’t know if you were okay.”
The guilt settles so heavily in your chest that it almost hurts to breathe.
“I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you…” her voice trails off as she blinks quickly trying to keep her tears from falling.
“Ale…”
You don’t know what else to say. You don’t know how to fix any of it. So instead you repeat the words she has given you a hundred times before.
“I’m here.” Her eyes flick toward you briefly. “I’m okay.”
You reach across the center console and place your hand over hers. “I’m safe with you now.”
For the first time all night, something in her expression softens.
She turns her hand over and threads her fingers through yours. “I know, petita.”
The nickname nearly breaks your heart. Because it sounds exactly the way it always does - warm, certain, loving. As though none of that has changed.
You spend the rest of the drive in silence, your hand remaining tucked inside hers while the city passes outside the windows. Every few moments her thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles in a repetitive, absent-minded motion, and although she never says another word, you begin to suspect she isn’t doing it to comfort you.
You think she is reassuring herself. Reminding herself that you are really there beside her. That she found you. That you’re safe. And that, despite everything that happened tonight, she still gets to bring you home.
------
When you finally pull in through the gates, the house sits exactly as you left it, quiet and dark beneath the night sky, the familiar porch light casting a soft glow across the front steps.
The engine goes silent, leaving only the ticking of cooling metal and the faint sound of crickets somewhere beyond the yard. For a moment neither of you moves. The tension that had filled the car earlier has changed shape now, no longer sharp and angry but tired and heavy, weighed down by everything that has happened since Alexia walked into that club.
Eventually she unclips her seatbelt and steps out.
By the time you reach for the handle, she is already opening the passenger door for you. You step down onto the driveway and immediately feel her hand settle around your elbow.
You don’t need the support anymore. Most of your drunkenness has worn off during the drive home and your head is far clearer than it was an hour ago. Still, you don’t say anything. You like the contact too much.
The two of you make your way inside together, Alexia locking the door behind you before guiding you upstairs with one hand resting lightly against your back. The gesture is familiar enough that you don’t even think about it anymore. Somewhere along the way you had stopped being surprised by how naturally she takes care of you. What still surprises you is how much you want her to.
When you reach your room, she sits you down on the closed toilet lid before disappearing briefly into the bathroom cabinet. A moment later she returns with a packet of makeup wipes and kneels in front of you.
The tenderness of the gesture nearly hurts.
You had lied to her. You had worried her. You had ignored her instructions and broken her trust. And yet here she is, crouched in front of you at three in the morning, carefully removing the remnants of makeup and glitter from your face with the same patience she always uses.
Neither of you says much. The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of the wipe against your skin.
When she’s finished, she tosses it away and crosses to your dresser without needing to ask where anything is. She knows this room almost as well as her own. A moment later she is holding your favorite pajamas, the soft worn set that always seems to find its way to the top of the drawer whenever you’ve had a bad day.
“Brush your teeth, bebé.”
You nod as she leaves to give you privacy.
When she comes back several minutes later, you’re already in bed.
The blankets are pulled over your legs and you’re propped against the headboard, hands wrapped around your knees as exhaustion finally begins catching up to you. Alexia is carrying a bottle of cold water which she opens before handing it over.
You take a long drink. Then another. And another. Partly because you’re dehydrated, but mostly because it delays the conversation you know is coming eventually.
When you finally lower the bottle, your eyes find hers. “Ale?”
Her expression softens as she looks up at you. “Yes, mi amor?”
The endearment almost makes your eyes sting. You stare down at the bottle in your hands.
“I’m really, really sorry.” The words come out small and rough.
For a moment she simply looks at you. Then her hand comes up to brush gently through your hair.
“I know, bebé.” She tucks a loose strand behind your ear. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” she says quietly. “Right now you’re exhausted and I’m exhausted, and neither of us is going to think very clearly tonight.”
You nod. The lump in your throat grows a little bigger. “Ale?”
She huffs out the faintest hint of a smile. “Yeah?”
“Do you think…” you begin before losing your nerve, your fingers tightening around the water bottle in your lap as you stare down at the blanket.
Alexia remains completely patient, giving you all the time in the world to find the courage to ask. “Well maybe…” You stop again, frustration and exhaustion making it impossible to get the words out properly. “Could you maybe stay here tonight?”
Alexia tilts her head slightly, her expression softening as she looks at you.
You don’t elaborate. You don’t need to. You just blink back at her, feeling far too tired and emotionally wrung out to explain that after everything that happened tonight, the thought of being alone feels unbearable.
“Okay, bebé.” Her answer comes so easily that it makes your chest ache.
She rises from the edge of the bed and moves around to the other side, pulling off the oversized sweatshirt she had thrown on earlier. Beneath it are the pajamas she’d clearly been wearing when she received those phone calls, and the sight sends another wave of guilt washing through you because it is impossible not to picture her seeing those photos, grabbing the first thing she could find, and racing out the door without a second thought.
She came for you. She hadn’t stopped to change. Hadn’t stopped to think. Hadn’t stopped at all.
The mattress dips slightly as she climbs into bed beside you.
For a while neither of you says anything. The room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of blankets and the distant hum of the air conditioner, both of you staring up at the ceiling while the events of the night slowly begin settling into place.
Eventually Alexia reaches across the space between you and gently pulls you against her side. The movement is so familiar now that you go willingly without thinking.
Her arm wraps securely around your shoulders while her fingers slide into your hair, scratching lightly against your scalp in the exact way she knows helps you relax, and almost immediately you feel your entire body begin to soften beneath her touch.
The tension leaves your shoulders. Your breathing slows. The frantic energy that has been buzzing beneath your skin since she walked into that club finally starts settling.
Sleep begins creeping up on you slowly. Your eyes grow heavier. Your body sinks further into the mattress.
Then, just as you’re beginning to drift, a memory resurfaces from the car. The words hit you all over again.
My daughter.
Your eyes fly open. Your breath catches sharply enough that Alexia stirs - even half asleep, her response is automatic. Her eyes blink open lazily, heavy with exhaustion, and she lifts her head slightly from the pillow to look down at you.
“You okay?” she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep.
You don’t answer right away because how are you supposed to explain this? How are you supposed to explain what happened inside your chest when she said those words?
You had spent most of your life belonging to nobody. Passed from house to house, caretaker to caretaker, always feeling temporary, always feeling like you were occupying space that could be taken back at any moment.
People had called you a lot of things over the years : foster kid, placement, responsibility, problem. Nobody had ever looked at you with fear in their eyes and called you theirs.
And Alexia hadn’t even done it intentionally. She hadn’t sat down and chosen those words carefully. She hadn’t made some grand declaration. The words had simply fallen out of her mouth in a moment of panic because, somewhere in her mind, that was already what you were.
Her daughter.
The realization makes something warm and painful bloom inside your chest all at once.
You don’t know how to tell her that hearing those words felt like being handed something you’d secretly wanted for so long that you’d stopped allowing yourself to hope for it. You don’t know how to tell her that you’ve been replaying them over and over in your head ever since.
So instead you simply shake your head and burrow closer.
Your hands curl into the front of her pajama shirt and you press your face against her shoulder, holding onto her a little tighter than usual.
Alexia studies you for a moment until a quiet breath leaves her nose, carrying equal parts affection and amusement, before she leans down and presses a gentle kiss against your forehead.
“T’estimo, mi amor,” she murmurs softly.
One of her hands settles against the back of your head while the other resumes its slow journey through your hair.
She doesn’t ask any questions or make you explain. She just holds you.
The steady movement of her fingers gradually slows as sleep begins pulling at her again, each pass through your hair becoming a little lazier than the last until eventually her hand comes to rest against the back of your neck.
A few minutes later her breathing deepens. The familiar rhythm fills the room.
You listen to it for a long time. Long enough for your eyes to grow heavy. Long enough for the warmth in your chest to outweigh the guilt still lingering there. Long enough for sleep to finally pull you under too, tucked safely against her side while her arms remain wrapped around you exactly where they belong.
5:
The perfect season somehow ends exactly the way Alexia insists all perfect seasons should: with a trophy in one hand and an excuse to throw a party in the other.
You stand off to the side of the patio watching the chaos unfold with increasingly wide eyes as Alexia, Irene, and Patri completely take over the backyard, moving furniture from one end of the garden to the other with the seriousness of people preparing for a diplomatic summit rather than a seventeen-year-old’s birthday party.
At some point during the morning, the normal outdoor seating arrangement had disappeared entirely. In its place now sat long tables covered in decorations, enormous flower arrangements filled with carefully coordinated colors, and what looked suspiciously like an entire wall of balloons that seemed to grow larger every time you looked away for more than five minutes.
You aren’t entirely sure where half of it came from. You do know that at one point you heard Alexia discussing delivery schedules with someone on the phone before mentioning that the caterer would be arriving at three o’clock, which had nearly caused you to choke on your coffee because, as far as you were concerned, ordering pizza would have qualified as party planning.
Apparently Alexia strongly disagreed.
The strange thing is that none of this had been your idea.
Your birthday wasn’t technically until tomorrow, but after weeks of relentless pestering from Vicky and Clara, who seemed personally offended by your complete lack of interest in celebrating yourself, you had eventually worked up the courage to ask Alexia if maybe they could come over for an afternoon.
Just them and maybe a few teammates. Something simple.
You had even presented your argument carefully. Having people over at the house still complied with the terms of your grounding, you had pointed out. After all, you had spent the last month accepting the consequences of your disastrous decision-making without complaint, fully aware that sneaking into a nightclub, lying to Alexia, and accidentally becoming the center of a social media firestorm had earned every restriction she’d given you.
Alexia had listened to your carefully constructed reasoning for approximately ten seconds before laughing outright.
Then she’d reached over and ruffled your hair. “It’s your birthday, petita,” she had said. “You can celebrate it anywhere you want.”
The truth was that you genuinely did want it here. You liked that somewhere along the way the house had stopped feeling like Alexia’s house. It felt like yours too.
Your shoes lived by the garage door. Your textbooks ended up scattered across the kitchen table. Your favorite cereal permanently occupied a shelf in the pantry. There were photographs of you throughout the house now, mixed naturally among the family photos as though they’d always belonged there.
Most importantly, it was the first place you had ever wanted to invite people to. The first place you had ever felt proud of. The first place that felt enough like home that you wanted to share it with your friends.
Unfortunately, what began as a small gathering had spiraled wildly out of control.
The chain of events had apparently started with Vicky. Vicky told Kika. Kika told Patri. Patri told every living person in Barcelona. And because footballers were apparently incapable of minding their own business, the information had spread through the entire team with frightening efficiency.
Now people kept appearing at training asking what time the party started. Players you hadn’t technically invited were somehow discussing what swimsuits they planned to bring. At one point Mapi had asked whether she should bring an appetizer. You hadn’t even known she was coming.
Alexia, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the entire situation. If anything, every new guest only made her more excited.
Over the last two weeks, she had been almost impossibly happy. Winning the Champions League had left the entire team floating for days, her contract renewal had removed months of uncertainty, and the season itself could not have ended more perfectly if someone had written it in a script.
Your birthday had arrived immediately afterward and somehow became the thing she was most excited about.
She had talked about it constantly. She had made lists. She had revised those lists. She had asked what food you wanted, what music you wanted, whether you preferred a cake or multiple desserts and then decided to get both.
Every time you sheepishly informed her that another teammate had somehow heard about the party and wanted to come, her face had lit up even more.
“Bebé, our house is enormous,” she had told you after your latest attempt to apologize. “You could invite everyone you know and we’d still have room.”
As it turned out, you were dangerously close to testing that theory.
The whole thing should probably have been overwhelming. Honestly, it was a little overwhelming. But every time you started feeling nervous about the growing guest list or the increasingly elaborate decorations, you would look over at Alexia and see the excitement written all over her face.
She was just so happy to be throwing you a party, so happy to have an excuse to fill the house with people who cared about you, so happy to celebrate you in a way that made it impossible for anyone to miss how loved you were.
Birthdays had never really meant much before. For most of your life they had passed quietly, acknowledged by very few people and celebrated by even fewer. The only part you had ever cared about was football, because another birthday usually meant another promotion, another chance to play against older girls, another step forward in the sport you loved.
Everything else had always felt secondary and forgettable. Just another date on a calendar. Alexia, however, had treated this birthday like a national holiday. The date had been circled on the kitchen calendar for months.
She had started asking what you wanted weeks ago. More than once she had casually mentioned that she already had “a few ideas” but wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything specific you hoped for first.
Every time, you had shaken your head with growing embarrassment. Because the truth was that you genuinely couldn’t think of anything. Every time she asked, you found yourself looking around at the life you’d somehow built here and realizing that you already had everything you’d spent years wishing for without ever expecting to find.
And judging by the knowing look Alexia kept giving you whenever you failed to answer the question, you suspected she already knew that.
------
Alexia laughs when the third balloon in less than ten minutes explodes directly in Patri’s face.
The sound echoes across the backyard, followed immediately by Patri’s increasingly dramatic complaints about being personally victimized by party decorations, which only seems to make Alexia laugh harder. Eventually she gives up entirely, gesturing for Patri to surrender the pump and go find something else to do before she somehow manages to injure herself preparing for a birthday party.
Patri leaves with all the dignity of a disgraced soldier retreating from battle.
Once the others disappear inside to continue setting up decorations throughout the house, you make your way across the patio toward Alexia, who is crouched beside an increasingly elaborate balloon arch that has somehow become one of the most important projects of the day.
“Ale.” She glances up immediately. You are fairly certain you could whisper her name from the opposite side of Barcelona and she’d still somehow hear it.
“Maybe I can do that?” you ask, gesturing toward the pump. “I want to help.”
The expression she gives you is fondly exasperated. “Petita, it’s your birthday.” Then she pauses. “Well, birthday weekend.”
You can’t help smiling at the correction.
“You shouldn’t be setting up your own party.”
“Yeah, but I want to.” You shift your weight slightly before adding the part that usually works. “Pleaseee?”
Alexia studies you for a moment, clearly debating whether to continue arguing, before finally surrendering with a shake of her head. “You blow them up and I’ll arrange them.”
The victory feels embarrassingly satisfying. You immediately claim the pump before she can change her mind.
For a while the two of you work quietly beside one another, settling into an easy rhythm as you inflate balloons and hand them over while Alexia somehow transforms what should be a chaotic pile of plastic into something that actually looks organized and intentional.
At some point you become aware of her watching you, checking in without wanting you to notice she’s checking in.
Eventually she breaks the silence. “You doing okay?” The question is simple and casual. But you know her well enough by now to hear everything underneath it.
The month after the club incident hadn’t been easy. The grounding had been fair, but fair didn’t necessarily mean enjoyable. There had been difficult conversations and consequences and more than a few moments where you’d felt terrible about how badly you’d scared her.
Even now, weeks later, she still checks sometimes. Making sure you’re actually okay. Making sure you’re happy. Making sure the weight of everything that happened isn’t still sitting on your shoulders.
You glance around the yard before answering.
The patio is bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Through the open doors you can hear Patri and Irene arguing over something neither of them actually cares about enough to be fighting over, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of people who have spent years annoying each other affectionately. Somewhere nearby the pool filter sends water gently splashing against the tiled walls, and the warm summer air carries the scent of freshly cut grass and flowers across the backyard.
For a moment you simply take it all in before your eyes return to Alexia. To the woman sitting beside you surrounded by half-finished decorations and balloon fragments, looking at you with enough affection to make your chest ache.
And for once the answer comes easily. “Yeah.” You mean it, you genuinely mean it.
Four hours later, however, you mean it a little less.
The party is perfect. The food is incredible, the weather is somehow cooperating despite the fact that Barcelona summers usually seem determined to melt everyone alive, and every person you care about appears to be having the time of their life.
The problem is simply that there is so much of it.
So many people. So much noise. So much attention.
The backyard has transformed into something that feels closer to a festival than a birthday party, every corner occupied by a different conversation, every chair filled, every patch of shade claimed by some combination of teammates, relatives, classmates, and family friends.
The table near the back door is completely buried beneath gifts, colorful wrapping paper stacked so high that you can barely see the surface underneath anymore, and every time you glance in that direction you swear the pile has somehow gotten bigger.
There are Barça players scattered throughout the yard. There are classmates you never expected to see standing beside Champions League winners discussing school gossip. There are various members of the Putellas i Segura family tree whose exact relationship to Alexia remains something of a mystery to you despite repeated explanations.
Across the yard, Vicky and Clara have recruited one of Alexia’s younger cousins into an increasingly competitive game of keepy-uppy that seems to involve far more shouting than the sport technically requires. Every few seconds somebody erupts into celebration while somebody else accuses them of cheating, and the argument inevitably starts all over again before any actual conclusions are reached.
Nearby, Kika, Esmee, and Salma have turned the pool into their own personal volleyball court, the game growing more aggressive with every passing minute as increasingly dramatic dives send water splashing onto anyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
Pina and Cata have established themselves near the drinks table, a development that several people have openly described as concerning, though not concerning enough for anyone to actually intervene.
Meanwhile, you seem to have spent the entire afternoon being gently passed from one conversation to the next.
Every time you think you’ve finally escaped a cluster of people, somebody spots you from across the yard and waves you over. Every time you finish one conversation, another begins. Every time you manage to sit down, someone appears beside you wanting to congratulate you on the season, ask about school, discuss football, or tell you a story you somehow feature prominently.
It is wonderful. It is exhausting. It is probably the most loved you have ever felt in your entire life.
And that might actually be the problem. Because every few minutes something happens that throws you off all over again.
One of Alexia’s relatives hugs you goodbye and tells you they’ll see you at the next family gathering as though your attendance is already assumed. Someone refers to the house as yours without even thinking about it. Another person talks about next season as though your future at Barça is inevitable.
Each interaction is small. Insignificant on its own. Yet somehow they keep accumulating until your chest feels strangely tight.
You catch yourself looking toward Alexia more than once. She is everywhere. One moment she’s helping carry trays of food onto the patio. The next she’s greeting another arriving guest. Then she’s laughing at something Alba says, throwing her head back with a smile so bright that even from across the yard you can see it.
The happiness radiates off her in waves. Every time her eyes eventually find you somewhere in the crowd, her entire expression softens in a way that still catches you off guard despite how often you’ve seen it. You know that look now. You know exactly what it means. Which somehow only makes your chest twist even more.
Because there was a time when birthdays passed almost unnoticed. There was a time when nobody decorated anything. Nobody planned anything. Nobody circled dates on calendars months in advance. Nobody spent weeks discussing cakes and playlists and guest lists as though your existence was an event worth celebrating.
You never really minded back then. At least you told yourself you didn’t. You became very good at pretending things didn’t matter. Very good at convincing yourself that wanting less was the same thing as needing less. But sitting here now, surrounded by more love than you know what to do with, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain those old lies.
Eventually, after being trapped in a conversation with Patri about music, summer plans, and at least three separate stories that somehow merged together halfway through, you manage to slip away under the excuse of needing another drink.
The moment you step inside the house, the noise dulls slightly. The music becomes distant. The conversations blur together. The air feels cooler.
You find yourself wandering toward the staircase instinctively and lowering yourself onto the bottom step, settling into that strange middle ground where you are technically still present but no longer actively participating.
You rest your chin against your hand and stare vaguely toward one of the paintings hanging on the opposite wall, your focus gradually softening until the details blur together. You take slow, deep breaths, trying to understand why your eyes suddenly feel suspiciously warm.
When you finally glance up, Alexia standing in the doorway watching you with a look that suggests she figured out exactly what was happening several minutes ago.
You immediately feel sheepish. Your birthday party is happening twenty feet away and you’ve hidden yourself on the stairs like an overwhelmed cat.
You open your mouth, already preparing to explain yourself, but Alexia’s expression shifts before you can get a single word out. A grin spreads slowly across her face, the kind that always means she’s had an idea and that everyone around her is about to be dragged into it whether they like it or not.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
You blink. The question takes several seconds to register. “What?”
“Do you want to get out of here?” She gestures vaguely toward the backyard. “My mom is here. Alba is here. Everyone is fed, nobody is fighting yet, and there is enough food to survive a small natural disaster.”
You stare. Alexia continues like this is the most reasonable suggestion in the world. “They won’t even notice we’re gone. And we’ll be back before cake.”
The next thing you know, she was leading you through a side gate with a football tucked beneath one arm, both of you trying and failing to suppress your laughter as though you were committing some elaborate crime instead of temporarily abandoning a gathering full of people who adored you. The ridiculousness of it all only becomes funnier the farther you get from the house.
By the time you reach the small park at the end of the neighborhood, the tightness in your chest has already eased considerably.
The evening air is warm without being oppressive, carrying the lingering scent of summer grass and sun-warmed pavement. Behind you, the party continues somewhere beyond the trees and rooftops, reduced to a distant memory of music and laughter that feels pleasantly far away rather than overwhelming.
The two of you spend a while kicking the ball back and forth without much purpose, neither of you really trying to play properly. The football becomes little more than an excuse to move around while you talk, the conversation drifting effortlessly from one topic to another as you laugh about the increasingly chaotic state of the party. You speculate about which guests will somehow end up in the pool before the evening is over, debate whether Pina and Cata should ever be trusted with drink responsibilities again, and spend several minutes discussing a couple who may or may not be having an argument near the buffet table.
For the first time all afternoon, everything feels manageable. The constant attention has disappeared. The endless conversations have quieted. The pressure to be perceived has evaporated. It is just you and Alexia and a football. The simplicity of it allows something else to surface.
You trap the ball beneath your foot and stare down at it for a moment before speaking.
The admission comes slowly, partly because you’ve never really thought about it before and partly because you’re only just beginning to understand it yourself.
You tell her that birthdays were never something you paid much attention to growing up. They came and went like any other day, acknowledged occasionally but rarely celebrated, and somewhere along the way you stopped expecting them to matter. Football was usually the only thing worth noticing, because another birthday often meant another promotion, another chance to play at a higher level, another step forward in the one area of your life that felt predictable.
“I don’t know why I got so in my head about it,” you admit after a long stretch of silence, your eyes following the football as it rolls lazily through the grass before coming to rest a few feet away. “I think it was just a little overwhelming, you know? All those people there for me.”
The words sound small once they’re out in the open. A little ridiculous even. You kick absently at a patch of grass.
“I don’t know,” you continue more quietly. “I think maybe I just don’t feel like I deserve it.”
The confession leaves your mouth before you can stop it. Immediately you wish you could take it back. Hearing the thought spoken aloud makes it sound far sadder than it did inside your own head.
Beside you, Alexia doesn’t answer right away. She rarely does when the conversation starts drifting toward something important.
Instead, she takes a few slow steps forward until she’s standing beside you, both of you looking out across the open field while the evening sky stretches above the park in shades of pink and gold. The sun has nearly disappeared now, leaving only the soft glow of sunset lingering along the horizon, and for a while the two of you simply stand there shoulder to shoulder while a warm breeze stirs the grass around your feet.
When she finally speaks, her voice is soft enough that it almost blends into the evening air. “Love isn’t something you deserve.”
You glance toward her. Her gaze remains fixed on the sky. “It’s not something you earn either.”
The words are spoken so matter-of-factly that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard them correctly. Alexia notices your confusion, small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
“People always talk about deserving love like it’s some kind of reward,” she says quietly. “Like if you’re good enough or successful enough or kind enough, eventually somebody hands it to you. But that’s not how it works.”
Her hands slide into the pockets of her shorts. “Love isn’t a prize. It isn’t a transaction. It isn’t something people give you because you’ve finally proven yourself worthy of receiving it.”
She turns her head slightly then, just enough for you to catch the affection in her expression. “It just is.”
The simplicity of the statement makes your chest ache. She says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there has never been any question about it.
“You didn’t earn Alba’s love,” she continues after a moment. “You didn’t earn Vicky’s love or Clara’s or my mom’s. None of those people spent the afternoon in that backyard because you somehow convinced them to.”
A small laugh escapes her. “Trust me, if I could convince the family to do anything, life would be much easier.”
That earns the faintest smile from you. Alexia’s expression softens even further when she sees it.
“They were there because they care about you,” she says. “Because they love you. Because somewhere along the way you became important to them and now they can’t imagine their lives without you in them.”
The words settle heavily in your chest. It’s as if something you’ve been carrying for a very long time is finally being set down.
For a while neither of you speaks. The breeze moves through the trees overhead. The sounds of the neighborhood drift around you. And somewhere behind you, hidden beyond rows of houses and garden walls, your birthday party continues without either of you.
Alexia exhales softly through her nose. When she speaks again, her voice is thoughtful. Almost amused.
“You know,” she says, “I call you my daughter in my head every day.”
The world seems to tilt slightly. Your head turns so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.
Alexia notices immediately. The smile that appears on her face is small and fond. She’s been expecting this reaction.
“I have for a while now.” She shrugs one shoulder comfortably, like she’s talking about something she accepted a long time ago.
“You never earned my love either.” The words are quiet and certain. “You just have it.”
You stare at her. Unable to look away. Unable to speak.
“You never had to earn a place in my life,” she continues. “You never had to prove that you belonged there. You never had to become successful enough or talented enough or good enough for me to care about you.”
A gentle smile appears on her face. “The day I decided you were staying with me, that was pretty much the end of the discussion as far as I was concerned.”
A laugh escapes you despite the tears suddenly threatening behind your eyes.
Alexia reaches over and squeezes the back of your neck gently. “Alba loves you because you’re you. Vicky loves you because you’re you. My family loves you because you’re you.”
Her eyes meet yours then, steady and certain in a way they always are when she’s saying something she knows to be true. “And I love you because you’re my daughter.”
The words hit harder than anything else she’s said.
It doesn’t surprise you, you’ve spent months suspecting it. You’ve spent months noticing it in all the small things she probably never even realized she was doing. In the way she worried whenever you were late getting home. In the way she always remembered the things that mattered to you, no matter how insignificant they seemed. In the way she fussed over injuries and schoolwork and meals and sleep schedules. In the way her eyes immediately searched for you whenever she entered a room.
Most of all, you’d noticed it in the way she loved you. A kind of love that had never felt temporary. A kind of love that never seemed conditional. A kind of love that simply existed, unwavering and constant, no matter how many mistakes you made.
Still, hearing her say it aloud feels different. It feels like someone finally putting a name to something that has been quietly growing between the two of you for so long that neither of you can quite remember where it started.
Your throat tightens. Your eyes sting. You stare stubbornly down at the grass beneath your feet because looking directly at her suddenly feels impossible.
“I call you mama in my head too.” The confession slips out before you can stop it.
The second the words leave your mouth you want to crawl into a hole and never emerge again. Heat floods your face. Embarrassment follows immediately after. You feel exposed in a way you haven’t felt in a very long time, like you’ve accidentally handed her a piece of yourself you never intended anyone else to see.
“I don’t even know when I started,” you admit quietly, still refusing to look at her. “It wasn’t intentional or anything. It just sort of…” You trail off, searching for words that don’t seem to exist. “It just happened.”
The silence that follows stretches long enough that you finally force yourself to look up.
When you do, Alexia is staring at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. There is so much love that it almost hurts to look at. She looks like someone who has just been handed something precious she never dared ask for.
Slowly, she reaches up and cups the side of your face. The touch is warm and steady. The same hand that has fixed your hair before interviews, checked your temperature when you were sick, wiped tears from your cheeks, and squeezed your shoulder after difficult matches. This time it lingers.
She steps closer and presses a kiss against your temple, letting it rest there for several long seconds before finally pulling back.
When she finally speaks, her voice is impossibly gentle. “You know you’re allowed to say it out loud too, right?”
Your breath catches. The question hangs between you, so simple and yet somehow so frightening. Because thinking it and saying it are two very different things. Thinking it is safe, private, yours. Saying it aloud makes it real.
Alexia must see the panic flicker across your face because her smile softens even further. “It belongs to you.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside your chest, like rain sinking into dry ground.
“You don’t have to earn that either,” she continues quietly, her thumb brushing across your cheek in the same soothing way she always does whenever you’re upset. “You don’t have to wonder whether you’re allowed or whether it’s okay or whether you’re somehow asking for too much.”
A small laugh escapes her then, warm and fond and full of affection. “Trust me, carinyo, if anyone in the world has the right to call me that, it’s probably the girl I’ve spent the last year accidentally raising.”
The laugh that escapes you comes out broken immediately by a sob. The sound surprises both of you.
One second you’re standing there trying very hard to keep yourself together, and the next every emotion you’ve apparently been carrying for months comes crashing through the carefully constructed walls you’ve built around them.
You don’t even think about it. You just move. Throwing yourself forward until you’re wrapped around her. Holding on tighter than you ever have before. Your hands fist in the back of her shirt. Your face disappears into her shoulder.
And then you’re crying. Big, ugly, helpless sobs that shake your entire body. The kind that come from somewhere deep. Somewhere old. Somewhere that has been waiting a very long time for this.
Alexia doesn’t say a word. She simply catches you. The way she always does. Her arms wrap around you tightly, one hand settling firmly between your shoulder blades while the other slides into your hair, fingers moving through it in slow, soothing strokes as she holds you against her chest.
You can hear her heartbeat - it’s strong and steady and familiar. You cling to her like she’s the only solid thing in the world. And maybe, in this moment, she is.
She lets you cry for as long as you need. Simply holding you while years of loneliness and fear and uncertainty finally loosen their grip enough to be carried away by tears.
Eventually the sobs begin to quiet. Your breathing steadies. The crushing pressure in your chest eases enough for you to lift your head.
You look up at her through blurry eyes and wet lashes, your cheeks stained with tears, your nose hopelessly stuffy, your throat aching with emotion.
Alexia immediately brushes a tear away with her thumb. Looking at you like you are the most precious thing she has ever been trusted with.
Your voice trembles when you finally speak.
“T’estimo.” Fresh tears instantly fill Alexia’s eyes. You see them before she can blink them away.
“T’estimo molt, mama.”
The word feels different out loud. Bigger and warmer. Like something that has belonged to you for a long time finally finding its way home.
For a second Alexia simply stares at you. The world seems to narrow to the space between you.
All the sounds from the party fade into the background. The laughter, the music, the voices drifting across the neighborhood become distant and insignificant compared to the look on her face.
A tear slips down her cheek. Then another.
She lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh through the tears, shaking her head slightly as though some part of her still can’t quite believe she’s actually hearing it.
As though she’s spent so long loving you this way that she never stopped to imagine what it might feel like to have that love named and returned.
Then she’s pulling you right back into her arms. Holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
“T’estimo també, filla.”
Her voice cracks around the last word. Daughter.
The same certainty you’ve heard every time she’s called you petita, or bebé, or amor meu. The same unwavering certainty that has lived beneath every hug, every forehead kiss, every late-night conversation, every moment she chose you without hesitation.
Only this time neither of you has to hide behind other names. Neither of you has to dance around the truth anymore.
“Moltíssim.”
The word is barely more than a whisper against your hair, but you feel it all the same.
The kind of love that asks for nothing and expects nothing. The kind of love that simply exists.
The kind that always existed between you, long before either of you were brave enough to say it out loud.
Omg this was INCREDIBLE! I don’t even know where to start because I loved all of it so much!
All their slip ups made me SO emotional and their final confessions to one another was one of the best dialogues I’ve ever read!! Special shout out to when R was sick and clingy - that was adorable!
I hope you’re super proud of yourself for writing this. Such a beautiful display of love between a mother-daughter pair 💜💜
THIS IS SO KIND 🥹 Thank you so so much for taking the time to write this sweet comment 🥰 This really made me smile so much 🥰🥰🥰
The sick part was actually the first scene I thought of and the rest kinda went from there :)
It was making me emotional to write the final confessions too because they've both felt it for so long and this was like the dam finally broke and there was this release of emotions yk...
Summary - 4 times you maybe had a mother and 1 time you definitely did
Word Count - 24.3k
1:
The restaurant is small and loud in the comfortable way places in Barcelona often are, packed with overlapping conversations and clinking glasses and the smell of garlic and fresh bread drifting through the open space.
You trail beside Alexia as she guides you through the crowded entryway with a hand resting lightly against your upper back, steering you without really thinking about it, the touch casual and familiar enough now that you lean into it automatically.
You’re halfway toward your table when someone calls her name. “Alex!”
Alexia turns immediately, her face shifting into surprised recognition as a woman near the bar stands from her seat with a wide grin already spreading across her face.
“Madre mía,” Alexia laughs softly as they pull each other into a quick hug. “How long has it been?”
Too long, apparently, because the conversation starts moving immediately, fast and overlapping in the way it does when people already know each other well enough to skip all the polite pauses.
Alexia asks about family, about work, about mutual friends whose names mean absolutely nothing to you, and you hover awkwardly at her side for a second before taking a small step back, instinctively trying to disappear from the interaction altogether.
Until Alexia’s hand lands on your shoulder, warm and firm. “And this,” she says easily, her mouth curving into quiet pride as she gently nudges you forward, “is my kid.”
You go completely still as she introduces you. Your eyes snap to her so fast it almost hurts.
But Alexia has already turned back toward her friend, already moving seamlessly into the next part of the conversation like she hasn’t just detonated something directly in the center of your chest.
Her kid. Not the kid I mentor. Not a player from the team. Not even family, which is already enough to make your throat tight every time she says it.
Her kid.
The words settle somewhere deep and immediate. They ping around your chest in a way that makes it difficult to focus on anything else for the rest of the conversation happening around you.
You barely hear the rest of it, only catching fragments while Alexia and her friend continue talking easily beside you, her hand still resting absently against your shoulder the entire time like she doesn’t even realize she’s keeping you anchored there.
She calls a lot of people affectionate things. You know that.
She calls Vicky hermanita. She calls Patri hermana. She says those words casually, affectionately, naturally, like they belong perfectly to the person she is assigning them to.
But this feels different. Your relationship with Alexia is different.
They don’t wake up in her house every morning and fall asleep there every night. They don’t rely on her for rides and meals and doctors appointments and reassurance after nightmares they pretend not to have. They don’t know where she keeps the extra blankets or which tea she makes when someone can’t sleep or how she hums quietly under her breath while cooking dinner when she thinks no one is listening.
They don’t know the version of her that pads downstairs half-awake in oversized sweatpants to make sure you took your pain medication for your broken foot at three in the morning. They don’t see the way she checks the weather before your appointments so she can hand you the right jacket without asking, or the way she bought you those jackets to begin with after quietly realizing the warmest thing you owned was a worn-out hoodie that barely counted as winter clothing.
They don’t know how instinctive it has become for her to reach for you in crowded spaces, how automatically she glances over to make sure you’ve eaten enough, how quickly her attention finds you no matter how many people are around her.
You do.
And suddenly the distinction between hermanita and my kid feels enormous.
You always call her Ale. Never Alexia. Just Ale. Other people call her that too sometimes, teammates and old friends and family, but it still feels strangely personal to you, like something that belongs more to the two of you than it should.
You like the way it sounds. You like the way her attention always finds you when you say it, the way her head turns immediately no matter how distracted she is, like your voice reaches her differently from everyone else’s. Teammates can be calling her name directly beside her and she’ll still miss it, but you can mutter “Ale” from across the room and watch her attention snap toward you before you’ve even finished the word.
You’ve never known what to call her beyond that. Not because you don’t feel it. Because you feel too much of it.
Maybe hermana could make sense in theory. Vicky calls you hermanita often enough, usually with an expression that suggests she enjoys watching you turn bright red every single time she says it. But even then, when you try to place the word onto Alexia inside your own head, it feels slightly wrong, slightly off-center, not big enough somehow for whatever this is between you.
Because sisters are equals. And you have never once mistaken the way you lean on Alexia for equality.
You’re so deep in your own thoughts that you barely register the conversation winding down. It’s only when the woman turns fully toward you again that you realize she’s leaving.
“It was very nice meeting you,” she says warmly.
You straighten slightly at the sound of your own existence being acknowledged again, your brain scrambling to catch up with the moment as you offer her a small smile in return.
“Adéu,” you reply politely. “And… yeah, nice to meet you too.”
She smiles once more before disappearing back toward the front of the restaurant, leaving you standing there beside Alexia with your thoughts still spinning in slow circles around something you don’t quite know how to process yet.
Alexia glances down at you then, her expression relaxed and easy again, completely unaware of the crisis currently unfolding in your head, and places a light, guiding hand against your upper back again as she steers you further into the restaurant.
“Wow,” she says lightly, shaking her head with a faint laugh, “what a small world, huh? I haven’t seen her since high school.”
You swallow down the confusion before it can reach your face too obviously, forcing yourself to let it go for now, because the familiar smell of grilled chicken and fried potatoes is already wrapping around you, warm and comforting and distracting enough that your stomach immediately starts paying more attention than your thoughts.
Questions can wait. Food feels more urgent.
So instead of asking what my kid was supposed to mean, you tilt your head toward her and decide to tease her instead.
“Is it really a small world,” you ask dryly, “when you literally know every person in Barcelona… and probably most of the surrounding suburbs too?”
Alexia lets out an offended little scoff, rolling her eyes dramatically before bumping her shoulder lightly against yours.
“That is not true.”
You stare at her flatly. “Ale,” you say dryly, gesturing vaguely around the restaurant, “you are on a first-name basis with the entire wait staff and the valet.”
“Well, that’s called being polite,” she replies without missing a beat, already steering you toward your usual table. “And it is not my fault this is your favorite restaurant and we come here every week.”
You narrow your eyes at her suspiciously. “I’m pretty sure the waiter started bringing you sparkling water before you even sat down.”
“That’s customer service,” she says easily. “Very normal.”
“The hostess literally called you mi reina.”
Alexia only shrugs, playfully unashamed now. “What can I say? I’m beloved by the people.”
Despite yourself, a real laugh escapes you. Alexia’s expression softens immediately at the sound of it, warmth and quiet relief flickering across her face before she reaches over to ruffle your hair affectionately as you slide into the booth beside her.
And just like that, some of the strange tightness that had been sitting in your chest ever since she introduced you loosens enough for you to breathe around it again.
2:
You’ve been no contact with your foster parents ever since you moved in with Alexia.
You’re still not entirely sure what happened behind the scenes to make that possible.
You had asked Alexia about it once, only once, sometime during that first week after your surgery when the pain medication made you a little braver about asking questions you normally swallowed down. She had gone strangely quiet for a moment after you asked, her expression flattening into something unreadable before she finally told you, very simply, that she had “taken care of it,” and that you did not need to worry about ever going back there again.
There had been something distant in her eyes when she said it, something cold and controlled underneath the softness she usually reserved for you, like she was remembering the hospital room, remembering the way your foster mother had stood over your bed with alcohol and cigarettes still clinging to her breath while she hurled insults at you like they were nothing.
You hadn’t pushed for details after that. Partly because Alexia clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Partly because you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know.
But you knew she must have gone back to that house at some point, because not long after you moved in permanently, she had shown up carrying the limited possessions you actually owned, your clothes folded neatly in laundry baskets, your old childhood plush tucked awkwardly under one arm like she hadn’t quite known what to do with it.
She never told you what the house looked like when she got there. Never repeated a single thing your foster parents might have said to her.
But you noticed the way she carefully washed every piece of clothing before putting it away, the way she ran your plush through the laundry twice until it no longer smelled faintly of smoke and mildew and instead carried the soft clean scent of her detergent.
You noticed the way her jaw tightened the first time she saw you instinctively flinch at a slammed cabinet door.
You noticed how she quietly started knocking before entering your room, even when the door was wide open, as though she wanted to make absolutely certain you never had to wonder whether your space would be respected.
You noticed a hundred little things like that. Things she never pointed out. Things she never took credit for. Small adjustments made so naturally and consistently that it would have been easy to miss them if they weren’t all designed to make you feel safer.
That had been months ago now and since then, life had settled into something quieter, steadier, the rhythm of school and training and recovery blending together until it almost felt normal. Almost.
Today, training has ended but no one seems particularly eager to leave yet, the late afternoon sun still warm against the pitch as players linger in small groups, stretching or passing balls around lazily before heading inside.
You’re near the edge of the field with Clara, both of you goofing around more than actually training, trying to nutmeg each other in increasingly ridiculous ways while arguing loudly over what should and should not count as a successful attempt.
“That one doesn’t count,” you insist immediately after she barely clips the ball through your stance. “Your first touch was terrible.”
“My first touch was genius,” Serra shoots back, already grinning. “You’re just slow.”
“Please, I’m coming back from injury and still better than you.”
She gasps theatrically at that, clutching her chest like you’ve deeply offended her, before lunging forward to try again, the two of you laughing as you dance around each other near the sideline.
Then you hear it. A familiar raspy voice. Too familiar.
“So this is where you always ran away to…”
Everything inside you stops. The laughter dies instantly in your throat as your body goes rigid, your stomach dropping so hard it feels almost painful, every muscle locking before your brain even fully catches up to what’s happening.
Your foster father stands just outside the fence surrounding the training ground, one hand hooked lazily through the metal bars like he belongs there. He’s wearing a collared shirt you didn’t even know he owned, the fabric wrinkled but cleaner than anything you ever remember seeing him in, and his usually greasy hair has been combed carefully to one side in a way that feels deeply unsettling, like someone trying too hard to look respectable.
Beside him, your foster mother stands stiffly with her purse tucked under one arm, her chin tilted upward slightly as she stares directly at you, her eyes narrowed like she’s daring you to ignore them.
Your blood turns cold.
Beside you, Serra finally manages to knock the ball cleanly through your planted feet.
“Yes!” she celebrates immediately, throwing her hands up triumphantly before noticing you haven’t reacted at all. The smile drops from her face almost instantly.
You are completely frozen. Your expression has gone blank in that terrible, distant way she’s never seen before, your shoulders tense, your breathing suddenly too shallow.
Serra follows your line of sight toward the fence, her own posture straightening slightly as she takes in the unfamiliar couple standing there.
“Can I help you?” she asks cautiously, stepping half a pace closer to you without even realizing she’s doing it. “This is a closed practice.”
You could kiss her for speaking because your own voice feels trapped somewhere far away from your body.
Your foster father sends Serra a fake smile, the kind that never quite reaches his eyes, before dismissing her entirely with a lazy flick of his gaze.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “I don’t need any help from you. Just from my beloved foster daughter here.”
Serra’s expression changes instantly when the words click into place, her eyes darting sharply toward you, panic and understanding colliding there all at once.
You don’t actually know how much the girls know. You had told Serra and Vicky pieces of it over time, small fragmented explanations about why you had moved in with Ale, enough to satisfy their concern without fully opening the door to everything behind it. But judging by the horrified look spreading across Serra’s face now, Alexia must have filled in a bit more of the gaps at some point, enough that she understands immediately this is not a normal family visit.
She turns on her heel without hesitation.
“Alexia!!” she shouts across the pitch, her voice loud enough to cut cleanly through the noise of training.
Alexia looks up immediately, her attention snapping toward the panic in Clara’s voice before her eyes even fully locate her. Her gaze sweeps across the field quickly, searching, and the second she spots your rigid posture near the fence she drops the ball at her feet and starts running toward you without another thought.
Halfway there, she realizes who is standing on the other side of the barrier. Her expression instantly changes from worry to anger.
“This is a closed practice,” she says sharply as she closes the distance, immediately stepping between the girls and the couple at the fence without even seeming to think about it. “How did you get in here?”
Serra instinctively shifts farther behind Alexia the moment she reaches you, clearly unwilling to stand anywhere near the people who have managed to make their captain look this furious.
You still haven’t moved. But Alexia notices the way your hands have begun trembling at your sides, subtle enough most people would miss it, violent enough that she catches it immediately. Something in her posture hardens even further.
“So good to see you again, Ms. Putellas,” your foster mother says sweetly, her tone dripping with something artificial and ugly beneath the mock politeness.
Alexia ignores her completely. Instead, she turns slightly toward Clara, her voice dropping into quiet, urgent Catalan. “Take her away and tell Pere to call security.”
That finally jolts you out of your frozen haze. Your hand shoots out, grabbing onto Alexia’s arm before Clara can move you anywhere, your fingers tightening around her sleeve hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.
Your eyes drag desperately to hers, panic finally surfacing fully there as you try to communicate something you cannot possibly say out loud in front of them.
Please don’t leave me here. Please don’t make me deal with them alone. Please protect me.
Alexia’s entire expression softens the second she looks at you. Her hand comes up to cover yours where it grips her arm, squeezing once, firmly, grounding you. Her eyes hold yours for a long moment, steady and reassuring despite the fury still simmering underneath them. Then she nods very slightly. A promise.
She turns back toward Clara, gesturing more gently this time for her to take you away from the fence. You let yourself be guided backward then, your legs unsteady beneath you as Clara carefully pulls you toward the rest of the team clustered farther down the pitch.
As you approach, Patri and Irene brush past you, each squeezing your shoulder gently as they move by, silent reassurance before taking up positions on either side of Alexia like some terrifyingly beautiful version of the queen’s guard.
“Security is on their way,” Patri says coldly, her arms folding across her chest as she fixes your foster parents with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.
“Oh perfect,” your foster mother replies smoothly. “Perhaps they can escort us to your legal department. Or should it be the financial department?” She glances toward your foster father with faux thoughtfulness. “Which do you think, dear?”
“Better to be safe and stop by both,” he replies with a grin.
Alexia’s shoulders go rigid. “What business do you have here?” she asks, her voice low and dangerous now, every word edged with barely restrained fury.
Your foster father gives a lazy shrug. “Well, when a football club breaches the terms of a foster arrangement and effectively steals a child from a legal guardian…” he says casually, “there are usually financial consequences attached to that.”
Your stomach twists violently.
Your foster mother reaches into her purse and pulls out a folded newspaper. Even from across the pitch, you recognize it immediately. The cover story from after the Clásico.
A giant photo of you and Alexia celebrating your brace together, her arms wrapped around you while you laughed breathlessly into her shoulder beneath the stadium lights.
The Heir to the Throne? the headline had read in massive letters across the front page.
You had been mortified when you first saw it. Alexia had been delighted. She’d brought it home grinning like she’d won another Champions League and hung it proudly on the fridge despite your dramatic complaints about how embarrassing it was. You remember eventually grinning right back at her anyway because she’d looked so impossibly proud of you.
Alexia clearly recognizes it too. You can see it in the way her back stiffens even more.
“Imagine my surprise when I saw this on the way to work yesterday,” your foster mother says lightly, shaking the paper once for emphasis. “Who would’ve thought our little girl was such a big star?”
Her gaze drifts over Alexia’s shoulder until it lands directly on you. Her lips curl slightly as she raises her eyebrows mockingly.
“Well,” she says sweetly, “at least now we understand why everyone suddenly wanted to play hero.”
Alexia moves forward so quickly it surprises even Irene and Patri.
One second she is standing between them and the rest of the team, controlled and rigid with anger, and the next she is directly in your foster mother’s space, forcing the woman to tilt her head back slightly just to maintain eye contact.
“She is not yours,” Alexia says, her voice low and sharp enough to slice cleanly through the entire pitch. “She has never been yours.”
She doesn’t shout. Doesn’t shove or push, even if every instinct in her body clearly wants to. She just stands there with the full weight of her captain’s authority pressing down around her, shoulders squared, expression cold in a way you have never seen directed at anyone before.
“I saw the way you treated her,” she continues, her tone turning even harsher. “Do not stand here and pretend you have ever cared about her.”
“Watch your tone,” the husband snaps suddenly, stepping forward as he yanks his wife backward by the arm hard enough to make her stumble.
Several of the girls tense immediately. Alexia doesn’t even flinch. If anything, she steps closer.
“No,” she says coldly, her eyes locking onto his with terrifying steadiness. “You watch your tone.”
The entire field has gone silent now.
Alexia’s voice never rises, but somehow that only makes it more frightening, every word deliberate and controlled in a way that feels infinitely more dangerous than yelling ever could.
“I could ruin you,” she says plainly. “I have eyewitnesses, doctor’s reports, photographs. I have everything.”
Your foster father’s expression flickers for the first time.
“The only reason I haven’t filed a police report already,” Alexia continues, “is because that girl over there is finally happy, and dragging her through a court case after everything she has survived would hurt her more than it would help her.”
Her jaw tightens visibly then. “But if either of you ever come near her again,” she says quietly, “I will make absolutely certain you regret it.”
The husband and wife both go still. Your foster mother swallows hard enough that you can see it even from a distance.
“You’re bluffing…” she whispers finally, though the confidence from earlier has completely drained from her face.
Alexia tilts her head slightly. “Do you really want to test that theory?” she asks. “Against me, my legal team, and my mountain of money?”
That lands. You see it immediately in the way both their expressions shift, the realization finally settling in that this is not the scared little girl they used to corner in cramped hallways anymore, and more importantly, that she is no longer alone.
Alexia steps forward once more, fury simmering just beneath the surface now. “You disgust me,” she says, every word filled with quiet contempt. “Not only did you abuse her for years, but the second she experiences even an ounce of the joy and success she deserves from her hard work, you show up like vultures looking for more to take from a literal child.”
Her eyes narrow slightly as her lip rises in a snarl. “You are not worthy of cleaning the dirt off her boots.”
Beside her, Irene finally reaches out and catches Alexia lightly by the arm. “Ale,” she says quietly, her tone gentler now. “Security’s here. Let them handle it.”
Alexia’s chest rises sharply once before she finally breaks eye contact, glancing toward the three security guards now approaching quickly from the far entrance to the pitch.
“These people are trespassing,” she tells them, her tone clipped and commanding again as she gestures toward your foster parents. “Please remove them from the premises and take their photographs. They are never to be allowed back here again.”
“Sí, capitana,” one of the guards replies without hesitation. They move forward, taking hold of your foster parents’ arms despite their immediate protests.
“This is ridiculous-” your foster father starts loudly.
“You can’t seriously-” your foster mother adds over him.
But their voices sound weaker now, smaller.
The moment security begins escorting them away, Alexia immediately turns toward you. Like the rest of the world stops mattering the second they are no longer a direct threat.
You hadn’t even realized tears were running down your face until she reaches you, her expression changing the closer she gets, all that cold fury melting into something softer, steadier, protective in a way that nearly undoes you completely.
“Hey,” she says gently the moment she reaches you, both hands coming up to cradle your face without hesitation. “Hey, look at me.”
You try. God, you try. But your breathing is uneven now, panic and adrenaline crashing together so violently inside your chest that it feels impossible to steady yourself.
Alexia notices immediately. “Okay,” she murmurs softly, her thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as she guides you a little farther away from the fence. “That’s okay. Just breathe for me, mi amor. They’re gone now. You’re safe.”
Safe. The word hits something deep inside you, something bruised and terrified and far younger than sixteen.
Your hands grip the sleeves of her training jacket tightly before you even realize you’re doing it. Alexia lets you. Of course she does.
Behind her, you can vaguely hear Patri telling the coaches to cancel the rest of training while Irene quietly herds the younger girls farther away to give you privacy.
But all of that feels distant compared to the way Alexia is looking at you right now. Like you matter more than any of it. Like she would burn the entire world down before letting them touch you again.
Your fingers twist tighter into the sleeves of her jacket as another shaky breath catches painfully in your chest, the adrenaline still tearing through you too fast for your body to keep up with.
“I thought…” Your voice breaks, forcing you to swallow hard before trying again. “I thought they were going to take me from you.”
The words come spilling out after that, messy and frightened in a way you usually work so hard to hide.
“I don’t care about the money or whatever they wanted,” you rush out quietly, your eyes fixed somewhere near her collarbone because looking directly at her suddenly feels too vulnerable. “I don’t care about any of that, I just…” Your throat tightens again. “I just want to stay with you.”
Alexia’s expression changes so quickly it almost hurts to look at, something fierce and heartbroken flashing across her face all at once before she pulls you even closer against her, one arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders while her other hand cradles the back of your head protectively against her neck.
“Petita,” she says, her voice firm in a way that cuts cleanly through your panic. “You are not going anywhere.”
Her grip tightens slightly, like she’s emphasizing every word through touch as much as speech. “No one could ever take you away from me,” she says again, slower this time, making absolutely certain you hear her. “No one.”
Something inside you cracks open completely at that. You bury your face against her shoulder with a small, broken sound before you can stop yourself, your body finally giving in to the panic you’d been holding rigidly at bay since the moment you heard that terrible voice at the fence.
Alexia just holds you tighter as you sob into her neck. One of her hands slides slowly through your hair while the other stays firm against your back, grounding you against her as she presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head, then another, murmuring soft reassurances between them so quietly only you can hear.
“I’ve got you.”
“You’re safe.”
“You’re mine and you’re not going anywhere.”
Your breathing stays uneven for a while, hitching painfully every few seconds despite your attempts to calm down, but Alexia never rushes you, never loosens her hold or asks you to pull yourself together. She simply stands there in the middle of the training ground, holding you like protecting you is the most obvious thing in the world.
Eventually, slowly, your breathing begins to settle against her shoulder. And even then, she doesn’t let go.
3:
You’re not someone who shows pain easily.
You learned a long time ago that discomfort was something to survive quietly, that weakness only became dangerous once other people could see it, so you got very good at swallowing it down before anyone noticed. Bruises, exhaustion, hunger, fear - it all gets tucked away behind clenched teeth and stubbornness until it eventually passes or breaks you, whichever comes first.
It is almost certainly a trauma response. You know that. And you are fairly confident your new therapist is eventually going to have a field day unpacking it once she notices the pattern, but thankfully the conversation hasn’t quite gotten there yet.
Still, now that your life has become something steadier, safer, warmer in ways you’re slowly beginning to trust, it feels like some hidden switch inside you has flipped without permission. Because suddenly there is someone you’re allowed to lean on. Someone who doesn’t recoil from it.
And apparently, once your brain realized that, it decided to overcorrect dramatically. Which is why being sick has transformed you into the most pathetic version of yourself imaginable.
Affection is not something Alexia withholds from you even under normal circumstances. She hugs you constantly, ruffles your hair whenever you walk past her, presses absent-minded kisses to your forehead while talking to you like it’s second nature.
But you almost never initiate it yourself. It’s not like you don’t want to. There’s just some deeply ingrained part of you that still feels like you need a reason first, an excuse solid enough to justify asking for comfort out loud.
So most of the time you wait for moments that already leave you cracked open enough to make the reaching unavoidable - after big matches when the adrenaline is still humming through your veins and you throw yourself into her arms without thinking, after nightmares when you wake up shaking and find yourself drifting toward her room before your pride can stop you, after injuries or panic attacks or bad days when the need outweighs the fear of being too much.
Those are the only times it feels acceptable to you, like there has to be a visible wound before you’re allowed to ask to be held. And even now, after everything, there is still a tiny hesitant part of you that waits for permission before reaching too far.
Except today you have an excuse. And you intend to exploit it fully.
You wake up feeling awful, your body heavy and achy beneath the blankets, your skin too hot while somehow still leaving you shivering hard enough to make your teeth chatter slightly.
By the time you make it downstairs, wrapped dramatically in one of Alexia’s oversized hoodies, you apparently look rough enough that Alexia takes one glance at you from the kitchen and immediately abandons the coffee she’s making.
“Oh, no,” she murmurs, crossing the room quickly.
Her palm settles against your forehead first, cool enough that you practically melt into it on instinct, your eyes fluttering shut as your overheated body chases the relief.
“You need to go back to bed,” she says gently, her brows pulling together in concern. “You have a fever.”
You lean farther into her hand shamelessly, your body practically draped against hers now as she moves her other hand to the back of your neck, checking there too with the same careful focus she uses for injuries.
“Mhm,” she hums softly. “Definitely a fever.”
You groan weakly in response, mostly for dramatic effect.
“No training today,” she continues firmly, already slipping fully into caretaker mode. “Your body is fighting something and you need to rest, okay?”
Instead of answering properly, you let out a miserable little whine and throw your entire body weight against her dramatically, nearly folding yourself straight into her chest.
Alexia immediately smiles, because despite your theatrics, she knows exactly what this is.
The clinginess. The deliberate helplessness. The fact that you are absolutely milking this illness for every ounce of affection possible.
And unfortunately for her, she finds it deeply endearing.
“Ay, petita,” she laughs softly, pressing a kiss against your sweaty temple before rubbing a soothing hand up and down your back. “Come on. Let’s get you back upstairs.”
You make absolutely no effort to move. In fact, you go limp on purpose, forcing her to support most of your weight while you cling dramatically to her shoulders like a very sickly koala.
Alexia snorts out a laugh. “You are unbelievable,” she mutters affectionately, half carrying and half dragging you toward the stairs while you continue pretending your illness has rendered your legs entirely useless.
“If I have to go back to bed,” you mumble against her shoulder, “can I at least lay in your bed?”
Alexia glances down at you suspiciously. “Why do you want to be in my bed?” she asks, amused already. “Is something wrong with yours?”
You shake your head quickly, suddenly a little embarrassed now that you’ve actually said it out loud, but also painfully aware that in your current fragile, feverish state, Alexia would probably hand you the moon if you asked convincingly enough.
“Noooo,” you whine softly. “But yours is more comfy.” You tilt your head back just enough to hit her with your best miserable puppy eyes. “And I think it’ll make me feel better.”
Alexia stares at you for a long moment, clearly trying and failing not to smile too much.
“You’re such a princess,” she informs you finally, though her voice is fond enough to ruin the accusation entirely.
“Please?” You grin weakly.
She shakes her head affectionately, already defeated. “Okay,” she sighs dramatically. “But you go upstairs now and get cozy while I bring you medicine and a cold cloth, alright?”
You nod immediately, suddenly cured enough to become energetic again as you peel yourself off her and start hurrying toward the stairs.
Well “hurrying” might be generous. You bound up the first three steps with surprising enthusiasm before your feverish body immediately reminds you that you are, in fact, sick, your legs turning heavy and achy fast enough that you slow to a sluggish climb while Alexia watches from below with deeply entertained concern.
“There she is,” she calls up dryly. “Miraculous recovery lasted almost seven seconds.”
You glare weakly at her over the railing. “I’m fighting for my life.”
Alexia laughs softly to herself as she watches you continue your painfully dramatic ascent upstairs.
You enter her room slowly, pausing briefly in the doorway as your eyes sweep across the familiar space with a strange sort of caution, like you’re stepping into somewhere important.
You’ve been in here before, of course. Tentatively wandering in while she finished getting ready in the bathroom, sitting carefully on the edge of her bed while she did her makeup and talked to you about training or school or whatever ridiculous thing Alba had texted her that morning. Sometimes you would lay on the rug near the window while she folded laundry, listening to her hum absentmindedly under her breath while she worked.
But you’ve never really been in here without her.
Privacy is still something that feels oddly sacred to you, mostly because before Alexia you’d never actually had any. Bedrooms had always been shared or temporary or entered without knocking, your belongings touched and moved around whenever someone else felt like it.
So even now, after finally feeling settled, you try carefully not to intrude on spaces that belong entirely to her, the same way she has always been so deliberate about respecting yours.
But now you have permission and apparently being feverish has dissolved whatever remaining boundaries your pride normally clings to.
You wander farther into the room slowly, your neck craning slightly as you take everything in with fresh eyes. The large landscape paintings above her bed, all soft blues and golds and coastlines. The oversized cream chair tucked near the windows where she sometimes sits to read scouting reports. The walk-in closet slightly ajar, revealing rows and rows of neatly organized clothes, more than you think you could realistically wear in five lifetimes.
Your gaze drifts toward the chest of drawers against the far wall, lined with framed photographs.
There’s the picture of Alexia and Alba as children missing half their front teeth while grinning at the camera with grass stains all over their knees. A photo of her father with his arm around her shoulders that you’ve seen before because she pauses at it sometimes when she thinks no one notices. Another of her mom and Alba smiling on some beach vacation somewhere impossibly beautiful.
Then your eyes catch on one you don’t recognize. You stop moving entirely.
It’s a picture Alba took after the Clàssic a few weeks ago, sometime during the celebration after the final whistle when everyone had still been riding the high of the win. Alexia’s arm is wrapped securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss against your forehead, and you’re looking directly at the camera with this huge unguarded grin that almost startles you to look at now, because you look so undeniably happy in it.
Happy and safe and loved.
You stare at the photograph for a long moment, your chest tightening strangely when you realize she didn’t just save it on her phone somewhere. She printed it, framed it, and put it here. In her room. Among the people she loves most.
Your stomach erupts into butterflies so violently it’s honestly embarrassing, and you quickly force yourself to look away before your tired brain spirals into something unbearably emotional about it.
You eventually drift toward the bed and sit down carefully near the edge.
It’s perfectly made, obviously, the duvet smooth and crisp enough that it looks like it belongs in a magazine because perfectionist Alexia is physically incapable of leaving a bed messy.
You sit there for a second debating with yourself. Going on the bed feels normal enough. Going under the covers somehow feels far more intimate. Too much, maybe.
Your brain briefly considers staying politely on top of the blankets like a civilized person. Then another violent shiver wracks through your body hard enough to make your teeth chatter.
Yeah. Forget civilized.
You pull back the duvet clumsily and shimmy beneath the soft sheets with absolutely zero dignity, immediately sinking into warmth that smells faintly like Alexia’s detergent and vanilla and something else distinctly her. You let out a small, involuntary sigh the second your head settles against her pillow.
A few minutes later, Alexia nudges the bedroom door open carefully with her hip, balancing a steaming mug of tea in one hand while the other holds a damp cloth, a bottle of medicine tucked securely beneath her arm.
She pauses when she sees you fully cocooned beneath her blankets, only the top half of your face visible above the duvet, your fever-flushed cheeks pressed into her pillow. The look that crosses her face then is so openly fond and tender it makes you blink.
“What?” you mumble suspiciously, your voice rough and scratchy from sleep and fever as you squint at her from beneath the blankets.
“Nothing,” she says quickly, though the smile tugging at her mouth makes it obvious it’s absolutely not nothing. She shakes her head lightly as she walks toward the bed. “You’re just very cute, petita, and I love you a lot.”
Something warm and embarrassingly emotional unfurls in your chest immediately.
“I love you too,” you mumble back automatically, already burrowing deeper into the pillow afterward like hiding inside her bedding might somehow protect you from the vulnerability of saying it out loud so easily now.
Alexia’s expression softens even further at that, though thankfully she decides not to make a big deal out of it. Instead she sets the tea carefully on the bedside table before moving closer, one hand sliding gently behind your shoulders.
“Okay, sit up for me a little,” she murmurs.
You immediately groan in protest. “Noooo.”
“Yes,” she counters calmly, already helping guide you upright despite your dramatic suffering. “Medicine first, then you can go back to being tragically ill.”
You grumble something deeply pathetic under your breath while she laughs quietly, steadying you carefully against her chest as she hands you the pills and then the tea.
“Take it, okay?” she says gently. “It’ll help with the fever.”
This time you obey without argument, mostly because your head feels like it’s being split open from the inside and your bones ache in a way that makes existing feel exhausting.
Once you finish, Alexia takes the mug from your hands and helps lower you carefully back against the pillows, fussing with them afterward until they’re arranged exactly how she wants, fluffing one beneath your neck before tucking the duvet securely beneath your chin.
“There,” she murmurs approvingly. “Better.”
Her fingers brush gently through your hair, sweeping the damp strands back from your forehead before she places the cold cloth there with careful hands. Relief floods through you instantly. You let out a small sigh, your eyes falling closed as the coolness settles against your overheated skin.
“Gràcies,” you mumble weakly.
“Of course, bebé.”
You stay still for a moment after that, hovering somewhere between awake and asleep while the medicine slowly begins dulling the sharp edges of your fever.
Eventually you feel the mattress shift beside you and your eyes shoot open. Alexia pauses halfway into climbing onto the bed, clearly catching the surprise on your face.
“Is it okay if I lay with you?” she asks softly, one knee still pressed into the mattress while she watches you carefully. “Or would you rather rest alone?”
“Yes,” you answer so quickly it almost overlaps her question. Then you blink, suddenly aware of how eager that sounded. “I mean…” you mumble awkwardly, tugging the blanket slightly higher. “It’s your bed.”
Alexia smiles, warmth flickering across her face at your obvious embarrassment, but mercifully decides not to tease you for it. Instead she settles beside you carefully, laying on her side with one arm tucked beneath her head so she can look at you properly.
Her hand reaches out to adjust the cold cloth slipping crookedly across your forehead, her fingertips brushing softly along your cheek afterward. You lean into the touch without even thinking about it, fever and exhaustion stripping away whatever pride normally slows you down. The corners of her mouth twitch upward faintly at that.
“Come here, carinyo.” She opens her arms toward you slightly and that’s all the invitation you need.
You immediately curl toward her, pressing yourself against her chest while she wraps both arms securely around you, one hand sliding up into your hair while the other settles warmly between your shoulder blades. Somewhere in the process you tug the now-warm compress off your forehead and let it fall forgotten off the bed because honestly this feels infinitely more healing anyway.
You burrow closer instinctively, your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of her shirt while her fingers continue moving slowly through your hair over and over again, rhythmic and soothing in a way that makes every tight, aching part of you slowly start to loosen.
You breathe in deeply. Vanilla lotion. The soft floral scent of her perfume lingering faintly against her skin. The smell fills your lungs and something in your body finally unclenches completely, your shoulders relaxing against her for the first time all day as exhaustion begins pulling you steadily toward sleep.
Above you, Alexia presses another gentle kiss into your hair and tightens her arms around you slightly, like she can physically hold the fever away if she tries hard enough.
“Sleep, mi vida,” she murmurs against the top of your head, her voice warm and impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”
Words of affection are not something Alexia ever withholds from you either.
She tells you she loves you every single day with the same easy certainty other people use to comment on the weather. She calls you every nickname imaginable, each one somehow sounding entirely natural coming from her mouth - petita, bebé, amor meu, carinyo, mi vida. Sometimes she invents new ones on the spot just to make you roll your eyes dramatically at her.
And every single time, something warm blooms inside your chest so quickly it almost hurts. You’ve never really had names for her in return. Not beyond Ale. Because anything else has always felt too big somehow, too vulnerable to say out loud when you still aren’t entirely sure what you’re allowed to call someone who has become this important to you.
But apparently your feverish, exhausted, emotionally defenseless brain has decided that problem no longer matters.
Because right as sleep finally starts dragging you fully under, your body warm and heavy against her chest while her fingers continue combing slowly through your hair, the words slip out completely unprompted.
Soft and sleepy. Barely more than a whisper.
“T’estimo, mama.”
You are already too far gone to really process what you’ve said. Too exhausted to feel the way Alexia’s entire body stills beneath you. Too close to sleep to notice the sharp inhale she takes, or the way her hand pauses in your hair for just half a second before trembling slightly when it starts moving again.
You don’t see the tears immediately gathering in her eyes either, bright and sudden and entirely vulnerable in a way almost no one ever gets to witness from her.
For a long moment, she simply looks down at you curled trustingly against her chest, your breathing finally slow and even now, your feverish face relaxed in sleep while one of your hands still grips loosely at the fabric of her shirt like even unconscious you want to stay close.
Something in Alexia’s expression breaks open completely then. Like some final wall inside her quietly giving way. She lowers her head and presses another kiss into your hair, more delicate than any she’s ever given you before, lingering there for an extra second as her eyes close briefly.
“T’estimo, filla,” she whispers back, her voice thick with emotion. “Moltíssim.” [I love you too, daughter. So, so much.]
4:
You should have known right from the start of the night that it was going to end badly. In hindsight, the warning signs had been everywhere.
You had just won the league, the locker room still buzzing with the kind of happiness that only comes after months of work finally paying off. Music blasted from someone’s speaker, bottles of water had already become makeshift champagne replacements, and every few seconds another player would get dragged into a celebratory hug whether they wanted one or not.
Naturally, Alexia was attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Which, considering the circumstances, was a completely hopeless endeavor.
“We have a Champions League semifinal in one week,” she reminded everyone for what was probably the third or fourth time that evening, standing in the middle of the locker room with her arms folded across her chest. “So celebrate, enjoy yourselves, have fun, but please try not to do anything stupid.”
Her gaze landed directly on Pina and Cata.
Pina immediately looked offended. “Why are you looking at me?”
“Because speaking from experience,” Alexia replied without missing a beat, “you’re usually involved when something stupid happens… CATAchaça and PINAcolada.”
The locker room erupted into laughter while Pina clutched her chest dramatically. Cata just pointed and laughed, not even trying to defend herself.
Alexia remained completely unmoved. “One week,” she repeated firmly. “That is all I am asking for.”
The problem was that while her attention was fixed on the usual suspects, she was completely missing the real danger. Because on the opposite side of the room, Vicky and Serra had already made eye contact and were wiggling their eyebrows at each other conspiratorially.
Some sort of plan was already forming. You saw it happen and maybe you should have been concerned but instead, you laughed. Which was probably your first mistake.
By the time the official celebrations begin winding down and players start splitting into smaller groups, you have forgotten about the look they shared earlier. You’re standing near your locker packing the last of your gear into your bag when Vicky suddenly appears on one side of you and Serra appears on the other, the coordinated maneuver suspicious enough that alarm bells should probably start ringing immediately.
“We’re going out tonight.”
You blink at them. “What?”
“We’re going out tonight,” Vicky repeats, as though she has just informed you of something obvious.
Your eyes widen instantly. “But Ale just said-”
“What Ale doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Vicky interrupts, lowering her voice mischievously as a deeply concerning grin spreads across her face.
Beside her, Serra nods with complete confidence. “Exactly.”
You stare at both of them. “That feels very much like the opposite of how that works.”
Neither of them looks remotely convinced.
You hesitate, your mind immediately jumping to all the reasons this is probably a bad idea, the most obvious being that Alexia would absolutely hate it. But when you look between them, both of them watching you expectantly, something warmer pushes against your reservations.
Over the past several months, your friendship with them had grown in ways you never really expected. What had started as occasional lunch invitations and persistent attempts to drag you into conversations had gradually become coffee runs after training, afternoons at the beach, movie nights, and group chats that somehow accumulated hundreds of messages while you were asleep.
For the first time in your life, friendship felt easy.
You didn’t spend every interaction waiting for the other shoe to drop or wondering if people were only being kind because they felt obligated to be. When Clara texted you to come get coffee or Vicky showed up at your door demanding you go watch the sunset with them, it was because they genuinely wanted you there.
They aren’t including you because Alexia had asked them to. They didn’t keep you around out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way they had simply become your friends, and you had become theirs.
Maybe that’s why saying yes feels so important.
Because when you look at them now, both practically vibrating with excitement as they wait for your answer, you can’t help feeling excited too. It feels good to belong somewhere, to be wanted without having to earn it first, and for a girl who had spent most of her life expecting connections to disappear the moment she relaxed, that feeling was still a little bit miraculous.
“Okay,” you finally say, a smile spreading across your face despite yourself. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
The reaction is immediate. Both of them cheer loud enough that several nearby teammates turn to look.
“I’ll go tell Ale,” you say, already turning toward where Alexia is finishing an interview with club media.
You make it exactly three steps before Vicky grabs your arm. “No.”
You look back questioningly, “Why not?”
The look Vicky and Serra exchange makes your stomach drop. Because whenever those two share a glance like that, it usually means they’re about to do something incredibly stupid. And worse, they’re usually very proud of it.
“Because,” Vicky explains patiently, like she’s speaking to a particularly slow child, “if we tell her we’re going out, she is never gonna let you come.”
You huff at that, a little embarrassed to be reminded of your age in front of your cool older teammates.
You’re only a few weeks away from seventeen, but unfortunately that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone. Being the youngest player on the team means everyone treats you like some combination of little sister, mascot, and their mildly accident-prone child. Being known as Alexia’s kid - whatever that meant - certainly doesn’t help matters either.
“It’s all good though,” Serra says, clapping a hand onto your shoulder. “We have a plan.” That sentence immediately makes you nervous. “We’re going to tell her we’re having a sleepover at Vicky’s.”
You stare at both of them. Neither looks remotely concerned by how terrible that plan sounds. Eventually, against your better judgment, you nod and allow yourself to be dragged across the room toward your guardian.
“Hermanaaaa,” Vicky calls dramatically as soon as she’s within earshot.
Alexia looks up with immediate suspicion. You watch her eyes narrow before they slide past Vicky’s shoulder and land directly on you. The look she gives you is unmistakable: What are they doing?
You can only shrug helplessly and point toward Vicky.
Alexia somehow grows even more suspicious and Vicky throws an arm around your shoulders before she can ask questions.
“So,” she begins casually, which is already a terrible sign, “Clara and I were thinking that since we just won the league and everything, maybe we could have a little sleepover tonight. At my apartment.”
Alexia says nothing so Vicky continues talking. Which is another terrible sign.
“You know, just movies and junk food and celebrating.”
Still nothing. Alexia’s gaze slowly shifts toward you. You immediately become fascinated by a nearby wall.
“Uh-huh,” she says.
“We’ll be very responsible.”
“Mm.”
“And try to go to bed early?”
“Mhmm.”
Vicky is starting to sweat. You can tell. Unfortunately, Alexia can too.
The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable before Alexia finally sighs and rubs a hand across her forehead.
“Fine.”
Vicky’s entire face lights up. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Both Vicky and Serra let out triumphant cheers and jump around you.
“But you bring her back in one piece, you hear me?” Alexia says, pointing a warning finger at them.
The girls are already celebrating too hard to listen. Alexia watches them for a moment before her expression softens slightly.
Truthfully, she isn’t entirely convinced this is a good idea. You usually crash hard after big matches, especially emotional ones, and she can already see the exhaustion lurking beneath your excitement. But at the same time, seeing you build friendships with people your own age has been one of her favorite things to watch this season.
For a long time, your entire world had revolved around her. And while Alexia secretly loves that more than she should, she also knows it isn’t healthy for a teenager to spend every waking moment following a thirty-two-year-old woman around. You deserve friends. You deserve people who understand what it’s like to be your age. You deserve a life that exists outside of her.
So she ignores the small voice telling her this is probably a terrible idea.
Vicky and Clara sprint off to collect their things before she can change her mind.
You linger for a moment after the girls disappear, your feet rooted to the floor even as the rest of the room continues moving around you. Alexia notices immediately, as she always does, her attention finding you as naturally as breathing.
“You sure you’re okay going to Vicky’s?” she asks, her voice softening slightly now that the others are out of earshot. “You know you’re allowed to say no, right? They won’t be upset if you’d rather come home.”
The concern is genuine. If you told her right now that you wanted to leave with her instead, she would text Vicky an apology and have you in the car before either of them could protest.
You nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, I know.” You glance toward the door where your friends disappeared. “I think it’ll be fun though.”
Alexia studies your face for another moment, making sure you’re telling the truth and not just agreeing because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her because her shoulders relax and a smile slowly appears.
“Okay then,” she says warmly. “Have fun, and be good.”
Before you can respond, she pulls you into a hug, one arm wrapping securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss to the top of your head. The affection is so familiar now that you instinctively lean into it.
“I’m very proud of you, petita,” she murmurs.
Something in her voice makes you look up. Her eyes are a little shinier than usual when she pulls back, her hands settling on your shoulders as she holds you at arm’s length for a second, like she’s trying to memorize the moment.
“Your first league trophy,” she says softly, a smile spreading across her face. “I know it’ll be the first of many for you, but the first one is always special, no?”
The pride in her expression is almost overwhelming.
“I still remember mine,” she continues with a quiet laugh. “You spend years dreaming about it and then suddenly it’s real and you’re standing there holding it thinking, that’s it? That’s what all those years felt like?”
You laugh softly.
Alexia’s smile widens.
“Maybe tomorrow we celebrate properly,” she suggests. “Just us. We could get a pizza and take it to the beach, sit by the water for a few hours.”
She says it so hopefully and there is so much pride behind it that your stomach twists painfully with guilt.
Because she’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. Because she’s trusting you. And you’re lying to her.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I’d like that a lot.”
Something softens immediately in her expression. “Good.”
She pulls you into another hug before you can say anything else, holding you close for a moment while she presses another kiss into your hair.
And as you hug her back, surrounded by her warmth and her pride and her absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, the guilt settles a little heavier in your chest than it did before.
------
The guilt doesn’t disappear entirely. It just gets drowned out.
First by laughter then by music then by the simple, unfamiliar joy of being sixteen years old and surrounded by people who genuinely want you there.
It's difficult to dwell on guilt when you’re doubled over laughing in the middle of Vicky’s apartment while Serra attempts to explain why her outfit absolutely qualifies as “subtle.”
The evening starts innocently enough.
There are bags of chips spread across the coffee table, half-empty boxes of fries balanced on the kitchen counter, and a movie playing on the television that nobody is actually watching because the three of you keep talking over it every thirty seconds.
And technically - technically - nobody has lied yet. You are at Vicky’s apartment. You are having a sleepover. There is a movie playing.
If Alexia suddenly called right now, every word Vicky told her would be true. Mostly. That technicality makes you feel significantly better.
At least until Clara disappears into the kitchen and returns carrying three drinks. Your eyes immediately narrow. Vicky immediately starts grinning.
She places one in front of you before settling back onto the couch. You stare at it for a second. The drink itself isn’t particularly intimidating, but it’s still enough to make you hesitate.
You’ve never really been interested in alcohol before. Between football and school and trying to survive the rest of your life, it simply never felt important enough to think about.
But tonight feels different. It’s not like anyone is pressuring you and you’re not trying to impress anybody. You’re just sitting on a couch with your friends after winning the league and for once there isn’t a single responsibility demanding your attention.
So when Clara lifts her glass toward you, you find yourself lifting yours too.
The first sip makes you wrinkle your nose. The second is considerably better. By the third, you’re laughing again as Vicky dramatically insists the drink tastes sophisticated while Clara informs her that nothing containing that much soda and fruit juice qualifies as sophisticated.
By the time you’re piling into a taxi half an hour later, a warm pleasant feeling has begun spreading through your chest and shoulders, softening the edges of everything around you.
The city lights seem brighter. The music seems better. Your teammates seem even funnier than usual.
Vicky spends most of the ride talking with her hands while Clara argues passionately about something neither of them can fully remember anymore. You jump into the conversation whenever a thought occurs to you, and almost every time you do, the entire backseat dissolves into laughter.
You find yourself smiling constantly.
It’s not even because of the drinks but because you’re happy. Because for the first time in your life, celebrating success doesn’t feel lonely.
For so many years every achievement had been followed by the same thing: going home, sitting quietly with it by yourself, and trying not to think too hard about how nobody was waiting there to be proud of you.
Tonight is different. Tonight there are people beside you who understand exactly how hard you’ve worked for this. People who were there for the early mornings and the extra sessions and the tears and the setbacks. People who know exactly what this trophy cost.
And they want to celebrate it with you.
The realization settles warmly in your chest as the taxi turns a corner and the club finally comes into view.
The place is absolutely packed. Music pours into the street every time the front doors open, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your feet while colorful lights flash across the crowd gathered outside. A line stretches halfway down the block, groups of people talking and laughing beneath the glow of the signs overhead.
You can’t stop yourself from staring. Even from here you can feel the energy rolling out of the building.
Vicky notices immediately, a grin spreads across her face. “First club?”
You shoot her an unimpressed look. “You know it’s my first club.”
“Fair.” She looks entirely too pleased by that fact.
The three of you make your way toward the entrance, weaving through clusters of people who instantly begin recognizing them. Congratulations are called out from several directions. Someone asks for a photo. Another person shouts something about the league title that makes Clara laugh. None of it seems unusual to either of them.
When you finally reach the front, the bouncer takes one look at Vicky and immediately breaks into a smile. “Well, if it isn’t our champions.”
Vicky bows dramatically. “Thank you, thank you.”
He rolls his eyes before stepping aside. “Congratulations on the league. Let’s bring home that European title too, ok?”
As he opens the rope, his gaze drifts briefly toward you. Recognition flickers across his face and his eyebrows rise slightly.
“Look at that,” he says with an amused smile. “They even brought Alexia’s kid.”
Your stomach does a strange little flip and heat rushes to your face. Because apparently even here, miles away from the training ground and Alexia’s watchful eyes, everyone still knows exactly who you are. Or maybe more accurately - whose you are.
Before you can formulate any sort of response, Vicky hooks her arm through yours and begins dragging you toward the entrance.
The club is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Hundreds of people move together beneath flashing lights that change color every few seconds, washing the crowd in alternating shades of blue and pink and purple. The bass is so loud you can feel it vibrating through your ribs, while somewhere above the dance floor a DJ stands on an elevated platform, one arm raised triumphantly as the crowd roars back at him.
It’s overwhelming and somehow energizing at the same time.
You’ve never really been the type for house parties, partly because nobody ever invited you to them and partly because spending your weekends training had always felt more important than sneaking around looking for trouble. Left entirely to your own devices, you probably never would have found yourself somewhere like this.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who was telling the story, you have Vicky and Clara.
The two of them immediately hook their arms through yours as soon as they notice your attention wandering, creating a human chain as they guide you through the crowd.
“We’re not losing you in here,” Clara informs you.
“Stay between us, rookie.” Vicky squeezes your arm affectionately.
The three of you weave through the sea of people until you finally reach the bar, where Vicky turns toward you with an expectant look. “Do you want water?”
You glance at the drinks everyone around you seems to be holding.
“No,” you decide. “I’ll just have whatever you guys are having.”
It turns out their choice is tequila. A decision you regret almost instantly.
The shot burns all the way down, your face scrunching up dramatically as you cough and grab for the nearest glass of water.
“Oh my god.” Your eyes begin watering immediately. “That is disgusting.”
They double over laughing while you glare at them through watery eyes.
“You looked so confident,” Clara manages between laughs.
“I was confident.”
“Clearly...”
“I thought it would taste better.”
That only makes them laugh harder.
Vicky slings an arm around your shoulders. “We’re teaching you how to do that properly.”
“No.”
“Hmmm… yes!”
She and Clara exchange another one of those eyebrow wiggles that have never once led to anything good.
You immediately decide you don’t want to know what they’re planning.
Fortunately, the conversation dies when a new song starts and the crowd erupts around you. Vicky lets out an excited gasp. Clara points dramatically toward the dance floor. And before you can object, both of them are dragging you back into the crowd.
The next hour passes in a blur of music and laughter.
Your hands are in the air more often than not. Your hair sticks to your face. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
At one point Vicky nearly falls over trying to spin Clara. At another, Clara accidentally elbows three people around them and spends the next five minutes denying it happened despite multiple eyewitnesses.
You laugh until your stomach hurts. You dance until your legs ache. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, surrounded by music and flashing lights and your friends singing lyrics they barely know, a warm feeling settles in your chest.
For so much of your life, happiness had always come with conditions attached to it. There was always something waiting on the other side - a problem to solve, a consequence to avoid, a voice reminding you not to get too comfortable because good things never seemed to last very long.
But tonight feels different. Tonight there is only the music vibrating through your ribs, Clara nearly losing a shoe in the crowd, Vicky screaming every chorus directly into your ear, and the strange, wonderful realization that nobody here expects anything from you besides showing up and having fun.
You think maybe this is what being normal feels like. The thought makes you smile.
Vicky is in the middle of passionately explaining why she should be the team DJ and not Patri when her eyes suddenly slide past your shoulder.
Her sentence cuts off and her expression changes. A grin begins spreading across her face.
“Oh.”
“Oh what?” you ask.
Vicky doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs your arm and physically pulls you closer, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal classified information.
“Don’t look now,” she says. “But there is a really pretty girl staring at you by the bar.”
Which, naturally, guarantees that you immediately look. Your head whips around so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
Vicky lets out a horrified groan. “Oh my God.”
“What?” you ask defensively.
“You looked!”
“Well how else am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
Vicky presses a hand dramatically to her forehead. “Young padawan,” she says solemnly, “I have so much to teach you.”
You ignore her and glance back toward the bar. The girl is still looking at you and now she knows you’ve caught her. Heat rushes into your face.
She smiles. You smile back.
The girl lifts her hand in a small wave. Your stomach immediately does something deeply embarrassing.
Beside you, Vicky makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a proud parent. “Oh she’s cute.”
“Vicky please stop.
“And she’s definitely looking at you.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. Unfortunately, that only encourages them.
For the next several minutes they proceed to hype themselves into a frenzy while you repeatedly insist that you are absolutely not going to walk across a crowded club and introduce yourself to a stranger.
Eventually Clara has enough and physically places both hands on your shoulders and turns you toward the bar.
“Go.” Clara punctuates the command with a gentle shove between your shoulder blades before you can come up with another excuse.
You stumble forward a step and immediately turn back to glare at them. “Traitors.”
Neither of them looks remotely guilty. In fact, they look delighted.
“Good luck!” Vicky calls after you, cupping her hands around her mouth like she’s sending a soldier off to war.
Clara is laughing too hard to contribute anything useful, though she does give you an enthusiastic thumbs-up that somehow makes the entire situation feel even more humiliating.
You spend the walk to the bar trying desperately to remember how normal human beings are supposed to interact with attractive strangers.
Unfortunately, this is not a skill you’ve ever really had reason to develop. Football has always made sense to you. Defensive structures make sense. Pressing triggers make sense. The correct weight and angle of a through ball make sense.
This? This feels significantly more complicated.
By the time you reach the bar, you’ve completely forgotten whatever plan you had managed to come up with.
“Hi…” you manage awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck as you stop beside her.
The girl’s entire face brightens immediately. Up close she’s somehow even prettier than she looked from across the room. Her features are softer than you’d realized beneath the flashing club lights, and she looks younger too, probably close to your own age rather than the university student you’d imagined from a distance.
“Hi,” she says warmly, like she’s genuinely happy you walked over. “I’m Lia.”
You tell her your name.
Her smile widens. “I know.”
That should probably register as strange. It should probably make you wonder how she knows who you are. Instead, your brain becomes completely occupied with the fact that she’s smiling at you.
The conversation starts easily after that, which surprises you almost as much as it relieves you. You’d expected awkward pauses and forced small talk, but somehow neither ever arrives. Lia has an effortless way of keeping conversations moving, jumping between topics so naturally that before you realize it the two of you have been talking for nearly half an hour.
Even more surprisingly, she somehow gets you talking. Usually you’re content to let other people carry conversations while you listen from the sidelines, but Lia keeps asking questions that are easy to answer and then actually seems interested in what you have to say. Before long you’re talking about music and school and football and the absurd things your teammates do on a daily basis.
Somewhere along the way she offers to buy you a drink. You agree without thinking much about it. Then later she offers another. And later still, another.
You don’t really notice the pattern forming. You’re too busy enjoying yourself.
The warm buzz that had started earlier is becoming stronger now, making everything feel a little softer around the edges. The music seems better. Your jokes seem funnier. Lia’s smile seems brighter every time she directs it your way.
Which is probably why it takes you much longer than it should to notice when the questions start to shift, drifting away from the playful, harmless things you’d been talking about earlier.
At first it doesn’t seem strange.
“So what’s it actually like playing for Barça?”
You shrug and answer. You tell her about training and travel and how surreal it still feels sometimes when you walk into the locker room and realize you’re surrounded by the players you idolized as a child.
She laughs in all the right places. Nods attentively. Seems genuinely interested. A few minutes later she asks another question.
“What’s Alexia really like?”
That one feels normal too. Everybody asks that. Fans ask it. Reporters ask it. Even your classmates ask it whenever they find out who you live with. Any connection with one of the most famous footballers in the world means that sooner or later every conversation circles back to her.
So you smile and say, “She’s great.”
Lia laughs. “That’s the boring answer.”
You grin despite yourself. “She’s also bossy.”
“There we go.”
You tell a story about Alexia confiscating your phone during a movie because you’d been playing some ‘stupid game’ instead of paying attention. Lia laughs hard enough that you find yourself relaxing again.
For a few moments the conversation continues comfortably. Then Lia tilts her head.
“She’s basically your mom, right?”
You blink. The question catches you so off guard that you genuinely don’t know how to answer for a second.
“What?”
Lia shrugs lightly before taking another sip of her drink. “I mean, everyone says you’re her daughter.”
You let out an awkward laugh. “No.”
The answer comes automatically. It’s the same answer you’ve given a dozen times before. But this time you hesitate. Because that isn’t entirely true either... not anymore. Not after everything that’s happened.
Not after hospital rooms and physical therapy appointments and sleepless nights spent sitting beside your bed. Not after being tucked into blankets when you were sick or picked up from school when it rained or scolded for skipping breakfast before training. Not after being loved so thoroughly and consistently that somewhere along the way you stopped feeling like a guest in her life and started feeling like you belonged there.
The simple answer should still be no. And yet it doesn’t feel quite that simple anymore.
“Well…” You run your fingers through your hair awkwardly. “Not really.”
Lia leans forward slightly. “Not really?”
You shrug. “I live with her. She’s my guardian.”
The words feel strangely inadequate. Like they leave out all the important parts.
Because guardian is technically correct. Guardian is what the paperwork says. Guardian is what the lawyers and social workers and club officials call her. But guardian doesn’t really explain why she kisses your forehead when you’re tired or why she still checks that you’ve eaten after training or why hearing her call you petita feels more like home than any place you’ve ever lived.
Still, it’s easier than trying to explain all of that to a stranger.
Something flickers across Lia’s face. It’s gone so quickly you almost miss it. Interest.
But not the warm kind she’d been looking at you with earlier. It’s sharper and more focused. Like a person who has just stumbled across a detail they weren’t expecting and suddenly wants to know everything about it.
A small knot has begun forming somewhere deep in your stomach, tightening a little more every time she asks another question.
At first you try to ignore it. Maybe it’s the alcohol or you’re overthinking things or maybe you’re just not used to talking to pretty girls and your brain is finding new and creative ways to embarrass itself. But the feeling refuses to go away and the questions keep coming.
She doesn’t ask about music anymore or about school or even really about you. The questions keep circling back to Alexia, to the team, to your life in ways that feel increasingly specific.
You try to pivot and move the conversation forward, but it’s almost like each answer is leading to the next question rather than satisfying it.
You glance down at your drink then back at Lia then down again. Trying to figure out exactly when the evening changed. Trying to figure out why you suddenly feel so exposed. Like you’ve accidentally said too much. Like you’ve wandered into a conversation without understanding what it was actually about.
The music feels louder now. The lights harsher. The alcohol no longer warm and pleasant but heavy and dull. And for the first time since you sat down at the bar, you find yourself wishing you were back on the dance floor with your friends.
Because this doesn’t feel like flirting anymore. It feels like an interview.
You glance around the room, your eyes moving over the sea of strangers and flashing lights until they finally land on Vicky across the dance floor.
The panic on your face must be far more obvious than you realize because her smile instantly vanishes at your eye contact. One second she’s laughing at something Clara is saying, and the next her attention is completely focused on you. Her eyebrows draw together slightly as she follows your gaze back toward the table, taking in Lia, your half-finished drink, and the uncomfortable way you’re sitting in your chair.
You watch understanding settle across her face.
Without hesitation, she reaches out and grabs Clara’s arm. Clara stumbles slightly, looking annoyed for all of half a second before Vicky points in your direction. Whatever expression is on her face must explain everything because Clara’s posture immediately changes too.
The two of them start quickly moving toward you. The relief that floods your chest is so immediate it almost makes you dizzy.
“There you are!” Vicky announces brightly the moment she reaches the table, sounding exactly like someone who has been searching for you for hours rather than dancing twenty feet away the entire time.
The lie is so blatant that under normal circumstances you might have laughed. Right now you’re too grateful to care.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Lia’s eyebrows lift slightly. You don’t miss the way Vicky positions herself beside your chair, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours, creating a subtle barrier between you and the conversation. Before anyone can respond, she reaches down and takes your hand. The simple gesture feels strangely grounding.
“Come on,” she says. “Clara needs to go to the bathroom.”
Clara blinks. For a brief moment she looks completely confused before realization dawns.
“Oh.” A beat passes. “Right.” She nods seriously. “I do.”
Vicky gives her an approving look before turning back to you. “Can you come with us?”
The answer leaves your mouth immediately. “Yeah.” The relief is so overwhelming that you don’t even attempt to hide it.
You offer Lia a small apologetic wave before allowing yourself to be pulled away, stumbling slightly as Vicky immediately increases her pace and starts weaving through the crowd with Clara close behind.
The second you’re far enough away that the music and bodies swallow the table from view, Clara turns toward you with wide eyes.
“What the hell was that about?”
You let out a long breath, running both hands through your hair as you try to organize your thoughts through the haze of alcohol and the lingering discomfort still crawling around in your stomach.
“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. “She was cool at first. Like really cool. We were just talking about music and school and random stuff, and then…” You trail off, frowning slightly as you try to pinpoint exactly when the conversation changed. “I don’t know. Suddenly she started asking me all these weird questions.”
“Weird how?” Vicky asks immediately.
You shrug. “Just… invasive, I guess. About Alexia. About where I live. About the team. About contracts and who hangs out with who and what everyone is like behind closed doors.” The more you list them, the stranger it sounds.
Clara’s face twists in distaste. “Yeah, that’s weird.”
“Right?” You point at her emphatically. “That’s what I thought.”
“That’s not flirting.”
“No!”
“That’s legit an ESPN exclusive.”
The three of you burst out laughing. Some of the tension finally leaves your body.
Vicky wraps an arm around your shoulders and squeezes. “Well congratulations.”
“For what?”
“You survived your first fan girl. The first of many I’m sure.”
You groan dramatically. “Please never let me do that again.”
“Oh don’t worry,” Clara says. “We’re screening all future applicants.”
“You don’t get applicants.”
“I absolutely do!”
“You looked at one pretty girl and immediately got trapped for thirty minutes.”
You bury your face in your hands while both of them laugh.
The embarrassment lasts all of thirty seconds before the music from the main room swells again and Clara grabs both of your wrists. “Okay, enough of that. We came here to celebrate!”
The reminder settles something inside you. Because she’s right. You didn’t come here for some girl.
You didn’t spend the entire season training and fighting and sacrificing and pushing through injuries just to spend your night answering questions from a stranger.
You came here with your friends, people who wanted to celebrate with you.
When you look at Clara and Vicky now, both smiling at you expectantly, the lingering weirdness of the conversation suddenly feels insignificant compared to that.
“Come on then,” you say, grabbing both of their hands. “Let’s go dance.”
Within minutes you’re back on the dance floor, laughing hard enough that your stomach hurts while Clara nearly starts another incident by repeatedly stepping on strangers’ feet.
And little by little, Lia fades from your mind entirely.
What you don’t know is that she hasn’t forgotten about you.
Earlier in the night, while you and your friends had been dancing beneath the flashing lights, she’d quietly taken photos. Photos of the three of you celebrating, of you laughing, of you with drinks in your hands.
And later, after you’d left the table, she posted them.
Alongside those photos came a short series of tweets recounting parts of your conversation, including the casual admission that Alexia was your guardian and that you lived with her.
Within an hour, the posts have begun spreading.
The Barça Femení fanbase has been speculating about your relationship with Alexia for months. About how close you two seem. About why she looks after you the way she does. About why everyone on the team treats you like her child.
Now, for the first time, they think they have confirmation.
And to make matters worse, the photos show exactly where you are. At a club. On a night when Alexia believes you’re safely sleeping at Vicky’s apartment.
The posts begin spreading long before the night is over.
And with every share, every repost, every comment and screenshot, they move a little closer toward the one person you least want to see them.
------
An hour later, you are definitely drunk.
Not dangerously drunk or stumbling-unconscious drunk, but drunk enough that the world feels pleasantly softened around the edges, drunk enough that dancing has gradually devolved into jumping and yelling lyrics that none of you actually know, and drunk enough that every joke Vicky makes somehow feels like the funniest thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life.
Your feet ache from spending hours on the dance floor and your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, but neither sensation is enough to dampen your mood. If anything, they feel like proof of how much fun you’re having.
The three of you are gathered around Vicky’s phone near the edge of the dance floor, supposedly trying to order an Uber home, though the process is moving significantly slower than it should because Clara keeps offering increasingly terrible suggestions while you provide enthusiastic support for all of them.
“No, look at that one,” she insists, pointing vaguely at the screen. “We should definitely get an XL.”
You immediately nod. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Vicky stares at both of you like she’s questioning every life decision that led her to this moment.
“There are only three of us, why would we need a car that big?!”
You and Clara promptly dissolve into more laughter.
The night feels perfect. Messy and loud and ridiculous, but perfect. The sort of night that you’ll all spend years talking about afterward.
Which is probably why none of you notice the shift in the air.
It begins at the edge of the crowd. A subtle ripple of movement that works its way through the room as heads begin turning one after another, conversations faltering as people glance toward the entrance and then glance again.
You barely register it at first. Your attention is still fixed on Vicky’s phone and Clara’s increasingly passionate argument about why party buses should be an option on Uber.
Clara suddenly goes quiet. The change is so abrupt that it catches your attention. You look up just in time to see all the color drain from her face and her eyes widen.
“Oh fuck.” The words are barely audible.
Vicky frowns. “What?”
Instead of answering, Clara grabs her arm. Vicky follows her gaze and immediately freezes. The smile falls off her face so quickly that it feels unnatural.
Your stomach drops before you even turn around. Some internal warning that whatever is standing behind you, you aren’t going to like it. Slowly, you lift your head and the world seems to stop.
Alexia is standing in the middle of the club.
For a brief, disorienting second your brain refuses to process what you’re seeing because it simply doesn’t make sense. Alexia isn’t supposed to be here. Alexia is supposed to be asleep. Alexia is supposed to think you’re curled up on Vicky’s couch watching movies and eating junk food.
Instead she’s standing ten feet away, still dressed in the oversized sweatshirt and gray sweatpants she wears around the house, the sleeves pushed up unevenly and her hair pulled back in a hasty bun that looks like she threw it together while walking out the door.
The expression on her face makes every trace of alcohol evaporate from your system.
You have seen Alexia angry before. You’ve watched her argue with referees. You’ve watched her tear into rivals who commit dirty tackles. You’ve watched her stand in front of cameras after painful losses with frustration burning behind her eyes.
This is different. This is somehow worse. She isn’t making a scene, there is no yelling or dramatic explosion of emotion. Instead all of her anger has condensed into something frighteningly controlled, something sharp and deliberate and impossible to ignore.
The music continues thundering around you, lights still flashing overhead, hundreds of people still dancing and talking and laughing, but it all feels strangely distant now, muffled beneath the pounding of your own heartbeat.
Alexia’s gaze moves slowly between the three of you before finally settling on you.
The look in her eyes makes your stomach twist. Underneath the fury you see the hurt, and somehow that feels infinitely worse.
When she finally speaks, her voice is calm enough that anyone passing by might miss the danger entirely.
“We are leaving.” No one argues. No one even considers it. The authority in those three words is absolute. “Now.”
Then she turns around and starts walking toward the exit.
The three of you follow immediately. Your earlier laughter has vanished completely, replaced by a heavy silence that follows you all the way through the crowd and out into the cool night air beyond the club doors.
Nobody speaks. Not Vicky. Not Clara. Certainly not you. The only sounds are your footsteps against the pavement and the distant pulse of music spilling out behind you.
Alexia doesn’t slow down or look back as she leads you toward her car, parked carelessly at the curb in a place that is almost certainly illegal. The security guards standing nearby don’t seem particularly interested in mentioning that fact, which is probably the smartest decision anyone has made all night.
You can feel her watching you occasionally from the corner of her eye as you walk, tracking every uneven step.
You make a conscious effort to walk in a straight line, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and willing your body to cooperate, but the attempt feels almost laughable. Your head is buzzing, your limbs feel heavier than usual, and every movement requires just a little more concentration than it should.
You know she can tell and normally, if she saw you struggling even a little, she would already be beside you. She would have a hand hovering at your elbow, ready to steady you before you even stumbled, and she would probably be asking whether you’d had enough water or if your feet hurt from standing all night.
Tonight she does none of those things.
She reaches the car first, unlocks it with a sharp press of the key fob, and slides into the driver’s seat without waiting for any of you. The door slams behind her with enough force to make all three of you flinch.
The sound echoes in your chest.
Vicky is the one who helps you into the passenger seat.
The gesture is careful, almost overly so, like she’s afraid that if she moves too quickly she might somehow make the situation worse. Normally she would be teasing you mercilessly by now, making jokes about your terrible flirting skills or your complete inability to handle tequila, but tonight she doesn’t say a word.
As soon as you settle into the seat, you squeeze your eyes shut. Partly because the alcohol is making your head spin slightly. Mostly because you know that if you open them, you’ll have to look at Alexia and you aren’t sure you can handle seeing how angry she is.
The back doors open, then close. You hear Vicky and Clara climb into the backseat, suddenly so quiet that it’s almost unnerving.
The contrast is startling. The drunken giddiness that had carried all three of you through the night has evaporated entirely beneath the weight of your captain’s disappointment.
The car pulls away from the curb. Nobody speaks. Not at the first red light. Not after the second. Not even when Clara accidentally drops something and the noise makes all four of you jump.
The silence stretches longer and longer until it becomes a physical thing, heavy enough that it seems to fill every corner of the vehicle. You have never heard Vicky remain quiet for this long. You aren’t entirely convinced it’s medically possible.
Eventually curiosity gets the better of you. Very carefully, you crack one eye open.
Alexia is staring straight ahead at the road. The dashboard lights cast faint shadows across her face, highlighting the tight set of her jaw and the way her hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough that her knuckles have gone pale.
The sight makes your stomach sink. Underneath the anger, she looks tired. Exhausted, even. Like she was ripped out of sleep and immediately thrown into the worst possible version of her night.
“Ale…” you start quietly, your voice sounding much smaller than you intended. “It’s not-”
“We are not discussing this right now.” The interruption is immediate and final. The kind of tone that leaves absolutely no room for argument.
Your mouth snaps shut. Your eye closes again.
Very rarely do you find yourself on the receiving end of Alexia’s anger, and even when you do, it is usually brief and contained. She corrects you when you’ve crossed a line, makes sure you understand why, and then moves on because holding grudges has never been part of her nature.
This feels different, heavier. Like she’s still trying to sort through her own emotions before she says something she’ll regret.The realization does absolutely nothing to ease the knot growing in your stomach.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. The silence never breaks. The only sounds in the car are the hum of the engine, the occasional click of a turn signal, and the distant noise of the city drifting past outside the windows.
Eventually Alexia pulls up in front of Clara’s parents’ house. The car sits idling at the curb while Clara gathers her purse with shaking hands.
For perhaps the first time since you’ve known her, she looks genuinely nervous.
“I’m really sorry, Ale.” The apology comes out barely above a whisper.
Alexia keeps her eyes on the windshield for several seconds before finally giving a stiff nod.
She doesn’t tell Clara it’s okay. She doesn’t reassure her. She doesn’t soften the blow. And somehow that hurts worse than a lecture ever could.
Clara swallows hard. “Goodnight.”
Alexia nods again. Nothing more.
Clara climbs out of the car and shuts the door quietly behind her. Alexia waits until the front door opens and Clara disappears safely inside before putting the car back into drive.
The drive toward Vicky’s apartment somehow feels even worse. Without Clara there to absorb some of the tension, the atmosphere inside the car becomes almost unbearable.
You can practically feel Vicky’s anxiety building behind you.
“Ale, porfa,” Vicky finally says from the backseat, her voice sounding much smaller than usual after nearly twenty minutes of silence. “Please say something.”
For a moment Alexia doesn’t respond. She keeps her eyes fixed on the road ahead, the glow of streetlights sliding across her face as she drives, her expression unreadable except for the tension still visible in her jaw.
When she finally speaks, her voice sounds tired more than anything else. “Telling you how disappointed I am isn’t going to change what happened tonight.”
The words settle heavily over the car. Vicky immediately shrinks into her seat. “Ale…”
“No.” Alexia shakes her head. “No, because I honestly don’t know what you expected to happen.”
The frustration is becoming harder for her to contain now. “I’m just so disappointed in all three of you.”
You physically flinch.
Alexia notices but keeps going. “You should have known better.”
“We were safe, I swear,” Vicky rushes to say, leaning forward in her seat. “Nothing happened. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to them.”
Alexia lets out a short laugh, but there is no amusement in her tone. It’s the kind of laugh people make when they’re too frustrated to do anything else.
“Really?” The single word makes the car feel even colder. “Because from where I’m sitting, that’s clearly not true.”
Vicky opens her mouth again, but Alexia beats her to it.
“You know… considering my daughter is currently going viral on Twitter.”
The words hit the car like a grenade.
“What?!” The response comes from both you and Vicky at the exact same time.
Alexia doesn’t even look away from the road. “You heard me.”
The knot in your stomach immediately twists tighter.
Behind you, Vicky is already digging frantically through her purse for her phone, nearly dropping it in her haste. The glow of the screen illuminates her face as she scrolls, and within seconds she lets out a string of curses so creative that under different circumstances it might have made you laugh.
“That dumb fucking-” She cuts herself off before finishing the sentence. “Alexia, she was set up! You have to understand that this isn’t her fault.”
The reaction is immediate. “You think I don’t know that??” For the first time that night, Alexia’s voice rises. The sudden spike in volume is enough to make all of you jump.
She takes a long breath through her nose, visibly forcing herself to calm down before she says something harsher than she intends.
When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, but only just.
“You two need to understand something,” she says, words are directed at both of you, but her eyes flick briefly toward you. “You are public figures. You play for the biggest club in the world and because of that there are expectations whether you like them or not. Every place you go, every person you meet, every mistake you make, somebody is always watching and somebody is always recording.”
The city lights flicker across her face as she drives.
“So tonight, I honestly don’t care that some wannabe journalist decided to leak information she had no business posting online. I will deal with that in the morning.”
The promise sounds less like a possibility and more like a threat. You suddenly almost feel sorry for Lia… almost.
“What I care about is that the two of you looked me directly in the eye and lied to me. What I care about is that you knowingly ignored my instructions and deliberately put yourselves into a situation where something could have happened.” Her grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“She is sixteen, Vicky.” The disappointment in her voice somehow hurts more than the anger. “What the fuck is she doing in a nightclub?”
“Ale, it’s not her fault.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. You twist in your seat slightly, trying to look at her despite how worried you are about her reaction.
“She got me out of there when things got weird. The second I looked uncomfortable, she came and got me. Both of them did.” Your voice grows stronger as you continue.
“That girl started asking all these strange questions about you and us and the team and where I lived and stuff. I didn’t know what was happening, but Vicky did. She got me out of there right away.”
You glance back at your teammate. “She was protecting me the whole time.”
The silence that follows lasts several seconds. Long enough that you wonder whether Alexia is going to argue.
Instead, she sighs - a long, exhausted sound. “I know.” There is no uncertainty in her tone. “I know it’s not her fault.” For the first time all night, some of the anger leaves her voice. Not all of it, but just enough to reveal the fear hiding underneath.
“But that’s exactly my point.” She shakes her head. “You three should never have been in that situation to begin with.”
Nobody has an answer for that. Because she’s right.
The silence stretches again. Eventually Vicky drops her gaze to her lap.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks. “I really am.” She wipes quickly at her eyes.
“I know I lied.” The words seem to cost her something.
“I just wanted to hang out with her.” She laughs weakly, though it sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
“I wanted us to make memories together. She’s always training or studying or doing something responsible and I thought…” She pauses to wipe her eyes again. “I don’t know. I thought we could do something fun.”
Her voice drops lower. “And I was worried you’d say no.”
The confession hangs in the air. Alexia doesn’t answer, but she must notice the quiet sniffing coming from the backseat because when she finally pulls into Vicky’s apartment complex, she doesn’t immediately put the car back into drive after parking. Instead, she sits there for a moment with both hands resting on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on something beyond the windshield, before letting out a slow breath and opening her door.
Vicky follows right away.
You watch them through the passenger window as they move a few steps away from the car and stop beneath one of the streetlights lining the sidewalk. The yellow glow casts long shadows across the pavement and illuminates the tear tracks still visible on Vicky’s face. For a second neither of them says anything. Then Alexia opens her arms.
That is all it takes before Vicky folds into her instantly. The younger woman practically collapses against her, burying her face in Alexia’s shoulder as the sobs she has clearly been fighting for the last twenty minutes finally win.
You can’t hear what they’re saying through the closed windows. You can only watch.
You watch the way Alexia’s arms tighten around her. You watch the way she lowers her head so she can speak directly into her ear. You watch her rub a hand slowly up and down Vicky’s back with the same patient rhythm you’ve felt yourself more times than you can count.
Months ago, a sight like this might have hurt. Months ago, before you understood what Alexia’s love actually looked like, you might have felt that familiar sting of jealousy. You might have watched someone else receive her comfort and wondered whether there would be less left over for you afterward.
Now you simply feel relieved.
Because if Alexia is still standing there holding Vicky after everything that happened tonight, then maybe the world hasn’t ended after all. Because if Vicky is still allowed to cry into her shoulder and be forgiven, then maybe there is still hope for you too.
Eventually Alexia leans back just enough to cup Vicky’s face between both hands, wiping away tears with her thumbs while speaking softly enough that the words never reach you. Whatever she says causes Vicky to laugh through a fresh wave of tears, which in turn makes Alexia smile sadly before pulling her back into one final hug.
The entire interaction is so painfully familiar. The comfort, the reassurance, the certainty. The unspoken promise that she is angry but still loves you. That she is disappointed but not leaving and whatever happens next, she will still be there when the conversation is over.
When they finally separate, Alexia presses a kiss to the top of Vicky’s head before walking her all the way to the building entrance, waiting patiently while she punches in the code and steps inside. Even then she doesn’t leave right away, lingering on the sidewalk until the door closes behind her. Only then does she return to the car.
The difference in her is obvious. The anger that had been keeping her upright for the last hour seems to have drained away, leaving behind something far more difficult to look at.
She looks exhausted. It’s not even physical exhaustion, though there is certainly some of that too, but emotionally exhaustion in a way that makes her seem older than usual.
She settles into the driver’s seat and closes the door quietly behind her. Neither of you speaks. The car remains parked.
Outside, Barcelona continues sleeping around you, occasional headlights drifting past and distant conversations floating through the night air, but inside the vehicle everything feels strangely still.
Her phone vibrates in the cup holder. The sound breaks the silence. Alexia glances down at the screen and some more of the tension leaves her shoulders. It’s Vicky letting her know she made it upstairs.
Only after reading the message does Alexia put the car into drive and pull away from the curb.
The city slides past outside the windows in a blur of streetlights and empty sidewalks while neither of you says anything for several minutes.
Eventually, without looking away from the road, Alexia finally speaks.
“I was really scared.” The confession is so quiet and so unexpected that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard her correctly.
You turn toward her. The stoplights ahead paint soft shadows across her face, highlighting the tiredness around her eyes and the way she keeps worrying at her lower lip with her teeth.
“I thought you were at Vicky’s apartment,” she continues after a long pause. “I thought you were safe. I thought you were asleep on the couch watching movies, and then suddenly my phone started ringing.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel.
“First it was messages. Then it was people calling. Then somebody sent me photos.” She swallows. “And for twenty minutes I didn’t know where you were.”
The words make your heart ache. Because this isn’t about the club anymore. It isn’t even about the lie. It’s about fear. Real fear. The kind that had apparently been eating her alive while she was driving across the city looking for you.
“I didn’t know who you were with,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know whether those people posting photos were the same people you were with. I didn’t know if someone had given you something. I didn’t know if you were okay.”
The guilt settles so heavily in your chest that it almost hurts to breathe.
“I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you…” her voice trails off as she blinks quickly trying to keep her tears from falling.
“Ale…”
You don’t know what else to say. You don’t know how to fix any of it. So instead you repeat the words she has given you a hundred times before.
“I’m here.” Her eyes flick toward you briefly. “I’m okay.”
You reach across the center console and place your hand over hers. “I’m safe with you now.”
For the first time all night, something in her expression softens.
She turns her hand over and threads her fingers through yours. “I know, petita.”
The nickname nearly breaks your heart. Because it sounds exactly the way it always does - warm, certain, loving. As though none of that has changed.
You spend the rest of the drive in silence, your hand remaining tucked inside hers while the city passes outside the windows. Every few moments her thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles in a repetitive, absent-minded motion, and although she never says another word, you begin to suspect she isn’t doing it to comfort you.
You think she is reassuring herself. Reminding herself that you are really there beside her. That she found you. That you’re safe. And that, despite everything that happened tonight, she still gets to bring you home.
------
When you finally pull in through the gates, the house sits exactly as you left it, quiet and dark beneath the night sky, the familiar porch light casting a soft glow across the front steps.
The engine goes silent, leaving only the ticking of cooling metal and the faint sound of crickets somewhere beyond the yard. For a moment neither of you moves. The tension that had filled the car earlier has changed shape now, no longer sharp and angry but tired and heavy, weighed down by everything that has happened since Alexia walked into that club.
Eventually she unclips her seatbelt and steps out.
By the time you reach for the handle, she is already opening the passenger door for you. You step down onto the driveway and immediately feel her hand settle around your elbow.
You don’t need the support anymore. Most of your drunkenness has worn off during the drive home and your head is far clearer than it was an hour ago. Still, you don’t say anything. You like the contact too much.
The two of you make your way inside together, Alexia locking the door behind you before guiding you upstairs with one hand resting lightly against your back. The gesture is familiar enough that you don’t even think about it anymore. Somewhere along the way you had stopped being surprised by how naturally she takes care of you. What still surprises you is how much you want her to.
When you reach your room, she sits you down on the closed toilet lid before disappearing briefly into the bathroom cabinet. A moment later she returns with a packet of makeup wipes and kneels in front of you.
The tenderness of the gesture nearly hurts.
You had lied to her. You had worried her. You had ignored her instructions and broken her trust. And yet here she is, crouched in front of you at three in the morning, carefully removing the remnants of makeup and glitter from your face with the same patience she always uses.
Neither of you says much. The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of the wipe against your skin.
When she’s finished, she tosses it away and crosses to your dresser without needing to ask where anything is. She knows this room almost as well as her own. A moment later she is holding your favorite pajamas, the soft worn set that always seems to find its way to the top of the drawer whenever you’ve had a bad day.
“Brush your teeth, bebé.”
You nod as she leaves to give you privacy.
When she comes back several minutes later, you’re already in bed.
The blankets are pulled over your legs and you’re propped against the headboard, hands wrapped around your knees as exhaustion finally begins catching up to you. Alexia is carrying a bottle of cold water which she opens before handing it over.
You take a long drink. Then another. And another. Partly because you’re dehydrated, but mostly because it delays the conversation you know is coming eventually.
When you finally lower the bottle, your eyes find hers. “Ale?”
Her expression softens as she looks up at you. “Yes, mi amor?”
The endearment almost makes your eyes sting. You stare down at the bottle in your hands.
“I’m really, really sorry.” The words come out small and rough.
For a moment she simply looks at you. Then her hand comes up to brush gently through your hair.
“I know, bebé.” She tucks a loose strand behind your ear. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” she says quietly. “Right now you’re exhausted and I’m exhausted, and neither of us is going to think very clearly tonight.”
You nod. The lump in your throat grows a little bigger. “Ale?”
She huffs out the faintest hint of a smile. “Yeah?”
“Do you think…” you begin before losing your nerve, your fingers tightening around the water bottle in your lap as you stare down at the blanket.
Alexia remains completely patient, giving you all the time in the world to find the courage to ask. “Well maybe…” You stop again, frustration and exhaustion making it impossible to get the words out properly. “Could you maybe stay here tonight?”
Alexia tilts her head slightly, her expression softening as she looks at you.
You don’t elaborate. You don’t need to. You just blink back at her, feeling far too tired and emotionally wrung out to explain that after everything that happened tonight, the thought of being alone feels unbearable.
“Okay, bebé.” Her answer comes so easily that it makes your chest ache.
She rises from the edge of the bed and moves around to the other side, pulling off the oversized sweatshirt she had thrown on earlier. Beneath it are the pajamas she’d clearly been wearing when she received those phone calls, and the sight sends another wave of guilt washing through you because it is impossible not to picture her seeing those photos, grabbing the first thing she could find, and racing out the door without a second thought.
She came for you. She hadn’t stopped to change. Hadn’t stopped to think. Hadn’t stopped at all.
The mattress dips slightly as she climbs into bed beside you.
For a while neither of you says anything. The room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of blankets and the distant hum of the air conditioner, both of you staring up at the ceiling while the events of the night slowly begin settling into place.
Eventually Alexia reaches across the space between you and gently pulls you against her side. The movement is so familiar now that you go willingly without thinking.
Her arm wraps securely around your shoulders while her fingers slide into your hair, scratching lightly against your scalp in the exact way she knows helps you relax, and almost immediately you feel your entire body begin to soften beneath her touch.
The tension leaves your shoulders. Your breathing slows. The frantic energy that has been buzzing beneath your skin since she walked into that club finally starts settling.
Sleep begins creeping up on you slowly. Your eyes grow heavier. Your body sinks further into the mattress.
Then, just as you’re beginning to drift, a memory resurfaces from the car. The words hit you all over again.
My daughter.
Your eyes fly open. Your breath catches sharply enough that Alexia stirs - even half asleep, her response is automatic. Her eyes blink open lazily, heavy with exhaustion, and she lifts her head slightly from the pillow to look down at you.
“You okay?” she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep.
You don’t answer right away because how are you supposed to explain this? How are you supposed to explain what happened inside your chest when she said those words?
You had spent most of your life belonging to nobody. Passed from house to house, caretaker to caretaker, always feeling temporary, always feeling like you were occupying space that could be taken back at any moment.
People had called you a lot of things over the years : foster kid, placement, responsibility, problem. Nobody had ever looked at you with fear in their eyes and called you theirs.
And Alexia hadn’t even done it intentionally. She hadn’t sat down and chosen those words carefully. She hadn’t made some grand declaration. The words had simply fallen out of her mouth in a moment of panic because, somewhere in her mind, that was already what you were.
Her daughter.
The realization makes something warm and painful bloom inside your chest all at once.
You don’t know how to tell her that hearing those words felt like being handed something you’d secretly wanted for so long that you’d stopped allowing yourself to hope for it. You don’t know how to tell her that you’ve been replaying them over and over in your head ever since.
So instead you simply shake your head and burrow closer.
Your hands curl into the front of her pajama shirt and you press your face against her shoulder, holding onto her a little tighter than usual.
Alexia studies you for a moment until a quiet breath leaves her nose, carrying equal parts affection and amusement, before she leans down and presses a gentle kiss against your forehead.
“T’estimo, mi amor,” she murmurs softly.
One of her hands settles against the back of your head while the other resumes its slow journey through your hair.
She doesn’t ask any questions or make you explain. She just holds you.
The steady movement of her fingers gradually slows as sleep begins pulling at her again, each pass through your hair becoming a little lazier than the last until eventually her hand comes to rest against the back of your neck.
A few minutes later her breathing deepens. The familiar rhythm fills the room.
You listen to it for a long time. Long enough for your eyes to grow heavy. Long enough for the warmth in your chest to outweigh the guilt still lingering there. Long enough for sleep to finally pull you under too, tucked safely against her side while her arms remain wrapped around you exactly where they belong.
5:
The perfect season somehow ends exactly the way Alexia insists all perfect seasons should: with a trophy in one hand and an excuse to throw a party in the other.
You stand off to the side of the patio watching the chaos unfold with increasingly wide eyes as Alexia, Irene, and Patri completely take over the backyard, moving furniture from one end of the garden to the other with the seriousness of people preparing for a diplomatic summit rather than a seventeen-year-old’s birthday party.
At some point during the morning, the normal outdoor seating arrangement had disappeared entirely. In its place now sat long tables covered in decorations, enormous flower arrangements filled with carefully coordinated colors, and what looked suspiciously like an entire wall of balloons that seemed to grow larger every time you looked away for more than five minutes.
You aren’t entirely sure where half of it came from. You do know that at one point you heard Alexia discussing delivery schedules with someone on the phone before mentioning that the caterer would be arriving at three o’clock, which had nearly caused you to choke on your coffee because, as far as you were concerned, ordering pizza would have qualified as party planning.
Apparently Alexia strongly disagreed.
The strange thing is that none of this had been your idea.
Your birthday wasn’t technically until tomorrow, but after weeks of relentless pestering from Vicky and Clara, who seemed personally offended by your complete lack of interest in celebrating yourself, you had eventually worked up the courage to ask Alexia if maybe they could come over for an afternoon.
Just them and maybe a few teammates. Something simple.
You had even presented your argument carefully. Having people over at the house still complied with the terms of your grounding, you had pointed out. After all, you had spent the last month accepting the consequences of your disastrous decision-making without complaint, fully aware that sneaking into a nightclub, lying to Alexia, and accidentally becoming the center of a social media firestorm had earned every restriction she’d given you.
Alexia had listened to your carefully constructed reasoning for approximately ten seconds before laughing outright.
Then she’d reached over and ruffled your hair. “It’s your birthday, petita,” she had said. “You can celebrate it anywhere you want.”
The truth was that you genuinely did want it here. You liked that somewhere along the way the house had stopped feeling like Alexia’s house. It felt like yours too.
Your shoes lived by the garage door. Your textbooks ended up scattered across the kitchen table. Your favorite cereal permanently occupied a shelf in the pantry. There were photographs of you throughout the house now, mixed naturally among the family photos as though they’d always belonged there.
Most importantly, it was the first place you had ever wanted to invite people to. The first place you had ever felt proud of. The first place that felt enough like home that you wanted to share it with your friends.
Unfortunately, what began as a small gathering had spiraled wildly out of control.
The chain of events had apparently started with Vicky. Vicky told Kika. Kika told Patri. Patri told every living person in Barcelona. And because footballers were apparently incapable of minding their own business, the information had spread through the entire team with frightening efficiency.
Now people kept appearing at training asking what time the party started. Players you hadn’t technically invited were somehow discussing what swimsuits they planned to bring. At one point Mapi had asked whether she should bring an appetizer. You hadn’t even known she was coming.
Alexia, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the entire situation. If anything, every new guest only made her more excited.
Over the last two weeks, she had been almost impossibly happy. Winning the Champions League had left the entire team floating for days, her contract renewal had removed months of uncertainty, and the season itself could not have ended more perfectly if someone had written it in a script.
Your birthday had arrived immediately afterward and somehow became the thing she was most excited about.
She had talked about it constantly. She had made lists. She had revised those lists. She had asked what food you wanted, what music you wanted, whether you preferred a cake or multiple desserts and then decided to get both.
Every time you sheepishly informed her that another teammate had somehow heard about the party and wanted to come, her face had lit up even more.
“Bebé, our house is enormous,” she had told you after your latest attempt to apologize. “You could invite everyone you know and we’d still have room.”
As it turned out, you were dangerously close to testing that theory.
The whole thing should probably have been overwhelming. Honestly, it was a little overwhelming. But every time you started feeling nervous about the growing guest list or the increasingly elaborate decorations, you would look over at Alexia and see the excitement written all over her face.
She was just so happy to be throwing you a party, so happy to have an excuse to fill the house with people who cared about you, so happy to celebrate you in a way that made it impossible for anyone to miss how loved you were.
Birthdays had never really meant much before. For most of your life they had passed quietly, acknowledged by very few people and celebrated by even fewer. The only part you had ever cared about was football, because another birthday usually meant another promotion, another chance to play against older girls, another step forward in the sport you loved.
Everything else had always felt secondary and forgettable. Just another date on a calendar. Alexia, however, had treated this birthday like a national holiday. The date had been circled on the kitchen calendar for months.
She had started asking what you wanted weeks ago. More than once she had casually mentioned that she already had “a few ideas” but wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything specific you hoped for first.
Every time, you had shaken your head with growing embarrassment. Because the truth was that you genuinely couldn’t think of anything. Every time she asked, you found yourself looking around at the life you’d somehow built here and realizing that you already had everything you’d spent years wishing for without ever expecting to find.
And judging by the knowing look Alexia kept giving you whenever you failed to answer the question, you suspected she already knew that.
------
Alexia laughs when the third balloon in less than ten minutes explodes directly in Patri’s face.
The sound echoes across the backyard, followed immediately by Patri’s increasingly dramatic complaints about being personally victimized by party decorations, which only seems to make Alexia laugh harder. Eventually she gives up entirely, gesturing for Patri to surrender the pump and go find something else to do before she somehow manages to injure herself preparing for a birthday party.
Patri leaves with all the dignity of a disgraced soldier retreating from battle.
Once the others disappear inside to continue setting up decorations throughout the house, you make your way across the patio toward Alexia, who is crouched beside an increasingly elaborate balloon arch that has somehow become one of the most important projects of the day.
“Ale.” She glances up immediately. You are fairly certain you could whisper her name from the opposite side of Barcelona and she’d still somehow hear it.
“Maybe I can do that?” you ask, gesturing toward the pump. “I want to help.”
The expression she gives you is fondly exasperated. “Petita, it’s your birthday.” Then she pauses. “Well, birthday weekend.”
You can’t help smiling at the correction.
“You shouldn’t be setting up your own party.”
“Yeah, but I want to.” You shift your weight slightly before adding the part that usually works. “Pleaseee?”
Alexia studies you for a moment, clearly debating whether to continue arguing, before finally surrendering with a shake of her head. “You blow them up and I’ll arrange them.”
The victory feels embarrassingly satisfying. You immediately claim the pump before she can change her mind.
For a while the two of you work quietly beside one another, settling into an easy rhythm as you inflate balloons and hand them over while Alexia somehow transforms what should be a chaotic pile of plastic into something that actually looks organized and intentional.
At some point you become aware of her watching you, checking in without wanting you to notice she’s checking in.
Eventually she breaks the silence. “You doing okay?” The question is simple and casual. But you know her well enough by now to hear everything underneath it.
The month after the club incident hadn’t been easy. The grounding had been fair, but fair didn’t necessarily mean enjoyable. There had been difficult conversations and consequences and more than a few moments where you’d felt terrible about how badly you’d scared her.
Even now, weeks later, she still checks sometimes. Making sure you’re actually okay. Making sure you’re happy. Making sure the weight of everything that happened isn’t still sitting on your shoulders.
You glance around the yard before answering.
The patio is bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Through the open doors you can hear Patri and Irene arguing over something neither of them actually cares about enough to be fighting over, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of people who have spent years annoying each other affectionately. Somewhere nearby the pool filter sends water gently splashing against the tiled walls, and the warm summer air carries the scent of freshly cut grass and flowers across the backyard.
For a moment you simply take it all in before your eyes return to Alexia. To the woman sitting beside you surrounded by half-finished decorations and balloon fragments, looking at you with enough affection to make your chest ache.
And for once the answer comes easily. “Yeah.” You mean it, you genuinely mean it.
Four hours later, however, you mean it a little less.
The party is perfect. The food is incredible, the weather is somehow cooperating despite the fact that Barcelona summers usually seem determined to melt everyone alive, and every person you care about appears to be having the time of their life.
The problem is simply that there is so much of it.
So many people. So much noise. So much attention.
The backyard has transformed into something that feels closer to a festival than a birthday party, every corner occupied by a different conversation, every chair filled, every patch of shade claimed by some combination of teammates, relatives, classmates, and family friends.
The table near the back door is completely buried beneath gifts, colorful wrapping paper stacked so high that you can barely see the surface underneath anymore, and every time you glance in that direction you swear the pile has somehow gotten bigger.
There are Barça players scattered throughout the yard. There are classmates you never expected to see standing beside Champions League winners discussing school gossip. There are various members of the Putellas i Segura family tree whose exact relationship to Alexia remains something of a mystery to you despite repeated explanations.
Across the yard, Vicky and Clara have recruited one of Alexia’s younger cousins into an increasingly competitive game of keepy-uppy that seems to involve far more shouting than the sport technically requires. Every few seconds somebody erupts into celebration while somebody else accuses them of cheating, and the argument inevitably starts all over again before any actual conclusions are reached.
Nearby, Kika, Esmee, and Salma have turned the pool into their own personal volleyball court, the game growing more aggressive with every passing minute as increasingly dramatic dives send water splashing onto anyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
Pina and Cata have established themselves near the drinks table, a development that several people have openly described as concerning, though not concerning enough for anyone to actually intervene.
Meanwhile, you seem to have spent the entire afternoon being gently passed from one conversation to the next.
Every time you think you’ve finally escaped a cluster of people, somebody spots you from across the yard and waves you over. Every time you finish one conversation, another begins. Every time you manage to sit down, someone appears beside you wanting to congratulate you on the season, ask about school, discuss football, or tell you a story you somehow feature prominently.
It is wonderful. It is exhausting. It is probably the most loved you have ever felt in your entire life.
And that might actually be the problem. Because every few minutes something happens that throws you off all over again.
One of Alexia’s relatives hugs you goodbye and tells you they’ll see you at the next family gathering as though your attendance is already assumed. Someone refers to the house as yours without even thinking about it. Another person talks about next season as though your future at Barça is inevitable.
Each interaction is small. Insignificant on its own. Yet somehow they keep accumulating until your chest feels strangely tight.
You catch yourself looking toward Alexia more than once. She is everywhere. One moment she’s helping carry trays of food onto the patio. The next she’s greeting another arriving guest. Then she’s laughing at something Alba says, throwing her head back with a smile so bright that even from across the yard you can see it.
The happiness radiates off her in waves. Every time her eyes eventually find you somewhere in the crowd, her entire expression softens in a way that still catches you off guard despite how often you’ve seen it. You know that look now. You know exactly what it means. Which somehow only makes your chest twist even more.
Because there was a time when birthdays passed almost unnoticed. There was a time when nobody decorated anything. Nobody planned anything. Nobody circled dates on calendars months in advance. Nobody spent weeks discussing cakes and playlists and guest lists as though your existence was an event worth celebrating.
You never really minded back then. At least you told yourself you didn’t. You became very good at pretending things didn’t matter. Very good at convincing yourself that wanting less was the same thing as needing less. But sitting here now, surrounded by more love than you know what to do with, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain those old lies.
Eventually, after being trapped in a conversation with Patri about music, summer plans, and at least three separate stories that somehow merged together halfway through, you manage to slip away under the excuse of needing another drink.
The moment you step inside the house, the noise dulls slightly. The music becomes distant. The conversations blur together. The air feels cooler.
You find yourself wandering toward the staircase instinctively and lowering yourself onto the bottom step, settling into that strange middle ground where you are technically still present but no longer actively participating.
You rest your chin against your hand and stare vaguely toward one of the paintings hanging on the opposite wall, your focus gradually softening until the details blur together. You take slow, deep breaths, trying to understand why your eyes suddenly feel suspiciously warm.
When you finally glance up, Alexia standing in the doorway watching you with a look that suggests she figured out exactly what was happening several minutes ago.
You immediately feel sheepish. Your birthday party is happening twenty feet away and you’ve hidden yourself on the stairs like an overwhelmed cat.
You open your mouth, already preparing to explain yourself, but Alexia’s expression shifts before you can get a single word out. A grin spreads slowly across her face, the kind that always means she’s had an idea and that everyone around her is about to be dragged into it whether they like it or not.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
You blink. The question takes several seconds to register. “What?”
“Do you want to get out of here?” She gestures vaguely toward the backyard. “My mom is here. Alba is here. Everyone is fed, nobody is fighting yet, and there is enough food to survive a small natural disaster.”
You stare. Alexia continues like this is the most reasonable suggestion in the world. “They won’t even notice we’re gone. And we’ll be back before cake.”
The next thing you know, she was leading you through a side gate with a football tucked beneath one arm, both of you trying and failing to suppress your laughter as though you were committing some elaborate crime instead of temporarily abandoning a gathering full of people who adored you. The ridiculousness of it all only becomes funnier the farther you get from the house.
By the time you reach the small park at the end of the neighborhood, the tightness in your chest has already eased considerably.
The evening air is warm without being oppressive, carrying the lingering scent of summer grass and sun-warmed pavement. Behind you, the party continues somewhere beyond the trees and rooftops, reduced to a distant memory of music and laughter that feels pleasantly far away rather than overwhelming.
The two of you spend a while kicking the ball back and forth without much purpose, neither of you really trying to play properly. The football becomes little more than an excuse to move around while you talk, the conversation drifting effortlessly from one topic to another as you laugh about the increasingly chaotic state of the party. You speculate about which guests will somehow end up in the pool before the evening is over, debate whether Pina and Cata should ever be trusted with drink responsibilities again, and spend several minutes discussing a couple who may or may not be having an argument near the buffet table.
For the first time all afternoon, everything feels manageable. The constant attention has disappeared. The endless conversations have quieted. The pressure to be perceived has evaporated. It is just you and Alexia and a football. The simplicity of it allows something else to surface.
You trap the ball beneath your foot and stare down at it for a moment before speaking.
The admission comes slowly, partly because you’ve never really thought about it before and partly because you’re only just beginning to understand it yourself.
You tell her that birthdays were never something you paid much attention to growing up. They came and went like any other day, acknowledged occasionally but rarely celebrated, and somewhere along the way you stopped expecting them to matter. Football was usually the only thing worth noticing, because another birthday often meant another promotion, another chance to play at a higher level, another step forward in the one area of your life that felt predictable.
“I don’t know why I got so in my head about it,” you admit after a long stretch of silence, your eyes following the football as it rolls lazily through the grass before coming to rest a few feet away. “I think it was just a little overwhelming, you know? All those people there for me.”
The words sound small once they’re out in the open. A little ridiculous even. You kick absently at a patch of grass.
“I don’t know,” you continue more quietly. “I think maybe I just don’t feel like I deserve it.”
The confession leaves your mouth before you can stop it. Immediately you wish you could take it back. Hearing the thought spoken aloud makes it sound far sadder than it did inside your own head.
Beside you, Alexia doesn’t answer right away. She rarely does when the conversation starts drifting toward something important.
Instead, she takes a few slow steps forward until she’s standing beside you, both of you looking out across the open field while the evening sky stretches above the park in shades of pink and gold. The sun has nearly disappeared now, leaving only the soft glow of sunset lingering along the horizon, and for a while the two of you simply stand there shoulder to shoulder while a warm breeze stirs the grass around your feet.
When she finally speaks, her voice is soft enough that it almost blends into the evening air. “Love isn’t something you deserve.”
You glance toward her. Her gaze remains fixed on the sky. “It’s not something you earn either.”
The words are spoken so matter-of-factly that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard them correctly. Alexia notices your confusion, small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
“People always talk about deserving love like it’s some kind of reward,” she says quietly. “Like if you’re good enough or successful enough or kind enough, eventually somebody hands it to you. But that’s not how it works.”
Her hands slide into the pockets of her shorts. “Love isn’t a prize. It isn’t a transaction. It isn’t something people give you because you’ve finally proven yourself worthy of receiving it.”
She turns her head slightly then, just enough for you to catch the affection in her expression. “It just is.”
The simplicity of the statement makes your chest ache. She says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there has never been any question about it.
“You didn’t earn Alba’s love,” she continues after a moment. “You didn’t earn Vicky’s love or Clara’s or my mom’s. None of those people spent the afternoon in that backyard because you somehow convinced them to.”
A small laugh escapes her. “Trust me, if I could convince the family to do anything, life would be much easier.”
That earns the faintest smile from you. Alexia’s expression softens even further when she sees it.
“They were there because they care about you,” she says. “Because they love you. Because somewhere along the way you became important to them and now they can’t imagine their lives without you in them.”
The words settle heavily in your chest. It’s as if something you’ve been carrying for a very long time is finally being set down.
For a while neither of you speaks. The breeze moves through the trees overhead. The sounds of the neighborhood drift around you. And somewhere behind you, hidden beyond rows of houses and garden walls, your birthday party continues without either of you.
Alexia exhales softly through her nose. When she speaks again, her voice is thoughtful. Almost amused.
“You know,” she says, “I call you my daughter in my head every day.”
The world seems to tilt slightly. Your head turns so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.
Alexia notices immediately. The smile that appears on her face is small and fond. She’s been expecting this reaction.
“I have for a while now.” She shrugs one shoulder comfortably, like she’s talking about something she accepted a long time ago.
“You never earned my love either.” The words are quiet and certain. “You just have it.”
You stare at her. Unable to look away. Unable to speak.
“You never had to earn a place in my life,” she continues. “You never had to prove that you belonged there. You never had to become successful enough or talented enough or good enough for me to care about you.”
A gentle smile appears on her face. “The day I decided you were staying with me, that was pretty much the end of the discussion as far as I was concerned.”
A laugh escapes you despite the tears suddenly threatening behind your eyes.
Alexia reaches over and squeezes the back of your neck gently. “Alba loves you because you’re you. Vicky loves you because you’re you. My family loves you because you’re you.”
Her eyes meet yours then, steady and certain in a way they always are when she’s saying something she knows to be true. “And I love you because you’re my daughter.”
The words hit harder than anything else she’s said.
It doesn’t surprise you, you’ve spent months suspecting it. You’ve spent months noticing it in all the small things she probably never even realized she was doing. In the way she worried whenever you were late getting home. In the way she always remembered the things that mattered to you, no matter how insignificant they seemed. In the way she fussed over injuries and schoolwork and meals and sleep schedules. In the way her eyes immediately searched for you whenever she entered a room.
Most of all, you’d noticed it in the way she loved you. A kind of love that had never felt temporary. A kind of love that never seemed conditional. A kind of love that simply existed, unwavering and constant, no matter how many mistakes you made.
Still, hearing her say it aloud feels different. It feels like someone finally putting a name to something that has been quietly growing between the two of you for so long that neither of you can quite remember where it started.
Your throat tightens. Your eyes sting. You stare stubbornly down at the grass beneath your feet because looking directly at her suddenly feels impossible.
“I call you mama in my head too.” The confession slips out before you can stop it.
The second the words leave your mouth you want to crawl into a hole and never emerge again. Heat floods your face. Embarrassment follows immediately after. You feel exposed in a way you haven’t felt in a very long time, like you’ve accidentally handed her a piece of yourself you never intended anyone else to see.
“I don’t even know when I started,” you admit quietly, still refusing to look at her. “It wasn’t intentional or anything. It just sort of…” You trail off, searching for words that don’t seem to exist. “It just happened.”
The silence that follows stretches long enough that you finally force yourself to look up.
When you do, Alexia is staring at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. There is so much love that it almost hurts to look at. She looks like someone who has just been handed something precious she never dared ask for.
Slowly, she reaches up and cups the side of your face. The touch is warm and steady. The same hand that has fixed your hair before interviews, checked your temperature when you were sick, wiped tears from your cheeks, and squeezed your shoulder after difficult matches. This time it lingers.
She steps closer and presses a kiss against your temple, letting it rest there for several long seconds before finally pulling back.
When she finally speaks, her voice is impossibly gentle. “You know you’re allowed to say it out loud too, right?”
Your breath catches. The question hangs between you, so simple and yet somehow so frightening. Because thinking it and saying it are two very different things. Thinking it is safe, private, yours. Saying it aloud makes it real.
Alexia must see the panic flicker across your face because her smile softens even further. “It belongs to you.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside your chest, like rain sinking into dry ground.
“You don’t have to earn that either,” she continues quietly, her thumb brushing across your cheek in the same soothing way she always does whenever you’re upset. “You don’t have to wonder whether you’re allowed or whether it’s okay or whether you’re somehow asking for too much.”
A small laugh escapes her then, warm and fond and full of affection. “Trust me, carinyo, if anyone in the world has the right to call me that, it’s probably the girl I’ve spent the last year accidentally raising.”
The laugh that escapes you comes out broken immediately by a sob. The sound surprises both of you.
One second you’re standing there trying very hard to keep yourself together, and the next every emotion you’ve apparently been carrying for months comes crashing through the carefully constructed walls you’ve built around them.
You don’t even think about it. You just move. Throwing yourself forward until you’re wrapped around her. Holding on tighter than you ever have before. Your hands fist in the back of her shirt. Your face disappears into her shoulder.
And then you’re crying. Big, ugly, helpless sobs that shake your entire body. The kind that come from somewhere deep. Somewhere old. Somewhere that has been waiting a very long time for this.
Alexia doesn’t say a word. She simply catches you. The way she always does. Her arms wrap around you tightly, one hand settling firmly between your shoulder blades while the other slides into your hair, fingers moving through it in slow, soothing strokes as she holds you against her chest.
You can hear her heartbeat - it’s strong and steady and familiar. You cling to her like she’s the only solid thing in the world. And maybe, in this moment, she is.
She lets you cry for as long as you need. Simply holding you while years of loneliness and fear and uncertainty finally loosen their grip enough to be carried away by tears.
Eventually the sobs begin to quiet. Your breathing steadies. The crushing pressure in your chest eases enough for you to lift your head.
You look up at her through blurry eyes and wet lashes, your cheeks stained with tears, your nose hopelessly stuffy, your throat aching with emotion.
Alexia immediately brushes a tear away with her thumb. Looking at you like you are the most precious thing she has ever been trusted with.
Your voice trembles when you finally speak.
“T’estimo.” Fresh tears instantly fill Alexia’s eyes. You see them before she can blink them away.
“T’estimo molt, mama.”
The word feels different out loud. Bigger and warmer. Like something that has belonged to you for a long time finally finding its way home.
For a second Alexia simply stares at you. The world seems to narrow to the space between you.
All the sounds from the party fade into the background. The laughter, the music, the voices drifting across the neighborhood become distant and insignificant compared to the look on her face.
A tear slips down her cheek. Then another.
She lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh through the tears, shaking her head slightly as though some part of her still can’t quite believe she’s actually hearing it.
As though she’s spent so long loving you this way that she never stopped to imagine what it might feel like to have that love named and returned.
Then she’s pulling you right back into her arms. Holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
“T’estimo també, filla.”
Her voice cracks around the last word. Daughter.
The same certainty you’ve heard every time she’s called you petita, or bebé, or amor meu. The same unwavering certainty that has lived beneath every hug, every forehead kiss, every late-night conversation, every moment she chose you without hesitation.
Only this time neither of you has to hide behind other names. Neither of you has to dance around the truth anymore.
“Moltíssim.”
The word is barely more than a whisper against your hair, but you feel it all the same.
The kind of love that asks for nothing and expects nothing. The kind of love that simply exists.
The kind that always existed between you, long before either of you were brave enough to say it out loud.
Summary - 4 times you maybe had a mother and 1 time you definitely did
Word Count - 24.3k
1:
The restaurant is small and loud in the comfortable way places in Barcelona often are, packed with overlapping conversations and clinking glasses and the smell of garlic and fresh bread drifting through the open space.
You trail beside Alexia as she guides you through the crowded entryway with a hand resting lightly against your upper back, steering you without really thinking about it, the touch casual and familiar enough now that you lean into it automatically.
You’re halfway toward your table when someone calls her name. “Alex!”
Alexia turns immediately, her face shifting into surprised recognition as a woman near the bar stands from her seat with a wide grin already spreading across her face.
“Madre mía,” Alexia laughs softly as they pull each other into a quick hug. “How long has it been?”
Too long, apparently, because the conversation starts moving immediately, fast and overlapping in the way it does when people already know each other well enough to skip all the polite pauses.
Alexia asks about family, about work, about mutual friends whose names mean absolutely nothing to you, and you hover awkwardly at her side for a second before taking a small step back, instinctively trying to disappear from the interaction altogether.
Until Alexia’s hand lands on your shoulder, warm and firm. “And this,” she says easily, her mouth curving into quiet pride as she gently nudges you forward, “is my kid.”
You go completely still as she introduces you. Your eyes snap to her so fast it almost hurts.
But Alexia has already turned back toward her friend, already moving seamlessly into the next part of the conversation like she hasn’t just detonated something directly in the center of your chest.
Her kid. Not the kid I mentor. Not a player from the team. Not even family, which is already enough to make your throat tight every time she says it.
Her kid.
The words settle somewhere deep and immediate. They ping around your chest in a way that makes it difficult to focus on anything else for the rest of the conversation happening around you.
You barely hear the rest of it, only catching fragments while Alexia and her friend continue talking easily beside you, her hand still resting absently against your shoulder the entire time like she doesn’t even realize she’s keeping you anchored there.
She calls a lot of people affectionate things. You know that.
She calls Vicky hermanita. She calls Patri hermana. She says those words casually, affectionately, naturally, like they belong perfectly to the person she is assigning them to.
But this feels different. Your relationship with Alexia is different.
They don’t wake up in her house every morning and fall asleep there every night. They don’t rely on her for rides and meals and doctors appointments and reassurance after nightmares they pretend not to have. They don’t know where she keeps the extra blankets or which tea she makes when someone can’t sleep or how she hums quietly under her breath while cooking dinner when she thinks no one is listening.
They don’t know the version of her that pads downstairs half-awake in oversized sweatpants to make sure you took your pain medication for your broken foot at three in the morning. They don’t see the way she checks the weather before your appointments so she can hand you the right jacket without asking, or the way she bought you those jackets to begin with after quietly realizing the warmest thing you owned was a worn-out hoodie that barely counted as winter clothing.
They don’t know how instinctive it has become for her to reach for you in crowded spaces, how automatically she glances over to make sure you’ve eaten enough, how quickly her attention finds you no matter how many people are around her.
You do.
And suddenly the distinction between hermanita and my kid feels enormous.
You always call her Ale. Never Alexia. Just Ale. Other people call her that too sometimes, teammates and old friends and family, but it still feels strangely personal to you, like something that belongs more to the two of you than it should.
You like the way it sounds. You like the way her attention always finds you when you say it, the way her head turns immediately no matter how distracted she is, like your voice reaches her differently from everyone else’s. Teammates can be calling her name directly beside her and she’ll still miss it, but you can mutter “Ale” from across the room and watch her attention snap toward you before you’ve even finished the word.
You’ve never known what to call her beyond that. Not because you don’t feel it. Because you feel too much of it.
Maybe hermana could make sense in theory. Vicky calls you hermanita often enough, usually with an expression that suggests she enjoys watching you turn bright red every single time she says it. But even then, when you try to place the word onto Alexia inside your own head, it feels slightly wrong, slightly off-center, not big enough somehow for whatever this is between you.
Because sisters are equals. And you have never once mistaken the way you lean on Alexia for equality.
You’re so deep in your own thoughts that you barely register the conversation winding down. It’s only when the woman turns fully toward you again that you realize she’s leaving.
“It was very nice meeting you,” she says warmly.
You straighten slightly at the sound of your own existence being acknowledged again, your brain scrambling to catch up with the moment as you offer her a small smile in return.
“Adéu,” you reply politely. “And… yeah, nice to meet you too.”
She smiles once more before disappearing back toward the front of the restaurant, leaving you standing there beside Alexia with your thoughts still spinning in slow circles around something you don’t quite know how to process yet.
Alexia glances down at you then, her expression relaxed and easy again, completely unaware of the crisis currently unfolding in your head, and places a light, guiding hand against your upper back again as she steers you further into the restaurant.
“Wow,” she says lightly, shaking her head with a faint laugh, “what a small world, huh? I haven’t seen her since high school.”
You swallow down the confusion before it can reach your face too obviously, forcing yourself to let it go for now, because the familiar smell of grilled chicken and fried potatoes is already wrapping around you, warm and comforting and distracting enough that your stomach immediately starts paying more attention than your thoughts.
Questions can wait. Food feels more urgent.
So instead of asking what my kid was supposed to mean, you tilt your head toward her and decide to tease her instead.
“Is it really a small world,” you ask dryly, “when you literally know every person in Barcelona… and probably most of the surrounding suburbs too?”
Alexia lets out an offended little scoff, rolling her eyes dramatically before bumping her shoulder lightly against yours.
“That is not true.”
You stare at her flatly. “Ale,” you say with mock seriousness, gesturing vaguely around the restaurant, “you are on a first-name basis with the entire wait staff and the valet.”
“Well, that’s called being polite,” she replies without missing a beat, already steering you toward your usual table. “And it is not my fault this is your favorite restaurant and we come here every week.”
You narrow your eyes at her suspiciously. “I’m pretty sure the waiter started bringing you sparkling water before you even sat down.”
“That’s customer service,” she says easily. “Very normal.”
“The hostess literally called you mi reina.”
Alexia only shrugs, playfully unashamed now. “What can I say? I’m beloved by the people.”
Despite yourself, a real laugh escapes you. Alexia’s expression softens immediately at the sound of it, warmth and quiet relief flickering across her face before she reaches over to ruffle your hair affectionately as you slide into the booth beside her.
And just like that, some of the strange tightness that had been sitting in your chest ever since she introduced you loosens enough for you to breathe around it again.
2:
You’ve been no contact with your foster parents ever since you moved in with Alexia.
You’re still not entirely sure what happened behind the scenes to make that possible.
You had asked Alexia about it once, only once, sometime during that first week after your surgery when the pain medication made you a little braver about asking questions you normally swallowed down. She had gone strangely quiet for a moment after you asked, her expression flattening into something unreadable before she finally told you, very simply, that she had “taken care of it,” and that you did not need to worry about ever going back there again.
There had been something distant in her eyes when she said it, something cold and controlled underneath the softness she usually reserved for you, like she was remembering the hospital room, remembering the way your foster mother had stood over your bed with alcohol and cigarettes still clinging to her breath while she hurled insults at you like they were nothing.
You hadn’t pushed for details after that. Partly because Alexia clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Partly because you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know.
But you knew she must have gone back to that house at some point, because not long after you moved in permanently, she had shown up carrying the limited possessions you actually owned, your clothes folded neatly in laundry baskets, your old childhood plush tucked awkwardly under one arm like she hadn’t quite known what to do with it.
She never told you what the house looked like when she got there. Never repeated a single thing your foster parents might have said to her.
But you noticed the way she carefully washed every piece of clothing before putting it away, the way she ran your plush through the laundry twice until it no longer smelled faintly of smoke and mildew and instead carried the soft clean scent of her detergent.
You noticed the way her jaw tightened the first time she saw you instinctively flinch at a slammed cabinet door.
You noticed how she quietly started knocking before entering your room, even when the door was wide open, as though she wanted to make absolutely certain you never had to wonder whether your space would be respected.
You noticed a hundred little things like that. Things she never pointed out. Things she never took credit for. Small adjustments made so naturally and consistently that it would have been easy to miss them if they weren’t all designed to make you feel safer.
That had been months ago now and since then, life had settled into something quieter, steadier, the rhythm of school and training and recovery blending together until it almost felt normal. Almost.
Today, training has ended but no one seems particularly eager to leave yet, the late afternoon sun still warm against the pitch as players linger in small groups, stretching or passing balls around lazily before heading inside.
You’re near the edge of the field with Clara, both of you goofing around more than actually training, trying to nutmeg each other in increasingly ridiculous ways while arguing loudly over what should and should not count as a successful attempt.
“That one doesn’t count,” you insist after she barely clips the ball through your stance. “Your first touch was terrible.”
“My first touch was genius,” Serra shoots back, already grinning. “You’re just slow.”
“Please, I’m coming back from injury and still better than you.”
She gasps theatrically at that, clutching her chest like you’ve deeply offended her, before lunging forward to try again, the two of you laughing as you dance around each other near the sideline.
Then you hear it. A familiar raspy voice. Too familiar.
“So this is where you always ran away to…”
Everything inside you stops. The laughter dies instantly in your throat as your body goes rigid, your stomach dropping so hard it feels almost painful, every muscle locking before your brain even fully catches up to what’s happening.
Your foster father stands just outside the fence surrounding the training ground, one hand hooked lazily through the metal bars like he belongs there. He’s wearing a collared shirt you didn’t even know he owned, the fabric wrinkled but cleaner than anything you ever remember seeing him in, and his usually greasy hair has been combed carefully to one side in a way that feels deeply unsettling, like someone trying too hard to look respectable.
Beside him, your foster mother stands stiffly with her purse tucked under one arm, her chin tilted upward slightly as she stares directly at you, her eyes narrowed like she’s daring you to ignore them.
Your blood turns cold.
Beside you, Serra finally manages to knock the ball cleanly through your planted feet.
“Yes!” she celebrates, throwing her hands up triumphantly before noticing you haven’t reacted at all. The smile drops from her face almost instantly.
You are completely frozen. Your expression has gone blank in that terrible, distant way she’s never seen before, your shoulders tense, your breathing suddenly too shallow.
Serra follows your line of sight toward the fence, her own posture straightening slightly as she takes in the unfamiliar couple standing there.
“Can I help you?” she asks cautiously, stepping half a pace closer to you without even realizing she’s doing it. “This is a closed practice.”
You could kiss her for speaking because your own voice feels trapped somewhere far away from your body.
Your foster father sends Serra a fake smile, the kind that never quite reaches his eyes, before dismissing her entirely with a lazy flick of his gaze.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “I don’t need any help from you. Just from my beloved foster daughter here.”
Serra’s expression changes instantly when the words click into place, her eyes darting sharply toward you, panic and understanding colliding there all at once.
You don’t actually know how much the girls know. You had told Serra and Vicky pieces of it over time, small fragmented explanations about why you had moved in with Ale, enough to satisfy their concern without fully opening the door to everything behind it. But judging by the horrified look spreading across Serra’s face now, Alexia must have filled in a bit more of the gaps at some point, enough that she understands this is not a normal family visit.
She turns on her heel without hesitation.
“Alexia!!” she shouts across the pitch, her voice loud enough to cut cleanly through the noise of training.
Alexia looks up immediately, her attention snapping toward the panic in Clara’s voice before her eyes even fully locate her. Her gaze sweeps across the field quickly, searching, and the second she spots your rigid posture near the fence she drops the ball at her feet and starts running toward you without another thought.
Halfway there, she realizes who is standing on the other side of the barrier. Her expression instantly changes from worry to anger.
“This is a closed practice,” she says sharply as she closes the distance, stepping between the girls and the couple at the fence without even seeming to think about it. “How did you get in here?”
Serra instinctively shifts farther behind Alexia the moment she reaches you, clearly unwilling to stand anywhere near the people who have managed to make their captain look this furious.
You still haven’t moved. But Alexia notices the way your hands have begun trembling at your sides, subtle enough most people would miss it, violent enough that she catches it immediately. Something in her posture hardens even further.
“So good to see you again, Ms. Putellas,” your foster mother says sweetly, her tone dripping with something artificial and ugly beneath the mock politeness.
Alexia ignores her completely. Instead, she turns slightly toward Clara, her voice dropping into quiet, urgent Catalan. “Take her away and tell Pere to call security.”
That finally jolts you out of your frozen haze. Your hand shoots out, grabbing onto Alexia’s arm before Clara can move you anywhere, your fingers tightening around her sleeve hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.
Your eyes drag desperately to hers, panic finally surfacing fully there as you try to communicate something you cannot possibly say out loud in front of them.
Please don’t leave me here. Please don’t make me deal with them alone. Please protect me.
Alexia’s entire expression softens the second she looks at you. Her hand comes up to cover yours where it grips her arm, squeezing once, firmly, grounding you. Her eyes hold yours for a long moment, steady and reassuring despite the fury still simmering underneath them. Then she nods very slightly. A promise.
She turns back toward Clara, gesturing more gently this time for her to take you away from the fence. You let yourself be guided backward then, your legs unsteady beneath you as Clara carefully pulls you toward the rest of the team clustered farther down the pitch.
As you approach, Patri and Irene brush past you, each squeezing your shoulder gently as they move by, silent reassurance before taking up positions on either side of Alexia like some terrifyingly beautiful version of the queen’s guard.
“Security is on their way,” Patri says coldly, her arms folding across her chest as she fixes your foster parents with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.
“Oh perfect,” your foster mother replies smoothly. “Perhaps they can escort us to your legal department. Or should it be the financial department?” She glances toward your foster father with faux thoughtfulness. “Which do you think, dear?”
“Better to be safe and stop by both,” he replies with a grin.
Alexia’s shoulders go rigid. “What business do you have here?” she asks, her voice low and dangerous now, every word edged with barely restrained fury.
Your foster father gives a lazy shrug. “Well, when a football club breaches the terms of a foster arrangement and effectively steals a child from a legal guardian…” he says casually, “there are usually financial consequences attached to that.”
Your stomach twists violently.
Your foster mother reaches into her purse and pulls out a folded newspaper. Even from across the pitch, you recognize it immediately. The cover story from after the Clásico.
A giant photo of you and Alexia celebrating your brace together, her arms wrapped around you while you laughed breathlessly into her shoulder beneath the stadium lights.
The Heir to the Throne? the headline had read in massive letters across the front page.
You had been mortified when you first saw it. Alexia had been delighted. She’d brought it home grinning like she’d won another Champions League and hung it proudly on the fridge despite your dramatic complaints about how embarrassing it was. You remember eventually grinning right back at her anyway because she’d looked so impossibly proud of you.
Alexia clearly recognizes it too. You can see it in the way her back stiffens even more.
“Imagine my surprise when I saw this on the way to work yesterday,” your foster mother says lightly, shaking the paper once for emphasis. “Who would’ve thought our little girl was such a big star?”
Her gaze drifts over Alexia’s shoulder until it lands directly on you. Her lips curl slightly as she raises her eyebrows mockingly.
“Well,” she says sweetly, “at least now we understand why everyone suddenly wanted to play hero.”
Alexia moves forward so quickly it surprises even Irene and Patri.
One second she is standing between them and the rest of the team, controlled and rigid with anger, and the next she is directly in your foster mother’s space, forcing the woman to tilt her head back slightly just to maintain eye contact.
“She is not yours,” Alexia says, her voice low and sharp enough to slice cleanly through the entire pitch. “She has never been yours.”
She doesn’t shout. Doesn’t shove or push, even if every instinct in her body clearly wants to. She just stands there with the full weight of her captain’s authority pressing down around her, shoulders squared, expression cold in a way you have never seen directed at anyone before.
“I saw the way you treated her,” she continues, her tone turning even harsher. “Do not stand here and pretend you have ever cared about her.”
“Watch your tone,” the husband snaps suddenly, stepping forward as he yanks his wife backward by the arm hard enough to make her stumble.
Several of the girls tense immediately. Alexia doesn’t even flinch. If anything, she steps closer.
“No,” she says coldly, her eyes locking onto his with terrifying steadiness. “You watch your tone.”
The entire field has gone silent now.
Alexia’s voice never rises, but somehow that only makes it more frightening, every word deliberate and controlled in a way that feels infinitely more dangerous than yelling ever could.
“I could ruin you,” she says plainly. “I have eyewitnesses, doctor’s reports, photographs. I have everything.”
Your foster father’s expression flickers for the first time.
“The only reason I haven’t filed a police report already,” Alexia continues, “is because that girl over there is finally happy, and dragging her through a court case after everything she has survived would hurt her more than it would help her.”
Her jaw tightens visibly then. “But if either of you ever come near her again,” she says quietly, “I will make absolutely certain you regret it.”
The husband and wife both go still. Your foster mother swallows hard enough that you can see it even from a distance.
“You’re bluffing…” she whispers finally, though the confidence from earlier has completely drained from her face.
Alexia tilts her head slightly. “Do you really want to test that theory?” she asks. “Against me, my legal team, and my mountain of money?”
That lands. You see it right away in the way both their expressions shift, the realization finally settling in that this is not the scared little girl they used to corner in cramped hallways anymore, and more importantly, that she is no longer alone.
Alexia steps forward once more, fury simmering just beneath the surface now. “You disgust me,” she says, every word filled with quiet contempt. “Not only did you abuse her for years, but the second she experiences even an ounce of the joy and success she deserves from her hard work, you show up like vultures looking for more to take from a literal child.”
Her eyes narrow slightly as her lip rises in a snarl. “You are not worthy of cleaning the dirt off her boots.”
Beside her, Irene finally reaches out and catches Alexia lightly by the arm. “Ale,” she says quietly, her tone gentler now. “Security’s here. Let them handle it.”
Alexia’s chest rises sharply once before she finally breaks eye contact, glancing toward the three security guards now approaching quickly from the far entrance to the pitch.
“These people are trespassing,” she tells them, her tone clipped and commanding again as she gestures toward your foster parents. “Please remove them from the premises and take their photographs. They are never to be allowed back here again.”
“Sí, capitana,” one of the guards replies without hesitation. They move forward, taking hold of your foster parents’ arms despite their immediate protests.
“This is ridiculous-” your foster father starts loudly.
“You can’t seriously-” your foster mother adds over him.
But their voices sound weaker now, smaller.
The moment security begins escorting them away, Alexia immediately turns toward you. Like the rest of the world stops mattering the second they are no longer a direct threat.
You hadn’t even realized tears were running down your face until she reaches you, her expression changing the closer she gets, all that cold fury melting into something softer, steadier, protective in a way that nearly undoes you completely.
“Hey,” she says gently the moment she reaches you, both hands coming up to cradle your face without hesitation. “Hey, look at me.”
You try. God, you try. But your breathing is uneven now, panic and adrenaline crashing together so violently inside your chest that it feels impossible to steady yourself.
Alexia notices immediately. “Okay,” she murmurs softly, her thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as she guides you a little farther away from the fence. “That’s okay. Just breathe for me, mi amor. They’re gone now. You’re safe.”
Safe. The word hits something deep inside you, something bruised and terrified and far younger than sixteen.
Your hands grip the sleeves of her training jacket tightly before you even realize you’re doing it. Alexia lets you. Of course she does.
Behind her, you can vaguely hear Patri telling the coaches to cancel the rest of training while Irene quietly herds the younger girls farther away to give you privacy.
But all of that feels distant compared to the way Alexia is looking at you right now. Like you matter more than any of it. Like she would burn the entire world down before letting them touch you again.
Your fingers twist tighter into the sleeves of her jacket as another shaky breath catches painfully in your chest, the adrenaline still tearing through you too fast for your body to keep up with.
“I thought…” Your voice breaks, forcing you to swallow hard before trying again. “I thought they were going to take me from you.”
The words come spilling out after that, messy and frightened in a way you usually work so hard to hide.
“I don’t care about the money or whatever they wanted,” you rush out quietly, your eyes fixed somewhere near her collarbone because looking directly at her suddenly feels too vulnerable. “I don’t care about any of that, I just…” Your throat tightens again. “I just want to stay with you.”
Alexia’s expression changes so quickly it almost hurts to look at, something fierce and heartbroken flashing across her face all at once before she pulls you even closer against her, one arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders while her other hand cradles the back of your head protectively against her neck.
“Petita,” she says, her voice firm in a way that cuts cleanly through your panic. “You are not going anywhere.”
Her grip tightens slightly, like she’s emphasizing every word through touch as much as speech. “No one could ever take you away from me,” she says again, slower this time, making absolutely certain you hear her. “No one.”
Something inside you cracks open completely at that. You bury your face against her shoulder with a small, broken sound before you can stop yourself, your body finally giving in to the panic you’d been holding rigidly at bay since the moment you heard that terrible voice at the fence.
Alexia just holds you tighter as you sob into her neck. One of her hands slides slowly through your hair while the other stays firm against your back, grounding you against her as she presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head, then another, murmuring soft reassurances between them so quietly only you can hear.
“I’ve got you.”
“You’re safe.”
“You’re mine and you’re not going anywhere.”
Your breathing stays uneven for a while, hitching painfully every few seconds despite your attempts to calm down, but Alexia never rushes you, never loosens her hold or asks you to pull yourself together. She simply stands there in the middle of the training ground, holding you like protecting you is the most obvious thing in the world.
Eventually, slowly, your breathing begins to settle against her shoulder. And even then, she doesn’t let go.
3:
You’re not someone who shows pain easily.
You learned a long time ago that discomfort was something to survive quietly, that weakness only became dangerous once other people could see it, so you got very good at swallowing it down before anyone noticed. Bruises, exhaustion, hunger, fear - it all gets tucked away behind clenched teeth and stubbornness until it eventually passes or breaks you, whichever comes first.
It is almost certainly a trauma response. You know that. And you are fairly confident your new therapist is eventually going to have a field day unpacking it once she notices the pattern, but thankfully the conversation hasn’t quite gotten there yet.
Still, now that your life has become something steadier, safer, warmer in ways you’re slowly beginning to trust, it feels like some hidden switch inside you has flipped without permission. Because suddenly there is someone you’re allowed to lean on. Someone who doesn’t recoil from it.
And apparently, once your brain realized that, it decided to overcorrect dramatically. Which is why being sick has transformed you into the most pathetic version of yourself imaginable.
Affection is not something Alexia withholds from you even under normal circumstances. She hugs you constantly, ruffles your hair whenever you walk past her, presses absent-minded kisses to your forehead while talking to you like it’s second nature.
But you almost never initiate it yourself. It’s not like you don’t want to. There’s just some deeply ingrained part of you that still feels like you need a reason first, an excuse solid enough to justify asking for comfort out loud.
So most of the time you wait for moments that already leave you cracked open enough to make the reaching unavoidable - after big matches when the adrenaline is still humming through your veins and you throw yourself into her arms without thinking, after nightmares when you wake up shaking and find yourself drifting toward her room before your pride can stop you, after injuries or panic attacks or bad days when the need outweighs the fear of being too much.
Those are the only times it feels acceptable to you, like there has to be a visible wound before you’re allowed to ask to be held. And even now, after everything, there is still a tiny hesitant part of you that waits for permission before reaching too far.
Except today you have an excuse. And you intend to exploit it fully.
You wake up feeling awful, your body heavy and achy beneath the blankets, your skin too hot while somehow still leaving you shivering hard enough to make your teeth chatter slightly.
By the time you make it downstairs, wrapped dramatically in one of Alexia’s oversized hoodies, you apparently look rough enough that Alexia takes one glance at you from the kitchen and immediately abandons the coffee she’s making.
“Oh, no,” she murmurs, crossing the room quickly.
Her palm settles against your forehead first, cool enough that you practically melt into it on instinct, your eyes fluttering shut as your overheated body chases the relief.
“You need to go back to bed,” she says gently, her brows pulling together in concern. “You have a fever.”
You lean farther into her hand shamelessly, your body practically draped against hers now as she moves her other hand to the back of your neck, checking there too with the same careful focus she uses for injuries.
“Mhm,” she hums softly. “Definitely a fever.”
You groan weakly in response, mostly for dramatic effect.
“No training today,” she continues firmly, already slipping fully into caretaker mode. “Your body is fighting something and you need to rest, okay?”
Instead of answering properly, you let out a miserable little whine and throw your entire body weight against her dramatically, nearly folding yourself straight into her chest.
Alexia immediately smiles, because despite your theatrics, she knows exactly what this is.
The clinginess. The deliberate helplessness. The fact that you are absolutely milking this illness for every ounce of affection possible.
And unfortunately for her, she finds it deeply endearing.
“Ay, petita,” she laughs softly, pressing a kiss against your sweaty temple before rubbing a soothing hand up and down your back. “Come on. Let’s get you back upstairs.”
You make absolutely no effort to move. In fact, you go limp on purpose, forcing her to support most of your weight while you cling dramatically to her shoulders like a very sickly koala.
Alexia snorts out a laugh. “You are unbelievable,” she mutters affectionately, half carrying and half dragging you toward the stairs while you continue pretending your illness has rendered your legs entirely useless.
“If I have to go back to bed,” you mumble against her shoulder, “can I at least lay in your bed?”
Alexia glances down at you suspiciously. “Why do you want to be in my bed?” she asks, amused already. “Is something wrong with yours?”
You shake your head quickly, suddenly a little embarrassed now that you’ve actually said it out loud, but also painfully aware that in your current fragile, feverish state, Alexia would probably hand you the moon if you asked convincingly enough.
“Noooo,” you whine softly. “But yours is more comfy.” You tilt your head back just enough to hit her with your best miserable puppy eyes. “And I think it’ll make me feel better.”
Alexia stares at you for a long moment, clearly trying and failing not to smile too much.
“You’re such a princess,” she informs you finally, though her voice is fond enough to ruin the accusation entirely.
“Please?” You grin weakly.
She shakes her head affectionately, already defeated. “Okay,” she sighs dramatically. “But you go upstairs now and get cozy while I bring you medicine and a cold cloth, alright?”
You nod immediately, suddenly cured enough to become energetic again as you peel yourself off her and start hurrying toward the stairs.
Well “hurrying” might be generous. You bound up the first three steps with surprising enthusiasm before your feverish body immediately reminds you that you are, in fact, sick, your legs turning heavy and achy fast enough that you slow to a sluggish climb while Alexia watches from below with deeply entertained concern.
“There she is,” she calls up dryly. “Miraculous recovery lasted almost seven seconds.”
You glare weakly at her over the railing. “I’m fighting for my life.”
Alexia laughs softly to herself as she watches you continue your painfully dramatic ascent upstairs.
You enter her room slowly, pausing briefly in the doorway as your eyes sweep across the familiar space with a strange sort of caution, like you’re stepping into somewhere important.
You’ve been in here before, of course. Tentatively wandering in while she finished getting ready in the bathroom, sitting carefully on the edge of her bed while she did her makeup and talked to you about training or school or whatever ridiculous thing Alba had texted her that morning. Sometimes you would lay on the rug near the window while she folded laundry, listening to her hum absentmindedly under her breath while she worked.
But you’ve never really been in here without her.
Privacy is still something that feels oddly sacred to you, mostly because before Alexia you’d never actually had any. Bedrooms had always been shared or temporary or entered without knocking, your belongings touched and moved around whenever someone else felt like it.
So even now, after finally feeling settled, you try carefully not to intrude on spaces that belong entirely to her, the same way she has always been so deliberate about respecting yours.
But now you have permission and apparently being feverish has dissolved whatever remaining boundaries your pride normally clings to.
You wander farther into the room slowly, your neck craning slightly as you take everything in with fresh eyes. The large landscape paintings above her bed, all soft blues and golds and coastlines. The oversized cream chair tucked near the windows where she sometimes sits to read scouting reports. The walk-in closet slightly ajar, revealing rows and rows of neatly organized clothes, more than you think you could realistically wear in five lifetimes.
Your gaze drifts toward the chest of drawers against the far wall, lined with framed photographs.
There’s the picture of Alexia and Alba as children missing half their front teeth while grinning at the camera with grass stains all over their knees. A photo of her father with his arm around her shoulders that you’ve seen before because she pauses at it sometimes when she thinks no one notices. Another of her mom and Alba smiling on some beach vacation somewhere impossibly beautiful.
Then your eyes catch on one you don’t recognize. You stop moving entirely.
It’s a picture Alba took after the Clàssic a few weeks ago, sometime during the celebration after the final whistle when everyone had still been riding the high of the win. Alexia’s arm is wrapped securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss against your forehead, and you’re looking directly at the camera with this huge unguarded grin that almost startles you to look at now, because you look so undeniably happy in it.
Happy and safe and loved.
You stare at the photograph for a long moment, your chest tightening strangely when you realize she didn’t just save it on her phone somewhere. She printed it, framed it, and put it here. In her room. Among the people she loves most.
Your stomach erupts into butterflies so violently it’s honestly embarrassing, and you quickly force yourself to look away before your tired brain spirals into something unbearably emotional about it.
You eventually drift toward the bed and sit down carefully near the edge.
It’s perfectly made, obviously, the duvet smooth and crisp enough that it looks like it belongs in a magazine because perfectionist Alexia is physically incapable of leaving a bed messy.
You sit there for a second debating with yourself. Going on the bed feels normal enough. Going under the covers somehow feels far more intimate. Too much, maybe.
Your brain briefly considers staying politely on top of the blankets like a civilized person. Then another violent shiver wracks through your body hard enough to make your teeth chatter.
Yeah. Forget civilized.
You pull back the duvet clumsily and shimmy beneath the soft sheets with absolutely zero dignity, immediately sinking into warmth that smells faintly like Alexia’s detergent and vanilla and something else distinctly her. You let out a small, involuntary sigh the second your head settles against her pillow.
A few minutes later, Alexia nudges the bedroom door open carefully with her hip, balancing a steaming mug of tea in one hand while the other holds a damp cloth, a bottle of medicine tucked securely beneath her arm.
She pauses when she sees you fully cocooned beneath her blankets, only the top half of your face visible above the duvet, your fever-flushed cheeks pressed into her pillow. The look that crosses her face then is so openly fond and tender it makes you blink.
“What?” you mumble suspiciously, your voice rough and scratchy from sleep and fever as you squint at her from beneath the blankets.
“Nothing,” she says quickly, though the smile tugging at her mouth makes it obvious it’s absolutely not nothing. She shakes her head lightly as she walks toward the bed. “You’re just very cute, petita, and I love you a lot.”
Something warm and embarrassingly emotional unfurls in your chest immediately.
“I love you too,” you mumble back automatically, already burrowing deeper into the pillow afterward like hiding inside her bedding might somehow protect you from the vulnerability of saying it out loud so easily now.
Alexia’s expression softens even further at that, though thankfully she decides not to make a big deal out of it. Instead she sets the tea carefully on the bedside table before moving closer, one hand sliding gently behind your shoulders.
“Okay, sit up for me a little,” she murmurs.
You immediately groan in protest. “Noooo.”
“Yes,” she counters calmly, already helping guide you upright despite your dramatic suffering. “Medicine first, then you can go back to being tragically ill.”
You grumble something deeply pathetic under your breath while she laughs quietly, steadying you carefully against her chest as she hands you the pills and then the tea.
“Take it, okay?” she says gently. “It’ll help with the fever.”
This time you obey without argument, mostly because your head feels like it’s being split open from the inside and your bones ache in a way that makes existing feel exhausting.
Once you finish, Alexia takes the mug from your hands and helps lower you carefully back against the pillows, fussing with them afterward until they’re arranged exactly how she wants, fluffing one beneath your neck before tucking the duvet securely beneath your chin.
“There,” she murmurs approvingly. “Better.”
Her fingers brush gently through your hair, sweeping the damp strands back from your forehead before she places the cold cloth there with careful hands. Relief floods through you instantly. You let out a small sigh, your eyes falling closed as the coolness settles against your overheated skin.
“Gràcies,” you mumble weakly.
“Of course, bebé.”
You stay still for a moment after that, hovering somewhere between awake and asleep while the medicine slowly begins dulling the sharp edges of your fever.
Eventually you feel the mattress shift beside you and your eyes shoot open. Alexia pauses halfway into climbing onto the bed, clearly catching the surprise on your face.
“Is it okay if I lay with you?” she asks softly, one knee still pressed into the mattress while she watches you carefully. “Or would you rather rest alone?”
“Yes,” you answer so quickly it almost overlaps her question. Then you blink, suddenly aware of how eager that sounded. “I mean…” you mumble awkwardly, tugging the blanket slightly higher. “It’s your bed.”
Alexia smiles, warmth flickering across her face at your obvious embarrassment, but mercifully decides not to tease you for it. Instead she settles beside you carefully, laying on her side with one arm tucked beneath her head so she can look at you properly.
Her hand reaches out to adjust the cold cloth slipping crookedly across your forehead, her fingertips brushing softly along your cheek afterward. You lean into the touch without even thinking about it, fever and exhaustion stripping away whatever pride normally slows you down. The corners of her mouth twitch upward faintly at that.
“Come here, carinyo.” She opens her arms toward you slightly and that’s all the invitation you need.
You immediately curl toward her, pressing yourself against her chest while she wraps both arms securely around you, one hand sliding up into your hair while the other settles warmly between your shoulder blades. Somewhere in the process you tug the now-warm compress off your forehead and let it fall forgotten off the bed because honestly this feels infinitely more healing anyway.
You burrow closer instinctively, your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of her shirt while her fingers continue moving slowly through your hair over and over again, rhythmic and soothing in a way that makes every tight, aching part of you slowly start to loosen.
You breathe in deeply. Vanilla lotion. The soft floral scent of her perfume lingering faintly against her skin. The smell fills your lungs and something in your body finally unclenches completely, your shoulders relaxing against her for the first time all day as exhaustion begins pulling you steadily toward sleep.
Above you, Alexia presses another gentle kiss into your hair and tightens her arms around you slightly, like she can physically hold the fever away if she tries hard enough.
“Sleep, mi vida,” she murmurs against the top of your head, her voice warm and impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”
Words of affection are not something Alexia ever withholds from you either.
She tells you she loves you every single day with the same easy certainty other people use to comment on the weather. She calls you every nickname imaginable, each one somehow sounding entirely natural coming from her mouth - petita, bebé, amor meu, carinyo, mi vida. Sometimes she invents new ones on the spot just to make you roll your eyes dramatically at her.
And every single time, something warm blooms inside your chest so quickly it almost hurts. You’ve never really had names for her in return. Not beyond Ale. Because anything else has always felt too big somehow, too vulnerable to say out loud when you still aren’t entirely sure what you’re allowed to call someone who has become this important to you.
But apparently your feverish, exhausted, emotionally defenseless brain has decided that problem no longer matters.
Because right as sleep finally starts dragging you fully under, your body warm and heavy against her chest while her fingers continue combing slowly through your hair, the words slip out completely unprompted.
Soft and sleepy. Barely more than a whisper.
“T’estimo, mama.”
You are already too far gone to really process what you’ve said. Too exhausted to feel the way Alexia’s entire body stills beneath you. Too close to sleep to notice the sharp inhale she takes, or the way her hand pauses in your hair for just half a second before trembling slightly when it starts moving again.
You don’t see the tears immediately gathering in her eyes either, bright and sudden and entirely vulnerable in a way almost no one ever gets to witness from her.
For a long moment, she simply looks down at you curled trustingly against her chest, your breathing finally slow and even now, your feverish face relaxed in sleep while one of your hands still grips loosely at the fabric of her shirt like even unconscious you want to stay close.
Something in Alexia’s expression breaks open completely then. Like some final wall inside her quietly giving way. She lowers her head and presses another kiss into your hair, more delicate than any she’s ever given you before, lingering there for an extra second as her eyes close briefly.
“T’estimo, filla,” she whispers back, her voice thick with emotion. “Moltíssim.” [I love you too, daughter. So, so much.]
4:
You should have known right from the start of the night that it was going to end badly. In hindsight, the warning signs had been everywhere.
You had just won the league, the locker room still buzzing with the kind of happiness that only comes after months of work finally paying off. Music blasted from someone’s speaker, bottles of water had already become makeshift champagne replacements, and every few seconds another player would get dragged into a celebratory hug whether they wanted one or not.
Naturally, Alexia was attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Which, considering the circumstances, was a completely hopeless endeavor.
“We have a Champions League semifinal in one week,” she reminded everyone for what was probably the third or fourth time that evening, standing in the middle of the locker room with her arms folded across her chest. “So celebrate, enjoy yourselves, have fun, but please try not to do anything stupid.”
Her gaze landed directly on Pina and Cata.
Pina immediately looked offended. “Why are you looking at me?”
“Because speaking from experience,” Alexia replied without missing a beat, “you’re usually involved when something stupid happens… CATAchaça and PINAcolada.”
The locker room erupted into laughter while Pina clutched her chest dramatically. Cata just pointed and laughed, not even trying to defend herself.
Alexia remained completely unmoved. “One week,” she repeated firmly. “That is all I am asking for.”
The problem was that while her attention was fixed on the usual suspects, she was completely missing the real danger. Because on the opposite side of the room, Vicky and Serra had already made eye contact and were wiggling their eyebrows at each other conspiratorially.
Some sort of plan was already forming. You saw it happen and maybe you should have been concerned but instead, you laughed. Which was probably your first mistake.
By the time the official celebrations begin winding down and players start splitting into smaller groups, you have forgotten about the look they shared earlier. You’re standing near your locker packing the last of your gear into your bag when Vicky suddenly appears on one side of you and Serra appears on the other, the coordinated maneuver suspicious enough that alarm bells should probably start ringing immediately.
“We’re going out tonight.”
You blink at them. “What?”
“We’re going out tonight,” Vicky repeats, as though she has just informed you of something obvious.
Your eyes widen instantly. “But Ale just said-”
“What Ale doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Vicky interrupts, lowering her voice mischievously as a deeply concerning grin spreads across her face.
Beside her, Serra nods with complete confidence. “Exactly.”
You stare at both of them. “That feels very much like the opposite of how that works.”
Neither of them looks remotely convinced.
You hesitate, your mind immediately jumping to all the reasons this is probably a bad idea, the most obvious being that Alexia would absolutely hate it. But when you look between them, both of them watching you expectantly, something warmer pushes against your reservations.
Over the past several months, your friendship with them had grown in ways you never really expected. What had started as occasional lunch invitations and persistent attempts to drag you into conversations had gradually become coffee runs after training, afternoons at the beach, movie nights, and group chats that somehow accumulated hundreds of messages while you were asleep.
For the first time in your life, friendship felt easy.
You didn’t spend every interaction waiting for the other shoe to drop or wondering if people were only being kind because they felt obligated to be. When Clara texted you to come get coffee or Vicky showed up at your door demanding you go watch the sunset with them, it was because they genuinely wanted you there.
They aren’t including you because Alexia had asked them to. They didn’t keep you around out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way they had simply become your friends, and you had become theirs.
Maybe that’s why saying yes feels so important.
Because when you look at them now, both practically vibrating with excitement as they wait for your answer, you can’t help feeling excited too. It feels good to belong somewhere, to be wanted without having to earn it first, and for a girl who had spent most of her life expecting connections to disappear the moment she relaxed, that feeling was still a little bit miraculous.
“Okay,” you finally say, a smile spreading across your face despite yourself. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
The reaction is immediate. Both of them cheer loud enough that several nearby teammates turn to look.
“I’ll go tell Ale,” you say, already turning toward where Alexia is finishing an interview with club media.
You make it exactly three steps before Vicky grabs your arm. “No.”
You look back questioningly, “Why not?”
The look Vicky and Serra exchange makes your stomach drop. Because whenever those two share a glance like that, it usually means they’re about to do something incredibly stupid. And worse, they’re usually very proud of it.
“Because,” Vicky explains patiently, like she’s speaking to a particularly slow child, “if we tell her we’re going out, she is never gonna let you come.”
You huff at that, a little embarrassed to be reminded of your age in front of your cool older teammates.
You’re only a few weeks away from seventeen, but unfortunately that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone. Being the youngest player on the team means everyone treats you like some combination of little sister, mascot, and their mildly accident-prone child. Being known as Alexia’s kid - whatever that meant - certainly doesn’t help matters either.
“It’s all good though,” Serra says, clapping a hand onto your shoulder. “We have a plan.” That sentence immediately makes you nervous. “We’re going to tell her we’re having a sleepover at Vicky’s.”
You stare at both of them. Neither looks remotely concerned by how terrible that plan sounds. Eventually, against your better judgment, you nod and allow yourself to be dragged across the room toward your guardian.
“Hermanaaaa,” Vicky calls dramatically as soon as she’s within earshot.
Alexia looks up with immediate suspicion. You watch her eyes narrow before they slide past Vicky’s shoulder and land directly on you. The look she gives you is unmistakable: What are they doing?
You can only shrug helplessly and point toward Vicky.
Alexia somehow grows even more suspicious and Vicky throws an arm around your shoulders before she can ask questions.
“So,” she begins casually, which is already a terrible sign, “Clara and I were thinking that since we just won the league and everything, maybe we could have a little sleepover tonight. At my apartment.”
Alexia says nothing so Vicky continues talking. Which is another terrible sign.
“You know, just movies and junk food and celebrating.”
Still nothing. Alexia’s gaze slowly shifts toward you. You immediately become fascinated by a nearby wall.
“Uh-huh,” she says.
“We’ll be very responsible.”
“Mm.”
“And try to go to bed early?”
“Mhmm.”
Vicky is starting to sweat. You can tell. Unfortunately, Alexia can too.
The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable before Alexia finally sighs and rubs a hand across her forehead.
“Fine.”
Vicky’s entire face lights up. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Both Vicky and Serra let out triumphant cheers and jump around you.
“But you bring her back in one piece, you hear me?” Alexia says, pointing a warning finger at them.
The girls are already celebrating too hard to listen. Alexia watches them for a moment before her expression softens slightly.
Truthfully, she isn’t entirely convinced this is a good idea. You usually crash hard after big matches, especially emotional ones, and she can already see the exhaustion lurking beneath your excitement. But at the same time, seeing you build friendships with people your own age has been one of her favorite things to watch this season.
For a long time, your entire world had revolved around her. And while Alexia secretly loves that more than she should, she also knows it isn’t healthy for a teenager to spend every waking moment following a thirty-two-year-old woman around. You deserve friends. You deserve people who understand what it’s like to be your age. You deserve a life that exists outside of her.
So she ignores the small voice telling her this is probably a terrible idea.
Vicky and Clara sprint off to collect their things before she can change her mind.
You linger for a moment after the girls disappear, your feet rooted to the floor even as the rest of the room continues moving around you. Alexia notices immediately, as she always does, her attention finding you as naturally as breathing.
“You sure you’re okay going to Vicky’s?” she asks, her voice softening slightly now that the others are out of earshot. “You know you’re allowed to say no, right? They won’t be upset if you’d rather come home.”
The concern is genuine. If you told her right now that you wanted to leave with her instead, she would text Vicky an apology and have you in the car before either of them could protest.
You nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, I know.” You glance toward the door where your friends disappeared. “I think it’ll be fun though.”
Alexia studies your face for another moment, making sure you’re telling the truth and not just agreeing because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her because her shoulders relax and a smile slowly appears.
“Okay then,” she says warmly. “Have fun, and be good.”
Before you can respond, she pulls you into a hug, one arm wrapping securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss to the top of your head. The affection is so familiar now that you instinctively lean into it.
“I’m very proud of you, petita,” she murmurs.
Something in her voice makes you look up. Her eyes are a little shinier than usual when she pulls back, her hands settling on your shoulders as she holds you at arm’s length for a second, like she’s trying to memorize the moment.
“Your first league trophy,” she says softly, a smile spreading across her face. “I know it’ll be the first of many for you, but the first one is always special, no?”
The pride in her expression is almost overwhelming.
“I still remember mine,” she continues with a quiet laugh. “You spend years dreaming about it and then suddenly it’s real and you’re standing there holding it thinking, that’s it? That’s what all those years felt like?”
You laugh softly.
Alexia’s smile widens.
“Maybe tomorrow we celebrate properly,” she suggests. “Just us. We could get a pizza and take it to the beach, sit by the water for a few hours.”
She says it so hopefully and there is so much pride behind it that your stomach twists painfully with guilt.
Because she’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. Because she’s trusting you. And you’re lying to her.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I’d like that a lot.”
Something softens immediately in her expression. “Good.”
She pulls you into another hug before you can say anything else, holding you close for a moment while she presses another kiss into your hair.
And as you hug her back, surrounded by her warmth and her pride and her absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, the guilt settles a little heavier in your chest than it did before.
------
The guilt doesn’t disappear entirely. It just gets drowned out.
First by laughter then by music then by the simple, unfamiliar joy of being sixteen years old and surrounded by people who genuinely want you there.
It's difficult to dwell on guilt when you’re doubled over laughing in the middle of Vicky’s apartment while Serra attempts to explain why her outfit absolutely qualifies as “subtle.”
The evening starts innocently enough.
There are bags of chips spread across the coffee table, half-empty boxes of fries balanced on the kitchen counter, and a movie playing on the television that nobody is actually watching because the three of you keep talking over it every thirty seconds.
And technically - technically - nobody has lied yet. You are at Vicky’s apartment. You are having a sleepover. There is a movie playing.
If Alexia suddenly called right now, every word Vicky told her would be true. Mostly. That technicality makes you feel significantly better.
At least until Clara disappears into the kitchen and returns carrying three drinks. Your eyes immediately narrow. Vicky immediately starts grinning.
She places one in front of you before settling back onto the couch. You stare at it for a second. The drink itself isn’t particularly intimidating, but it’s still enough to make you hesitate.
You’ve never really been interested in alcohol before. Between football and school and trying to survive the rest of your life, it simply never felt important enough to think about.
But tonight feels different. It’s not like anyone is pressuring you and you’re not trying to impress anybody. You’re just sitting on a couch with your friends after winning the league and for once there isn’t a single responsibility demanding your attention.
So when Clara lifts her glass toward you, you find yourself lifting yours too.
The first sip makes you wrinkle your nose. The second is considerably better. By the third, you’re laughing again as Vicky dramatically insists the drink tastes sophisticated while Clara informs her that nothing containing that much soda and fruit juice qualifies as sophisticated.
By the time you’re piling into a taxi half an hour later, a warm pleasant feeling has begun spreading through your chest and shoulders, softening the edges of everything around you.
The city lights seem brighter. The music seems better. Your teammates seem even funnier than usual.
Vicky spends most of the ride talking with her hands while Clara argues passionately about something neither of them can fully remember anymore. You jump into the conversation whenever a thought occurs to you, and almost every time you do, the entire backseat dissolves into laughter.
You find yourself smiling constantly.
It’s not even because of the drinks but because you’re happy. Because for the first time in your life, celebrating success doesn’t feel lonely.
For so many years every achievement had been followed by the same thing: going home, sitting quietly with it by yourself, and trying not to think too hard about how nobody was waiting there to be proud of you.
Tonight is different. Tonight there are people beside you who understand exactly how hard you’ve worked for this. People who were there for the early mornings and the extra sessions and the tears and the setbacks. People who know exactly what this trophy cost.
And they want to celebrate it with you.
The realization settles warmly in your chest as the taxi turns a corner and the club finally comes into view.
The place is absolutely packed. Music pours into the street every time the front doors open, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your feet while colorful lights flash across the crowd gathered outside. A line stretches halfway down the block, groups of people talking and laughing beneath the glow of the signs overhead.
You can’t stop yourself from staring. Even from here you can feel the energy rolling out of the building.
Vicky notices immediately, a grin spreads across her face. “First club?”
You shoot her an unimpressed look. “You know it’s my first club.”
“Fair.” She looks entirely too pleased by that fact.
The three of you make your way toward the entrance, weaving through clusters of people who instantly begin recognizing them. Congratulations are called out from several directions. Someone asks for a photo. Another person shouts something about the league title that makes Clara laugh. None of it seems unusual to either of them.
When you finally reach the front, the bouncer takes one look at Vicky and immediately breaks into a smile. “Well, if it isn’t our champions.”
Vicky bows dramatically. “Thank you, thank you.”
He rolls his eyes before stepping aside. “Congratulations on the league. Let’s bring home that European title too, ok?”
As he opens the rope, his gaze drifts briefly toward you. Recognition flickers across his face and his eyebrows rise slightly.
“Look at that,” he says with an amused smile. “They even brought Alexia’s kid.”
Your stomach does a strange little flip and heat rushes to your face. Because apparently even here, miles away from the training ground and Alexia’s watchful eyes, everyone still knows exactly who you are. Or maybe more accurately - whose you are.
Before you can formulate any sort of response, Vicky hooks her arm through yours and begins dragging you toward the entrance.
The club is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Hundreds of people move together beneath flashing lights that change color every few seconds, washing the crowd in alternating shades of blue and pink and purple. The bass is so loud you can feel it vibrating through your ribs, while somewhere above the dance floor a DJ stands on an elevated platform, one arm raised triumphantly as the crowd roars back at him.
It’s overwhelming and somehow energizing at the same time.
You’ve never really been the type for house parties, partly because nobody ever invited you to them and partly because spending your weekends training had always felt more important than sneaking around looking for trouble. Left entirely to your own devices, you probably never would have found yourself somewhere like this.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who was telling the story, you have Vicky and Clara.
The two of them immediately hook their arms through yours as soon as they notice your attention wandering, creating a human chain as they guide you through the crowd.
“We’re not losing you in here,” Clara informs you.
“Stay between us, rookie.” Vicky squeezes your arm affectionately.
The three of you weave through the sea of people until you finally reach the bar, where Vicky turns toward you with an expectant look. “Do you want water?”
You glance at the drinks everyone around you seems to be holding.
“No,” you decide. “I’ll just have whatever you guys are having.”
It turns out their choice is tequila. A decision you regret almost instantly.
The shot burns all the way down, your face scrunching up dramatically as you cough and grab for the nearest glass of water.
“Oh my god.” Your eyes begin watering immediately. “That is disgusting.”
They double over laughing while you glare at them through watery eyes.
“You looked so confident,” Clara manages between laughs.
“I was confident.”
“Clearly...”
“I thought it would taste better.”
That only makes them laugh harder.
Vicky slings an arm around your shoulders. “We’re teaching you how to do that properly.”
“No.”
“Hmmm… yes!”
She and Clara exchange another one of those eyebrow wiggles that have never once led to anything good.
You immediately decide you don’t want to know what they’re planning.
Fortunately, the conversation dies when a new song starts and the crowd erupts around you. Vicky lets out an excited gasp. Clara points dramatically toward the dance floor. And before you can object, both of them are dragging you back into the crowd.
The next hour passes in a blur of music and laughter.
Your hands are in the air more often than not. Your hair sticks to your face. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
At one point Vicky nearly falls over trying to spin Clara. At another, Clara accidentally elbows three people around them and spends the next five minutes denying it happened despite multiple eyewitnesses.
You laugh until your stomach hurts. You dance until your legs ache. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, surrounded by music and flashing lights and your friends singing lyrics they barely know, a warm feeling settles in your chest.
For so much of your life, happiness had always come with conditions attached to it. There was always something waiting on the other side - a problem to solve, a consequence to avoid, a voice reminding you not to get too comfortable because good things never seemed to last very long.
But tonight feels different. Tonight there is only the music vibrating through your ribs, Clara nearly losing a shoe in the crowd, Vicky screaming every chorus directly into your ear, and the strange, wonderful realization that nobody here expects anything from you besides showing up and having fun.
You think maybe this is what being normal feels like. The thought makes you smile.
Vicky is in the middle of passionately explaining why she should be the team DJ and not Patri when her eyes suddenly slide past your shoulder.
Her sentence cuts off and her expression changes. A grin begins spreading across her face.
“Oh.”
“Oh what?” you ask.
Vicky doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs your arm and physically pulls you closer, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal classified information.
“Don’t look now,” she says. “But there is a really pretty girl staring at you by the bar.”
Which, naturally, guarantees that you immediately look. Your head whips around so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
Vicky lets out a horrified groan. “Oh my God.”
“What?” you ask defensively.
“You looked!”
“Well how else am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
Vicky presses a hand dramatically to her forehead. “Young padawan,” she says solemnly, “I have so much to teach you.”
You ignore her and glance back toward the bar. The girl is still looking at you and now she knows you’ve caught her. Heat rushes into your face.
She smiles. You smile back.
The girl lifts her hand in a small wave. Your stomach immediately does something deeply embarrassing.
Beside you, Vicky makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a proud parent. “Oh she’s cute.”
“Vicky please stop.
“And she’s definitely looking at you.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. Unfortunately, that only encourages them.
For the next several minutes they proceed to hype themselves into a frenzy while you repeatedly insist that you are absolutely not going to walk across a crowded club and introduce yourself to a stranger.
Eventually Clara has enough and physically places both hands on your shoulders and turns you toward the bar.
“Go.” Clara punctuates the command with a gentle shove between your shoulder blades before you can come up with another excuse.
You stumble forward a step and immediately turn back to glare at them. “Traitors.”
Neither of them looks remotely guilty. In fact, they look delighted.
“Good luck!” Vicky calls after you, cupping her hands around her mouth like she’s sending a soldier off to war.
Clara is laughing too hard to contribute anything useful, though she does give you an enthusiastic thumbs-up that somehow makes the entire situation feel even more humiliating.
You spend the walk to the bar trying desperately to remember how normal human beings are supposed to interact with attractive strangers.
Unfortunately, this is not a skill you’ve ever really had reason to develop. Football has always made sense to you. Defensive structures make sense. Pressing triggers make sense. The correct weight and angle of a through ball make sense.
This? This feels significantly more complicated.
By the time you reach the bar, you’ve completely forgotten whatever plan you had managed to come up with.
“Hi…” you manage awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck as you stop beside her.
The girl’s entire face brightens immediately. Up close she’s somehow even prettier than she looked from across the room. Her features are softer than you’d realized beneath the flashing club lights, and she looks younger too, probably close to your own age rather than the university student you’d imagined from a distance.
“Hi,” she says warmly, like she’s genuinely happy you walked over. “I’m Lia.”
You tell her your name.
Her smile widens. “I know.”
That should probably register as strange. It should probably make you wonder how she knows who you are. Instead, your brain becomes completely occupied with the fact that she’s smiling at you.
The conversation starts easily after that, which surprises you almost as much as it relieves you. You’d expected awkward pauses and forced small talk, but somehow neither ever arrives. Lia has an effortless way of keeping conversations moving, jumping between topics so naturally that before you realize it the two of you have been talking for nearly half an hour.
Even more surprisingly, she somehow gets you talking. Usually you’re content to let other people carry conversations while you listen from the sidelines, but Lia keeps asking questions that are easy to answer and then actually seems interested in what you have to say. Before long you’re talking about music and school and football and the absurd things your teammates do on a daily basis.
Somewhere along the way she offers to buy you a drink. You agree without thinking much about it. Then later she offers another. And later still, another.
You don’t really notice the pattern forming. You’re too busy enjoying yourself.
The warm buzz that had started earlier is becoming stronger now, making everything feel a little softer around the edges. The music seems better. Your jokes seem funnier. Lia’s smile seems brighter every time she directs it your way.
Which is probably why it takes you much longer than it should to notice when the questions start to shift, drifting away from the playful, harmless things you’d been talking about earlier.
At first it doesn’t seem strange.
“So what’s it actually like playing for Barça?”
You shrug and answer. You tell her about training and travel and how surreal it still feels sometimes when you walk into the locker room and realize you’re surrounded by the players you idolized as a child.
She laughs in all the right places. Nods attentively. Seems genuinely interested. A few minutes later she asks another question.
“What’s Alexia really like?”
That one feels normal too. Everybody asks that. Fans ask it. Reporters ask it. Even your classmates ask it whenever they find out who you live with. Any connection with one of the most famous footballers in the world means that sooner or later every conversation circles back to her.
So you smile and say, “She’s great.”
Lia laughs. “That’s the boring answer.”
You grin despite yourself. “She’s also bossy.”
“There we go.”
You tell a story about Alexia confiscating your phone during a movie because you’d been playing some ‘stupid game’ instead of paying attention. Lia laughs hard enough that you find yourself relaxing again.
For a few moments the conversation continues comfortably. Then Lia tilts her head.
“She’s basically your mom, right?”
You blink. The question catches you so off guard that you genuinely don’t know how to answer for a second.
“What?”
Lia shrugs lightly before taking another sip of her drink. “I mean, everyone says you’re her daughter.”
You let out an awkward laugh. “No.”
The answer comes automatically. It’s the same answer you’ve given a dozen times before. But this time you hesitate. Because that isn’t entirely true either... not anymore. Not after everything that’s happened.
Not after hospital rooms and physical therapy appointments and sleepless nights spent sitting beside your bed. Not after being tucked into blankets when you were sick or picked up from school when it rained or scolded for skipping breakfast before training. Not after being loved so thoroughly and consistently that somewhere along the way you stopped feeling like a guest in her life and started feeling like you belonged there.
The simple answer should still be no. And yet it doesn’t feel quite that simple anymore.
“Well…” You run your fingers through your hair awkwardly. “Not really.”
Lia leans forward slightly. “Not really?”
You shrug. “I live with her. She’s my guardian.”
The words feel strangely inadequate. Like they leave out all the important parts.
Because guardian is technically correct. Guardian is what the paperwork says. Guardian is what the lawyers and social workers and club officials call her. But guardian doesn’t really explain why she kisses your forehead when you’re tired or why she still checks that you’ve eaten after training or why hearing her call you petita feels more like home than any place you’ve ever lived.
Still, it’s easier than trying to explain all of that to a stranger.
Something flickers across Lia’s face. It’s gone so quickly you almost miss it. Interest.
But not the warm kind she’d been looking at you with earlier. It’s sharper and more focused. Like a person who has just stumbled across a detail they weren’t expecting and suddenly wants to know everything about it.
A small knot has begun forming somewhere deep in your stomach, tightening a little more every time she asks another question.
At first you try to ignore it. Maybe it’s the alcohol or you’re overthinking things or maybe you’re just not used to talking to pretty girls and your brain is finding new and creative ways to embarrass itself. But the feeling refuses to go away and the questions keep coming.
She doesn’t ask about music anymore or about school or even really about you. The questions keep circling back to Alexia, to the team, to your life in ways that feel increasingly specific.
You try to pivot and move the conversation forward, but it’s almost like each answer is leading to the next question rather than satisfying it.
You glance down at your drink then back at Lia then down again. Trying to figure out exactly when the evening changed. Trying to figure out why you suddenly feel so exposed. Like you’ve accidentally said too much. Like you’ve wandered into a conversation without understanding what it was actually about.
The music feels louder now. The lights harsher. The alcohol no longer warm and pleasant but heavy and dull. And for the first time since you sat down at the bar, you find yourself wishing you were back on the dance floor with your friends.
Because this doesn’t feel like flirting anymore. It feels like an interview.
You glance around the room, your eyes moving over the sea of strangers and flashing lights until they finally land on Vicky across the dance floor.
The panic on your face must be far more obvious than you realize because her smile instantly vanishes at your eye contact. One second she’s laughing at something Clara is saying, and the next her attention is completely focused on you. Her eyebrows draw together slightly as she follows your gaze back toward the table, taking in Lia, your half-finished drink, and the uncomfortable way you’re sitting in your chair.
You watch understanding settle across her face.
Without hesitation, she reaches out and grabs Clara’s arm. Clara stumbles slightly, looking annoyed for all of half a second before Vicky points in your direction. Whatever expression is on her face must explain everything because Clara’s posture immediately changes too.
The two of them start quickly moving toward you. The relief that floods your chest is so immediate it almost makes you dizzy.
“There you are!” Vicky announces brightly the moment she reaches the table, sounding exactly like someone who has been searching for you for hours rather than dancing twenty feet away the entire time.
The lie is so blatant that under normal circumstances you might have laughed. Right now you’re too grateful to care.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Lia’s eyebrows lift slightly. You don’t miss the way Vicky positions herself beside your chair, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours, creating a subtle barrier between you and the conversation. Before anyone can respond, she reaches down and takes your hand. The simple gesture feels strangely grounding.
“Come on,” she says. “Clara needs to go to the bathroom.”
Clara blinks. For a brief moment she looks completely confused before realization dawns.
“Oh.” A beat passes. “Right.” She nods seriously. “I do.”
Vicky gives her an approving look before turning back to you. “Can you come with us?”
The answer leaves your mouth immediately. “Yeah.” The relief is so overwhelming that you don’t even attempt to hide it.
You offer Lia a small apologetic wave before allowing yourself to be pulled away, stumbling slightly as Vicky immediately increases her pace and starts weaving through the crowd with Clara close behind.
The second you’re far enough away that the music and bodies swallow the table from view, Clara turns toward you with wide eyes.
“What the hell was that about?”
You let out a long breath, running both hands through your hair as you try to organize your thoughts through the haze of alcohol and the lingering discomfort still crawling around in your stomach.
“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. “She was cool at first. Like really cool. We were just talking about music and school and random stuff, and then…” You trail off, frowning slightly as you try to pinpoint exactly when the conversation changed. “I don’t know. Suddenly she started asking me all these weird questions.”
“Weird how?” Vicky asks immediately.
You shrug. “Just… invasive, I guess. About Alexia. About where I live. About the team. About contracts and who hangs out with who and what everyone is like behind closed doors.” The more you list them, the stranger it sounds.
Clara’s face twists in distaste. “Yeah, that’s weird.”
“Right?” You point at her emphatically. “That’s what I thought.”
“That’s not flirting.”
“No!”
“That’s legit an ESPN exclusive.”
The three of you burst out laughing. Some of the tension finally leaves your body.
Vicky wraps an arm around your shoulders and squeezes. “Well congratulations.”
“For what?”
“You survived your first fan girl. The first of many I’m sure.”
You groan dramatically. “Please never let me do that again.”
“Oh don’t worry,” Clara says. “We’re screening all future applicants.”
“You don’t get applicants.”
“I absolutely do!”
“You looked at one pretty girl and immediately got trapped for thirty minutes.”
You bury your face in your hands while both of them laugh.
The embarrassment lasts all of thirty seconds before the music from the main room swells again and Clara grabs both of your wrists. “Okay, enough of that. We came here to celebrate!”
The reminder settles something inside you. Because she’s right. You didn’t come here for some girl.
You didn’t spend the entire season training and fighting and sacrificing and pushing through injuries just to spend your night answering questions from a stranger.
You came here with your friends, people who wanted to celebrate with you.
When you look at Clara and Vicky now, both smiling at you expectantly, the lingering weirdness of the conversation suddenly feels insignificant compared to that.
“Come on then,” you say, grabbing both of their hands. “Let’s go dance.”
Within minutes you’re back on the dance floor, laughing hard enough that your stomach hurts while Clara nearly starts another incident by repeatedly stepping on strangers’ feet.
And little by little, Lia fades from your mind entirely.
What you don’t know is that she hasn’t forgotten about you.
Earlier in the night, while you and your friends had been dancing beneath the flashing lights, she’d quietly taken photos. Photos of the three of you celebrating, of you laughing, of you with drinks in your hands.
And later, after you’d left the table, she posted them.
Alongside those photos came a short series of tweets recounting parts of your conversation, including the casual admission that Alexia was your guardian and that you lived with her.
Within an hour, the posts have begun spreading.
The Barça Femení fanbase has been speculating about your relationship with Alexia for months. About how close you two seem. About why she looks after you the way she does. About why everyone on the team treats you like her child.
Now, for the first time, they think they have confirmation.
And to make matters worse, the photos show exactly where you are. At a club. On a night when Alexia believes you’re safely sleeping at Vicky’s apartment.
The posts begin spreading long before the night is over.
And with every share, every repost, every comment and screenshot, they move a little closer toward the one person you least want to see them.
------
An hour later, you are definitely drunk.
Not dangerously drunk or stumbling-unconscious drunk, but drunk enough that the world feels pleasantly softened around the edges, drunk enough that dancing has gradually devolved into jumping and yelling lyrics that none of you actually know, and drunk enough that every joke Vicky makes somehow feels like the funniest thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life.
Your feet ache from spending hours on the dance floor and your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, but neither sensation is enough to dampen your mood. If anything, they feel like proof of how much fun you’re having.
The three of you are gathered around Vicky’s phone near the edge of the dance floor, supposedly trying to order an Uber home, though the process is moving significantly slower than it should because Clara keeps offering increasingly terrible suggestions while you provide enthusiastic support for all of them.
“No, look at that one,” she insists, pointing vaguely at the screen. “We should definitely get an XL.”
You immediately nod. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Vicky stares at both of you like she’s questioning every life decision that led her to this moment.
“There are only three of us, why would we need a car that big?!”
You and Clara promptly dissolve into more laughter.
The night feels perfect. Messy and loud and ridiculous, but perfect. The sort of night that you’ll all spend years talking about afterward.
Which is probably why none of you notice the shift in the air.
It begins at the edge of the crowd. A subtle ripple of movement that works its way through the room as heads begin turning one after another, conversations faltering as people glance toward the entrance and then glance again.
You barely register it at first. Your attention is still fixed on Vicky’s phone and Clara’s increasingly passionate argument about why party buses should be an option on Uber.
Clara suddenly goes quiet. The change is so abrupt that it catches your attention. You look up just in time to see all the color drain from her face and her eyes widen.
“Oh fuck.” The words are barely audible.
Vicky frowns. “What?”
Instead of answering, Clara grabs her arm. Vicky follows her gaze and immediately freezes. The smile falls off her face so quickly that it feels unnatural.
Your stomach drops before you even turn around. Some internal warning that whatever is standing behind you, you aren’t going to like it. Slowly, you lift your head and the world seems to stop.
Alexia is standing in the middle of the club.
For a brief, disorienting second your brain refuses to process what you’re seeing because it simply doesn’t make sense. Alexia isn’t supposed to be here. Alexia is supposed to be asleep. Alexia is supposed to think you’re curled up on Vicky’s couch watching movies and eating junk food.
Instead she’s standing ten feet away, still dressed in the oversized sweatshirt and gray sweatpants she wears around the house, the sleeves pushed up unevenly and her hair pulled back in a hasty bun that looks like she threw it together while walking out the door.
The expression on her face makes every trace of alcohol evaporate from your system.
You have seen Alexia angry before. You’ve watched her argue with referees. You’ve watched her tear into rivals who commit dirty tackles. You’ve watched her stand in front of cameras after painful losses with frustration burning behind her eyes.
This is different. This is somehow worse. She isn’t making a scene, there is no yelling or dramatic explosion of emotion. Instead all of her anger has condensed into something frighteningly controlled, something sharp and deliberate and impossible to ignore.
The music continues thundering around you, lights still flashing overhead, hundreds of people still dancing and talking and laughing, but it all feels strangely distant now, muffled beneath the pounding of your own heartbeat.
Alexia’s gaze moves slowly between the three of you before finally settling on you.
The look in her eyes makes your stomach twist. Underneath the fury you see the hurt, and somehow that feels infinitely worse.
When she finally speaks, her voice is calm enough that anyone passing by might miss the danger entirely.
“We are leaving.” No one argues. No one even considers it. The authority in those three words is absolute. “Now.”
Then she turns around and starts walking toward the exit.
The three of you follow immediately. Your earlier laughter has vanished completely, replaced by a heavy silence that follows you all the way through the crowd and out into the cool night air beyond the club doors.
Nobody speaks. Not Vicky. Not Clara. Certainly not you. The only sounds are your footsteps against the pavement and the distant pulse of music spilling out behind you.
Alexia doesn’t slow down or look back as she leads you toward her car, parked carelessly at the curb in a place that is almost certainly illegal. The security guards standing nearby don’t seem particularly interested in mentioning that fact, which is probably the smartest decision anyone has made all night.
You can feel her watching you occasionally from the corner of her eye as you walk, tracking every uneven step.
You make a conscious effort to walk in a straight line, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and willing your body to cooperate, but the attempt feels almost laughable. Your head is buzzing, your limbs feel heavier than usual, and every movement requires just a little more concentration than it should.
You know she can tell and normally, if she saw you struggling even a little, she would already be beside you. She would have a hand hovering at your elbow, ready to steady you before you even stumbled, and she would probably be asking whether you’d had enough water or if your feet hurt from standing all night.
Tonight she does none of those things.
She reaches the car first, unlocks it with a sharp press of the key fob, and slides into the driver’s seat without waiting for any of you. The door slams behind her with enough force to make all three of you flinch.
The sound echoes in your chest.
Vicky is the one who helps you into the passenger seat.
The gesture is careful, almost overly so, like she’s afraid that if she moves too quickly she might somehow make the situation worse. Normally she would be teasing you mercilessly by now, making jokes about your terrible flirting skills or your complete inability to handle tequila, but tonight she doesn’t say a word.
As soon as you settle into the seat, you squeeze your eyes shut. Partly because the alcohol is making your head spin slightly. Mostly because you know that if you open them, you’ll have to look at Alexia and you aren’t sure you can handle seeing how angry she is.
The back doors open, then close. You hear Vicky and Clara climb into the backseat, suddenly so quiet that it’s almost unnerving.
The contrast is startling. The drunken giddiness that had carried all three of you through the night has evaporated entirely beneath the weight of your captain’s disappointment.
The car pulls away from the curb. Nobody speaks. Not at the first red light. Not after the second. Not even when Clara accidentally drops something and the noise makes all four of you jump.
The silence stretches longer and longer until it becomes a physical thing, heavy enough that it seems to fill every corner of the vehicle. You have never heard Vicky remain quiet for this long. You aren’t entirely convinced it’s medically possible.
Eventually curiosity gets the better of you. Very carefully, you crack one eye open.
Alexia is staring straight ahead at the road. The dashboard lights cast faint shadows across her face, highlighting the tight set of her jaw and the way her hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough that her knuckles have gone pale.
The sight makes your stomach sink. Underneath the anger, she looks tired. Exhausted, even. Like she was ripped out of sleep and immediately thrown into the worst possible version of her night.
“Ale…” you start quietly, your voice sounding much smaller than you intended. “It’s not-”
“We are not discussing this right now.” The interruption is immediate and final. The kind of tone that leaves absolutely no room for argument.
Your mouth snaps shut. Your eye closes again.
Very rarely do you find yourself on the receiving end of Alexia’s anger, and even when you do, it is usually brief and contained. She corrects you when you’ve crossed a line, makes sure you understand why, and then moves on because holding grudges has never been part of her nature.
This feels different, heavier. Like she’s still trying to sort through her own emotions before she says something she’ll regret.The realization does absolutely nothing to ease the knot growing in your stomach.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. The silence never breaks. The only sounds in the car are the hum of the engine, the occasional click of a turn signal, and the distant noise of the city drifting past outside the windows.
Eventually Alexia pulls up in front of Clara’s parents’ house. The car sits idling at the curb while Clara gathers her purse with shaking hands.
For perhaps the first time since you’ve known her, she looks genuinely nervous.
“I’m really sorry, Ale.” The apology comes out barely above a whisper.
Alexia keeps her eyes on the windshield for several seconds before finally giving a stiff nod.
She doesn’t tell Clara it’s okay. She doesn’t reassure her. She doesn’t soften the blow. And somehow that hurts worse than a lecture ever could.
Clara swallows hard. “Goodnight.”
Alexia nods again. Nothing more.
Clara climbs out of the car and shuts the door quietly behind her. Alexia waits until the front door opens and Clara disappears safely inside before putting the car back into drive.
The drive toward Vicky’s apartment somehow feels even worse. Without Clara there to absorb some of the tension, the atmosphere inside the car becomes almost unbearable.
You can practically feel Vicky’s anxiety building behind you.
“Ale, porfa,” Vicky finally says from the backseat, her voice sounding much smaller than usual after nearly twenty minutes of silence. “Please say something.”
For a moment Alexia doesn’t respond. She keeps her eyes fixed on the road ahead, the glow of streetlights sliding across her face as she drives, her expression unreadable except for the tension still visible in her jaw.
When she finally speaks, her voice sounds tired more than anything else. “Telling you how disappointed I am isn’t going to change what happened tonight.”
The words settle heavily over the car. Vicky immediately shrinks into her seat. “Ale…”
“No.” Alexia shakes her head. “No, because I honestly don’t know what you expected to happen.”
The frustration is becoming harder for her to contain now. “I’m just so disappointed in all three of you.”
You physically flinch.
Alexia notices but keeps going. “You should have known better.”
“We were safe, I swear,” Vicky rushes to say, leaning forward in her seat. “Nothing happened. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to them.”
Alexia lets out a short laugh, but there is no amusement in her tone. It’s the kind of laugh people make when they’re too frustrated to do anything else.
“Really?” The single word makes the car feel even colder. “Because from where I’m sitting, that’s clearly not true.”
Vicky opens her mouth again, but Alexia beats her to it.
“You know… considering my daughter is currently going viral on Twitter.”
The words hit the car like a grenade.
“What?!” The response comes from both you and Vicky at the exact same time.
Alexia doesn’t even look away from the road. “You heard me.”
The knot in your stomach immediately twists tighter.
Behind you, Vicky is already digging frantically through her purse for her phone, nearly dropping it in her haste. The glow of the screen illuminates her face as she scrolls, and within seconds she lets out a string of curses so creative that under different circumstances it might have made you laugh.
“That dumb fucking-” She cuts herself off before finishing the sentence. “Alexia, she was set up! You have to understand that this isn’t her fault.”
The reaction is immediate. “You think I don’t know that??” For the first time that night, Alexia’s voice rises. The sudden spike in volume is enough to make all of you jump.
She takes a long breath through her nose, visibly forcing herself to calm down before she says something harsher than she intends.
When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, but only just.
“You two need to understand something,” she says, words are directed at both of you, but her eyes flick briefly toward you. “You are public figures. You play for the biggest club in the world and because of that there are expectations whether you like them or not. Every place you go, every person you meet, every mistake you make, somebody is always watching and somebody is always recording.”
The city lights flicker across her face as she drives.
“So tonight, I honestly don’t care that some wannabe journalist decided to leak information she had no business posting online. I will deal with that in the morning.”
The promise sounds less like a possibility and more like a threat. You suddenly almost feel sorry for Lia… almost.
“What I care about is that the two of you looked me directly in the eye and lied to me. What I care about is that you knowingly ignored my instructions and deliberately put yourselves into a situation where something could have happened.” Her grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“She is sixteen, Vicky.” The disappointment in her voice somehow hurts more than the anger. “What the fuck is she doing in a nightclub?”
“Ale, it’s not her fault.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. You twist in your seat slightly, trying to look at her despite how worried you are about her reaction.
“She got me out of there when things got weird. The second I looked uncomfortable, she came and got me. Both of them did.” Your voice grows stronger as you continue.
“That girl started asking all these strange questions about you and us and the team and where I lived and stuff. I didn’t know what was happening, but Vicky did. She got me out of there right away.”
You glance back at your teammate. “She was protecting me the whole time.”
The silence that follows lasts several seconds. Long enough that you wonder whether Alexia is going to argue.
Instead, she sighs - a long, exhausted sound. “I know.” There is no uncertainty in her tone. “I know it’s not her fault.” For the first time all night, some of the anger leaves her voice. Not all of it, but just enough to reveal the fear hiding underneath.
“But that’s exactly my point.” She shakes her head. “You three should never have been in that situation to begin with.”
Nobody has an answer for that. Because she’s right.
The silence stretches again. Eventually Vicky drops her gaze to her lap.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks. “I really am.” She wipes quickly at her eyes.
“I know I lied.” The words seem to cost her something.
“I just wanted to hang out with her.” She laughs weakly, though it sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
“I wanted us to make memories together. She’s always training or studying or doing something responsible and I thought…” She pauses to wipe her eyes again. “I don’t know. I thought we could do something fun.”
Her voice drops lower. “And I was worried you’d say no.”
The confession hangs in the air. Alexia doesn’t answer, but she must notice the quiet sniffing coming from the backseat because when she finally pulls into Vicky’s apartment complex, she doesn’t immediately put the car back into drive after parking. Instead, she sits there for a moment with both hands resting on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on something beyond the windshield, before letting out a slow breath and opening her door.
Vicky follows right away.
You watch them through the passenger window as they move a few steps away from the car and stop beneath one of the streetlights lining the sidewalk. The yellow glow casts long shadows across the pavement and illuminates the tear tracks still visible on Vicky’s face. For a second neither of them says anything. Then Alexia opens her arms.
That is all it takes before Vicky folds into her instantly. The younger woman practically collapses against her, burying her face in Alexia’s shoulder as the sobs she has clearly been fighting for the last twenty minutes finally win.
You can’t hear what they’re saying through the closed windows. You can only watch.
You watch the way Alexia’s arms tighten around her. You watch the way she lowers her head so she can speak directly into her ear. You watch her rub a hand slowly up and down Vicky’s back with the same patient rhythm you’ve felt yourself more times than you can count.
Months ago, a sight like this might have hurt. Months ago, before you understood what Alexia’s love actually looked like, you might have felt that familiar sting of jealousy. You might have watched someone else receive her comfort and wondered whether there would be less left over for you afterward.
Now you simply feel relieved.
Because if Alexia is still standing there holding Vicky after everything that happened tonight, then maybe the world hasn’t ended after all. Because if Vicky is still allowed to cry into her shoulder and be forgiven, then maybe there is still hope for you too.
Eventually Alexia leans back just enough to cup Vicky’s face between both hands, wiping away tears with her thumbs while speaking softly enough that the words never reach you. Whatever she says causes Vicky to laugh through a fresh wave of tears, which in turn makes Alexia smile sadly before pulling her back into one final hug.
The entire interaction is so painfully familiar. The comfort, the reassurance, the certainty. The unspoken promise that she is angry but still loves you. That she is disappointed but not leaving and whatever happens next, she will still be there when the conversation is over.
When they finally separate, Alexia presses a kiss to the top of Vicky’s head before walking her all the way to the building entrance, waiting patiently while she punches in the code and steps inside. Even then she doesn’t leave right away, lingering on the sidewalk until the door closes behind her. Only then does she return to the car.
The difference in her is obvious. The anger that had been keeping her upright for the last hour seems to have drained away, leaving behind something far more difficult to look at.
She looks exhausted. It’s not even physical exhaustion, though there is certainly some of that too, but emotionally exhaustion in a way that makes her seem older than usual.
She settles into the driver’s seat and closes the door quietly behind her. Neither of you speaks. The car remains parked.
Outside, Barcelona continues sleeping around you, occasional headlights drifting past and distant conversations floating through the night air, but inside the vehicle everything feels strangely still.
Her phone vibrates in the cup holder. The sound breaks the silence. Alexia glances down at the screen and some more of the tension leaves her shoulders. It’s Vicky letting her know she made it upstairs.
Only after reading the message does Alexia put the car into drive and pull away from the curb.
The city slides past outside the windows in a blur of streetlights and empty sidewalks while neither of you says anything for several minutes.
Eventually, without looking away from the road, Alexia finally speaks.
“I was really scared.” The confession is so quiet and so unexpected that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard her correctly.
You turn toward her. The stoplights ahead paint soft shadows across her face, highlighting the tiredness around her eyes and the way she keeps worrying at her lower lip with her teeth.
“I thought you were at Vicky’s apartment,” she continues after a long pause. “I thought you were safe. I thought you were asleep on the couch watching movies, and then suddenly my phone started ringing.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel.
“First it was messages. Then it was people calling. Then somebody sent me photos.” She swallows. “And for twenty minutes I didn’t know where you were.”
The words make your heart ache. Because this isn’t about the club anymore. It isn’t even about the lie. It’s about fear. Real fear. The kind that had apparently been eating her alive while she was driving across the city looking for you.
“I didn’t know who you were with,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know whether those people posting photos were the same people you were with. I didn’t know if someone had given you something. I didn’t know if you were okay.”
The guilt settles so heavily in your chest that it almost hurts to breathe.
“I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you…” her voice trails off as she blinks quickly trying to keep her tears from falling.
“Ale…”
You don’t know what else to say. You don’t know how to fix any of it. So instead you repeat the words she has given you a hundred times before.
“I’m here.” Her eyes flick toward you briefly. “I’m okay.”
You reach across the center console and place your hand over hers. “I’m safe with you now.”
For the first time all night, something in her expression softens.
She turns her hand over and threads her fingers through yours. “I know, petita.”
The nickname nearly breaks your heart. Because it sounds exactly the way it always does - warm, certain, loving. As though none of that has changed.
You spend the rest of the drive in silence, your hand remaining tucked inside hers while the city passes outside the windows. Every few moments her thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles in a repetitive, absent-minded motion, and although she never says another word, you begin to suspect she isn’t doing it to comfort you.
You think she is reassuring herself. Reminding herself that you are really there beside her. That she found you. That you’re safe. And that, despite everything that happened tonight, she still gets to bring you home.
------
When you finally pull in through the gates, the house sits exactly as you left it, quiet and dark beneath the night sky, the familiar porch light casting a soft glow across the front steps.
The engine goes silent, leaving only the ticking of cooling metal and the faint sound of crickets somewhere beyond the yard. For a moment neither of you moves. The tension that had filled the car earlier has changed shape now, no longer sharp and angry but tired and heavy, weighed down by everything that has happened since Alexia walked into that club.
Eventually she unclips her seatbelt and steps out.
By the time you reach for the handle, she is already opening the passenger door for you. You step down onto the driveway and immediately feel her hand settle around your elbow.
You don’t need the support anymore. Most of your drunkenness has worn off during the drive home and your head is far clearer than it was an hour ago. Still, you don’t say anything. You like the contact too much.
The two of you make your way inside together, Alexia locking the door behind you before guiding you upstairs with one hand resting lightly against your back. The gesture is familiar enough that you don’t even think about it anymore. Somewhere along the way you had stopped being surprised by how naturally she takes care of you. What still surprises you is how much you want her to.
When you reach your room, she sits you down on the closed toilet lid before disappearing briefly into the bathroom cabinet. A moment later she returns with a packet of makeup wipes and kneels in front of you.
The tenderness of the gesture nearly hurts.
You had lied to her. You had worried her. You had ignored her instructions and broken her trust. And yet here she is, crouched in front of you at three in the morning, carefully removing the remnants of makeup and glitter from your face with the same patience she always uses.
Neither of you says much. The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of the wipe against your skin.
When she’s finished, she tosses it away and crosses to your dresser without needing to ask where anything is. She knows this room almost as well as her own. A moment later she is holding your favorite pajamas, the soft worn set that always seems to find its way to the top of the drawer whenever you’ve had a bad day.
“Brush your teeth, bebé.”
You nod as she leaves to give you privacy.
When she comes back several minutes later, you’re already in bed.
The blankets are pulled over your legs and you’re propped against the headboard, hands wrapped around your knees as exhaustion finally begins catching up to you. Alexia is carrying a bottle of cold water which she opens before handing it over.
You take a long drink. Then another. And another. Partly because you’re dehydrated, but mostly because it delays the conversation you know is coming eventually.
When you finally lower the bottle, your eyes find hers. “Ale?”
Her expression softens as she looks up at you. “Yes, mi amor?”
The endearment almost makes your eyes sting. You stare down at the bottle in your hands.
“I’m really, really sorry.” The words come out small and rough.
For a moment she simply looks at you. Then her hand comes up to brush gently through your hair.
“I know, bebé.” She tucks a loose strand behind your ear. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” she says quietly. “Right now you’re exhausted and I’m exhausted, and neither of us is going to think very clearly tonight.”
You nod. The lump in your throat grows a little bigger. “Ale?”
She huffs out the faintest hint of a smile. “Yeah?”
“Do you think…” you begin before losing your nerve, your fingers tightening around the water bottle in your lap as you stare down at the blanket.
Alexia remains completely patient, giving you all the time in the world to find the courage to ask. “Well maybe…” You stop again, frustration and exhaustion making it impossible to get the words out properly. “Could you maybe stay here tonight?”
Alexia tilts her head slightly, her expression softening as she looks at you.
You don’t elaborate. You don’t need to. You just blink back at her, feeling far too tired and emotionally wrung out to explain that after everything that happened tonight, the thought of being alone feels unbearable.
“Okay, bebé.” Her answer comes so easily that it makes your chest ache.
She rises from the edge of the bed and moves around to the other side, pulling off the oversized sweatshirt she had thrown on earlier. Beneath it are the pajamas she’d clearly been wearing when she received those phone calls, and the sight sends another wave of guilt washing through you because it is impossible not to picture her seeing those photos, grabbing the first thing she could find, and racing out the door without a second thought.
She came for you. She hadn’t stopped to change. Hadn’t stopped to think. Hadn’t stopped at all.
The mattress dips slightly as she climbs into bed beside you.
For a while neither of you says anything. The room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of blankets and the distant hum of the air conditioner, both of you staring up at the ceiling while the events of the night slowly begin settling into place.
Eventually Alexia reaches across the space between you and gently pulls you against her side. The movement is so familiar now that you go willingly without thinking.
Her arm wraps securely around your shoulders while her fingers slide into your hair, scratching lightly against your scalp in the exact way she knows helps you relax, and almost immediately you feel your entire body begin to soften beneath her touch.
The tension leaves your shoulders. Your breathing slows. The frantic energy that has been buzzing beneath your skin since she walked into that club finally starts settling.
Sleep begins creeping up on you slowly. Your eyes grow heavier. Your body sinks further into the mattress.
Then, just as you’re beginning to drift, a memory resurfaces from the car. The words hit you all over again.
My daughter.
Your eyes fly open. Your breath catches sharply enough that Alexia stirs - even half asleep, her response is automatic. Her eyes blink open lazily, heavy with exhaustion, and she lifts her head slightly from the pillow to look down at you.
“You okay?” she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep.
You don’t answer right away because how are you supposed to explain this? How are you supposed to explain what happened inside your chest when she said those words?
You had spent most of your life belonging to nobody. Passed from house to house, caretaker to caretaker, always feeling temporary, always feeling like you were occupying space that could be taken back at any moment.
People had called you a lot of things over the years : foster kid, placement, responsibility, problem. Nobody had ever looked at you with fear in their eyes and called you theirs.
And Alexia hadn’t even done it intentionally. She hadn’t sat down and chosen those words carefully. She hadn’t made some grand declaration. The words had simply fallen out of her mouth in a moment of panic because, somewhere in her mind, that was already what you were.
Her daughter.
The realization makes something warm and painful bloom inside your chest all at once.
You don’t know how to tell her that hearing those words felt like being handed something you’d secretly wanted for so long that you’d stopped allowing yourself to hope for it. You don’t know how to tell her that you’ve been replaying them over and over in your head ever since.
So instead you simply shake your head and burrow closer.
Your hands curl into the front of her pajama shirt and you press your face against her shoulder, holding onto her a little tighter than usual.
Alexia studies you for a moment until a quiet breath leaves her nose, carrying equal parts affection and amusement, before she leans down and presses a gentle kiss against your forehead.
“T’estimo, mi amor,” she murmurs softly.
One of her hands settles against the back of your head while the other resumes its slow journey through your hair.
She doesn’t ask any questions or make you explain. She just holds you.
The steady movement of her fingers gradually slows as sleep begins pulling at her again, each pass through your hair becoming a little lazier than the last until eventually her hand comes to rest against the back of your neck.
A few minutes later her breathing deepens. The familiar rhythm fills the room.
You listen to it for a long time. Long enough for your eyes to grow heavy. Long enough for the warmth in your chest to outweigh the guilt still lingering there. Long enough for sleep to finally pull you under too, tucked safely against her side while her arms remain wrapped around you exactly where they belong.
5:
The perfect season somehow ends exactly the way Alexia insists all perfect seasons should: with a trophy in one hand and an excuse to throw a party in the other.
You stand off to the side of the patio watching the chaos unfold with increasingly wide eyes as Alexia, Irene, and Patri completely take over the backyard, moving furniture from one end of the garden to the other with the seriousness of people preparing for a diplomatic summit rather than a seventeen-year-old’s birthday party.
At some point during the morning, the normal outdoor seating arrangement had disappeared entirely. In its place now sat long tables covered in decorations, enormous flower arrangements filled with carefully coordinated colors, and what looked suspiciously like an entire wall of balloons that seemed to grow larger every time you looked away for more than five minutes.
You aren’t entirely sure where half of it came from. You do know that at one point you heard Alexia discussing delivery schedules with someone on the phone before mentioning that the caterer would be arriving at three o’clock, which had nearly caused you to choke on your coffee because, as far as you were concerned, ordering pizza would have qualified as party planning.
Apparently Alexia strongly disagreed.
The strange thing is that none of this had been your idea.
Your birthday wasn’t technically until tomorrow, but after weeks of relentless pestering from Vicky and Clara, who seemed personally offended by your complete lack of interest in celebrating yourself, you had eventually worked up the courage to ask Alexia if maybe they could come over for an afternoon.
Just them and maybe a few teammates. Something simple.
You had even presented your argument carefully. Having people over at the house still complied with the terms of your grounding, you had pointed out. After all, you had spent the last month accepting the consequences of your disastrous decision-making without complaint, fully aware that sneaking into a nightclub, lying to Alexia, and accidentally becoming the center of a social media firestorm had earned every restriction she’d given you.
Alexia had listened to your carefully constructed reasoning for approximately ten seconds before laughing outright.
Then she’d reached over and ruffled your hair. “It’s your birthday, petita,” she had said. “You can celebrate it anywhere you want.”
The truth was that you genuinely did want it here. You liked that somewhere along the way the house had stopped feeling like Alexia’s house. It felt like yours too.
Your shoes lived by the garage door. Your textbooks ended up scattered across the kitchen table. Your favorite cereal permanently occupied a shelf in the pantry. There were photographs of you throughout the house now, mixed naturally among the family photos as though they’d always belonged there.
Most importantly, it was the first place you had ever wanted to invite people to. The first place you had ever felt proud of. The first place that felt enough like home that you wanted to share it with your friends.
Unfortunately, what began as a small gathering had spiraled wildly out of control.
The chain of events had apparently started with Vicky. Vicky told Kika. Kika told Patri. Patri told every living person in Barcelona. And because footballers were apparently incapable of minding their own business, the information had spread through the entire team with frightening efficiency.
Now people kept appearing at training asking what time the party started. Players you hadn’t technically invited were somehow discussing what swimsuits they planned to bring. At one point Mapi had asked whether she should bring an appetizer. You hadn’t even known she was coming.
Alexia, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the entire situation. If anything, every new guest only made her more excited.
Over the last two weeks, she had been almost impossibly happy. Winning the Champions League had left the entire team floating for days, her contract renewal had removed months of uncertainty, and the season itself could not have ended more perfectly if someone had written it in a script.
Your birthday had arrived immediately afterward and somehow became the thing she was most excited about.
She had talked about it constantly. She had made lists. She had revised those lists. She had asked what food you wanted, what music you wanted, whether you preferred a cake or multiple desserts and then decided to get both.
Every time you sheepishly informed her that another teammate had somehow heard about the party and wanted to come, her face had lit up even more.
“Bebé, our house is enormous,” she had told you after your latest attempt to apologize. “You could invite everyone you know and we’d still have room.”
As it turned out, you were dangerously close to testing that theory.
The whole thing should probably have been overwhelming. Honestly, it was a little overwhelming. But every time you started feeling nervous about the growing guest list or the increasingly elaborate decorations, you would look over at Alexia and see the excitement written all over her face.
She was just so happy to be throwing you a party, so happy to have an excuse to fill the house with people who cared about you, so happy to celebrate you in a way that made it impossible for anyone to miss how loved you were.
Birthdays had never really meant much before. For most of your life they had passed quietly, acknowledged by very few people and celebrated by even fewer. The only part you had ever cared about was football, because another birthday usually meant another promotion, another chance to play against older girls, another step forward in the sport you loved.
Everything else had always felt secondary and forgettable. Just another date on a calendar. Alexia, however, had treated this birthday like a national holiday. The date had been circled on the kitchen calendar for months.
She had started asking what you wanted weeks ago. More than once she had casually mentioned that she already had “a few ideas” but wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything specific you hoped for first.
Every time, you had shaken your head with growing embarrassment. Because the truth was that you genuinely couldn’t think of anything. Every time she asked, you found yourself looking around at the life you’d somehow built here and realizing that you already had everything you’d spent years wishing for without ever expecting to find.
And judging by the knowing look Alexia kept giving you whenever you failed to answer the question, you suspected she already knew that.
------
Alexia laughs when the third balloon in less than ten minutes explodes directly in Patri’s face.
The sound echoes across the backyard, followed immediately by Patri’s increasingly dramatic complaints about being personally victimized by party decorations, which only seems to make Alexia laugh harder. Eventually she gives up entirely, gesturing for Patri to surrender the pump and go find something else to do before she somehow manages to injure herself preparing for a birthday party.
Patri leaves with all the dignity of a disgraced soldier retreating from battle.
Once the others disappear inside to continue setting up decorations throughout the house, you make your way across the patio toward Alexia, who is crouched beside an increasingly elaborate balloon arch that has somehow become one of the most important projects of the day.
“Ale.” She glances up immediately. You are fairly certain you could whisper her name from the opposite side of Barcelona and she’d still somehow hear it.
“Maybe I can do that?” you ask, gesturing toward the pump. “I want to help.”
The expression she gives you is fondly exasperated. “Petita, it’s your birthday.” Then she pauses. “Well, birthday weekend.”
You can’t help smiling at the correction.
“You shouldn’t be setting up your own party.”
“Yeah, but I want to.” You shift your weight slightly before adding the part that usually works. “Pleaseee?”
Alexia studies you for a moment, clearly debating whether to continue arguing, before finally surrendering with a shake of her head. “You blow them up and I’ll arrange them.”
The victory feels embarrassingly satisfying. You immediately claim the pump before she can change her mind.
For a while the two of you work quietly beside one another, settling into an easy rhythm as you inflate balloons and hand them over while Alexia somehow transforms what should be a chaotic pile of plastic into something that actually looks organized and intentional.
At some point you become aware of her watching you, checking in without wanting you to notice she’s checking in.
Eventually she breaks the silence. “You doing okay?” The question is simple and casual. But you know her well enough by now to hear everything underneath it.
The month after the club incident hadn’t been easy. The grounding had been fair, but fair didn’t necessarily mean enjoyable. There had been difficult conversations and consequences and more than a few moments where you’d felt terrible about how badly you’d scared her.
Even now, weeks later, she still checks sometimes. Making sure you’re actually okay. Making sure you’re happy. Making sure the weight of everything that happened isn’t still sitting on your shoulders.
You glance around the yard before answering.
The patio is bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Through the open doors you can hear Patri and Irene arguing over something neither of them actually cares about enough to be fighting over, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of people who have spent years annoying each other affectionately. Somewhere nearby the pool filter sends water gently splashing against the tiled walls, and the warm summer air carries the scent of freshly cut grass and flowers across the backyard.
For a moment you simply take it all in before your eyes return to Alexia. To the woman sitting beside you surrounded by half-finished decorations and balloon fragments, looking at you with enough affection to make your chest ache.
And for once the answer comes easily. “Yeah.” You mean it, you genuinely mean it.
Four hours later, however, you mean it a little less.
The party is perfect. The food is incredible, the weather is somehow cooperating despite the fact that Barcelona summers usually seem determined to melt everyone alive, and every person you care about appears to be having the time of their life.
The problem is simply that there is so much of it.
So many people. So much noise. So much attention.
The backyard has transformed into something that feels closer to a festival than a birthday party, every corner occupied by a different conversation, every chair filled, every patch of shade claimed by some combination of teammates, relatives, classmates, and family friends.
The table near the back door is completely buried beneath gifts, colorful wrapping paper stacked so high that you can barely see the surface underneath anymore, and every time you glance in that direction you swear the pile has somehow gotten bigger.
There are Barça players scattered throughout the yard. There are classmates you never expected to see standing beside Champions League winners discussing school gossip. There are various members of the Putellas i Segura family tree whose exact relationship to Alexia remains something of a mystery to you despite repeated explanations.
Across the yard, Vicky and Clara have recruited one of Alexia’s younger cousins into an increasingly competitive game of keepy-uppy that seems to involve far more shouting than the sport technically requires. Every few seconds somebody erupts into celebration while somebody else accuses them of cheating, and the argument inevitably starts all over again before any actual conclusions are reached.
Nearby, Kika, Esmee, and Salma have turned the pool into their own personal volleyball court, the game growing more aggressive with every passing minute as increasingly dramatic dives send water splashing onto anyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
Pina and Cata have established themselves near the drinks table, a development that several people have openly described as concerning, though not concerning enough for anyone to actually intervene.
Meanwhile, you seem to have spent the entire afternoon being gently passed from one conversation to the next.
Every time you think you’ve finally escaped a cluster of people, somebody spots you from across the yard and waves you over. Every time you finish one conversation, another begins. Every time you manage to sit down, someone appears beside you wanting to congratulate you on the season, ask about school, discuss football, or tell you a story you somehow feature prominently.
It is wonderful. It is exhausting. It is probably the most loved you have ever felt in your entire life.
And that might actually be the problem. Because every few minutes something happens that throws you off all over again.
One of Alexia’s relatives hugs you goodbye and tells you they’ll see you at the next family gathering as though your attendance is already assumed. Someone refers to the house as yours without even thinking about it. Another person talks about next season as though your future at Barça is inevitable.
Each interaction is small. Insignificant on its own. Yet somehow they keep accumulating until your chest feels strangely tight.
You catch yourself looking toward Alexia more than once. She is everywhere. One moment she’s helping carry trays of food onto the patio. The next she’s greeting another arriving guest. Then she’s laughing at something Alba says, throwing her head back with a smile so bright that even from across the yard you can see it.
The happiness radiates off her in waves. Every time her eyes eventually find you somewhere in the crowd, her entire expression softens in a way that still catches you off guard despite how often you’ve seen it. You know that look now. You know exactly what it means. Which somehow only makes your chest twist even more.
Because there was a time when birthdays passed almost unnoticed. There was a time when nobody decorated anything. Nobody planned anything. Nobody circled dates on calendars months in advance. Nobody spent weeks discussing cakes and playlists and guest lists as though your existence was an event worth celebrating.
You never really minded back then. At least you told yourself you didn’t. You became very good at pretending things didn’t matter. Very good at convincing yourself that wanting less was the same thing as needing less. But sitting here now, surrounded by more love than you know what to do with, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain those old lies.
Eventually, after being trapped in a conversation with Patri about music, summer plans, and at least three separate stories that somehow merged together halfway through, you manage to slip away under the excuse of needing another drink.
The moment you step inside the house, the noise dulls slightly. The music becomes distant. The conversations blur together. The air feels cooler.
You find yourself wandering toward the staircase instinctively and lowering yourself onto the bottom step, settling into that strange middle ground where you are technically still present but no longer actively participating.
You rest your chin against your hand and stare vaguely toward one of the paintings hanging on the opposite wall, your focus gradually softening until the details blur together. You take slow, deep breaths, trying to understand why your eyes suddenly feel suspiciously warm.
When you finally glance up, Alexia standing in the doorway watching you with a look that suggests she figured out exactly what was happening several minutes ago.
You immediately feel sheepish. Your birthday party is happening twenty feet away and you’ve hidden yourself on the stairs like an overwhelmed cat.
You open your mouth, already preparing to explain yourself, but Alexia’s expression shifts before you can get a single word out. A grin spreads slowly across her face, the kind that always means she’s had an idea and that everyone around her is about to be dragged into it whether they like it or not.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
You blink. The question takes several seconds to register. “What?”
“Do you want to get out of here?” She gestures vaguely toward the backyard. “My mom is here. Alba is here. Everyone is fed, nobody is fighting yet, and there is enough food to survive a small natural disaster.”
You stare. Alexia continues like this is the most reasonable suggestion in the world. “They won’t even notice we’re gone. And we’ll be back before cake.”
The next thing you know, she was leading you through a side gate with a football tucked beneath one arm, both of you trying and failing to suppress your laughter as though you were committing some elaborate crime instead of temporarily abandoning a gathering full of people who adored you. The ridiculousness of it all only becomes funnier the farther you get from the house.
By the time you reach the small park at the end of the neighborhood, the tightness in your chest has already eased considerably.
The evening air is warm without being oppressive, carrying the lingering scent of summer grass and sun-warmed pavement. Behind you, the party continues somewhere beyond the trees and rooftops, reduced to a distant memory of music and laughter that feels pleasantly far away rather than overwhelming.
The two of you spend a while kicking the ball back and forth without much purpose, neither of you really trying to play properly. The football becomes little more than an excuse to move around while you talk, the conversation drifting effortlessly from one topic to another as you laugh about the increasingly chaotic state of the party. You speculate about which guests will somehow end up in the pool before the evening is over, debate whether Pina and Cata should ever be trusted with drink responsibilities again, and spend several minutes discussing a couple who may or may not be having an argument near the buffet table.
For the first time all afternoon, everything feels manageable. The constant attention has disappeared. The endless conversations have quieted. The pressure to be perceived has evaporated. It is just you and Alexia and a football. The simplicity of it allows something else to surface.
You trap the ball beneath your foot and stare down at it for a moment before speaking.
The admission comes slowly, partly because you’ve never really thought about it before and partly because you’re only just beginning to understand it yourself.
You tell her that birthdays were never something you paid much attention to growing up. They came and went like any other day, acknowledged occasionally but rarely celebrated, and somewhere along the way you stopped expecting them to matter. Football was usually the only thing worth noticing, because another birthday often meant another promotion, another chance to play at a higher level, another step forward in the one area of your life that felt predictable.
“I don’t know why I got so in my head about it,” you admit after a long stretch of silence, your eyes following the football as it rolls lazily through the grass before coming to rest a few feet away. “I think it was just a little overwhelming, you know? All those people there for me.”
The words sound small once they’re out in the open. A little ridiculous even. You kick absently at a patch of grass.
“I don’t know,” you continue more quietly. “I think maybe I just don’t feel like I deserve it.”
The confession leaves your mouth before you can stop it. Immediately you wish you could take it back. Hearing the thought spoken aloud makes it sound far sadder than it did inside your own head.
Beside you, Alexia doesn’t answer right away. She rarely does when the conversation starts drifting toward something important.
Instead, she takes a few slow steps forward until she’s standing beside you, both of you looking out across the open field while the evening sky stretches above the park in shades of pink and gold. The sun has nearly disappeared now, leaving only the soft glow of sunset lingering along the horizon, and for a while the two of you simply stand there shoulder to shoulder while a warm breeze stirs the grass around your feet.
When she finally speaks, her voice is soft enough that it almost blends into the evening air. “Love isn’t something you deserve.”
You glance toward her. Her gaze remains fixed on the sky. “It’s not something you earn either.”
The words are spoken so matter-of-factly that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard them correctly. Alexia notices your confusion, small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
“People always talk about deserving love like it’s some kind of reward,” she says quietly. “Like if you’re good enough or successful enough or kind enough, eventually somebody hands it to you. But that’s not how it works.”
Her hands slide into the pockets of her shorts. “Love isn’t a prize. It isn’t a transaction. It isn’t something people give you because you’ve finally proven yourself worthy of receiving it.”
She turns her head slightly then, just enough for you to catch the affection in her expression. “It just is.”
The simplicity of the statement makes your chest ache. She says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there has never been any question about it.
“You didn’t earn Alba’s love,” she continues after a moment. “You didn’t earn Vicky’s love or Clara’s or my mom’s. None of those people spent the afternoon in that backyard because you somehow convinced them to.”
A small laugh escapes her. “Trust me, if I could convince the family to do anything, life would be much easier.”
That earns the faintest smile from you. Alexia’s expression softens even further when she sees it.
“They were there because they care about you,” she says. “Because they love you. Because somewhere along the way you became important to them and now they can’t imagine their lives without you in them.”
The words settle heavily in your chest. It’s as if something you’ve been carrying for a very long time is finally being set down.
For a while neither of you speaks. The breeze moves through the trees overhead. The sounds of the neighborhood drift around you. And somewhere behind you, hidden beyond rows of houses and garden walls, your birthday party continues without either of you.
Alexia exhales softly through her nose. When she speaks again, her voice is thoughtful. Almost amused.
“You know,” she says, “I call you my daughter in my head every day.”
The world seems to tilt slightly. Your head turns so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.
Alexia notices immediately. The smile that appears on her face is small and fond. She’s been expecting this reaction.
“I have for a while now.” She shrugs one shoulder comfortably, like she’s talking about something she accepted a long time ago.
“You never earned my love either.” The words are quiet and certain. “You just have it.”
You stare at her. Unable to look away. Unable to speak.
“You never had to earn a place in my life,” she continues. “You never had to prove that you belonged there. You never had to become successful enough or talented enough or good enough for me to care about you.”
A gentle smile appears on her face. “The day I decided you were staying with me, that was pretty much the end of the discussion as far as I was concerned.”
A laugh escapes you despite the tears suddenly threatening behind your eyes.
Alexia reaches over and squeezes the back of your neck gently. “Alba loves you because you’re you. Vicky loves you because you’re you. My family loves you because you’re you.”
Her eyes meet yours then, steady and certain in a way they always are when she’s saying something she knows to be true. “And I love you because you’re my daughter.”
The words hit harder than anything else she’s said.
It doesn’t surprise you, you’ve spent months suspecting it. You’ve spent months noticing it in all the small things she probably never even realized she was doing. In the way she worried whenever you were late getting home. In the way she always remembered the things that mattered to you, no matter how insignificant they seemed. In the way she fussed over injuries and schoolwork and meals and sleep schedules. In the way her eyes immediately searched for you whenever she entered a room.
Most of all, you’d noticed it in the way she loved you. A kind of love that had never felt temporary. A kind of love that never seemed conditional. A kind of love that simply existed, unwavering and constant, no matter how many mistakes you made.
Still, hearing her say it aloud feels different. It feels like someone finally putting a name to something that has been quietly growing between the two of you for so long that neither of you can quite remember where it started.
Your throat tightens. Your eyes sting. You stare stubbornly down at the grass beneath your feet because looking directly at her suddenly feels impossible.
“I call you mama in my head too.” The confession slips out before you can stop it.
The second the words leave your mouth you want to crawl into a hole and never emerge again. Heat floods your face. Embarrassment follows immediately after. You feel exposed in a way you haven’t felt in a very long time, like you’ve accidentally handed her a piece of yourself you never intended anyone else to see.
“I don’t even know when I started,” you admit quietly, still refusing to look at her. “It wasn’t intentional or anything. It just sort of…” You trail off, searching for words that don’t seem to exist. “It just happened.”
The silence that follows stretches long enough that you finally force yourself to look up.
When you do, Alexia is staring at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. There is so much love that it almost hurts to look at. She looks like someone who has just been handed something precious she never dared ask for.
Slowly, she reaches up and cups the side of your face. The touch is warm and steady. The same hand that has fixed your hair before interviews, checked your temperature when you were sick, wiped tears from your cheeks, and squeezed your shoulder after difficult matches. This time it lingers.
She steps closer and presses a kiss against your temple, letting it rest there for several long seconds before finally pulling back.
When she finally speaks, her voice is impossibly gentle. “You know you’re allowed to say it out loud too, right?”
Your breath catches. The question hangs between you, so simple and yet somehow so frightening. Because thinking it and saying it are two very different things. Thinking it is safe, private, yours. Saying it aloud makes it real.
Alexia must see the panic flicker across your face because her smile softens even further. “It belongs to you.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside your chest, like rain sinking into dry ground.
“You don’t have to earn that either,” she continues quietly, her thumb brushing across your cheek in the same soothing way she always does whenever you’re upset. “You don’t have to wonder whether you’re allowed or whether it’s okay or whether you’re somehow asking for too much.”
A small laugh escapes her then, warm and fond and full of affection. “Trust me, carinyo, if anyone in the world has the right to call me that, it’s probably the girl I’ve spent the last year accidentally raising.”
The laugh that escapes you comes out broken immediately by a sob. The sound surprises both of you.
One second you’re standing there trying very hard to keep yourself together, and the next every emotion you’ve apparently been carrying for months comes crashing through the carefully constructed walls you’ve built around them.
You don’t even think about it. You just move. Throwing yourself forward until you’re wrapped around her. Holding on tighter than you ever have before. Your hands fist in the back of her shirt. Your face disappears into her shoulder.
And then you’re crying. Big, ugly, helpless sobs that shake your entire body. The kind that come from somewhere deep. Somewhere old. Somewhere that has been waiting a very long time for this.
Alexia doesn’t say a word. She simply catches you. The way she always does. Her arms wrap around you tightly, one hand settling firmly between your shoulder blades while the other slides into your hair, fingers moving through it in slow, soothing strokes as she holds you against her chest.
You can hear her heartbeat - it’s strong and steady and familiar. You cling to her like she’s the only solid thing in the world. And maybe, in this moment, she is.
She lets you cry for as long as you need. Simply holding you while years of loneliness and fear and uncertainty finally loosen their grip enough to be carried away by tears.
Eventually the sobs begin to quiet. Your breathing steadies. The crushing pressure in your chest eases enough for you to lift your head.
You look up at her through blurry eyes and wet lashes, your cheeks stained with tears, your nose hopelessly stuffy, your throat aching with emotion.
Alexia immediately brushes a tear away with her thumb. Looking at you like you are the most precious thing she has ever been trusted with.
Your voice trembles when you finally speak.
“T’estimo.” Fresh tears instantly fill Alexia’s eyes. You see them before she can blink them away.
“T’estimo molt, mama.”
The word feels different out loud. Bigger and warmer. Like something that has belonged to you for a long time finally finding its way home.
For a second Alexia simply stares at you. The world seems to narrow to the space between you.
All the sounds from the party fade into the background. The laughter, the music, the voices drifting across the neighborhood become distant and insignificant compared to the look on her face.
A tear slips down her cheek. Then another.
She lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh through the tears, shaking her head slightly as though some part of her still can’t quite believe she’s actually hearing it.
As though she’s spent so long loving you this way that she never stopped to imagine what it might feel like to have that love named and returned.
Then she’s pulling you right back into her arms. Holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
“T’estimo també, filla.”
Her voice cracks around the last word. Daughter.
The same certainty you’ve heard every time she’s called you petita, or bebé, or amor meu. The same unwavering certainty that has lived beneath every hug, every forehead kiss, every late-night conversation, every moment she chose you without hesitation.
Only this time neither of you has to hide behind other names. Neither of you has to dance around the truth anymore.
“Moltíssim.”
The word is barely more than a whisper against your hair, but you feel it all the same.
The kind of love that asks for nothing and expects nothing. The kind of love that simply exists.
The kind that always existed between you, long before either of you were brave enough to say it out loud.
under her wing part 2 will be out tomorrow :)) it’s all done just need to edit it 🥳
It’s 24k words so it’s taken A LOT of finessing to get it to fit into tumblr 🫠 I’m sorry if the formatting isn’t as nice as normal - I tried my best to not have to cut too much but that may have resulted in some longggg paragraphs
I’m excited for you guys to read it :)) it was soooo cute to write
Summary - 4 times you did not have a family and 1 time you did
Word Count - 19.4k
1:
You arrive quietly.
Not in the way people expect prodigies to arrive - with noise, with headlines, with someone trailing behind you holding your bag and your future. You arrive on a bus that smells like metal and damp coats, boots slung over one shoulder, headphones dead, hair still wet from a sink you barely trust, eyes already scanning the pitch like it might disappear if you don’t keep track of it.
Sixteen doesn’t look like much when you step through the gates.
It looks smaller still when you realize no one is looking for you. No one scanning the stands. No one waving you over. Just staff moving with purpose and players already stretching, laughing, existing in a space that belongs to them in a way you don’t assume it ever will.
You’ve learned how to be invisible when it matters.
You’ve learned how to be impossible to ignore when the ball is at your feet.
The coach brings you forward once everyone’s gathered, his hand resting briefly between your shoulder blades, anchoring you there so you don’t disappear into the edge of the circle.
“This is her,” he says. Your name follows, clear and unembellished without any grand explanations.
You feel their eyes on you immediately. They look curious and measuring, but not hostile. You’ve learned how to hold yourself under that kind of attention - shoulders relaxed, chin level, expression neutral. You don’t smile but you don’t shrink.
You introduce yourself when prompted. Your voice doesn’t shake. Your accent gives you away - local, unpolished, unmistakably from somewhere people don’t romanticize. A few of them nod, someone gives a small wave.
No one says your name again. No one asks you where you’re from, how old you are, how it feels to be here. You’re grateful for that. Questions always come with expectations, and expectations have a way of getting heavy.
You feel her before you really see her.
Alexia stands just off to the side of the circle, arms crossed, weight settled evenly like she’s been carved into the ground rather than placed there. She isn’t doing anything to draw attention to herself, but she doesn’t need to. The space bends around her anyway.
You’ve watched her your whole life - on televisions bolted to bar walls, on cracked phone screens passed between friends, on highlights that froze and buffered but still managed to feel close enough to reach inside you and rearrange something important.
Up close, she’s quieter than you expected. More solid, less distant.
Your eyes meet for half a second.
That’s all you allow yourself.
Not because you’re intimidated, but because looking too long feels like tempting something you’re not sure you’re allowed to have. She doesn’t look away first. She just gives you a small nod, barely perceptible, like she’s acknowledging a fact rather than offering approval.
Then the coach claps his hands, sharp and decisive, and the moment dissolves.
“Warm up,” he says, already turning away. Just like that, you’re folded into the rhythm of the day.
You jog out with the rest of them, falling into line easily, matching pace without effort. You listen more than you speak. When someone tells you where to slot in, you do it immediately. When a drill is explained, you absorb it the first time. You don’t ask questions you don’t need answered.
Alexia watches.
She tells herself she’s just observing - your first touch, your positioning, the way you check your shoulder before the ball arrives. But her attention keeps catching on smaller things, details that don’t belong in tactical analysis. The way you don’t glance to the sidelines, even once. The way you don’t joke back when someone makes a comment about your boots. The way you seem prepared, at any moment, to step out of the frame entirely if that’s what’s required.
She doesn’t really have anyone, the Barça B coach had said to her earlier, voice careful, almost apologetic. We never see family after practice or at the games.
The words resurface now, uninvited, as Alexia watches you stretch alone, movements precise and economical, like you’ve learned not to waste energy on anything unnecessary.
The first ball comes to you during a simple passing drill.
Your touch is clean. Your second touch is better. You play the ball on and move immediately, not waiting to see if anyone’s impressed. The tempo shifts around you without anyone quite realizing why. When the drill changes, when pressure is added, you don’t hesitate. You take on your marker instinctively, body loose, feet fast, decision already made before the defender commits.
There’s a murmur this time. Subtle, but it’s there.
You don’t react, you never do.
Flashy when it matters. Quiet everywhere else.
Alexia feels something tighten in her chest - it wasn’t surprise, not exactly. More like recognition. The kind that sneaks up on you, unwanted, insistent. She’s seen talent like yours before. She’s seen confidence, hunger, even fearlessness. What she hasn’t seen, not in a long time, is someone who plays like this without asking for anything in return.
After training, the group drifts toward the locker room in clusters - easy conversation, overlapping plans, the familiarity of people who know where they’re going next. You hang back instead, crouching to retie your boots even though the knot is already secure.
Alexia notices.
“You did well,” she says when the space finally opens between you and everyone else.
You look up, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before you smooth it away. “Thanks.”
One word. Polite.
She gestures toward the locker room. “You coming?”
“Yeah, in a minute.”
Alexia studies you for a beat longer than necessary, then nods. “Okay.”
She turns to leave, but something makes her glance back.
You’re still there with your head down, hands busy. Like stillness might give something away if you let it.
She doesn’t know it yet, not fully, but this is where it starts.
With a girl who has learned to survive by staying small off the pitch and impossible to ignore on it.
With a responsibility she didn’t ask for but doesn’t seem able to shake.
With the quiet, unsettling sense that if no one else is watching out for you, she might have to.
2:
When the sporting director asks to speak with you after training, your stomach drops before you can stop it. Your internal panic is immediate and instinctive in a way that you’ve known your whole life, because in your experience adults don’t call you aside for anything that leaves you better than they found you.
It usually means questions you can’t answer without giving something away, or instructions you don’t have the luxury of refusing, or disappointment dressed up as opportunity, and you’ve learned to brace for all three at once.
You nod anyway, because that’s what you do, because hesitation draws attention and attention is something you’ve spent most of your life learning how to manage rather than invite.
“Of course,” you say, voice steady, already calculating what you might have done wrong.
It had been four weeks.
Four weeks of moving through the first team like you were passing through a space that hadn’t decided if it wanted to keep you yet. You're careful not to take up more room than necessary, careful not to assume anything that hadn’t been explicitly given. You arrived early and left the second you were allowed, slipping out before conversations could stretch into invitations you didn’t know how to accept, before anyone could notice the way you always checked the time.
A few of them had tried.
Coffee, at first - casual, easy, something that should have been harmless. Then lunch outside the training ground, then a movie night at someone’s apartment, the kind of thing that came with laughter and an expectation of belonging you didn’t know how to fake convincingly for more than an hour at a time.
You always smiled, always polite, always grateful.
“Maybe next time,” you’d say, or “I’ve got a lot of homework tonight,” or “my legs are dead, I think I just need to sleep.”
None of it was technically a lie. That was the part you held onto.
You didn’t say that four euros for a coffee meant choosing between that and a metro ticket. You didn’t say that the last bus you needed stopped running at eleven, and that missing it meant two hours on foot through streets you didn’t always feel like you belonged in.
They nodded, most of them, easy and unbothered, accepting your excuses at face value because there was no reason not to. To them, you were quiet, maybe a little shy, still adjusting to a new level, a new environment. It was a familiar type, one they’d seen before, one that didn’t require further investigation.
They let you be.
Alexia didn’t.
She never pushed in a way that felt overwhelming, never cornered you with questions you couldn’t deflect, but she didn’t let the space close either. Every day after training, without fail, she found her way into your orbit naturally, falling into step beside you or catching you just as you thought you’d managed to slip away unnoticed.
She talked more than you expected.
Not about herself, not in any way that demanded something back, but about you - about the way you opened your body before receiving the ball, about the angles you chose under pressure, about the one pass you’d hesitated on and how you could fix it next time. It was a type of steady, detailed attention that you weren’t used to receiving without a cost attached to it.
You listened. You always listened.
And when you did speak, brief and careful, she didn’t interrupt or correct or move on too quickly. She let you talk as if your words truly mattered, like they were part of a conversation rather than something to get through.
Lunch had become your favorite part of the day.
The others usually left as soon as they were done, drifting out in small groups or on their own, shedding the structure of training as easily as they’d stepped into it, trading it for quiet apartments, for familiar routines, for a kind of rest that didn’t have to be earned in the same way.
You stayed.
At first because you had nowhere else to go until the bus got there, and then because you realized it was one of the only meals you could count on without having to think about how you were going to pay for it later.
You never really understood why she stayed.
Most of the others left without hesitation, and Alexia could have done the same, more easily than anyone. Could have gone home or out or anywhere else that didn’t involve sitting in a plastic chair, under fluorescent lights with you. And yet, every day, she stayed.
At first, you told yourself it was coincidence.
Then maybe routine.
Eventually, something that felt a little too deliberate to ignore, even if she never said anything that made it obvious.
You ate quickly, efficiently, the way you always had, focused on finishing before anything could interrupt you, before the opportunity disappeared in some way you hadn’t anticipated.
The first time she noticed, you felt it before you saw it - that slight pause in her movement, the shift in attention that meant you’d been observed.
You slowed down immediately, heat rising under your skin, suddenly aware of every movement you made, every bite that felt too fast, too much.
She didn’t call it out.
She just leaned back slightly, a hint of amusement softening her expression. “The pasta here is my favorite,” she said easily, like she was offering a piece of irrelevant information instead of redirecting your attention. “They get the jamón from a butcher I used to go to all the time.”
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak without giving something away.
“I usually ask the chef to pack me something for later,” she added after a moment, already glancing back down at the tablet she’d set between you. “Saves me from having to think about dinner when I get home.”
The implication sat there, light enough to ignore if you wanted to, clear enough that you didn’t have to.
She didn’t look at you when she said it.
“I can ask him to do the same for you,” she continued, tone unchanged, already tapping at the screen like the conversation was secondary. “That way you can focus on homework.”
You studied her for a second longer than necessary, suspicion flickering through you before you could stop it, because nothing had ever come this easily without something being expected in return.
She didn’t push.
Didn’t meet your eyes, didn’t wait for an answer like it mattered too much.
You nodded anyway, small and almost reluctant, because whatever this was, it was still something you needed.
She smiled then, brief and understated, like she’d expected nothing more.
“Good,” she said, and just like that she shifted the conversation, bringing up a clip from one of your Barça B matches that you hadn’t realized anyone had access to, let alone her.
You never asked how she found it.
You weren’t sure you wanted to know.
Every day after that, a bag with dinner was there.
Alexia had seen the interaction with the sporting director before it even began. The way Marc had stepped into your path with that polite, administrative smile that usually meant something official, something that required closed door meetings and signatures and time you hadn’t planned for, and she’d watched the immediate shift in you with a focus she didn’t bother disguising.
It was small, the kind of thing most people would miss entirely, but she didn’t. The way your hands moved, quick and restless, dragging along the material of your warm-up top like you were trying to anchor yourself to something physical.
You didn’t look up once.
Not at him, not at her, not at anyone.
Your gaze stayed fixed somewhere just ahead of your feet as you followed him inside, steps measured but just a fraction too fast, because slowing down might give you time to think and thinking was the last thing you wanted to do right now.
Alexia straightened where she stood without realizing it. Her body already reacting before her mind caught up. For a second she considered calling your name, catching your eye, offering something small and steady to counter whatever it was you were expecting to walk into.
But you were already gone, the door closing behind you with a quiet finality that left her staring at her own reflection in the glass.
------
The meeting is not what you expect.
Not even close.
Marc speaks calmly and deliberately, the kind of tone that suggests this isn’t a conversation he’s improvising, and it takes you a few seconds to realize that nothing about his posture, his expression, his words, carries the edge you had braced yourself for.
They’re impressed with your progress, he says.
Your performances in the preseason friendlies had been noted, impactful in ways that go beyond statistics, in ways that show understanding, instinct, something harder to quantify but easier to recognize when you’ve seen it enough times. The club is looking to promote a few players from Barça B this year, he explains, and your name has come up more than once in those conversations.
More than once.
The words don’t process immediately. They hover somewhere just out of reach, like a language you understand but can’t quite process at the speed it’s being spoken.
You sit there, still and silent, as he continues, as he walks you through the structure of a contract you hadn’t allowed yourself to imagine. Numbers and clauses and timelines unfold in front of you with a kind of surreal clarity that makes everything feel both immediate and completely distant at the same time.
There is more money on those pages than you have ever seen attached to your name, more certainty than you have ever been offered, more of a future than you have ever let yourself plan for beyond the next week, the next month, the next bus ride home.
Most of it passes through you without sticking.
Until he mentions the signatures.
Parental or guardian approval, he says, almost as an afterthought, almost like it’s a formality that has never once complicated a situation like this before.
That’s when you speak.
The first time in the entire meeting.
Your voice catches slightly at the edges as you ask your questions, careful, measured, trying to sound like you’re clarifying something simple rather than confronting something that feels suddenly immovable.
He looks surprised, just for a second, like he hadn’t expected to hear from you at all, but he answers without hesitation. Their hands are tied legally, he replied, apologetic but firm in a way that tells you this is not something that bends easily, if at all.
You nod like you understand.
Like this is just another detail to consider.
You take a breath that doesn’t quite fill your lungs, stand when the meeting ends, and shake his hand the way you’ve seen people do on TV.
“Thank you,” you say, the words automatic but not insincere, because none of this is something you take lightly. “For the opportunity.”
You ask for a few days.
He agrees easily.
------
When you step back into the hallway, Alexia is there.
Leaning against the wall like she’s been waiting without wanting it to look like waiting, her phone in her hand, thumb moving lazily across the screen in a rhythm that doesn’t match the sharpness of her attention the second the door opens.
Her eyes go to you immediately.
Then to the folder in your hands.
The crest on the front is unmistakably official.
Her expression softens almost instantly, a small, knowing smile forming like the outcome is obvious, like this is exactly what should have happened.
Good news, no?
She doesn’t have to say it. It’s written across her face anyway.
But then she sees you properly.
The way your grip on the folder isn’t steady. The way your shoulders are held just a little too tight. The way your eyes shine in a way that has nothing to do with relief and everything to do with something you’re trying very hard not to let surface.
The smile disappears as quickly as it came.
Replaced by something sharper and focused.
She pushes off the wall in one smooth movement and gestures for you to follow her, not a request so much as a decision already made, the kind of quiet authority that doesn’t need to raise its voice to be obeyed.
You follow automatically.
Down the hall, past open doors and passing staff, into a conference room that feels too large for just the two of you, a long table stretching across the space and the Barça crest mounted high on the wall like a reminder of exactly what’s at stake.
She closes the door behind you and tugs the blinds shut.
She pulls out a chair for you before taking the one beside it, close enough that the distance doesn’t feel accidental.
“What did he say to you?”
Her voice is low, controlled, but there’s something underneath it that isn’t, something coiled and ready to snap in whatever direction it needs to.
You don’t answer.
Your eyes fix on the crest instead, tracing the lines like they might rearrange themselves into something easier to explain, something that doesn’t sit so heavily in your chest.
She says your name.
Once.
Twice.
Again, softer this time, but no less insistent.
You swallow, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat.
“He offered me a contract with the full team.”
The silence that follows is brief but loaded. Her head tilts slightly as she processes it, confusion flickering across her expression because the equation doesn’t add up, not with the way you look right now.
You open the folder before she can ask anything else, hands still not entirely steady as you spread the pages out across the table between you, sliding them toward her like you’re handing over something you don’t trust yourself to hold onto.
She leans in immediately, attention narrowing, reading line by line with the same focus she brings to the pitch, absorbing everything, missing nothing.
“I think this all makes sense,” she says after a moment, almost to herself, tapping lightly at one of the clauses. “But I’ll ask Clara and Aïcha what theirs looked like, just to make sure everything here is fair.”
“It doesn’t even matter.”
The words come out sharper than you intend, cutting through the space between you before you can soften them.
She looks up at that, her eyes attentive.
“Why doesn’t it matter?” she asks, and her voice shifts slightly, gentler without losing its steadiness, the same tone she’s used with you every time a question edges too close to something personal.
You hesitate.
Just for a second.
And then you don’t.
“Because of section six.”
She flips to it immediately, scanning quickly at first, then slowing as she reaches the bottom of the page. Her eyes stop on the signature line.
She stares at the empty space labeled for someone who is supposed to exist in your life in a way that makes this simple.
She goes still.
You brace for it then - the shift, the pity, the look you’ve seen too many times before, the one that turns you into something fragile without your permission.
It doesn’t come.
When she looks up at you, her expression is different, her focus is sharp, like she’s working through a solution rather than reacting to a problem.
“You don’t have to answer,” she says carefully, “but I’m assuming the odds of you getting this signed are not great.”
A short laugh escapes you before you can stop it, bitter and humorless.
“Try zero.”
She doesn’t look away.
Doesn’t flinch.
Just holds your gaze with that same steady intensity you’ve come to recognize over the past four weeks.
“Okay.”
She folds her hands on the table, decision settling into her posture like it’s something she’s already committed to.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” she continues, tone firm now, leaving no space for doubt. “If this is something you want, I’m going to make sure you get it. I’ll take this to my agent, to my lawyer, and we’ll find a way around this.”
You stare at her.
Actually stare, for the first time since you’ve met her, the composure you guard so carefully slipping without your permission as the weight of what she’s offering settles somewhere you don’t know how to hold.
“This is something you want,” she adds, quieter now, searching your face for confirmation rather than assuming it. “Right?”
“Yes.”
It comes out immediately. Stronger than anything else you’ve said in this room.
“Yes, I want to be here.”
Her expression shifts, just slightly, careful affection flickering through it before she nods once, decisive.
“Alright.”
She gathers the papers with practiced ease, tapping them into alignment before sliding them back into the folder.
“Leave this with me,” she says, already standing. “I’ll take care of it.”
You don’t move.
Don’t speak.
You just look at her like you’re trying to reconcile the person in front of you with the version you grew up watching from a distance, the one that existed on screens and highlight reels and moments you weren’t part of.
For a second, you feel younger than you have in years.
Like you’re standing outside a bar again, pressed up against the glass, watching between the heads of those inside, something you’ve always wanted but don’t expect to ever reach.
“Okay,” you manage finally, your voice quieter than you usually allow it to be, stripped of its usual control.
She doesn’t comment on it.
Just nods, once, like that’s enough.
------
A few days later, you’re sitting in the cafeteria alone, the familiar rhythm of it settling around you like it always does, predictable, contained, something you can navigate without thinking too much about anything else.
You don’t notice her until she’s already there.
Sliding into the seat across from you with the same quiet confidence she carries everywhere, placing the folder down on the table between you.
“I took care of it,” she says, as casually as if she’s talking about training schedules or recovery sessions.
Your eyes drop to the folder.
Then back to her.
“You can sign it now.”
There’s a small pause.
Just enough for the words to settle.
“Congratulations, petita,” she adds, something softer threading through her voice now, something that wasn’t there before. “You’re on the full team.”
For the second time that week, you just stare at her, your jaw slightly slack.
Your thoughts lagging behind the reality of what she’s just said in a way that makes you feel momentarily disoriented, like the ground beneath you has shifted and your body hasn’t quite caught up yet.
She huffs out a quiet breath that might be a laugh, shaking her head as she reaches forward and ruffles your hair, the gesture easy and unguarded in a way that surprises you more than anything else, like she’s momentarily set aside the version of herself everyone else sees and replaced it with something lighter and playful.
You freeze for half a second under her touch, not pulling away, not leaning into it either, just letting it happen because you don’t know what else to do with something that feels this unfamiliar and this… gentle.
When she pulls her hand back, her expression settles again and you think - just for a second - that she looks happy in a way you don’t see often, not the kind of happiness that belongs to victories or headlines, but something smaller, more personal, like this matters to her in a way you don’t fully understand.
“You deserve this,” she says, her voice steady but warmer now - this is something she needs you to believe. “You’ve earned it.”
Your throat tightens before you can stop it. The words land somewhere deeper than you’re prepared for, because no one has ever said something like that to you without attaching conditions to it, without making it feel temporary or fragile or dependent on what you do next.
You nod instead, quick and almost automatic, because speaking feels like too much. You fear that if you open your mouth you might lose control of something you’ve spent years keeping contained.
She watches you for a second longer, making sure you’re still steady, still present, still able to hold what she’s just handed you without it slipping through your fingers.
Whatever she’s looking for, she seems to find it.
She nods once, satisfied, and pushes her chair back, the legs scraping softly against the floor as she stands, already shifting out of the moment with the same quiet efficiency she brings to everything else.
As she passes behind you, she reaches over without breaking stride, stealing a carrot from your tray with a small, almost conspiratorial wink, tossing it lightly into her mouth before lifting a hand in a casual wave over her shoulder.
And then she’s gone.
Just like that.
You sit there for a while after she leaves, the world slow to return. The noise of the cafeteria filters back in piece by piece - the low hum of conversation, the clatter of trays, the clinking of glasses - until it surrounds you again like nothing has changed at all.
But everything has.
The folder is still in front of you.
You reach for it slowly, fingers brushing over the crest, tracing it once like you need to confirm that it’s real, that this isn’t something your mind has constructed in the space between exhaustion and hope.
When you open it, your movements are careful, almost reverent, scared the pages might rearrange themselves into something else if you’re not gentle enough.
You already know where your eyes are going.
Section six.
The page that had turned your dream into something you couldn’t have, no matter how close it had come.
Your gaze drops to the bottom.
And this time, the space isn’t empty.
There’s a signature there.
Alexia’s.
Clean, deliberate, unmistakable in a way that makes your chest tighten before you can even process why. Her name sitting in a place that had never been meant for her and yet somehow looks like it belongs there anyway.
You stare at it for a long moment, your mind struggling to follow the path that must have led here, to understand what she said, who she spoke to, what rules were bent or rewritten or simply stepped around to make something like this possible.
You don’t understand how she did it.
You don’t understand what it means, not really - not the legal weight of it, not the implications of her name written into something that shapes your future, not the conversations that must have happened behind doors you weren’t invited into.
But you understand what it feels like.
It feels like being seen.
Like being chosen. Because someone decided you were worth stepping in for, worth the effort, worth the complication, worth the risk of caring in a way that goes beyond what was ever expected of them.
Your fingers hover just above the page, not quite touching the ink, like you’re worried that if you do, it might disappear, might resolve itself into something more logical, something that makes less room for this feeling blooming quietly in your chest.
You don’t understand it.
But for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to.
3:
Three months later, you feel different.
Not entirely settled, not in the way some of your teammates move through the training ground like it belongs to them without question, but no longer on the edge of it either, no longer hovering at the margins waiting for someone to decide whether you’re allowed to stay.
More comfortable, you think.
Close enough.
You’ve played a dozen matches now, maybe more if you count the minutes that came in fragments at the beginning. And somewhere along the way the pitch has stopped feeling like a test and started feeling like something you can read, something that moves with you instead of against you.
Your timing with them has sharpened, your instincts syncing with theirs in ways that don’t require thought anymore, just trust, just repetition turning into understanding.
Off the pitch, things have shifted a little bit too.
Definitely not all at once, but gradually, almost quietly, in the spaces between training sessions and shared routines. Having money, your own money, changes something fundamental, something you hadn’t realized was weighing on every decision you made until it wasn’t there anymore.
You say yes more now.
Not always, but enough that it’s noticeable, enough that invitations don’t feel like traps you have to navigate around quite as carefully.
And most of the time, it’s because of her.
It always is.
“Nena, you are coming to my house tonight, right?”
Alexia’s voice cuts through your focus effortlessly, casual but pointed in the way that tells you she already knows the answer she’s expecting. “For the team dinner?”
You don’t look up immediately, your pen still moving across the page, the neat lines of your castellano homework giving you something to anchor yourself to while you consider how to respond.
“Please,” she adds, before you can say anything, softening it just enough to make it sound like a request even though it absolutely wasn’t. “I’ll need your help setting everything up. Maybe you come with me after training?”
You side-eye her then, finally glancing up, your expression flat in a way that makes it clear you don’t believe a word of that.
Alexia Putellas does not need help setting anything up.
Alexia Putellas is the setup.
You’ve seen her organize recovery schedules, manage meetings, rearrange entire training sessions with a level of precision that borders on obsessive. There is no version of this where she genuinely needs a sixteen-year-old to help her prepare dinner.
But still.
The offer sits there, wrapped in something practical enough that you don’t have to examine it too closely.
A ride.
No figuring out buses. No checking schedules. No calculating how to get there and back without it turning into a problem you have to solve alone.
“Yeah,” you say after a second, shrugging like it doesn’t matter. “Okay. I can do that.”
She beams at you.
Actually beams, in a way that you would have found overwhelming three months ago, something bright and immediate that you’ve only recently learned how to accept without flinching away from it.
“Good,” she says, like she expected nothing else.
The conversation shifts easily after that, her attention drifting down to your notebook, to the careful lines of conjugations and corrections.
“How’s that going?” she asks, nodding toward it.
You groan immediately, the sound exaggerated but not entirely fake.
“Terrible,” you say, dropping your pen and leaning back in your chair like the weight of it all has finally become too much. “I get why I have to learn Spanish, I do, but why are there so many rules? And exceptions to the rules? And then exceptions to the exceptions?”
She hums softly, amused, letting you go on.
“And don’t even get me started on English,” you continue, warming up now, your frustration spilling out in a way it rarely does around anyone else. “That language makes no sense. Literally none. Zero! Why is it like that?”
Her smile widens slightly.
“And honestly,” you add, waving your pen for emphasis, “everyone should just learn Catalan. It would solve everything.”
She laughs at that, shaking her head like she’s heard variations of this before but doesn’t mind hearing it again.
You’re a yapper.
She’s realized that slowly over the past few months. It’s never in big groups or in spaces where attention feels like something to be managed, but here, in these smaller, quieter moments, when it’s just the two of you and the pressure to be contained slips just enough for something else to come through.
You talk about football, about school, about whatever show everyone’s watching, about things that don’t require you to give anything away that you’re not ready to give.
You never talk about anything personal.
She’s tried. Casually slipping questions in where they might fit, where they wouldn’t feel like interrogation. Family, friends, where you grew up, who you grew up with.
Every time, you shut down.
Completely, like a door closing without warning, your responses shrinking to nothing or redirecting the conversation so smoothly it almost looks accidental.
She’s learned to let it go.
But she hasn’t stopped noticing.
------
By the time you leave the training ground together, the sun has dipped lower, the air cooling just enough to make the drive feel easier.
She doesn’t take you straight to her house.
Of course there are stops to make.
The bakery first, where she moves with familiarity, greeting people by name, selecting things with a kind of quiet certainty that suggests she’s done this a hundred times before. Then the grocery store, efficient and precise, her list already organized in her head before she even steps inside. Then the florist, where she spends just a little longer than necessary, carefully considering arrangements and color schemes with the same focus she gives everything else.
By the third stop, you’re trailing behind her with a level of exhaustion that has nothing to do with training.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” you mutter under your breath, shifting the weight of one of the bags in your hands. “This is too many errands.”
She glances back at you, amused, but not slowing down.
“You said you’d help,” she reminds you.
“I didn’t know help meant this much help,” you shoot back, but there’s no real bite to it, not when she’d handed you the aux cord the moment you got in the car and let you take over the music completely.
It makes it only slightly better.
But still better.
When she comes back from the florist, arms full of three different bouquets, you’re already in the passenger seat, sunglasses perched on your face as you study yourself in the mirror with exaggerated seriousness.
“Ale,” you say as she opens the door, tilting your head slightly to get a better angle. “These are so big! I feel like a fly with massive eyes…”
She pauses for a second, taking in the sight of you in her sunglasses, the way they swallow half your face, the way you’re clearly trying not to laugh at yourself.
Her lips twitch.
She doesn’t comment on the nickname.
“It’s called fashion,” she says instead, sliding into the driver’s seat and setting the bouquets carefully in the back. “Don’t be bratty.”
But her smile grows when she realizes you don’t take them off.
She likes that you leave them there, settled on your face like you’ve decided, however briefly, that you’re allowed to take up space in something that belongs to her.
------
She drives you back through her neighborhood, the car gliding up the mountain as the houses grow larger and larger. Even though you’ve been here before, enough times that it shouldn’t feel new, your gaze still drifts to the window, tracking the mansions as they pass like you’re trying to memorize something you don’t quite believe belongs in your world.
Inside, you move together without needing direction, carrying in the bags from the afternoon and setting everything down in a rhythm that already feels familiar. Her voice cuts in only briefly to assign you to appetizers before she disappears into her own tasks.
A few weeks ago she’d realized you knew your way around a kitchen better than most people your age. She’d watched you move through a simple meal with a kind of instinctual confidence.
“My sous chef,” she’d teased, watching you chop something with more precision than necessary.
You’d shrugged it off.
Let her believe it came from cooking shows, from something casual and harmless and normal.
You don’t tell her that you learned because you had to. That if you didn’t learn to feed yourself, you wouldn’t eat.
You fall into the prep easily, chopping vegetables with practiced movements while she tidies around you, replacing the flowers on the table and kitchen island with the new ones, adjusting small details that most people wouldn’t notice but she always does.
She talks as she works, shifting easily into something about a new album she’s been waiting for, and you latch onto it immediately, launching into a tangent about how underrated the artist is, how no one appreciates the production, how the last release deserved more attention than it got.
You don’t even notice when the front door opens.
“Umm… what’s going on??”
The voice cuts through suddenly, and you startle slightly, your head snapping up to see Vicky standing there, looking between you and Alexia with open disbelief.
“Vicky!!” Alexia’s voice follows immediately, sharper now as she nearly drops the dustpan in her hand. “How many times do I have to tell you to knock?”
But Vicky doesn’t even glance at her.
“I’ve never heard you talk this much - what the fuck??”
Your eyes widen, caught off guard by the sudden attention, the realization of how much you must have been saying settling in all at once.
You’ve spoken to Vicky before, obviously, but always in pieces, short exchanges about positioning or passing patterns, maybe a quick refusal when she invited you somewhere you weren’t ready to go yet. Nothing like this. Never like this.
You glance at Alexia instinctively, and she nods once, small and encouraging, like she’s giving you permission you don’t actually need.
You tilt your head slightly, looking back at Vicky with just enough challenge in your expression to match hers.
“Maybe you’ve just never been interesting enough to keep me talking,” you say, the words landing more easily than you expect.
There’s a beat of silence.
And then Vicky bursts out laughing.
“Okay, okay,” she shoots back, stepping further into the room like she’s just been handed something she didn’t know she wanted. “She’s got jokes now, I see how it is.”
You shrug, trying to keep your expression neutral, but there’s something lighter there now, something less guarded.
She starts teasing you immediately, quick and relentless, and for the first time, you don’t shut it down.
You answer back matching her banter.
And somewhere behind it all, Alexia watches, quiet again, but with that same barely-there smile, like she’s witnessing something unfold exactly the way she’d hoped it would.
Maybe, you think, this could work.
Maybe Vicky is someone you could be comfortable around too.
But a little later, you realize you’re wrong.
It doesn’t come from anything she says, not really, not from anything sharp or unkind. It’s just from the way the room shifts around her when she settles in, the way she moves like she belongs here without overthinking it, like this space - and more importantly, the people in it - have always been hers in a way you’re still learning how to navigate.
You’re sitting at the counter, still half-listening to the conversation unfolding around you. As more of the team gathered, you retreated inward, not ready for attention directed your way.
Your focus keeps drifting back to them though, pulled by something you don’t understand and don’t know how to ignore.
Vicky is leaning into Alexia now, like it’s easy, like it’s nothing.
Like it’s something she’s done a hundred times before without hesitation or second thought. Her head resting against Alexia’s shoulder as if there’s no question about whether she’s allowed to be there.
And Alexia lets her.
Of course she does.
She smiles down at her, soft and familiar, her hand coming up to ruffle Vicky’s hair in that same absent, affectionate way that you’ve come to recognize. It’s the same way she does it to you when she’s pleased, when she’s proud, when she’s being gentle in a way she doesn’t show everyone.
Your stomach drops.
The feeling is immediate and confusing, sharp in a way that doesn’t make sense, because it’s not like anything has changed. Alexia hasn’t pulled away from you, hasn’t said anything different, hasn’t taken anything back.
And yet it feels like something is slipping.
Like you’ve misunderstood something without realizing it.
Like you’ve gotten used to something you were never meant to rely on.
Like something that had quietly started to feel like yours isn’t, not really, not in the way you thought.
You watch the way Vicky leans into her without overthinking, the way she takes up her space without checking first, without waiting, without asking, and something tightens in your chest at the ease of it, at the certainty behind it, at the fact that she doesn’t seem to question for a second whether she’s allowed.
You don’t know how to do that.
You’ve never known how.
And suddenly, watching it happen so effortlessly, so casually, makes something in your chest twist in a way you can’t place, something closer to frustration than anything else, something that feels unfair even though you don’t know why.
You look away quickly, jaw tightening, but it doesn’t help, because you can still hear the way Alexia laughs at something Vicky says, light and easy in a way that makes your chest tighten again.
It’s not even that funny.
The thought comes sharp and immediate, and you blink at it, startled, because it sounds wrong, it doesn’t feel like something you’re supposed to think.
You don’t understand it.
You don’t understand why it matters, why this - something so small, so normal - feels like it’s pressing against something much bigger inside you.
All you know is that you don’t like it.
Not the way it feels.
Not the way it makes you feel like you’re standing just slightly outside of something you didn’t realize you’d stepped into.
You push your chair back a little too abruptly, the sound of it scraping against the floor louder than you intend, but no one seems to notice, the noise of the room swallowing it whole as you step away.
Your movements are quick as you head down the hallway without really thinking about where you’re going. You just need space.
The bathroom is quiet when you step inside, the door closing behind you with a soft click that feels louder in the sudden stillness. The absence of voices is almost disorienting after the constant hum of the house.
You grip the edge of the sink for a second before turning on the water, letting it run cold over your hands, grounding yourself in the sensation.
You splash your face once, twice, the cold biting just enough to pull you back into yourself, your breathing uneven as you try to slow it down, to make sense of something that refuses to settle into anything recognizable.
You stare at yourself in the mirror.
Your expression looks wrong.
Too tight. Too controlled.
Like you’re holding something back that you don’t even understand.
What is wrong with you?
The question sits there, heavy and unanswered, your reflection offering nothing back but the same confusion staring out at you.
There’s a quiet knock on the door.
You straighten slightly, wiping your hands quickly before moving to open it, already stepping aside to let whoever it is pass.
But when you pull it open, it’s not one of the girls.
It’s her.
Alexia stands there, one hand still resting lightly against the frame, her gaze already on you, searching your eyes in a way that makes your stomach clench all over again.
She doesn’t say anything at first.
She just looks at you, waiting.
You can feel it in the way she doesn’t move, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t fill the silence the way anyone else might, like she already knows that if she just gives you enough space, something will come out of it eventually.
You hate that.
You love that.
Your grip tightens slightly on the door handle before you let it go, stepping back just enough to put some distance between you and her, like that might help you hold onto whatever fragile control you still have over your expression.
“I think I should go,” you say, the words coming out flatter than you intend, stripped of anything that might invite further questions.
“What?” Her brows knit together immediately, like she misheard you, like the suggestion doesn’t fit into whatever version of the evening she had already mapped out in her head.
“Why?” she asks, tilting her head slightly, her gaze narrowing just enough to make it clear she’s already trying to piece it together. “We haven’t even done dessert yet.”
There’s a small pause before she adds, softer now,
“Don’t you want to try that cake we bought today?”
Your stomach twists again at that, the memory of the bakery flashing through your mind uninvited - the way you’d lingered just a second too long in front of it, the way you hadn’t said anything but she’d noticed anyway.
She always notices.
You shake your head quickly, like that might shake the feeling loose with it.
“No,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “I need to get to the bus stop.”
The word lands wrong the second it leaves your mouth.
You can see it in her face.
“Bus?” she repeats, the confusion giving way to something firmer. “Nena, don’t be ridiculous.” She shakes her head, correcting something that doesn’t make sense.
“Stay until the end,” she continues, her tone softening again as she steps a little closer. “I’ll drive you back myself.”
It should be easy to say yes.
It always is.
But something inside you is still unsettled, pulling in a direction you don’t understand and don’t want to explain.
“It’s really okay,” you insist, taking another step back, the distance widening again before she can close it. “I kinda want to get back soon anyway. It’s been a long day and I’m… sore.”
The lie feels thin even as you say it.
You can feel it in the way the words don’t sit right, in the way they don’t match anything she knows about you, about how you move, how you recover, how you never complain about your body unless something is actually wrong.
But you don’t have anything better.
Because the truth isn’t something you can hand over neatly.
The truth is messy and shapeless and confusing, something that sits in your chest without a name, something that makes you want to leave before it turns into something you can’t control.
She watches you for a second.
Long enough that you feel it.
Long enough that you almost look away.
Something shifts in her expression then, the confusion settling into something more focused, more certain, like she’s reached a conclusion you haven’t said out loud.
She exhales quietly, shaking her head once like she’s letting go of the version of the conversation you were trying to have.
“Come here,” she says instead, her voice more determined now as she turns and walks further down the hall, away from the others.
She doesn’t argue with you.
Doesn’t call you out on the lie or push back the way she could.
She stops near the end of the hallway, far enough from the noise that it fades into something distant and indistinct, then turns back to face you, her posture easy but her attention entirely yours in a way that makes it impossible to keep pretending nothing is wrong.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her voice quieter now, gentler than before. “You were fine earlier. What happened?”
You shrug.
The motion feels useless the second you do it.
“Nothing,” you say, eyes drifting somewhere past her shoulder, anywhere but her face.
She watches you for a moment, patient in a way that makes it harder to hold the line.
“Is it Vicky?” she asks after a beat, tilting her head slightly, her tone still soft. “I thought you two were getting along.”
Your shoulders lift again, tighter this time, your fingers curling slightly into your palms like you’re trying to hold onto something that won’t stay still long enough to make sense of.
“I don’t know,” you admit under your breath.
It’s the first honest thing you’ve said.
Because you don’t.
You don’t know why it felt wrong.
You don’t know why it still feels wrong.
Alexia exhales softly through her nose, her expression shifting in a way that tells you she understands more than you’ve actually said.
“Hey,” she says. “Look at me.”
You hesitate.
Then you do.
Her gaze meets yours immediately, warm but steady, like she’s not going to let you slip out of this one by looking away.
“Vicky’s important to me,” she says, simple, honest. “She’s been around a long time.”
You nod once.
You know she has.
Alexia’s hand comes up then, almost as if she is reacting out of instinct, brushing lightly against your arm, a small, grounding touch that lingers just long enough to calm you before she continues.
“But that doesn’t take anything away from you,” she adds, her voice firming slightly, certain in a way that doesn’t leave room for doubt. “It’s not one or the other.”
You don’t respond.
Because you’re not used to that being true.
Because in your experience, it is one or the other, even if no one says it out loud.
She sees it anyway.
The hesitation. The disbelief you don’t quite hide.
“You don’t lose me just because I’m giving attention to someone else,” she says more quietly, her hand settling more fully against your upper arm now, thumb brushing in a rhythmic motion that feels more comforting than she probably realizes. “That’s not how this works.”
Your throat tightens again, the words landing somewhere you’re not used to letting anything land.
“I wasn’t-” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, because you don’t even know what you were going to deny.
She doesn’t make you finish it.
Instead, she steps closer again, closing the space completely this time, her presence warm and familiar, her hand lifting from your arm to your hair, fingers smoothing it back in a slow, absent gesture that feels more instinctive than deliberate.
“You don’t have to fight for my attention, petita,” she murmurs, softer now, like she’s repeating something you didn’t quite hear the first time. “Or my affection.”
Something in your chest gives.
Just slightly.
Before you can think about it, before you can decide whether it’s okay, you step forward, your forehead landing on her collar bone, your hands catching lightly at the front of her shirt, hesitant at first, like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to do this.
She doesn’t pull away.
Her other arm comes around you without hesitation, not pulling you in forcefully, not making a big deal of it, just resting there, steady and sure. Her hand coming up to the back of your head again, holding you there in a way that feels protective and warm.
So you hold on too.
Tighter than you’ve ever held onto anyone before.
4:
There are very few moments in your life where you’ve felt anything like this.
It builds slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, a rhythm settling into your body that feels just slightly sharper than usual. Your touches are cleaner, your decisions are quicker. Everything is happening half a second before it needs to. It’s as if you’re seeing the game unfold before it fully arrives.
And it doesn’t stop.
The ball stays glued to your feet in a way that feels effortless, like it belongs there, like every movement you make is already accounted for. Your body weaving between defenders as if they’re nothing more than markers set out on a training pitch, predictable and easy to slip past. Your passes land exactly where they need to, weighted perfectly, timed even better, your teammates moving onto them like you’ve placed the ball directly into their thoughts before they’ve had to call for it.
It feels easy.
Too easy.
The first goal comes naturally, a quick shift of your weight and a strike before anyone can close you down properly. The net rippling before you’ve even fully processed what you’ve done.
The second one is different.
You don’t think about it at all.
The space opens for half a second outside the box, just enough, and you hit it clean, the strike leaving your foot with a force that feels almost unfamiliar. The ball screamed into the top corner with a precision that silences the stadium for a single, suspended heartbeat before the noise crashes back in all at once, your name echoing from every direction.
You laugh, breathless, disbelieving, as your teammates swarm you near the corner flag, arms wrapping around you, hands in your hair, voices overlapping in a blur of excitement that you don’t even try to separate.
You let it happen.
Let yourself be pulled into it, into them, into the moment in a way you wouldn’t have a few months ago.
Alexia reaches you last.
Her arm settles around your shoulders as she pulls you gently away from the chaos, guiding you back toward the center of the pitch, her presence calming even in the middle of the noise. She leans down briefly, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the top of your head, her voice low but filled with unmistakable pride.
“Molt bé, petita.”
Her hand ruffles your hair once, familiar and affectionate, before she releases you and jogs back into position.
You turn slightly, watching her go, a grin still lingering on your face, something softer threading through it now, something that settles deep in your chest.
Your childhood hero.
Still your hero.
And now she’s here saying that to you.
You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it.
Barça resets, the game slipping back into motion around you. The scoreboard ticks down as the final twenty minutes stretch ahead, close enough now that you can feel the shape of the decisive win settling into place. The energy keeps building as everyone pushes just a little harder to close it out cleanly.
You’re still in it.
Still moving.
Still demanding the ball.
It comes to you again without words, just a pointed gesture, a quick look, and Vicky delivers it perfectly, threading the pass through the press into the space you’ve already started to attack.
Your first touch is clean.
Your second never comes.
The impact is immediate and violent, a force slamming into your lower leg before your brain can catch up. Studs drag harshly across your calf and down toward your ankle, the sensation sharp and wrong in a way that doesn’t register as pain for a fraction of a second.
Then it does.
Your body crumples instantly, the ground rushing up to meet you as the pain explodes outward, hot and blinding, racing up your leg and into your chest so fast it steals the air from your lungs.
A scream tears out of you before you can stop it, loud and raw, echoing across the pitch in a way that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you until you realize it does.
Your vision blurs immediately, tears spilling over faster than you can control, hot against your skin, mixing with the sharp sting of something else as you catch a glimpse of red staining your sock.
Hands are on you almost instantly.
Your teammates closing in, forming a wall around you without needing to be told, blocking the cameras, blocking everything, voices overlapping in panic as they call for the medical staff that’s already sprinting toward you.
But you don’t hear most of it.
You can’t.
“Ale!”
Her name is the only thing that makes it through, the only word you manage to force out through the pain, through the panic rising just as fast as the pain itself.
She’s there before the sound fully leaves your mouth.
Dropping to her knees beside you, her presence immediate and grounding in a way that cuts through the chaos. One hand cradles the back of your head as she tries to keep you still, to keep you from twisting or pulling away in a way that might make it worse.
“I’m here, I’m here, petita,” she says quickly, her voice urgent and close enough that you can hear it even through everything else. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”
Her other hand finds yours, firm and reassuring, something solid to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s slipping.
“It hurts so much,” you sob, your free hand clutching at your jersey as you pull it over your eyes, like that might block out the pain, like that might make it stop.
“I know,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing over your hand in a slow, grounding motion. “I know, cariño. They’re going to take a look, okay? We’ll get it sorted.”
The medical staff are there now, voices hurried as they assess you quickly, hands moving carefully but efficiently, their expressions shifting in a way that doesn’t go unnoticed.
They exchange a glance.
Then one of them looks up at Alexia, something tight in his expression.
“We need to take her to the hospital,” he says quietly. “Something’s not right. She’s in too much pain.”
Alexia doesn’t pull away from you.
Doesn’t move.
Her hand stays where it is, brushing your hair back from your face where it’s stuck with sweat and tears, her voice steady even if there’s something underneath it that isn’t.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says, softer now, like she’s trying to anchor you to something solid. “They’re going to take you to the hospital and the doctors are going to fix you right up, okay?”
Your grip tightens on her hand immediately, panic flashing sharp and clear in your eyes as you shake your head, the word coming out broken and desperate.
“Ale- Ale, please! I don’t want to go!”
You try to push yourself up reactively, like you can stop this if you just get up, if you just move, but the pain hits again and you collapse back down with a sharp cry.
“Hey, hey- no, stay down,” she says quickly, her hand pressing lightly against your shoulder to keep you still. “I promise, they’re going to take good care of you. The trainers will go with you, okay? You won’t be alone.”
But it doesn’t help.
The panic doesn’t fade.
Your grip on her hand only tightens, your teary eyes searching hers desperately, wordless, trying to say something you can’t force out loud, something bigger than just fear of the pain, something deeper that sits heavy in your chest.
She sees it.
Her expression shifts, her focus sharpening as she studies you, really studies you, like she’s trying to read something between the lines, something you haven’t said but need her to understand.
For a second, she doesn’t move.
Then she glances toward the sideline, toward the coaching staff already watching with worried eyes.
She lifts her hand, pointing to herself before rotating her fingers in a tight, clear motion - sub.
The second you understand what she’s asking for, what she’s choosing, something in your chest breaks open in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
You sob again, but this time, it’s relief.
------
You don’t really understand what’s going on with your foot.
The doctor's explanations are long and measured. Her tone is calm and practiced as she gestures occasionally toward your leg, referencing scans and structures and outcomes in a language that feels entirely out of reach.
The words blur together in a way that your already foggy, morphine-heavy brain can’t begin to untangle. Each sentence slipping past you before you can fully hold onto the one before it, leaving you with only fragments that don’t quite connect into anything meaningful.
Even on a normal day, you’re not sure you would follow half of what she’s saying, not with the technical details or the implications hidden between her carefully chosen phrases, but right now it feels especially impossible, like you’re trying to listen from a distance that keeps stretching further away the harder you try to focus.
Still, you glance toward Alexia, grounding yourself in something familiar, and you see her standing beside you with her arms loosely crossed, her posture poised, her expression attentive in a way that reassures you even if you don’t understand why.
She is nodding at the right moments, asking quiet, pointed questions when the doctor pauses, like she’s catching everything you’re missing and holding onto it for you.
So that’s enough.
You don’t understand, but she does.
That has to be enough.
A few words manage to break through the haze anyway, sharp and clear in a way that makes them impossible to ignore.
Surgery. Long recovery.
They land heavily, cutting through the fog just enough to settle uncomfortably in your chest. You feel your mouth pull into a small, involuntary pout, a frustrated huff escaping you before you can stop it, the reaction childish but completely unfiltered in your current state.
Alexia’s hand comes to rest lightly on your arm almost immediately, her thumb brushing in a small, grounding motion that feels instinctive, like she’s acknowledging your reaction without drawing attention to it, before she turns her focus back to the doctor, her voice thoughtful as she asks another question you don’t quite catch.
At that point, you let yourself drift.
The conversation continues around you, voices overlapping softly, papers shifting, explanations unfolding that you no longer attempt to follow, your attention slipping in and out until it finally settles somewhere quiet and distant.
Eventually, the doctor gathers a stack of paperwork, handing it to Alexia, then turning back to you with a small, sympathetic smile, offering you a gentle wave goodbye.
You lift your hand weakly in return, mostly out of habit.
Then she’s gone.
The room feels different without her, quieter in a way that feels less overwhelming. The tension eases just slightly as Alexia exhales and glances down at the papers, scanning them quickly before setting them aside with deliberate care.
She moves to sit beside you again, leaning lightly against the edge of the hospital bed. Her elbow rests on the mattress as she props her chin against her hand. Her posture is relaxed in a way that contrasts with the sharp focus still lingering in her eyes.
“How are you doing?” she asks gently, her voice softer now, more familiar. “What did you think about what the doctor said?”
You blink at her, trying to gather your thoughts, but they feel slow, just out of reach, like they’re moving through something thicker than usual.
“Honestly…” you begin, your words slightly slurred, your tongue not quite keeping pace with your thoughts. “I did not understand a word she said.”
A faint smile tugs at her lips, quick and fleeting, amusement slipping through despite everything else, though the concern never fully leaves her expression.
Your tears hadn’t really stopped the entire time.
Not in the ambulance, where the pain had been sharp and constant and unbearable. Not when they first brought you into the hospital. Not until they’d finally given you something strong enough to dull it, something that pulled you under almost immediately, exhaustion catching up with you the second your body had permission to let go.
She had stayed through all of it.
Waiting while they took you for scans, sitting in a room that felt too quiet and too still, answering what questions she could, pushing where she needed to. When you’d woken up disoriented and upset, asking for her in a way that had apparently made the nurses exchange knowing looks, they had brought her back to you without hesitation.
You look at her now, taking in the details your foggy brain can still process. The way her hair sits slightly out of place, the warm-up jacket still thrown over her kit, the tiredness lingering in her eyes in a way that makes something tighten in your chest with quiet guilt.
“That’s okay,” she says gently, like she’s already decided for you. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow. Right now, you just need to rest.”
You nod, your eyes already feeling heavy again, the pull of sleep settling back in.
But something pulls you back.
“Are you gonna come back tomorrow?” you ask, your voice quieter now, small in a way you don’t usually allow it to be.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“I’m staying tonight,” she says simply. “So yes, I’ll still be here in the morning.”
You frown slightly, the motion slow and unfocused.
“You don’t have to…” you murmur, the words trailing off.
“I know, petita,” she replies softly, her hand finding yours again, warm and comforting as she gives it a small, reassuring squeeze. “But I want to.”
She holds your hand for a moment longer.
“Rest now, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
You don’t argue after that.
Sleep takes you quickly.
------
When you wake again, the world feels quieter, softer around the edges. The sharpness of everything has dulled into something more manageable as you blink slowly, your vision clearing in pieces while hushed voices drift in from the doorway.
You glance to your left first, noticing the neatly folded blanket and pillow, placed carefully on the chair as if someone had tried to make themselves comfortable without disturbing you.
Then you look to your right.
Alexia is there, standing near the door, now dressed in fresh clothes, her posture composed but attentive as she listens to a nurse explaining something, gesturing toward the IV connected to your arm.
She nods, asks a quiet question, thanks her, and then turns back toward you, a to-go cup of coffee in her hand.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, her voice gentle, lighter than before. “How are you feeling?”
You shift slightly, testing the ache in your leg, the pain still there as the medicine wore off a bit.
She watches you carefully as you answer, asking small follow-up questions, making sure you’re actually okay, not just saying that you are.
There’s something in her eyes, though.
Something deeper than simple concern, something more deliberate, like she’s already thinking ahead, already holding something she hasn’t said yet.
Eventually, she hesitates, just for a moment, before she takes a slow breath.
“Cariño,” she says, her voice is careful now. “I need to talk to you about something. I know you’re not going to like it, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
You blink at her, then nod slightly.
“The doctors gave me some paperwork,” she continues. “It needs to be signed before your surgery.”
Your stomach tightens.
“It has to be a parent or guardian.”
You look away immediately. The reaction is automatic.
“I know there were some… complications… when you signed with the team,” she adds gently. “But this is the hospital, so it’s a little trickier.”
She pauses, then continues quietly.
“I just need a number,” she says. “Someone I can call and explain everything to. I can handle the rest, okay? I just need the number.”
There’s a weight in your throat now, thick and unmoving, but you refuse to let the tears come again.
“Please, petita,” she adds quietly. “It’s me. You know I wouldn’t ask if I hadn’t already tried everything else.”
You swallow.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I know.”
You give her the number. It feels heavier than it should when you say it out loud.
“She’s not going to answer,” you add, your voice flattening slightly as you look away again. “But you can call.”
------
You’re right - she doesn’t answer.
Not the first time Alexia calls, nor the second, nor the third. Each attempt ends the same way, with the line ringing out into empty space before cutting to that dull, impersonal silence that says everything without saying anything at all. It's the kind of silence you’ve learned not to question because questioning it only makes it feel heavier.
Alexia doesn’t stop.
She moves further down the hallway, deliberately putting distance between herself and your room. Her steps measured, her expression already settling into something composed and controlled, because she knows - without you having to say it - that whatever happens on the other end of this call is not something you want to hear, not something you should have to listen to while lying in a hospital bed waiting for answers you don’t fully understand.
By the seventh call, the line finally clicks.
The response is not immediate clarity, but noise - muffled at first, then sharper. It’s the unmistakable drunken slur of someone pulled unwillingly from a haze they had no intention of leaving, irritation spilling out before awareness has a chance to catch up.
Alexia straightens slightly, her grip tightening around the phone just enough to be noticeable before she smooths her expression again, her voice deliberately polite when she speaks.
“Hello,” she begins, her tone steady in a way that feels practiced. “I’m calling regarding-“
She’s cut off.
A question, if it can even be called that, half-formed and impatient.
She tries again, more clearly this time, explaining that there was an incident during the match last night, that you’d been injured, that you’re currently at the hospital and require a signature for a necessary procedure. Her words are precise, each one chosen carefully despite the lack of cooperation on the other end.
There’s a pause.
Then confusion.
“Who?”
Alexia repeats your name.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
And then-
“Oh. Right. The one who’s always kicking that stupid ball around…”
Something shifts.
It’s subtle, but it’s there, the line of Alexia’s shoulders tightening just slightly, the patience she’s been holding onto thinning in a way that doesn’t fully break but doesn’t stay intact either, more of a slow, controlled unraveling.
“Listen,” she says, her voice still even, but firmer now, less willing to bend. “She is at the hospital and she needs your signature for surgery.”
The response that comes back is louder, more scattered, filled with complaints that have nothing to do with what she’s saying, questions that circle around the point without ever landing on it.
“Yes,” Alexia replies, more sharply now. “Of course the surgery is necessary.”
Another interruption.
“No,” she continues, her fingers pressing briefly against her temple as she forces herself to stay calm. “You do not have to pay for it. The club is covering everything.”
A beat passes.
“The football club,” she clarifies, slower this time, each word more deliberate than the last. “Barcelona... the one she plays for.”
Whatever is said in response makes her pull the phone slightly away from her ear, her jaw tightening as she exhales through her nose. The restraint visible now, the effort it takes not to react immediately written in the small, controlled movements of her body.
Finally it breaks.
“Señora,” she says, her voice is colder, the politeness still there in structure but stripped clean of anything resembling patience, “with all due respect, I do not have time to explain this to you.”
She doesn’t pause this time.
“You need to come to the main hospital right now and sign this document,” she continues, each word firm, unyielding. “That is all you need to do. Everything else has already been taken care of.”
There’s an attempt at a response, something loud and disorganized that she doesn’t allow to continue.
She hangs up.
The silence that follows is heavier than before, filled with everything she chose not to say, everything she held back in favor of getting what you needed instead of what she might have wanted to give.
She stands there for a moment, her eyes closing briefly as she takes a slow, controlled breath in, then another. The tension leaves her shoulders gradually as she reins herself back in, smoothing over the edges before turning back toward your room.
When she steps inside, you’re already watching her.
Waiting.
“She is coming to sign it,” she says simply, like it wasn’t a battle to get there, like it was always going to end this way.
You stare at her, your eyes widening slightly. Disbelief flickers across your face before you can hide it, the idea itself feeling almost impossible.
“How did you do that?” you ask, your voice quieter now, almost uncertain. “She doesn’t ever do anything for me.”
Alexia pauses just briefly at that, your words hit her low in the gut. She doesn’t react outwardly to the admission but doesn’t miss it either, filing it away with the same quiet attention she gives every sliver of personal information you’ve ever shared with her.
She moves back to her seat beside your bed, sitting down with an easy familiarity as her hand comes to rest gently on your arm.
“You know better than most,” she says lightly, a faint hint of a smile tugging at her lips, “that I can be very persuasive, nena.”
You roll your eyes at her, the gesture automatic, but you shift closer without realizing it, leaning just slightly into her presence, into the warmth of something that feels steady in a way very little else does right now.
An hour later, the door opens again.
You know it before you see her.
The smell reaches you first, sharp and unmistakable, cigarettes and alcohol cutting through the sterile air of the hospital in a way that makes your stomach tighten immediately, your body reacting before your mind fully catches up.
And then she’s there.
Loud and intrusive.
Filling the space in a way that feels too big for the room.
Alexia notices the change in you instantly, the way your shoulders draw inward, the way your gaze drops, the way you make yourself smaller without even realizing it, like it’s something your body has learned to do without instruction.
“You know I had to take three different metros to get here,” your foster mother begins, her voice already edged with irritation as she steps further into the room, her complaints spilling out before anything else has a chance to settle. “I can’t believe I had to come all this way on a weekend. Do you know this is my one day off?”
Alexia steps forward without hesitation, positioning herself between the two of you with a kind of quiet certainty that makes it look almost accidental, though there is nothing accidental about it at all. Her body blocking the direct line of sight as she reaches for the papers.
“Hi,” she says evenly, her tone polite but firm. “I appreciate you coming. These are the documents that need your signature.”
The woman huffs, snatching the papers from her hand without acknowledgment. Her attention already shifting back to her own irritation as she begins signing, her pen pressing harder into the paper than necessary.
She keeps talking.
Of course she does. It’s like the room exists only as a place for her voice to fill, like silence is something she refuses to allow because it might require her to acknowledge anything beyond her own inconvenience.
She complains about the traffic first, about how long it took, about how ridiculous it is that the hospital isn’t easier to get to, her tone sharp and impatient, like every step of the journey here has been a personal offense.
She moves on to the doctors, questioning their competence without knowing anything about them, scoffing at the procedures, at the terminology she doesn’t understand, dismissing it all with a wave of her hand like it’s something trivial, something exaggerated, something that couldn’t possibly be as serious as it’s being made out to be.
And then, eventually, her attention lands back on you.
It always does.
“You’ve always been such a troublemaker,” she mutters, her voice carrying easily through the room, loud enough that it doesn’t feel like a mutter at all, more like a statement she wants heard. “Always causing problems.”
Her pen presses harder into the paper as she signs, the scratching sound sharp against the quiet that’s settled around the rest of the room.
“Always needing something,” she continues, shaking her head slightly like she’s recounting a long list of offenses. “Always making things more difficult than they need to be.”
You shrink further into yourself, your vision going slightly unfocused. The words wash over you in a way that feels distant and familiar all at once. You’ve heard them so many times that they don’t quite land the way they used to - but they still land.
And then—
“That’s enough.”
The shift is immediate.
You tune back in instantly, your head snapping up as you turn toward Alexia, the harshness in her voice cutting cleanly through the room.
She’s no longer relaxed.
No longer holding back.
Her hands are clenched at her sides, her posture angled forward just slightly, her presence filling the space in a way that demands attention without raising her voice any higher.
“Just sign the papers and leave,” she says, her tone low and furious, leaving no room for argument. “No one wants to hear what you have to say.”
The room goes still.
“Trust me,” she continues, her glare unwavering, “three metros is nothing compared to the pain that girl is in right now, and you are the only person standing in the way of her getting better.”
There is no hesitation left.
“So sign the fucking papers,” she finishes, her voice cutting clean and final, “and move out of the fucking way.”
You watch, completely still, something unfamiliar settling in your chest as your foster mother - who has never backed down from anyone - goes quiet.
For the first time since she walked into the room, she doesn’t have anything to say.
Her jaw tightens, her grip on the pen stiff as she looks down at the paper again, finishing the last signature quickly, the movements more controlled now, like she’s trying to regain something she’s already lost.
She doesn’t look at you.
Doesn’t say anything else.
She grabs her purse off the table with a quick, irritated motion and turns toward the door.
The door slams behind her and just like that, she’s gone.
Alexia doesn’t move right away.
She just stands there, staring at the closed door. Her chest rising and falling a little too quickly. The adrenaline still lingering in the way her shoulders are held just slightly too tight, as if her body hasn’t caught up yet with the fact that the confrontation is over, that there’s nothing left to fight.
You watch her, remaining completely still.
There’s something different about her now, something sharper at the edges - you’ve just seen a version of her that isn’t meant for anyone, it's protective and unfiltered and entirely focused. It all makes your chest feel strange, like it’s too full of something you don’t quite understand.
“Ale…” you say finally, your voice more careful than usual, testing the space between you to make sure it’s still steady.
Her head snaps toward you immediately.
And just like that, she’s moving.
The tension is still there, but it shifts, redirects, softens the second her focus lands on you. Her steps are quick as she crosses the room and drops back into the chair beside your bed, leaning in close like she needs to check something, making sure you’re still there in one piece.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, the words coming out faster than usual, overlapping slightly as she speaks. “I should have kept my cool, I shouldn’t have yelled in front of you, I just…” she exhales sharply, shaking her head, “I couldn’t listen to her for another second, I couldn’t have you listen to that anymore.”
Her hands hover for a moment before settling lightly on the edge of the bed. Her eyes scanning you quickly, your leg, your face, your arms. She’s checking for damage that isn’t visible, she’s trying to undo something that can’t be undone by looking.
“Are you okay?” she continues, her voice softer now but no less urgent. “None of that is true, you know that, right? Not a single word. That woman is-” she cuts herself off with a small shake of her head, like she doesn’t trust herself to finish the sentence. “Do you live with her??”
The question slips out before she can stop it.
She catches herself immediately.
“Wait, I’m sorry! That’s too personal, you don’t have to answer that,” she adds quickly, her tone shifting again, backtracking even as her eyes stay fixed on you. “Just…are you okay?”
The words tumble over each other, faster than she usually lets them. Her composure slipping just enough to show the concern underneath it, the way she’s trying to hold everything together and failing slightly because it matters too much.
You blink at her, taking a second to process it.
Then you shrug.
“I’m fine,” you say, your voice quieter now, a little rough at the edges but steady enough. “I’m used to it.”
The words come out easily.
Too easily.
You don’t really think about them as you say them, don’t consider how they sound, how they land, just state them like they’re a fact that doesn’t require explanation.
“Yeah,” you add after a moment, like it’s just another detail. “I live with her. And like… ten other foster kids.”
Alexia doesn’t interrupt.
She doesn’t move.
She just listens.
“Sometimes I crash on friends’ couches,” you continue, your tone is almost casual, like you’re describing something ordinary. “So I don’t have to go back there. But it’s not like she notices if I’m gone anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.”
You shrug again.
Like it’s nothing.
Like it’s normal.
With every word, something in Alexia’s expression tightens.
It’s small at first, barely noticeable, a slight shift in her jaw, a flicker in her eyes, but it builds, layer by layer, until it settles into something much more controlled, much more deliberate, the kind of tension that doesn’t explode but hardens instead.
Her gaze drops then.
To your leg, wrapped and elevated, still and wrong in a way that feels unnatural.
To the bruises scattered across your skin.
To the IV in your arm.
To the way you look in the bed - too small, swallowed by it, wires and machines surrounding you in a way that makes everything about you seem younger, more fragile, more exposed.
She doesn’t understand how someone could look at you like this and choose to make you feel smaller instead of protecting you, instead of stepping in, instead of doing the one thing that feels obvious to her in this moment.
Her hand moves instinctively, settling gently over yours again, her thumb running along wrist absentmindedly. The action grounds her just as much as it settles you.
“Well…” she says after a moment, her voice quieter now, but firm in a way that doesn’t leave room for debate.
She lifts her gaze back to yours.
“You’re never going back there.”
5:
Alexia’s house is always peaceful in a way that feels intentional.
That is the first thing you notice every time you step inside. It’s not just the absence of noise but the absence of everything that usually comes with it, no television blaring in the background, no shouting from another room, no doors slamming.
There is no cigarette smoke stinging your eyes. No empty liquor bottles scattered across tables or tucked into corners like they’ve been forgotten. No trash piling up by the door, no smell of something sour lingering in the air.
Every time you walk in, you take a deeper breath than you mean to, your lungs filling with the faint scent of laundry and vanilla. It soothes your senses in a way that feels almost unfamiliar, your body doesn’t quite trust it yet but wants to.
You didn’t expect things to move this quickly.
But maybe you should have.
Because this is Alexia, and when she decides something needs to be done, nothing can stop her.
You don’t know what happened behind the scenes, don’t know what conversations she had or what strings she pulled. You only know that not long after your surgery, as soon as the doctors had cleared you to leave, she had already stepped in before you had a chance to think about what came next.
You remember the way she’d wheeled you out, navigating the hospital halls with the same quiet confidence she brings to everything else, the way she’d lifted you into the car with more gentleness than you expected, like she was handling something fragile even though she never once made you feel like you were.
She told you then.
Not asked.
Told.
That you’d be staying with her during your recovery.
That it made the most sense, that it would be easier for appointments, for physical therapy, for everything the club would need to monitor while you healed.
You had tried to protest, the words coming out awkward and half-formed, something about not wanting to be a burden, about already taking up too much space in her life, but she had cut you off with a single look, one that made it clear she wasn’t going to entertain that line of thinking for even a second.
“Do you really want to be taking the bus with your busted leg?” she’d said, her tone flat, unimpressed.
And that had been the end of it.
Because no, you didn’t.
And more than that, you didn’t have the energy to argue with her when she had already decided.
Now, standing in her house again, everything feels slightly different, because this time, you’re not just visiting.
She leads you down the hallway slowly, matching your pace without making it obvious, giving you space to move with your crutches while staying close enough to steady you if you need it. She stops outside a door you’ve never paid much attention to before.
She pushes it open gently.
“This is your room,” she says.
Your room.
The words land strangely.
You step inside slowly, your gaze moving across the space in quiet, careful sweeps, taking in everything at once and not quite believing any of it belongs to you, even temporarily.
There’s a large window that lets in natural light, overlooking the yard outside. The bed is neatly made, the sheets smooth and clean, you can tell they are soft just by looking at them.
There’s a desk against the wall, simple and tidy, and on top of it sits a bouquet of wildflowers, fresh and slightly uneven in a way that makes them feel more real, more thoughtful than anything perfectly arranged ever could.
Alexia notices where your attention lands.
“My mom picked those out,” she says, her voice lighter now, almost casual. “I called her and asked her to get everything ready for you.”
Your room.
She says it again without saying it.
The words echo anyway.
You take another step forward, slower this time, your eyes catching on small details you wouldn’t normally notice, the way the light falls across the floor, the way everything feels… settled.
You don’t realize how still you’ve gone until she speaks again.
“Do you like it?” she asks, her tone less certain than before. “We can change the sheets if you want, or move things around. Maybe find some art for the walls, something you like. What do you think?”
You swallow.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice coming out quieter than you intended, a little rough at the edges. “I like it.”
She doesn’t respond right away.
She studies you, her hazel eyes holding yours in that steady, searching way you’ve come to recognize. She’s making sure, really making sure, that you mean it, that you’re not just saying what you think she wants to hear.
You swallow, the weight of everything settling quietly in your chest before you manage, a little more carefully this time, “Thank you… for this,” your voice soft and slightly unsteady, like the words themselves are something you’re not used to saying out loud but don’t want to hold back either.
“Welcome home, petita.” She wraps one arm around your shoulders gently and presses a light kiss to your temple.
You lean into her but squeeze your eyes shut at the affection, stopping yourself from getting emotional.
------
It takes a month before you stop feeling like you’re borrowing space.
A full month of small corrections and quiet reminders. A month of Alexia gently undoing habits you didn’t even realize you had. The kind of habits that had been built slowly over years and now surfaced in the smallest, most automatic ways.
She reminds you - gently, consistently - that you can eat whatever is in the fridge without asking, that you don’t need to hover in the kitchen waiting for permission that has already been given, that food here is not something you have to earn or justify.
She reminds you that you don’t have to leave a room exactly as you found it, that using space does not require you to erase yourself from it afterward, that a blanket left slightly out of place or a glass left in the sink is not something that needs to be corrected immediately.
And she reminds you, more than once and with increasing emphasis, that you do not need to ask before using any room in this house, that it is there for you just as much as it is for her, but that if you even think about doing something reckless in the gym with your foot before you are fully healed, she will personally make sure you regret it.
It takes time for those words to settle.
Time for your body to stop reacting before your mind can catch up, for the instinct to ask, to hesitate, to clean, to make yourself smaller, to loosen its grip just enough that you can begin to exist in the space without constantly negotiating your place in it.
And then, one afternoon, it happens without you realizing it.
Alexia comes home from training, the familiar sound of the door opening and closing behind her, the quiet shift of movement in the house that you would have immediately responded to weeks ago.
Instead she finds you stretched out across the couch like you’ve always belonged there, one leg carefully propped up on a pillow, your crutches discarded somewhere nearby, a glass of her favorite lemonade balanced on the table within reach, the condensation leaving a faint ring you don’t even think to wipe away. There is a bag of chips open in your lap - the ones she bought specifically for you earlier that week - and you are eating them absentmindedly, your attention fully captured by whatever show is playing on the television.
You glance up when you hear her, lifting a hand in a casual, distracted wave, acknowledging her presence without interrupting your focus, before your eyes drop right back to the screen, completely unconcerned with anything beyond what happens next in the episode.
You don’t notice the way she pauses in the doorway or the way her expression softens as she takes in the scene in front of her.
The shift is quiet and almost imperceptible, but she sees it. It is a small, unspoken sign that something she has been deliberately building has finally settled into place.
She doesn’t say anything.
She just lets it be.
------
It takes another month before you start to feel comfortable around the people in her life, the ones who move through it with an ease that once made you feel like an outsider, like you were watching something you didn’t quite belong to.
Eli is the first to change that feeling.
She notices you long before you intend to be noticed.
She sees the way you linger near the kitchen when she cooks, your presence quiet but attentive, your gaze drifting more often than you realize toward her hands, toward the ingredients, toward the small decisions she makes without thinking.
You sit at the island at first, half-listening as she and Alexia talk about family you don’t know - stories that feel distant and unconnected to you. Your posture is relaxed but your attention sharper than you let on.
You tell yourself you’re not studying what she’s doing.
But you are.
And she sees it.
The slight narrowing of your eyes as you try to gauge measurements without asking, the way your focus sharpens when she reaches for a spice, the subtle shift in your posture when she moves from one step to the next.
She doesn’t call attention to it.
She just lifts her head slightly and gestures for you to come closer, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come here,” she says, her tone warm, inviting, leaving no space for hesitation.
You pause for only a moment before sliding off your stool and stepping around the counter, drawn in despite yourself, curiosity outweighing whatever instinct still tells you to stay back.
She shows you everything without turning it into a lesson, letting you see, letting you ask, letting you exist beside her in a way that feels easy rather than instructional.
Her voice softens slightly when she leans in just enough to say, “This is my grandmother’s recipe, so this stays between us, okay?”
You nod immediately, seriously, like the trust matters. Because it does.
She smiles at that, bright and approving, clearly pleased by the way you absorb it, the way your questions come more freely now, the hesitation fading just enough that you don’t feel like you’re overstepping by asking.
She places the spoon in your hand without hesitation, entrusting you with something small that somehow feels significant, and you take it without second-guessing yourself.
Alba is different.
Louder, more immediate, her presence filling a room in a way that leaves no space for uncertainty. But it’s never in a way that feels overwhelming, because there is something deeply observant about her beneath all of it, something that reads you more accurately than you expect, giving you space when you need it while still finding ways to pull you in gently.
The shift with her happens almost by accident.
You arrive at the house alone one afternoon, Vicky having dropped you off because Alexia is stuck at a media obligation that ran longer than expected.
For some reason Alba is already there, sprawled comfortably on the couch, a reality show playing loudly on the television. Her attention is completely absorbed until she notices you standing there, uncertain and still.
“Oh, perfect,” she says immediately, like your presence is exactly what she needed. “You need to see this. One of the girls just got cheated on by the ugliest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”
You hesitate, just for a second, before making your way over, lowering yourself carefully onto the far end of the couch, your posture still a little too controlled, a little too aware of yourself in the space.
At first, you just listen.
Let her commentary fill the silence.
But it doesn’t take long before something shifts, something about the way she talks, the way she draws you in without asking, without making it a question of whether you want to be included.
A small smile slips through.
Then another.
And before you realize it, you’re laughing, the sound unexpected and genuine, breaking through something that had been held tightly in place for longer than you’d noticed.
By the time Alexia gets home, the two of you are fully immersed, voices overlapping, arguing over who deserves to be dumped from the island next, your earlier hesitation completely gone in the ease of it.
She pauses outside the door when she hears your giggles.
For a second, she just stands there, listening and smiling.
------
It takes you one last month to realize you are not going anywhere.
You wake up already irritated. The feeling sits heavy in your chest before you’ve even fully opened your eyes. It’s sharp and directionless, like it’s looking for something to attach itself to and hasn’t quite decided what yet.
You’re mad at your foot, at the way it still aches even though everyone keeps telling you you’re progressing well. But progress should feel better than this, it should mean something more immediate, more tangible.
You’re mad that you haven’t played in three months, that you’ve been stuck watching instead of moving, stuck waiting instead of doing, like time has slowed down just for you while everything else continues in fast motion.
You’re mad at Alexia, too. Even though she hasn’t done anything wrong. That doesn’t seem to matter.
You make your way down the stairs with more force than necessary, your good foot hitting each step harder than it needs to. Your movements are stiffer than usual as you enter the kitchen, barely acknowledging Alexia’s warm “bon dia” when it reaches you.
She of course notices immediately.
You don’t give her time to say anything else before you move past her, opening the fridge with a huff, your gaze scanning the contents without really seeing any of it, frustration building with every second that nothing looks right, nothing feels right.
You close it harder than necessary.
“I can make you a smoothie if you want,” she offers gently, her tone careful, like she’s testing the space between you. “Or maybe some eggs?”
She’s being extra kind. Extra patient. And for some reason, that makes it worse.
“I don’t want that,” you reply shortly, your voice clipped in a way that doesn’t quite sound like you but doesn’t feel wrong enough to stop.
There’s a small pause.
“Umm… okay,” she says, her voice shifting slightly, it's uncertain in a way you’re not used to hearing from her.
You ignore it.
“Well, at least grab a protein bar or something,” she adds after a moment, recovering quickly, slipping back into something practical. “We have to leave soon or we’ll be late for your appointment.”
You grumble under your breath, something unintelligible, as you reach into the cabinet and grab one without looking, your movements abrupt as you turn and head toward the garage.
She follows you, not commenting on your attitude, not calling you out, just picking up your gym bag and the sneakers you left by the door.
By the time she gets to the car, you’re already inside, your phone plugged in, the music turned up louder than usual. Bypassing your normal routine of playful bickering over what to play. You’re trying to shut down any chance of conversation before it can even start.
She doesn’t fight you on it or reach for the volume.
She just drives.
The second the car stops at the training complex, you’re already moving. Grabbing your bags from the back seat and making your way toward the building as quickly as your boot will allow. Your steps uneven but determined, like you’re trying to outrun something you can’t quite name.
Alexia follows behind you, slower, giving you space in a way that feels deliberate now, choosing not to step in even though she easily could.
She finds you in the medical area, already seated on one of the tables, your boot off, your leg stretched out in front of you as the doctor and PT move through their routine. Their hands are steady as they guide your ankle through controlled movements, testing range, watching carefully for any sign of strain.
They have you stand, walk across the room, your steps measured, their eyes tracking every shift, every adjustment, every hesitation.
They run you through more exercises after that, strength drills that leave your muscles burning in a way that feels both productive and frustrating, like you’re doing everything right and still not moving fast enough.
Alexia sits in the corner the entire time.
Her phone is in her hand, but her attention isn’t on it.
It’s on you. It always is.
You don’t question it anymore.
Eventually, the PT has you sit back down, handing you a water bottle as he exchanges a look with the doctor, something unspoken passing between them before they turn back to you with practiced calm.
“You’re doing really well,” the physical therapist says, his tone encouraging. “I’m feeling very positive about your recovery. I think just a couple more weeks in the boot, and then we can start progressing you further.”
The words don’t encourage you the way they’re supposed to.
“What?” you ask, the word coming out sharper than you intend, your head snapping up. “You told me last week that I’d probably get it off this week. What do you mean a couple more weeks?”
The PT doesn’t react immediately, his expression composed.
“I know it’s frustrating,” he says patiently, “but you have to trust the process. With an injury like this we have to be careful. If we rush it, you risk setting yourself back even further.”
That doesn’t help.
It doesn’t feel careful.
It feels like being stuck.
“Yeah, well maybe if the timeline didn’t change every five minutes, it’d be easier to trust it,” you snap, the words coming out harsher now, something cutting underneath them that you don’t quite mean but don’t stop.
The room goes quiet.
“Hey!”
Alexia’s voice cuts through immediately.
You freeze.
Your head turns toward her slowly. Your chest tightens as you take in her expression. The shift in it is subtle but unmistakable. The softness you’re used to is replaced with something more serious, her brows drawn together just slightly, her jaw set in a way that makes your stomach drop.
“Put your boot on,” she says, her voice has an edge to it now, direct in a way that it doesn’t feel optional. “And come with me. Now.”
You don’t argue.
You don’t even think about it.
Your hands move quickly, a little clumsy as you pull the boot back on, fastening the straps without really looking. Your heart is already starting to race in a way that has nothing to do with your injury.
She turns before you’re fully finished, stepping out into the hallway without waiting, and you follow immediately, the quiet of the corridor closing around you as the door clicks shut behind you.
Alexia doesn’t speak right away.
She gives herself a second, a breath, like she’s choosing her words carefully, like she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing but isn’t going to let it go either.
When she turns to you, her expression is calmer, but not soft in the way you’ve come to expect.
There’s something else there.
Disappointment.
It hits harder than anything else could have.
“Look,” she says, her voice low, controlled, but no less firm. “I understand that you’re frustrated, or tired, or having a bad day. That’s normal. That happens.”
She pauses briefly, like she’s making sure you’re actually listening.
“But that doesn’t mean you get to take it out on other people,” she continues, her gaze steady, holding yours in a way that makes it impossible to look away. “They’re here to help you. They’ve been helping you.”
Your throat tightens.
You nod quickly.
“I know,” you say, your voice quieter now, smaller, the defensiveness gone as quickly as it came.
She exhales lightly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, but not all of it.
“I know you do,” she says. “That’s why I’m saying something.”
That almost makes it worse.
Because she expects better from you.
Because you expect better from yourself.
“Be mad,” she adds after a moment, her tone lightening just slightly, though her gaze doesn’t waver. “Be frustrated, be upset, whatever you need to feel. But don’t turn that on people who don’t deserve it.”
You nod again, your chest tight, your stomach churning in a way that feels uncomfortably close to panic.
“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, the words coming out before she can even tell you to go back.
She studies you for a second, like she’s making sure you mean it.
Then she nods once.
“Go back inside,” she says, quieter now. “Apologize.”
Your steps feel heavier as you re-enter the room, your gaze dropping for a second before you force yourself to look up, to meet their eyes as you speak.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice tight but still softer than before. “That wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have said that.”
You hesitate, then add, more sincerely, “Thank you. For everything you’ve been doing to help me.”
They take it well, better than you expect, brushing it off with easy reassurance, one of them joking lightly that they would have snapped months ago in your position, their tone forgiving in a way that should make you feel better.
It doesn’t.
Because when you glance toward the corner-
Alexia isn’t there anymore.
And something in your chest twists harshly, your thoughts spiraling faster than you can keep up with, your focus slipping as you force yourself through the rest of the session, your movements slower now, heavier, your body going through the motions while your mind stays stuck somewhere else.
You can’t stop replaying it.
The look of disappointment on her face.
You’ve never seen that directed at you before.
And you don’t know what to do with it.
------
“You’ve got a shadow.”
Irene leans slightly toward Alexia as they stretch side by side on the gym floor.
“Well,” she continues after a moment, her gaze flicking across the room, “she’s always your shadow, but today she looks like a particularly miserable one.”
Alexia doesn’t need to follow her line of sight to know exactly who she means. She has been aware of it since the appointment.
“She’s not having the best day,” she replies quietly, her tone measured in the way it always is when she’s thinking more than she’s speaking. “I’m trying to give her some space.”
Irene hums, unconvinced, her gaze lingering just long enough before she looks back down, stretching deeper into the movement.
“I’m not sure that space is what she needs,” she says after a moment. “She keeps looking at you like a kicked puppy.”
Alexia exhales slowly, her jaw tightening just slightly as she shifts her position, her eyes lifting despite herself.
“Yeah,” she admits, quieter now. “I don’t know. She’s been going out of her way to avoid me all morning.”
Irene pushes herself upright then, reaching for a set of dumbbells, but not before casting Alexia one last look.
“Take it from me,” she says lightly, “one parent to another… she might be pushing you away right now, but she’s still looking for you to come back.”
Alexia turns her head immediately, her expression flattening into something unreadable, her brows drawing together in a silent, incredulous what are you talking about that she doesn’t bother to voice aloud.
Irene only shrugs in response, entirely unbothered, her expression settling into an easy I said what I said before she moves off toward the rack without another word.
Alexia remains where she is for a moment longer than necessary, her body still but her thoughts anything but. The comment settling somewhere she doesn’t quite know what to do with, because she has never thought of herself that way, not consciously, not in terms that feel so definitive, so all-encompassing.
And yet-
If she’s honest with herself, it isn’t wrong.
Not in the way she watches you, not in the way she steps in without thinking when something goes wrong, not in the way her first instinct is always to protect, to guide, to steady, like it’s something ingrained rather than chosen.
Not in the way she has already taken responsibility for you in every way that matters, long before anyone ever put a name to it.
Her gaze shifts back to you.
You are standing across the room with the coaching staff, listening carefully as they walk you through the plan for your modified session. Your posture is attentive, your focus is seemingly on them, but every few seconds your eyes flicker toward Alexia, quick and uncertain, like you are checking something you don’t trust yourself to ask.
It used to be like this all the time.
In the beginning, when everything was new and overwhelming and she had been the only fixed point you allowed yourself, your eyes would follow her constantly, your body subconsciously mirroring hers, your confidence tethered to her presence in a way that had been both obvious and quietly fragile.
You have grown since then.
She has watched it happen, piece by piece. It’s clear in the way you carry yourself now, in the way you speak, in the way you take up space without asking for permission first.
And still, there it is again.
When something feels off, when something unsettles you, you look for her.
But It doesn’t make Alexia hesitate the way she might have expected it to. If anything, it settles something in her, a quiet understanding that this - whatever it is, whatever name it carries - is already something she has stepped into without thinking twice.
When she finishes her set and glances up again, your eyes meet hers almost immediately, like you’ve been waiting for the moment, and she offers you a small smile, something meant to reassure.
It should help. It usually does.
But this time, it doesn’t quite land, your expression tightening just slightly before you look away again, the unease still sitting too close to the surface for something that simple to fix.
------
The drive home unfolds in a quiet that feels heavier the longer it stretches. It’s filled with something unspoken that sits between you, something neither of you seems quite sure how to reach without making it worse.
Alexia tries, at first, asking you small questions about your session, about your foot, about how you’re feeling, her tone casual enough to give you an easy way in if you want it.
You answer.
But barely, only giving her one or two word responses.
After a while, she lets it go, the questions fading into silence as she focuses on the road instead, her hands steady on the wheel even as her thoughts drift elsewhere.
When you get home, you move through the routine with quiet precision, slipping your shoes off neatly by the garage door, aligning them carefully, hanging your gym bag on its hook with the same practiced order you used to rely on when everything still felt uncertain.
Everything in its place.
Everything controlled.
Alexia watches you from a few steps away, recognizing the way you’ve slipped back into habits you haven’t needed in months, the way you’re making yourself smaller again without even realizing it.
She gives you a moment.
Then, gently asks, “Can we talk?”
You hesitate, your shoulders tightening just slightly before you nod reluctantly, some part of you already knows this isn’t something you can avoid.
You follow her into the living room, lowering yourself onto the couch beside her, your gaze drifting somewhere across the room, unfocused - bracing for something you’ve already decided won’t feel good.
She doesn’t rush it.
She sits with you for a second, studying you quietly, letting the moment settle before she speaks.
“You know I love you, right?”
The words catch you completely off guard.
You blink, your head turning toward her slightly, your thoughts scrambling to catch up, because that is not what you had been preparing yourself to hear.
You hesitate then nod slightly.
She watches you, really watches you, like she needs to see that you understand what she’s saying, not just hear the words and let them pass.
“Nothing you do will ever make me stop loving you,” she continues, her voice steady, grounded in a certainty that doesn’t waver. “Not a bad day, not you snapping at someone, not you pulling away because you think I’m upset with you.”
Your eyes flicker to hers for a brief moment before dropping again, your stomach spinning in a way that feels unfamiliar, uncomfortable.
“I won’t stop if you have one bad day,” she adds more softly. “Or ten. Or a hundred.”
She shifts slightly, turning toward you more fully.
“I will love you the same when you make a mistake as I do when you do something incredible.”
Your throat tightens.
“But you were mad at me today…” you manage, the words coming out quieter than you intend, almost fragile.
“I wasn’t mad, mi amor,” she says gently, shaking her head. “You made a mistake. That happens. I’ve made far worse mistakes than you, especially when I was your age.”
You glance at her, skeptical despite yourself, and it makes her smile faintly.
“It’s true,” she adds lightly. “You can ask my mom.”
Her expression settles again, more serious now, more deliberate.
“It’s never because I’m disappointed in you,” she continues. “I will always tell you when something isn’t right, I will always help you understand what you can do better… because that’s my job.”
You frown slightly, confusion cutting through the rest of it.
“Why is it your job?”
She blinks, surprised by the question. Her hand comes up to run through her hair as she pauses, searching for something that feels simple enough, honest enough, something that doesn’t overcomplicate what has already been true for a long time.
“Because you’re mine,” she says finally, settling on it with quiet certainty, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re my family, so I take care of you, I teach you, I show up for you… that’s what that means.”
You look at her for a second longer than you intend to, something in your expression melting just slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” she says softly, reaching for you then, pulling you into a firm, grounding hug, one hand settling at the back of your head as she presses a gentle kiss there, holding you there for a moment longer than usual like she knows you need it. “I love you very much. And nothing is ever going to change that.”
You go still in her arms, the words settling somewhere deep in your heart, heavier than they should be, heavier because you don’t have anything to compare them to. No one has ever said them to you like this and meant them in a way that felt real instead of temporary.
Usually, this is where you smile or nod or mumble something soft and noncommittal, something that lets the moment pass without forcing you to meet it head-on.
But this time, the words don’t stay tucked away where they usually do.
They sit there, pressing at the back of your throat, unfamiliar and uncomfortable and impossible to ignore, like they’ve been waiting for a place to land and have finally found one.
You swallow once, your fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of her shirt as you pull back just enough to look at her, your voice quieter than usual, a little unsteady but clear.
Hi everyone! I know it’s been a rough few days for everyone here. I’m still feeling a lot of sadness but I also am feeling more at peace with everything given how much of this was Alexia’s choice and what she truly saw as the perfect ending to her Barça story.
I know it will be really hard to see this as something joyous for a long time but it does make me really happy that she left on her terms, at her very best. But she will be very VERY missed.
That being said, I will be posting a part 2 of this story at some point soon (I have 3/5 already written). I thought something light and feel good would be good for everyone’s soul 🥹
Thank you for all the love!! I am very grateful to have this community during emotional times like these ❤️
if we can ask for hcs, can i have more vicky mara ale :))
For the wonderful author of the solet series that I love and miss VERY MUCH... of course!!! I'm always happy to take HC requests and if there is anything specific you want to see just lmk
Here is a short blurb about Mara and Alexia's reactions to Vicky dating someone:
Mara knows about the boyfriend long before anyone else does, mostly because Vicky is physically incapable of acting normal once she starts liking someone.
The first FaceTime call comes embarrassingly early in the process, only a few days after they start talking. Mara answers half-asleep from her apartment in New York, where she’s spending the week doing press and meetings for an upcoming project. It’s nearly one in the morning there, though back in Barcelona it’s closer to seven, which means Vicky is somehow both fully awake and already spiraling before breakfast.
Mara squints at her screen from under the blankets, expecting some kind of emergency, hair a mess, makeup half scrubbed off after a fourteen-hour workday, only to find Vicky staring intensely into the camera.
“Mara,” Vicky says immediately, “what does this mean?”
Before Mara can even say hello, Vicky is shoving a screenshot toward the screen. It’s just a text message. Completely harmless.
had fun tonight :) we should do it again soon
Mara stares at it for a long moment before slowly looking back up at her.
“Vicky.”
“What?”
“He likes you.”
“I know that,” Vicky says impatiently. “But like… how much?”
From that point forward, Mara accidentally becomes her personal dating consultant. Every few days there’s another crisis, another screenshot, another emergency call asking questions that all basically amount to does this boy like me or not?
“What emoji do I send back?”
“Is this too flirty?”
“How long should I wait before answering?”
“Be honest... do I sound insane?”
And unfortunately for everyone involved, Mara is incredible at this.
She has real game, the kind that feels effortless because she understands exactly how to flirt without sounding like she’s trying too hard. She’ll rewrite one of Vicky’s messages in ten seconds and somehow transform it from awkward to devastatingly charming.
Vicky would stare at the screen afterward like she was witnessing sorcery.
“Oh my God,” she whispers one night. “You’re sick in the head.”
Mara just shrugs smugly from her side of the call.
“You’re welcome.”
Then Vicky sends the text and immediately throws her phone across the room screaming.
Over the next few weeks Mara gets constant updates. Tiny victories arrive like breaking news.
he called me pretty
he remembered my coffee order
what does the red heart mean??
mara if this man sends me one more good morning text I’m going to throw up
So by the time Vicky eventually texts: BF SECURED 😎
Mara already feels emotionally invested in the relationship.
She responds immediately: That’s my girl 🥹
Followed shortly by: See what happens when you listen to me
The funniest part is that Alexia has absolutely no idea any of this has been happening. It wasn’t like Vicky is intentionally hiding it from her, but because somehow she and Mara naturally slip into this mother-daughter, older-sister-little-sister dynamic whenever they gossip, and Alexia only realizes the extent of it after the fact.
A few weeks later the three of them are hanging out in the kitchen like normal. Alexia is cutting fruit by the sink while Mara leans against the counter sipping sparkling water. Vicky, meanwhile, looks like she’s moments away from exploding.
Eventually she blurts everything out in one breath.
“So I’ve been seeing someone and it became official a couple weeks ago and I wanted to tell you!!”
Alexia slowly looks up from the cutting board.
“…what?”
Vicky immediately starts rambling faster.
“Not in a bad way! I mean obviously in a romantic way and that he’s nice and normal and employed-”
“Employed?” Alexia repeats faintly.
Mara has to physically press her lips together to stop herself from laughing.
Alexia just stares at Vicky for a long moment, clearly trying to process the fact that the wide-eyed teenager who attached herself to her years ago apparently has a boyfriend now.
Eventually she glances toward Mara, who gives her a small encouraging nod over the rim of her glass, silently begging her not to make this weird.
Alexia looks back at Vicky.
“…does he treat you well?”
The tension immediately leaves Vicky’s shoulders.
“Yes,” she says quickly. “Of course! You think I’d date some loser?? You guys are literally my example.”
That softens Alexia instantly.
After that the questions become calmer and more practical. What does he do? Is he in school? How did they meet? How long has this been going on? The conversation settles into something warm and curious until Vicky casually mentions, “Mara helped me with the flirting though.”
Alexia freezes mid-slice.
“…what?”
Vicky nods happily, completely unaware of the danger.
“She gave me advice.”
Alexia turned toward Mara looking genuinely offended now.
“How come you didn’t come to me?”
Both Mara and Vicky slowly moved to look at her with identical expressions, the kind of deeply unimpressed stare that immediately made Alexia realize she had lost the room.
Neither of them said anything for a moment.
They just stared at her like ‘be serious’.
Alexia looked scandalized by the lack of faith. “What?!”
Mara was the first to crack, laughter slipping out as she shook her head.
“Ale…”
“No seriously,” Alexia insisted, gesturing dramatically toward Mara like she was presenting undeniable evidence. “Look who I pulled! Do you genuinely think someone without game could accomplish that?”
Mara laughed immediately, leaning over to pat Alexia’s cheek affectionately.
“Sooo true, bebé,” she said warmly. “I saw the face card and the awkward little charm and I was a complete goner.”
Alexia nodded at once, deeply satisfied with both herself and the endorsement.
Vicky, meanwhile, looked profoundly unconvinced.
“Yes, well,” she said dryly, “I witnessed some of those early interactions before you became official, and I can safely say Mara was doing the heavy lifting in the flirting department.”
Alexia’s smile vanished so dramatically that both Mara and Vicky burst into laughter.
Alexia pointed accusingly between them. “This feels extremely targeted.”
“I’m sorry, Ale,” Vicky managed through her laughter, still grinning. “You know I come to you for literally everything! I just thought Mara might be slightly more qualified for this specific category.”
Alexia sighed heavily, like she had suffered a profound betrayal, but after a moment she reached over and squeezed the back of Vicky’s neck gently.
“I know, pequeña. I’m teasing.” Her expression softened almost instantly. “I’m very happy for you.”
Vicky smiled right away, relaxing back into her chair.
Alexia studied her for a second, thoughtful now, before nodding once.
“And I’m excited to meet this young man and determine for myself whether he’s actually worthy of you.”
This time it was Vicky’s smile that disappeared.
Mara folded over laughing while Alexia sat back looking deeply pleased with herself.
------
Vicky was still muttering complaints about “overprotective parents” under her breath by the time dinner ended, while Alexia looked entirely too satisfied with herself for someone who had just threatened to interrogate a twenty-year-old boy.
At the time, Mara had assumed that was the end of it.
It was not.
Because later that night, after Vicky had gone home and the house had finally gone quiet, Alexia processed what she had actually been told.
Which apparently meant spiraling.
Mara had barely finished washing her face before she turned around to find Alexia sitting on the edge of the bed staring off into the distance with the expression of someone contemplating mortality.
“She has a boyfriend,” Alexia said faintly.
Mara immediately had to bite back a smile.
“Yes, mi amor. We discussed this already.”
“But she’s…” Alexia gestured vaguely into the air like the correct age might materialize if she waved her hands around enough. “She’s Vicky.”
Mara laughed softly and crossed the room toward her.
“Yes… And Vicky is growing up.”
Alexia looked deeply unconvinced by this information.
“She was sixteen like three days ago.”
“She is literally not sixteen.”
“She was emotionally.”
Mara finally lost the battle and started laughing properly then, climbing onto the bed beside her and cupping Alexia’s face between both hands.
“Ale,” she said gently, still smiling, “this is something good. This is normal. She’s happy.”
Alexia sighed dramatically and let herself fall sideways until her head landed in Mara’s lap.
“I know,” she muttered. “I just…” She frowned slightly. “I remember her showing up to training looking terrified of everyone.”
“And now she’s one of the best players in the world with a boyfriend she likes very much,” Mara replied softly while running her fingers through Alexia’s hair. “That’s not sad, that’s just life.”
Alexia was quiet for a long moment after that, arms wrapped loosely around Mara’s waist while she stared at the ceiling.
After another long stretch of silence, Alexia finally spoke again, her voice calm and matter-of-fact in a way that somehow made the statement even more threatening.
“I’ll kill him if he breaks her heart.”
Mara nodded immediately, not even hesitating long enough to pretend she disagreed.
“Oh, absolutely.”
Alexia tipped her head back slightly to look up at her then, visibly comforted by the instant solidarity.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely.
“Of course,” Mara replied with complete seriousness, her fingers still moving gently through Alexia’s hair. “That’s our kid.”
That finally broke through the last of Alexia’s spiraling. A quiet, helpless laugh escaped her as she buried her face briefly against Mara’s stomach while Mara looked down at her with deep affection, both of them fully aware that somewhere along the way Vicky López had accidentally acquired two absurdly overprotective, mildly terrifying, and very powerful pseudo-parents for life.
alexia and mara will always be my top comfort woso fic, thanks so much for sharing with us. im not sure if you do requests but it'd be so cute to get some headcannons on how each of them treated the other when they were each pregnant. thanks!!
Hi! Thank you for your kind words - they mean so much to me :)
Sorry it's taken a while to reply, I hope these HCs are what you had in mind!
We saw a bit of Mara's pregnancy in the epilogue with her morning sickness and Alexia’s protectiveness.
Alexia has always been protective of Mara, so even before this she was already the type to subtly guide Mara through crowds with a hand at her back, already scanning rooms automatically, already hyperaware of who was around her. But the second Mara becomes pregnant it escalates into something almost primal.
She becomes impossible.
If someone bumps into Mara in public, Alexia’s head snaps around immediately like a bodyguard detecting a threat. There’s this one moment where they are walking out of a cafe where someone accidentally clips Mara’s shoulder while rushing past and Alexia physically pulls Mara against her chest before she even consciously processes what happened.
Mara just blinks up at her like, “Ale…”
And Alexia is already checking, “Are you okay??? Did they hit your stomach??”
Meanwhile Mara is standing there perfectly fine holding her peppermint tea.
Alexia also becomes the biggest pregnancy nerd alive. Elite-athlete Alexia Putellas already approaches everything with insane discipline and research, so pregnancy becomes her new hyperfixation. PubMed tabs open constantly, studies bookmarked, notes in her phone about prenatal vitamins, sleep positions, pelvic floor therapy, optimal hydration levels.
At one point Mara wakes up at two in the morning to find Alexia sitting upright in bed reading an actual medical journal.
“What are you doing?”
Alexia responds without looking up, “There’s conflicting research about magnesium glycinate.”
Mara just stares at her blankly before rolling back over.
She becomes obsessed with making Mara comfortable. Pillows everywhere, heating pads, massaging her feet without being asked, carrying things she absolutely does not need help carrying. Mara eventually starts sneakily doing chores while she is out because otherwise Alexia acts like she’s attempting manual labor in a war zone.
And the thing is… Mara can’t even complain about it because what is she supposed to say “oh noooo my steak is too juicy and my lobster is too buttery”, of course she loves it.
There’s something deeply moving about watching someone love both you and your future child so fiercely.
Alexia looks at Mara during pregnancy like she’s witnessing something holy.
Especially once Mara starts showing.
There’s this specific softness Alexia gets whenever she touches Mara’s stomach that completely destroys her. She’ll just sit there with her hand spread across the bump looking dazed, like she still can’t fully believe this is real.
The person she loves most in the world is carrying the other person she’s going to love most in the world.
It genuinely short-circuits her.
Mara’s pregnancy is also kind of brutal physically, which makes Alexia even worse. The morning sickness alone nearly kills Alexia emotionally because she hates seeing Mara uncomfortable. And because Mara’s nausea lasts all day instead of just mornings, Alexia becomes hypervigilant for warning signs.
The second Mara goes quiet, her attention snaps towards her.
“…you okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You look pale...”
“I’m literally Puerto Rican.”
“You know what I mean.”
Meanwhile Mara thinks Alexia’s anxiety is both adorable and deeply annoying.
Alexia’s pregnancy is so much easier physically. She still gets tired and emotional and sore, but overall she handles it suspiciously well. Meanwhile Isa is in her toddler terror era, which means Mara is now chasing around a tiny feral version of herself while heavily pregnant Alexia watches from the couch trying not to laugh.
And Mara absolutely babies Alexia too, just in a different way.
Where Alexia becomes hyper-researched and protective, Mara becomes soft.
She sings to Alexia constantly when she’s pregnant. Absentmindedly while cooking, while brushing her hair, while lying together at night. Sometimes to the baby, sometimes just to her. Alexia pretends not to get emotional about it, but Mara catches her crying at least twice.
Mara also becomes obsessed with touching her stomach. They are very physical touch people in general but especially during pregnancy - hands under shirts, kisses against skin, talking to the baby constantly.
She’s also unbearably smug about the fact that pregnant Alexia somehow gets even more attractive.
At one point Alexia catches Mara openly staring at her while she’s changing and goes:
“…what?”
And Mara just sighs dreamily.
“You’re carrying my baby. It’s very sexy of you.”
Alexia nearly walks into a door later because she can’t stop thinking about it.
And because Isa is such a chaotic toddler during Alexia’s pregnancy, there are moments where Alexia is exhausted beyond belief and Mara just quietly takes over without making a big deal about it.
She’ll scoop Isa into her arms mid-tantrum and go, “Okay tiny dictator, let Mami rest.”
Or she’ll gently guide Alexia back toward bed after a long day with her hands on her waist. “You made a whole human today. Congratulations! Your only job now is sleeping.”
And Alexia, who spent her whole life taking care of everyone else, lets herself be taken care of by Mara in a way she never really had before.
Author's note: Don't hate me for ending it like it did i swear there's a reason
The rebranding goes like this.
"Jude."
"Yeah."
"Jude. When did we become a lesbian bar?" Paddy says, in the voice of a man trying to work out a maths problem in his head.
He gestures, vaguely, at the room: the pub is... well, it's never empty. Lunch has become the tamer shift, Aggie a loyal customer now, sometimes accompanied by a Chelsea girl or two. Lucy's come back twice now and you managed fine — as in you didn't stutter or trip over yourself while talking to her and held off Hayley just enough to not be such an obvious flirt.
Night is always busy now. Steady stream of all sorts of folk and if you are being fair, all sorts of women. Obviously queer women. Men too, if you think about it, plus the usual fill of rough lads, old drunks, the witch coven and fucking Norman.
There are three girls who have ordered some fish and chips at the side booth with huge pitchers of Guinness. All of them with undercuts and different kinds of Henleys.
Oh. Alright.
You look around the pub.
"Have we become a lesbian bar?"
"I think we have become a lesbian bar."
"Got anything against lesbians, Paddy?"
He turns to you, scandalised.
"Against?"
"Yeah."
"Jude. I adore lesbians. Best customer base going. Drink lots, fun without violence, smell good, look good, tip, like sports, leave on time. I would like to attract more lesbians."
"Right."
"How do we attract more lesbians?"
"Paddy."
"For business."
You stare at him. He looks back at you with the deeply earnest face of a fifty-something Irishman pivoting his entire commercial strategy in real time.
"Yeah, alright," you say, picking up your dishcloth. "Not complaining here."
He nods, satisfied, and wanders back to the bar muttering fairy lights, maybe and do they like darts under his breath.
You think, vaguely, that you do like darts, and it would be a cool addition to the pub.
You stand there with the dishcloth in your hand, surveying your kingdom of, apparently, lesbians.
It becomes a whole thing. The pub gets renamed, unofficially, that is.
You find out on a Tuesday — somehow it's always a fucking Tuesday these days. Hayley shoves her phone in your face mid-prep with that gleam she gets when something deeply stupid has happened.
"Look."
You squint, hands still wet.
A Google review. New.
Three stars. Toilets are a war crime but the food is cracking and on a good day half the WSL is in. Locally known as That Lesbian Bar.
You blink at it.
"Locally?" you say.
"Well."
"By whom?"
"By the people who go here, presumably."
You stare at her.
She stares back, immune.
"That is a good review."
"There are seven."
"What?"
"Seven new ones in two weeks. We were on twelve since 2019, Jude. We are now on nineteen."
She is grinning. Hayley grins like a woman who has just discovered a new form of currency.
The kitchen door swings open behind you. Carl, holding two empty plates and an expression of suspicion already in motion.
"You are talking about the gays," he says, deadpan.
"We are."
"Mm."
He sets the plates down.
"For the record," he says, "I am happy for the business."
You and Hayley both stare at him.
"What?"
"Carl, that is the most progressive thing I have ever heard you say."
"My niece is one. Don't tell my brother, he thinks she is just artistic." He turns away, opens the fryer with the gravity of a man closing a difficult conversation. "Fewer fights with the gays in. Usually."
"Statistically true," Hayley confirms.
"Statistically I have just been called the gays," you mutter.
"Comes with the territory, Jude."
You let it go.
"Locally known as That Lesbian Bar," you murmur to yourself. Well, it's got a nice ring to it.
The phone in your pocket buzzes once.
You ignore it.
It buzzes again, with the specific persistence of a sister who has been ignored.
You sigh.
Take it out.
Charli. Three messages, one missed call.
Of course.
*
You step out into the back alley before answering. There is an order to these things.
Fag in one hand because you're definitely gonna need it. Phone in the other. Door propped open with the broken brick that has been propping doors open in this place since before you got here. You light up. You take one drag. Then you ring her back.
She picks up on the first ring like she's been holding the phone.
"You absolute bastard."
"Lovely. Hello to you too."
"You absolute traitor."
"Charli."
"Lucy Bronze, Jude."
"Yes."
"Lucy Bronze ate at your fucking pub."
"Technically, not my pub."
"Lucy Bronze ate paella at your pub."
"Yes."
"Also, Keira Walsh."
You groan.
"Leah Williamson."
You inhale a long, considered drag and tip your head back against the wall behind you. It's a little damp like most things in the whole of England.
"How did you find out?"
"How did I find — Jude, I have a phone. I have eyes. I am on the internet. Aggie tagged you. Lucy tagged you. There is a video on Keira's account of someone in your pub singing La Bamba in what I am being generous and calling Spanish. The girls' group chat has been a war zone for forty minutes."
You take another drag, the smoke makes lazy circles in front of you.
"In my defence."
"There is no defence."
"In my partial defence."
"Go on."
"It was Aggie's fault."
There is a pause.
"Explain."
"I came up with one paella night. One. As a joke. Aggie said she was bringing friends. Friends. I assumed two. Maybe three. Like, normal people. Regular folk. She brought half the Lionesses."
"Without warning?"
"Charli, I have not had a panic attack like that since the chef-instructor situation."
"Don't bring that up to soften me, you swine."
"Is it working though?"
"It is not."
It is, a bit. You can hear it in the next breath she takes.
"You should have told me."
"I know."
"Even after."
"I know."
"You know how I feel about Lucy Bronze."
"Yes, I do. I'm deeply sorry."
"I once said in an interview that my dream dinner guest was Keira Walsh."
"You said it was Mum."
"Don't do that. I said both. I always say both."
"Right. Sorry."
"Jude."
"Yeah?"
"You are dead to me."
"Reasonable."
"Truly dead. You will not be invited to my wedding."
You snort, like that is ever happening. "You don't have a wedding."
"When I do, you are not coming."
You let her have it. Take another drag. Watch a random dog cross the alley at the far end with absolute confidence, like it owns the property. It's cold out and you miss Taco.
And you know you fucked up a little. So it goes:
"Listen."
"Fuck you."
"Shut up. Next match. Where is it?"
A pause. Charli is changing tack and trying to pretend she isn't.
"Reading."
"Close enough. Bring the team."
"Bring the team where?"
"Here."
A longer pause.
"You want me to bring the entire Durham Women squad to your pub."
"On me. On the pub. Whatever. Carl will cook. I will cook. Hayley will fall over herself. We will lay out everything. It will be a thing."
"Jude, are you bribing me?"
"Yes."
A pause, a shuffling on the other end. You know Charli is tapping the phone against her temple, the way she usually does when she wants to beat the other person on the line but she can't.
"That is a bribe and I am going to take it."
"Nice."
"You are still dead to me. But, like, less dead."
"Cheers."
She huffs out a laugh she doesn't want to.
"Saturday," she says.
"Saturday after next?"
"Nah, this one. Twenty-three of us. Counting staff."
"Christ."
"You offered."
"I know what I said, Charli."
"Right." She sighs, mollified. "I'll tell them."
You stand there in the alley a moment after she hangs up. The dog has gone. The fag has burned down to the filter without you noticing. You flick it. Watch the small red ember die against the wet ground.
That is one fight averted.
The other one, the bigger one, has not been had.
You knew you should have told her. About Alexia. Properly. Months ago. When it was still new enough to be a story Charli could laugh at over the phone before going back to her chicken. And then it had not been new enough, and then Charli had clocked the smile at the dinner table and you had said don't be weird, and now somehow you are here, in an alley, smoking through your sister's outrage about Lucy Bronze and not even mentioning the woman who actually matters.
You know this is going to bite you in the ass eventually, but for now you just go back inside.
*
The lunch is that same Saturday, exactly as horrifying and joyful as you knew it would be.
The Durham team arrive in a great noisy heap, full kit bags slung over shoulders, two of them already mid-argument about a foul that may or may not have happened in the seventy-second minute, all of them bright-eyed and post-match tired in that specific way only footballers get. The pub fills with the smell of damp coats and grass and away-day chips.
Charli walks in with her ponytail still wet. Spots you behind the bar. Gives you the smallest, smuggest nod.
You give her the finger.
She gives you both fingers back.
Mum would have approved.
Carl has done a roast. The whole thing. Lamb. Potatoes done properly, fat and crisp at the corners, soft in the middle. Mash for whoever wants it. Yorkshires the size of your face. Cabbage, because the team's nutritionist exists somewhere in spirit. Gravy that you both have been working on since seven, the kind that makes you understand why your mother always called gravy the soul.
You wear a clean apron and your own Durham shirt. Everyone's in Durham, actually, and it is as sweet as it sounds.
You and Hayley bring out platters.
There are cheers. Genuine, idiot cheers, like you are personally bringing them the FA Cup.
Cousin Eggy has, of course, somehow appeared at table four, surrounded by a cluster of teenage boys you do not recognise, all of them eating with the controlled urgency of small wolves.
"Eggy. Why are you here?"
"We are the support, Jude, the hooligans. The team needs us so I bring them boys."
"Why are the boys here?"
"They follow me, Jude."
"That is alarming."
He grins. Eggy grins like a man who knows he is loved despite himself.
You cuff the back of his head fondly and move on.
Charli's teammates pull you in like they always do. Frankie hugs you sideways. Em wants to know if Lucy Bronze ate gravy. And then, after a beat, whether Em could eat Lucy Bronze's gravy now. Bea, the keeper, gestures with a Yorkshire and asks why you don't just come work for them and feed the squad full-time, because she's been thinking, and she could pitch it to the manager.
"Bea, you are only allowed to eat bland chicken and veggies most of the time. That's hardly inspiring."
"Don't be dramatic — it's only, like, 60% of the time."
"It's still a whole fucking lot."
"Jude. Come on, I love your food. And you, to pieces."
"Eat your Yorkshire."
They are overly fond like that. Touchy, warm. You are their sister too, an extended teammate through Charli who is their anchor. And you love them back, to pieces too.
Bea ends up eating the Yorkshire. She mutters into it. The mutter has the rhythm of you would be brilliant. You pretend not to hear.
Mits is annoyed he can only serve soft drinks, but he still makes them something bubbly and fruity, with silly umbrellas. The team has commandeered the jukebox, Hayley is being chatted up by a left winger named Ash who is hopeless at it, and Paddy is in the middle of his fourth retelling of the Aggie Photograph for the benefit of Bea, who has decided to humour him.
You take a picture of the moment because it's too soft and too warm to keep it to yourself. And you have found that the moments that feel like mush are the ones you want to share more and more with Alexia.
@jisthejones: look at this lot invading
You scroll a bit through the thread. Months of texts and pictures and voice messages tumbling over each other. Alexia has always answered you and you know she will answer this one too.
Makes you grin like a twat at your phone.
It takes you a moment to catch Charli watching you from the end of the bench, chin on her hand. Quietly.
You ignore her.
She keeps watching.
You ignore her harder.
She lifts one eyebrow.
You sigh, throw the towel over your shoulder, and go and sit down opposite her.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Don't nothing me, Charli."
"You're smiling at your phone."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are."
"I am not currently holding my phone, Charli."
"Don't deflect."
"I am not deflecting," you say, obviously deflecting.
"Jude."
You exhale. Look down at the table. At the gravy stain near her elbow that she has not noticed and you will not point out because she is being annoying.
You figure it's time. It has come. And it could not come at a better moment — Charli spoiled by good food and subpar service. You tap your fingers on the table, nervous.
Nervous but resolute.
"Right. Okay."
"Okay what?"
"There is a thing."
"Mm."
"It is not — it is not a thing. It is just."
You stop.
You take a breath.
"You know what. Fine. There is a person."
Charli's whole face goes still in the way Charli's face goes still when she is being patient. Which is rare and therefore expensive.
"A person."
"Yeah."
"In the phone."
"Yeah, the fucking phone, Charli."
"Charli continues to be supportive and not at all surprised," she says flatly.
"Yeah, well."
"Jude. Who?"
You scratch your jaw.
"Alexia Putellas."
Charli stares at you.
You stare back.
The pub is loud around you. Somewhere behind you, Eggy's boys have started a chant that does not have words and may not have a tune.
"You are pulling my leg right now."
You stop. That's a good out. "Yeah, no, I'm joking."
Charli's eyes widen and her jaw threatens to drop to the floor.
"You are not joking, Jude."
"I'm confused."
"I am confused. I'm so fucking confused. You are talking to Alexia Putellas."
"For some months. Yes."
"On Instagram?"
"Yes."
Charli puts her face in her hands.
You feel like you should let her.
"How," she says, into her palms. "Just... how?"
"I used her DMs as a Notes app by accident."
"Of course you did."
"And then she replied."
"Of course she did."
"And then it became a thing."
She drops her hands. Looks at you with the exact expression she had, aged twelve, the day you told her you had eaten the entire bag of frozen chips raw.
"How come the most insane shit in the world happens to you?"
"I don't know, Charli."
"Genuinely. How?"
"I think I might be cursed."
"You might be cursed."
"I might be, like, mildly cursed. The kind of cursed that doesn't do you in but makes everything around you more chaotic than it should be."
"That tracks."
You hum back.
She breathes out slowly. Looks at the table. Looks at you again.
The teasing is gone in a very small, very specific way you almost miss.
"Be careful, Judie."
You blink. She never calls you Judie unless it's serious. Judie is for when you were small and needed protection from the big kids at recess.
"With what?"
She holds your eye.
"You know with what."
The worst thing is, you know with what. It eats at you that you do.
"Charli."
"I'm not telling you to stop. I'm not doing the older-sister thing."
"You are doing the older-sister thing."
"Ok, just a tiny bit. Gentle."
You both sit there for a second. The chant behind you has resolved itself into a half-formed Eng-er-land that nobody is taking seriously. You like that the noise behind you covers up the noise inside your head.
Charli reaches across and flicks your head once, the way she has done since you were small.
"Just," she says. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You nod. She nods. The two of you do not say anything else about it.
Then Frankie shouts something obscene about the gravy from the other end of the table and the moment dissolves.
You go and bring out more gravy.
Later, Alexia answers. Her voice comes through low and raspy at the edges:
"They look great, Jude. Want to meet them one day."
And you don't want your heart to do that thing it does all the time now, for her.
*
It catches you that same week. Wednesday night.
You are on the bus back from the pub, knackered, the kind of tired where your face starts feeling slightly numb at the edges. Taco is at home with Mrs Hargreaves because you stayed on for the late kitchen clean. You are scrolling through Instagram on auto-pilot, half-watching, the way you sometimes do, scrolling past sponsored posts and other people's holidays and a video of a man making bread in a way you privately think is unhygienic.
And there she is.
@bethleecooks.
Her actual name is Bethany. Was Bethany. Is Bethany. The chef-instructor with the silver watch and the forearms. The one with the laugh that used to undo the buttons on your collar in real time. The one who had you in her bed like she had a right to it, and then had you out of it like it never mattered anyway.
There she is, on someone else's story, at the opening of a restaurant in Soho.
You have not seen her in months. Not even glimpses of her.
The story is some pretentious nonsense. All harsh light, dark plates, plates that look like rocks, rocks that look like plates. Bethany is in the corner of one frame in something black and structural. Champagne flute. Hair shorter than you remember, neater. Talking to someone you don't know.
You stop scrolling.
You wait.
This is the part where it usually arrives. The part where your stomach drops out of the bottom of your chest and your head fills with the noise of her shutting the door. You know this part. You have lived inside this part for months. The lurch. The cold sweat. The instant inventory of every sentence she ever said that ended with darling. Her hands on you. Her kisses on you.
It does not come.
You stare at the screen. You scroll back. You look at her properly. The black thing she is wearing. The hair curling at her ears, that you used to tuck behind. The watch, still the silver one. The mouth. The way she is angled towards the person she is talking to.
Nothing.
A faint, distant nausea. Like remembering you ate something bad three days ago. Less than that, even. The way you remember that someone you do not particularly like exists somewhere in the world, and your body does not bother to organise a feeling about it.
You look up at the bus ceiling.
The bus ceiling is yellow with strip lights and a small water stain that looks faintly like Italy.
Oh, you think.
Fuck.
Because Bethany is supposed to wreck you. Bethany has wrecked you reliably. Bethany has been the engine of every bad night for almost a year. You have built routines around the wrecking. You know which pub to go to when she is on your Explore page. You know which shot to drink. You know which song to sing in which order. You have a whole little system for the wrecking.
And the system has just stopped working.
Because something else has taken its place.
Someone else.
Someone who has not done a single thing to you. Someone who has been kind, in a careful, distant, second-language kind of way. Someone who has saved Jude as Jude and called you cabrona and laughed at Taco and said I would like to try your food, and meant it, and said whenever, and meant that too.
Someone who is, as a baseline, currently unavailable to you in any form besides text. A call, maybe, if you are feeling brave.
Someone who will never, not in a million years, give you the time of day.
Your throat does something. The bus turns onto the Old Kent Road. The ceiling shifts a little under the lights.
You think, very calmly: I am going to fall over.
You do not fall over. You sit very still. You ride the bus the rest of the way home with the precise internal spiralling of a person who has just realised they are in deeper than they thought.
You let yourself in. Mrs Hargreaves answers her door before you even knock for Taco, because Mrs Hargreaves has bat hearing for footsteps and you exchange the usual report — yes he ate, no he didn't go on the rug, he is grumpy because I did not give him the second biscuit — and you take Taco home and put your coat on the back of the chair and stand in the middle of your flat with him panting at your ankles.
The dead cactus is on the windowsill.
The radiator clicks once like it is judging you. It probably is.
You ring Liv.
It goes to voicemail.
You ring Rory.
He answers on the fifth ring with the breathy tone of someone in a busy kitchen.
"Sorry, Jude. I will ring you in an hour."
He hangs up.
You stare at the phone.
You scroll your contacts. You consider Hayley. Hayley is on a date she has been talking about for two weeks, and you don't want to ruin it for her with your bullshit. You consider Charli.
But you will not be ringing Charli, because your sister has just told you, gently, with her fingers flicking your head, to be careful, and you are not about to ring her at half ten on a Wednesday to confirm her worst suspicions.
You even consider your dad — your dad, who has the emotional wingspan of a teaspoon — and considering calling him at all is a new low even for you.
Your thumb hovers.
It stops, eventually, on the worst possible name in your phone.
Cousin Eggy.
Eggy picks up immediately. Of course.
"Judes!"
"Eggy. Tell me you're not in London."
"I'm in London — derby week, ya know."
"Christ."
"You alright, Jude?"
"No."
There is a pause. Eggy is, for all his sins, a good cousin. Or, at minimum, a good fake-cousin. He registers the no and the silence after it and says, soft as Eggy gets:
"You around?"
"Yeah, just got off."
"Cool, nice. Meet us in ten."
"Us —"
"I'm with the lads."
"How many lads?"
"Loads of lads. Twenty? Twenty-five? Don't worry about it. We're going to Bermondsey. There's a thing. It'll cheer you right up."
"I am afraid to even —"
"Fireworks."
You close your eyes. This has stupid written all over it. Your skin tingles.
"Eggy."
"Fireworks for the Lions, Jude. Outside their hotel. Big derby tomorrow. Can't have them sleeping. Civic duty."
"That is a public order offence."
"You were less boring when you were seventeen, ya know? Are you coming or what?"
You should hang up.
But your mind, unhelpful little jerk that it is, gives you images overlapping: you think about Bethany in something black and that knowing smirk of hers. Then you think about Alexia laughing on the screen, both dimples out, saying Hola with that exact tilt of the head. How, now, you have learned the shape of it by heart. That you are learning simple Spanish and Catalan phrases just to hear her laugh again.
You think about being careful. And knowing, without a doubt, that you have never known how to be careful — and worst of all, you have never learned how to fake it.
"Yeah, alright."
"That's the spirit. See you soon."
You hang up.
Taco watches you from the floor with the expression of a witness preparing a statement.
"Don't," you tell him.
He whines a little.
You change into a black jumper and black trousers because if you are going to commit crimes you might as well look like a burglar.
You will look back on this moment, later, and wish someone had stopped you.
Nobody did.
*
You have been arrested before. Four times, technically. Two because of football, two involving too much alcohol and loitering. Each swiftly resolved with a stern lecture and a phone call from your father.
Eggy has been arrested somewhere closer to thirteen times. He treats it as a hobby.
You will not be writing the full account of the Bermondsey hotel incident here, because parts of it are humiliating, parts of it are still under investigation, and parts of it your future self has, frankly, declined permission to revisit.
What you can confirm: there were fireworks. Too many fireworks. Eggy had brought a Tesco bag of fireworks and at least one of his hangers-on had brought another bag, this one filled with beers. The hotel was the wrong hotel — the actual Lions weren't even staying there — but by the time anyone established that, it was already too late and several Catherine Wheels had been affixed to a lamp post.
The police arrived in numbers. Reasonable, given that twenty-five blokes were setting off fireworks at a Travelodge at one in the morning.
You went, in the spirit of the night, quietly and a little drunk.
The cell smells like old bleach and the kind of public seating that has absorbed too much of human history. You sit on the bench with your knees up and your jacket pulled around you and you close your eyes.
Eggy is in another cell singing, faintly, Don't Look Back in Anger.
Fucking doofus. He is so bad at it.
You actually get many phone calls. That one-call rule is just a movie thing. But it's two in the morning and you have already ruined your night and you don't feel like ruining anyone else's, so you just bundle up and take a nap.
You wake up cold and dazed around five, neck sore, back worse, and a copper kindly asking you to call someone and fuck off.
You should ring your dad.
You ring your sister.
She picks up on the second ring with the tone of a woman who has been woken up in the worst way.
"Jude. It's five in the morning."
"I know."
A pause. Then her voice changes shape entirely. Goes very calm. The Charli voice she uses in injury time when one of her players has just gone down clutching their head.
"Where are you?"
"Bermondsey... police station."
"..."
"Charli."
"It's fine. Don't talk. I'm getting in the car."
"Charli, you're in Durham."
"Stop saying my name. I am hanging up. I am putting trousers on. I will see you in four hours."
She hangs up.
You stand there with the phone humming dead against your ear and the bleach smell rising up through your nose and you put your face in your hands.
Mum, you think.
It is a stupid thing to think. Your mother has been dead five and a half years. Your mother, when she was alive, would have had something to say about this. Probably in French. Wearing that particular twist of her mouth she always did when she was disappointed and not yet angry, when she thought, deep down, that something was funny even if stupid.
Probably starting with a long, deliberate Judie that made the second syllable carry the entire weight.
Your mother is not coming.
Your mother is not coming because your mother is dead, and dead mothers do not come to police stations, no matter how much you misbehave.
You go back to the cell and just sit with that.
Eggy, somewhere down the corridor, has switched, mercifully, to Wonderwall.
*
Charli arrives at four minutes past nine.
You see her through the smudged glass of the front desk. Hair pulled back, no makeup, the green coat that is older than you and holds about as well. She speaks to the duty sergeant in the voice she uses for refs. The sergeant nods. Papers are exchanged.
You step out into the morning.
The light hurts.
Charli does not look at you.
She walks. You follow.
The car is parked on a double yellow because Charli has no patience for parking. You feel bad all over again. She unlocks it. She gets in.
You get in.
She starts the engine.
You drive in silence for nine minutes.
Then she pulls into a Tesco car park, kills the engine, and turns in her seat to look at you properly for the first time since the police station.
"Jude."
"Yeah."
"Why do you do this?"
"I —"
"No. Genuinely. Why do you always — always — fuck up the second something is going right for you?"
You open your mouth. Close it. Your eyes are burning a little. Must be the bleach from the station.
"The pub is working. Even Carl — Carl, Jude — is letting you cook. You have a proper thing happening. And the second I turn around, you are in a cell in Bermondsey with cousin fucking Egg."
"He was down for the derby."
"I do not give a shit what he is down for, Jude."
"Sorry."
"Stop saying sorry."
"Sorry."
"Stop it."
You shut your mouth.
She drags both her hands down her face. Looks out of the windscreen at the Tesco bins. Breathes once, hard.
"What is wrong with you?"
You stare down at your hands.
She turns her head and looks at you.
You look at the dashboard.
"Do you sometimes think —"
You stop.
"Go on."
"It's stupid."
"Stupider than fireworks at the Travelodge?"
She has a point, you figure.
You take a breath. The car smells like old coffee and Charli's away-day kit, and it's weirdly comforting, stable. Like Charli herself.
"Do you sometimes think," you say, "that if you fuck up badly enough, Mum will come out of the grave just to tell you off."
Charli goes still.
You look out of the window.
"I mean it," you say. "That is what it feels like. Sometimes. I do something stupid, and there is a part of me that is, like, waiting. For her to — be there. To tell me I am being a prick. Like she did." You laugh once, dry. "Like that would be the bonus. The reward for being unbearable enough."
There is a long silence.
When you look back at her, she is not looking at you. She is looking at the steering wheel, both her hands on it now, knuckles white.
"Judie."
"Yeah."
"Mum is gone."
"I know."
"And not even getting arrested will bring her back."
She says it very quietly. The kind of quiet that has the whole shape of grief in it. Yours and hers and your father's.
You look at your knees.
"I know."
"We need to take care of ourselves now, alright? Because she's not. Because there is no one coming to do it for us."
"I know."
"Then act like it. Take things seriously."
She reaches across the gearstick. Takes the back of your neck. Pulls you in against her shoulder, awkward over the centre console, the way the two of you have been hugging since you were small.
You sit there with your face in the shoulder of her terrible green coat and you do not cry, exactly, but your throat is very, very tight.
She does not let go.
After a minute or maybe longer, she says into the top of your head:
"Now. Jude."
"Yeah."
"What is actually going on?"
You breathe in. The coat smells like Charli. Like the Durham changing rooms by extension. Like home, by the longest possible route.
"I think I'm in trouble."
"Mm."
"With the —"
You stop, searching for words.
"Tell me."
You sit up a bit, but do not move out from under her hand on the back of your neck. She lets it stay there. Her thumb does the thing where she rubs once, quick, against the small bone at the top of your spine. Mum used to do that. Charli does not know she does it.
"She is — she is Alexia. She's Alexia Putellas. She lives in another country. She has more Ballons d'Or than anyone has any business having. She has never seen my flat. If she did, she would run, Charli. She would see it and run."
"Mm."
"And I am — I am Jude. I am Jude in a kitchen in a pub people used to cross the street to avoid. I have a dead cactus on the windowsill. I have not finished my course. I have been arrested at the Bermondsey Travelodge. By choice."
"Mm."
"It is mathematically impossible."
"Jude. Look at me."
She looks tired. She has driven four hours on barely any sleep. Hair escaping the ponytail at the temple, dark circles under her eyes. Her eyes are very steady.
"You are awesome."
"I'm not following you."
"No. Listen. I am not going to do this again, so listen. You are awesome. You are a good cook. You are funny. You cook for my entire team because you want to, not because anyone makes you. You took in a fat dog because they told you he was the difficult one. You are kind, Judie, in a way that does not show off. Anyone who does not see that is stupid. I do not care if she is Alexia Putellas. If she does not see it, she is stupid."
"That is —"
"Shut up. I am not finished."
Your mouth claps shut.
"You are not less than her because she is famous. You are not less because your flat is bad. You are not less than her, and you were not less than fucking Bethany, who I will personally run over with this car if I see her in a crosswalk. You are not less than anybody."
"That is the longest speech you have ever made in my favour."
"Yes. It is. Don't tell anybody."
"Right."
"Now. Jude."
"Yeah."
"Let's fucking go so you can give me free lunch."
"Yeah, alright."
She flicks you on your forehead and it doesn't hurt that much. Which you think is not quite fair.
Charli drives you to the pub, and neither of you talk about how the pub is the main character of everything.
The thing is — you should have rung Hayley. In retrospect. You should have told the pub you would not be in for the lunch shift. You did not. Because you were unconscious in a cell in Bermondsey and it just kinda slipped your mind. So they did not know.
So they have spent the morning thinking you were dead.
The door of the pub goes cling the way it always does and Hayley's head whips up over the bar so fast you hear her neck crack.
Then she is over the bar.
Like, over the bar. She has slid one knee onto it and pivoted. She crosses the room in three steps that should not, anatomically, be possible, and grabs your face in both her hands.
"You absolute bastard."
"Hi."
"Where the fuck have you been?"
"It is a —"
"You did not turn up. You did not text. We rang you twelve times. Twelve. Carl had the news on. We thought you were under a bus. Eleven of those calls were Paddy."
Behind her, Paddy emerges from the back with the air of a man who has been crying in private and would like to deny it. His mouth wobbles and his eyes are red and puffy.
"Oh, Jude."
"I'm fine."
"You are not, Jude, you have been crying."
"You have been crying."
"Not true."
Hayley pulls you forward and against her, full force, the chest-press of legend. There is a moment in which you cannot breathe for several reasons. You are going to suffocate into her boobs, which is not such a bad way to go.
"Hayley, you are choking me," you gasp.
"Good."
"Hi to you too."
"Don't speak."
Charli, behind you, is making a noise that you suspect is laughter.
After a beat that goes on past the point of decency, Hayley releases you. Holds you at arm's length. Inspects your face like you are a returned parcel that she must check for damages.
Then, quiet:
"I was scared, Jude. You have to tell us if you —"
"I know."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
She nods once, very seriously, and lets go.
Carl emerges from the kitchen at this point with a tea towel over his shoulder and the expression of a man who has aged seven years in one morning. He takes one look at you, then takes one look at Charli.
"You drove down?"
"I did."
"Cup of tea?"
"Please."
He goes to make her tea.
That is, from Carl, a love letter.
You sit. You do not have it in you to argue about anything. Hayley puts you at the family table — Paddy's optimistic name for it that, today, is more or less true — and Paddy fusses with cushions you did not know the pub owned. Charli does not let go of the back of your jacket for an embarrassingly long time.
The pub fills, slowly, with what you suppose is your life.
Hayley puts a sandwich in front of you. Carl's, by the look of it. Cheese and pickle and the good kind of bread.
Norman, from his bar stool: "She's not dead, then."
Mal, from her usual table: "Oh, thank God."
"We thought you'd been done in," Norman adds. "Hayley was inconsolable."
"Norman, drink your pint."
"I am drinking my pint."
"Drink it quieter then."
You eat your sandwich.
And during all this — mess, if you are being honest about what to call it — your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You take it out.
You look at it.
Alexia: you are quiet today. you ok?
You stare at the screen.
You do not answer immediately.
You put the phone on the table, face up, and you eat the rest of your sandwich, and Charli watches you do it, and Hayley wipes down another table for the third time, and somewhere on the wall you think there would be a space for a nice blaugrana shirt.
You will answer her in a minute.
And you will be careful, like Charli said.
You will not fuck it up.
*
The training ground is quiet at this hour. Most of the girls have gone. Some are still in physio. Alexia has done her cooldown, her stretching, her boring nutrient drink that tastes like punishment, and she is sitting on the bench in front of her locker with her hair wet against the back of her neck, scrolling through her phone without really looking at it.
Across the room, Ona is on the floor.
She is doing the kind of stretching only Ona does, which is to say lying full-length on her back with her legs up against the wall and her eyes closed, headphones in, looking as if she has decided to nap rather than recover. Her phone is balanced on her stomach.
Alexia looks at her for a moment.
She has been thinking about Ona for the last hour and a half. Has not done anything about it. But there she is.
Alexia gets up. Walks across. Lowers herself, with the dignity she still has access to at thirty-one and after a hard session, onto the floor next to Ona's head.
Ona opens one eye.
"Ostres."
"Hola."
"Any reason for you to be sitting on the floor?"
"Mn."
"Sometimes I just sit on the floor."
It's her turn to "Mm."
Ona closes the eye. "What do you want?"
"Nothing."
"Mentidera."
Alexia almost smiles. Settles back on her hands. The floor is cold through her leggings. She is being annoying and she knows it.
"How is Lucy?"
There. Question one of three.
Ona pulls one earbud out without opening her eyes. "Good. She is in London. Training. Some sponsor thing tomorrow."
"And then?"
"It's my turn to visit this time."
There is a pause. Alexia watches the ceiling for a second because she does not know how to ask the actual thing without sounding mental.
She asks it anyway.
"She has been to a pub in London. For paella."
Ona's eye opens again.
"Ah."
"You know about this?"
"I know about this."
"Bueno."
"She has been twice." Ona sits up properly now, hugs one knee. "She told me about it. She sent me video. She has — Alexia. She has complained to me about it."
"Complained?"
"She said the paella was good. Like, properly. And now I am the only Catalan she knows who does not cook her paella and she is upset about this."
Alexia, despite herself, laughs once through her nose.
"Vale."
" She wants me to fly to London just to taste it and tell her if it is, what is the word, legit."
"And?"
"And what?"
"Will you?"
Ona looks at her for a beat too long. Suspicious. Nose doing the cute scrunch up thing.
"You are very interested in this paella, capitana."
"I am interested in your relationship."
"Mentidera, second one."
"Ona."
"What?"
"Is it good?"
"The paella?"
"Yes."
Ona considers her with the careful attention of a woman who has known Alexia long enough to recognise the shape of an interrogation pretending to be a chat. She is not Alba. She is not Mapí. But she is not stupid either.
She decides, mercifully, to answer the question that has been asked.
"She says yes."
"Mm."
"And Lucy does not lie about food. I have tested her on this. Tried to cook for her once and it tasted vale and she told me so. We were dating for like, one month. I respected her for the rest of my life."
"Bueno."
"There was a video of the rice. The socarrat was —" she makes a small chef's gesture with two fingers, "— very good. I will admit. Bo de veritat."
"Bo de veritat," Alexia repeats.
"Catalan paella. In London. In an ugly pub. Which is what I cannot believe."
"The pub is ugly?"
"Lucy says it is the ugliest pub she has ever set foot in. She also says she will go back every time she has the time. So." Ona shrugs. "Make sense of that."
Alexia files this. Pub is ugly. Lucy will go back. Both true things she already knew. Hearing them out of Ona's mouth is different. Hearing them out of someone who is not personally invested in either Jude or Alexia is, somehow, the steadiest version of the information she has had yet.
She nods once. Looks at her own hands.
Ona watches her.
"So...Why are you asking?"
"No reason."
"Alexia."
"What. I am — curiosa."
"You are curiosa about a pub. In London."
"Yes. A bit."
Ona is grinning now, small. Alexia has known her long enough to know it is the grin Ona does when she has found a joke and is choosing whether to use it.
She uses it.
"Are you planning on going to that pub?"
"No."
"You are."
"I am not."
"You are."
"Ona."
"Okay, fine. You are not." She lies back down. Closes her eyes. Smiles at the ceiling. "Also, by the way. I am going to London on Friday."
Alexia goes very still.
"London City versus Chelsea, Saturday. Lucy said it's going to be good."
She just lets it hang it there between them. Alexia swallows. Can't face Ona's knowing smile.
A pause.
"Ona. What time on Friday?"
Her smile gets bigger. The eyes stay closed. Alexia can practically feel the satisfaction radiating off her in waves of smugness. She chooses to ignore it.
"Eight," she says. "Heathrow. I have a ticket. I am sure they have more but you could just ask Jana."
Alexia stares at the ceiling tile directly above her head.
It is, on reflection, a very practical solution. London City plays Chelsea on Saturday. Jana plays for London City. Jana has a flat. Jana has been telling Alexia for months that she should visit. Alexia has been telling Jana, with great firmness, that we will see. The timing is, in fact, perfect.
She does not believe in perfect timing, generally. She believes in scheduling, which is a different thing.
But.
"Vale."
Ona's smile widens.
"Vale? You will come?"
"I will come."
"To London. To watch Jana and Lucy play. In the cold."
"Sí, Ona."
"You hate the cold."
"I know what I hate, Ona."
"Just checking."
Alexia stretches her legs out in front of her. Her quads are sore. She is going to regret this trip physically. She is going to regret this trip in many ways, probably. She does not, in this moment, care.
She thinks, briefly, about texting Jana. About texting Jude. About not texting either of them. About arriving on Saturday in the cold with a beanie pulled down to her eyebrows and surprising them both.
She thinks about the surprise specifically.
She does not know why she wants it that way. She knows what Alba would say. Alba would say Alexia, the last time you did something behind Jude's back instead of telling her, you sent Jana to her workplace and the woman did not speak to you for a week, do you remember that, do you remember the lesson there, or do we need to go over it again.
Alba would have a point.
Alexia, sitting on the cold training-room floor next to Ona Batlle who is now humming along to whatever is in her ears, decides she will tell Jana. And Lucy. And nobody else.
Jude does not need to know.
Jude can find out at the door.
Alexia does not let herself examine this decision too closely. The decision sits in her chest like a small warm coin and she does not want to spend it.
She clears her throat.
"Ona."
"Mm."
"One more question."
"Go."
Alexia, despite herself, considers not asking. Considers, in real time, the version of her life where she walks back to her locker, puts on dry clothes, drives home, and does not ask this question.
She asks it anyway.
"What do you know about Leah Williamson?"
Ona's eyes open.
She turns her head slowly to look at Alexia.
There is a beat.
A long one.
"Què? La capitana? Of England?"
"Yes."
"Yes, Ona, that one, you know which one."
Ona props herself up on her elbows. Examines Alexia's face for a long second, the way she examines tactical diagrams: with care, looking for what is being deliberately not said.
Alexia keeps her face still.
She has, after all, given many interviews. She is good at this.
Ona says, slowly, "Why are you asking me about Leah Williamson?"
"Sponsor thing." Alexia waves a hand. "There is a thing. People asked. I want to know what I am walking into."
"What thing."
"You do not know it."
"Try me."
"It is not — it is a small thing. A panel."
Ona is, very visibly, not buying this. But Ona is also, by nature, kind. She is also the kind of friend who, when she catches you in a small lie, lets you, mercifully, have the thing.
"Okay," she says. "Leah Williamson." Rolls the name on her tongue. "I don't actually know much about her."
"Nothing?"
"A little. Through Lucy. They have the national team together."
"Mm."
"She is blonde. Tall. Bit of a homebody, I think. Lucy says she is — what is the word — exigent. Picky. With friends. Does not let many people in."
Alexia files this, building her own report case inside her head — for pure professional purposes, that is.
"Mm."
"But — escolta — actually. The funny thing." Ona props herself on one elbow now, like she has just remembered something she meant to say earlier. "Lucy told me she ate the paella. At the pub. La Leah."
Alexia tilts her head. "Yes?"
"Yes, but, Alexia. She does not try new food. Lucy says it is a whole thing, every dinner, what restaurants they can go to. She eats — chips. Plain pasta. Roast chicken. Things she knows. And Lucy says she ate the paella and liked it."
"Really?"
"Loved it, actually. According to Lucy. They could not get her to shut up about it on the way home."
Alexia, despite herself, smiles. Small and helpless and entirely to herself.
A whole table of footballers. Jude in her stupid apron. Proud for her, even if it's secondhand.
"Bo," she says quietly.
Ona is watching her face.
"That smile, capitana."
Alexia stops like a deer caught in the headlights.
"There is no smile."
Alexia clears her throat.
"It is for the paella. Happy that paella is being... recognised."
"Right..."
"Mm."
"I am only saying. Now I really want to try the paella too. If it can convert Leah Williamson, it must be a miracle."
Ona lies back down again, hands behind her head this time, looking at the ceiling with the soft, satisfied expression of a woman who has just collected an excellent piece of information and has every intention of doing nothing with it.
"I will not ask anything else."
"Gràcies."
"I am very respectful."
"You are."
"I am the most respectful person currently in this room."
"There is no one else in this room."
"Exacte."
Alexia closes her eyes.
She has, she realises, accidentally given Ona something. A small Christmas. Something she will not bring up tonight, will not bring up tomorrow, but which Alexia will pay for, in increments, possibly for years.
It is fine.
She is going to London.
*
She hates the cold.
That is the first and dominant feeling when she steps out of the terminal at Heathrow on Friday night. The cold goes straight through her coat, which is the warmest coat she owns in Barcelona and turns out to be a summer coat in London. It goes through her jeans. It goes through the huge scarf she bought just for this, the only piece of clothing standing between Alexia and what she is increasingly convinced is hypothermia.
"It is not that bad," Ona says, used to it after so many visits to see Lucy.
"It is bad."
"It is — six degrees."
"It is six degrees."
"You played in worse."
"And I played badly."
Ona laughs at her and tugs her along by the elbow.
Jana is waiting at arrivals with a paper sign she has drawn herself that reads LA CAPITANA in marker, with one heart and what looks like an attempt at the Barça crest that has gone wrong somewhere around the stripes.
Alexia, despite everything, smiles at it. Misses the girl like one would miss an annoying little sister.
Jana drops the sign and hugs her so hard her ribs creak.
"You actually came."
"I am here, Jana."
"I cannot believe it."
"You can let go now."
"I cannot. I missed you."
Eventually she does. Hauls Alexia's bag from her hand. Marches the two of them to the car park with the particular bossiness of someone who is already a local. She babbles on about her training, her apartment, the game tomorrow. Alexia hums and nods along to her excitement.
The car is small and warm and smells like takeaway coffee.
Alexia sits in the front. Ona takes the back — hierarchy that holds even across countries. Jana drives like a Catalan in a foreign city, which is to say with great confidence and very little regard for the conventions of the road.
"How was the flight?"
"Fine."
"You are tired?"
"A little."
"I bought new sheets for the guest room, you are going to love it," Jana says, and Alexia smiles unwillingly.
She has a hard ball of nervous inside her chest that is slowly unravelling as Jana talks on and on.
Ona leans forward between the seats from the back. "I didn't get new sheets when I visited last time."
"That's because you spent one night at mine and the other on Lucy's bed," Jana says to Ona's blush. "It would be a waste."
Alexia doesn't comment that maybe, if she is lucky, there will be a night where she won't sleep in Jana's guest room either. She blushes at her own random stray thought, feels the tips of her ears turning red.
"Are you still cold, Ale? Let me turn up the heat." Jana messes with the knobs on the panel and Alexia pretends it's the cold that has her flushing.
By the time they get to Jana's flat in north London it is past ten and Alexia is so tired the cold has started to feel less like an attack and more like background weather. Jana puts her in the spare room. The sheets are, in fact, new. They smell of fabric softener and Jana's particular brand of I have been preparing for this for two weeks and pretending not to.
Alexia falls asleep with her phone face down on the bedside table.
She has not messaged Jude.
She does not let herself think about why.
*
The match on Saturday is, by London City standards, a good day.
London City win one-nil. Jana plays the full ninety. She is good — clean, calm, vocal on the back line in a way that makes Alexia, sitting next to Ona in the small VIP section, feel a sharp pull of fondness for the girl she used to share a changing room with. Jana, when she scores in the eighty-fourth minute off a corner, finds Alexia in the stand without looking and points at her with both fingers before anyone else.
Alexia loses her mind a little. So does Ona. Lucy, beside her, screams something obscene in English that Alexia is glad she cannot understand properly.
It is good.
It is good, and Alexia spends the entire ninety minutes only half-watching the football, because under her ribs there is a small steady drumbeat that has been there since she woke up this morning and is getting, with every hour, marginally louder.
After the match, they wait. Jana does her cooldown. Jana does her interviews. Jana, in the tunnel, hugs Aggie for an unprofessional length of time and then hugs Lucy for nearly as long and then Keira on principle and then comes barrelling out to where Alexia and Ona are standing in their coats and beanies, hair still wet from her shower, grinning like a child.
Alexia opens her arms because there are some things the body remembers before the mind decides to be sensible.
Jana hits her at speed.
"Oof," Alexia says, stepping back half a pace.
"You saw the goal?"
"I saw the goal, Jana."
Jana squeezes her harder. "Did you see me point?"
"Hard to miss, tía."
Ona laughs beside them, already being folded into Jana's next hug before she has agreed to it. Jana is flushed with victory and sweat and the electric afterglow of a match that has gone exactly how she will want to remember it later. She looks young in that way players sometimes do after a good game, all bright eyes and unfiltered noise.
"You scored against Chelsea," Ona says, impressed.
"I scored against Chelsea," Jana repeats, like she is tasting it. "Is Lucy being a sore loser about it?"
"Just a tiny bit," Alexia says. Which is true. Lucy has been known to be a far worse loser. Very dramatic.
Lucy appears behind them with one arm already slung around Ona's shoulders, despite the fact Ona has taken three steps into the corridor and Lucy has barely finished limping over from the stands. Not bad enough to worry about, apparently. But enough that Alexia notices, because Alexia notices bodies before she notices most things.
Lucy spent the match in the stands beside them, injury keeping her out, one knee braced, still louder than half the Chelsea bench. Ona sat on one side of her. Alexia on the other. Alexia thinks, not for the first time, that she has missed her very much since Barcelona.
Now, Ona leans into her side like gravity has a private arrangement with them. And Alexia, cold down to the bone, tries not to think too much about how good it would be to tuck herself into someone's side right now. Someone who she already thinks far too much about.
"You were class," Lucy says to Jana.
Jana preens. Actually preens. "Thank you."
"You were also very annoying."
"Everyone says this like it is bad."
"It can be charming," Ona says, traitorously fond.
"See?"
Aggie comes through the doors next, Chelsea tracksuit zipped to her chin, expression caught somewhere between professional devastation and personal hunger. Keira is behind her, hair still damp, face calm in that Keira way that makes loss look like an administrative inconvenience.
Aggie sees Jana first and points.
"I don't want to talk about the goal."
Jana's mouth opens.
Aggie points harder. "No."
"I did not say anything."
"You were about to say something."
"I was going to say good game."
"You were not."
Jana's smile is teasing and she pulls Aggie into a hug. "Good game."
Aggie narrows her eyes, shoving back against her. "You're horrible."
Keira kisses Ona's cheek then reaches Lucy and gives her a quick one-armed hug, careful of the knee. "You shouted at me."
"I was giving instructions. You were not tracking the runner."
"I was absolutely tracking the runner, you twat."
Lucy grumbles and Alexia is happy to defuse the situation by hugging Keira and being introduced to Aggie. Footballers are bad at watching from the sidelines. Lucy is no exception.
Then Jana claps her hands once, calling for attention.
"Okay," she says. "We go."
Jana's eyes flick to Alexia, her grin too big for her face.
Too bright.
Too knowing.
Aggie perks up. "Soup night."
Keira, who had been digging around in her bag, looks up. "Is it actually soup night?"
"It is soup night," Aggie says, too serious for what's supposed to be dinner. "Jude said she was doing French onion and something with leek, I think. Or tomato. Or both. She was very mysterious about it."
Lucy makes an appreciative noise. "Oh, we're going."
Ona turns to her. "You already knew?"
"Course I knew."
"You did not tell me."
"I was going to surprise you," Lucy says, already guilty.
Ona rolls her eyes but kisses her lightly.
Jana, still looking at Alexia, says, "It is the place to be."
Alexia keeps her face very still. Her face is a wall when she needs it to be.
Unfortunately, Jana Fernández has known her long enough to recognise every brick.
"Oh, yes," Aggie says, unaware she is stepping into the trap with both feet. "It's brilliant. It looks terrible from outside, obviously. And inside too, a bit. But the food is ridiculous. Jude's doing this thing now where the specials rotate and trust me, soup night is the best."
"Jude?" Ona asks.
Alexia does not move.
She suddenly finds the cuffs of her sleeves very interesting.
Lucy nods, enthusiastic. "Jude. The cook. Chef. Whatever she calls herself when she's not being weird about it."
"She hates chef," Jana says.
"She is chef," Aggie says. "She just has issues."
"She's very charming," Jana adds, in a voice so innocent it should be prosecuted.
Alexia turns her head slowly.
Jana smiles.
Small. Evil.
Beloved, but evil.
Aggie is already pulling her coat on properly. "So, we agree to it, right? Can we go before the soup sells out?"
"Soup does not sell out," Keira says, but she is already throwing her bag over her shoulder.
"At that pub it does. You know what everyone's calling it these days? The Lesbian Pub — funny, right?"
Lucy laughs out loud. "Is it because we are there all the time?"
"Maybe." Aggie shrugs but she seems proud of it. "But it's cool to know we were there before it was properly famous, right?"
That lands somewhere in Alexia's stomach.
Alexia has seen the pub in pictures. In videos. Through Jana's smug updates and the photographs Jude sends when the night is good and warm and full. She has heard the sound of it through the phone, that blur of voices and glasses and bad music behind Jude's voice notes. She has built the pub in pieces. Bad lighting. Framed shirts. Sticky floor. Taco nowhere near it, tragically. Paddy. Hayley. Carl. Norman, a person Alexia has never met and somehow already knows too much about.
But going there is different.
Going there means putting herself inside Jude's real life. The puzzle that is Jude's life. Alexia examines it and wonders if she fits at all. She hopes she does.
No screen.
No safe delay.
Alexia feels it then.
The butterflies.
Ridiculous phrase. Alba uses it sometimes. Papallones. Alexia has always thought it too sweet for the actual sensation. This is not butterflies. This is more like a very small team of birds trapped under her ribs, beating themselves stupid against bone.
She keeps her hands in her coat pockets.
"Coming?" Jana asks, hooking her arm through Alexia's.
Alexia looks at her.
At the smile she is trying and failing to keep neutral.
"Yes," Alexia says.
Jana's face lights up. "On we go, lesbians!"
Ona laughs quietly.
Alexia does not.
But she is smiling a little.
Maybe.
*
The Wag & The Dog looks, from the outside, exactly as advertised.
Alexia has seen the photographs. The Google Maps screenshot Jana once captioned murder scene. She has built the exterior in her head and the real thing is, gratifyingly, no better: a sign hung wonky over the door, the W on Wag half-faded so it reads, on first glance, 'ag, a smear on one window that has clearly outlived several governments. There are fairy lights inside the glass now, small and warm and entirely out of context with the rest of the building, which is new since the photographs.
Then Jana opens the door, and the inside is nothing she built at all.
It is warm. That is the first thing, and it goes straight to the animal part of Alexia that has been cold since Heathrow — a wall of heat and yellow light and noise, the good kind of noise, the kind a room makes when it is full of people who want to be in it. There is music. Something with a Spanish swing to it, which makes no sense and complete sense at once. There is the smell of butter and onions cooking long and slow somewhere out of sight, and under it beer, and under that the particular damp of a building that has been a pub for a hundred years and will be one for a hundred more.
It is packed. Saturday-night packed. A booth of women near the door wearing, between them, enough plaid to start a lumberyard. Two old men welded to stools at the bar mid-argument. An ancient woman in the corner reading a paperback with her glasses on a chain, entirely unbothered by the chaos around her. More women. A lot of women. Alexia clocks, distantly, that the Google review was not wrong.
Beside her, the others are already shedding coats, scarves, the outer layers of an English winter, with the relief of people coming in from genuine cold.
"Oh, thank God," Aggie says, unwinding her scarf.
"It's like a sauna in here," Lucy agrees, delighted.
Alexia keeps her coat on.
"You are all insane," she says. "It is finally warm."
Jana laughs at her, already gone toward the bar with an easiness that betrays how much of a regular she actually is. Alexia lets the group move and, for one moment, does not move with it.
She looks.
She gets, maybe, thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of standing just inside the door of a place she has only ever visited through a phone, looking at it with her own eyes.
The walls.
She finds them the way you find the face of someone you have only heard described. In stages. The framed Durham shirt — Charli Jones, a name Alexia knows now, a sister she has heard stories about. A broken cricket bat mounted for reasons she will never be told. A Chelsea shirt, signed, framed with what is obviously real affection.
And then.
An Arsenal shirt.
Framed. Signed across the back and the shoulders, the names overlapping, and in the centre, larger than the rest, the loop of the W drawn by someone who was plainly enjoying herself: Williamson.
Alexia's face does not move. She has given a great many interviews. Her face is very good at not moving.
Something under it moves anyway. A small, hot, stupid turn, low in her chest, gone almost before she can name it for what it is.
It is on the wall.
She knows the story. She has known it for weeks — the paella, the deal, the smallest portion of paella in Europe, the signed shirt sent after. Knowing the story and standing in front of the evidence of it, framed and hung and belongingthere, are different things, and Alexia is finding out, in real time, exactly how different.
"The wall is filling up, no?"
Jana has reappeared at her shoulder. She is holding two drinks she has acquired from somewhere and is following Alexia's eyeline to the shirts with a face of perfect innocence that Alexia does not believe for one second.
"Durham. Chelsea. Now Arsenal." Jana comments right beside her. "It is missing a Barcelona shirt, I figure."
Alexia nods.
"Maybe," she says.
It comes out lighter than she intended. Unsure.
Because that is the actual shape of it, isn't it. Not the shirt. Not Leah Williamson. The wall. The wall is a record of people this pub has decided to keep. People who turned up, and were fed, and were liked enough to be given a frame and a nail and a permanent place on the wall of Jude's life. Charli, who is blood. Aggie, who came back on her own. Leah, who does not try new food and tried Jude's.
Everyone on that wall belongs there. Alexia can see, just from standing here thirty seconds, how easily this place takes people in and keeps them — how warm it is, how full, how liked Jude must be, to have built a room like this around herself out of nothing.
And Alexia is wondering, with the small private terror she has carried since Barcelona, whether there is, in fact, a space on that wall for her. Whether she is a person who fits in a room like this one. Whether the version of her that exists here, in Jude's actual life, off the screen — whether that version belongs on the wall at all, or only ever visiting.
She does not finish the thought. She has been making a habit, lately, of not finishing thoughts where Jude is concerned.
That is when the bar notices her.
Alexia has spent her entire adult life walking into rooms and being recognised, and she can clock the exact moment it happens, every time, because it happens in the same three stages. She watches it happen now in the blonde woman behind the bar — Hayley, it must be Hayley, Alexia has seen her in a dozen photographs — mid-sentence with Jana, who has gone back to leaning on the wood and is, Alexia realises, already asking about Jude, light and breezy, like it is the most natural question in the world.
Hayley's eyes flick past Jana. Land on Alexia. Stage one: that face is familiar. Stage two, half a second later: that face is familiar in the specific way of an athlete. Stage three, which on most people takes a while and on Hayley takes almost no time at all: a short, hard, audible inhale.
The glass in Hayley's hand stops moving.
Behind her, an Irishman with a tea towel over his shoulder — Paddy, this is Paddy, Alexia would know — turns to see what Hayley has inhaled at. He clocks Lucy first. Recovers from Lucy. Looks past Lucy. Clocks Alexia.
Paddy's face simply stops. All lights out. He sets down the pint he is holding very, very carefully, slow motion.
And in the kitchen doorway, drawn by the small change in the room's weather, a third figure has appeared — a big man, forearms like timber and a frown that could possibly scare off a bear. Carl. He looks at the bar. He looks at Hayley. He looks at Alexia. He does not move at all.
Three faces. Three versions of the same short-circuit. Alexia has, by simply standing inside the door of a pub in north London, taken three working adults entirely offline.
Beside her, Aggie pats her arm without really registering that she is doing it.
"They've never not been weird about you," she says, fondly, to no one in particular, and drifts off.
The only person in the building still functioning is the young man at the end of the bar.
He is leaning against the back counter with his arms crossed, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, watching the entire scene unfold with calm, faintly amused patience. Younger than the others. He has the look of a person who knows precisely how to make a Negroni and could not be paid to care about Spanish football.
Mits, Alexia thinks. Jude mentioned a Mits. New. Makes good drinks. Half the reason the pub stopped being a public health hazard, according to one voice note Alexia has listened to more times than she would admit.
Mits unfolds his arms.
"Right," he says, to the room in general and Alexia in particular. "Can I get you something?"
Alexia strains her ears at the accent, but she could kiss him.
"White wine, por favor. Whatever you have."
"Coming up."
He turns and starts pouring, glasses and bottle, fluid and unbothered, and the small ordinary sound of someone doing their job seems to be what finally knocks the rest of the bar back into motion.
Hayley comes back online first.
Alexia watches it happen. Watches Hayley's eyes go from Alexia to Jana to Lucy to Aggie to Ona, and watches her do the arithmetic in real time — Alexia Putellas. In my pub. With Jana Fernández. And Lucy Bronze. And Aggie Beever-Jones. And Ona Batlle — and then watches Hayley's eyes come back to Alexia and stop, and watches the second, smaller, far more important click happen. Not the famous one. The other one. The one that is not about Alexia being recognised but about Alexia being here. In this pub. Which means here for a reason.
Hayley's mouth opens.
What comes out is quiet.
"Oh," she says. And then again, slower, like the floor has shifted half an inch under her: "Oh."
Alexia keeps her face very still.
She does not know how much this woman knows. She does not know how much of the thread between herself and Jude lives in this room, in these people who see Jude every day, who watched her smile at her phone and clocked it before Jude did. She suspects it is not nothing. She suspects, looking at Hayley's face, that it is rather more than nothing.
Mits slides the wine across to her with a small wink.
"On the house."
"Gràcies."
She drinks one careful sip she does not taste.
Then she sets the glass down, and she looks at Hayley, and Hayley looks back at her, and Alexia does the thing she came across a country to do. She makes herself ask the question out loud.
"Is Jude here?"
It comes out smaller than she means it to. The English contracts around her mouth the way it always does no matter how much practice she has had with Jude.
Hayley's face does a complicated thing.
It is a mix of surprise and something else. Mostly, protective — and Alexia, who has just spent thirty seconds learning exactly how loved Jude is in this room, finds that she respects it. Is, in a strange displaced way, grateful for it. Grateful for a stranger who is being careful with someone Alexia is not yet allowed to say she —
She does not finish that thought either.
Hayley glances once over her shoulder. Toward the kitchen and the back of the pub. Toward whatever lies past it.
"She's out back," she says. "Sneaking a fag. She —" a small pause, and Alexia cannot tell if Hayley is choosing her words or simply relaying them — "Leah's here. Williamson. She dropped in. They had a couple of things to talk through, I think. They're just in the alley."
Leah's here.
They had a couple of things to talk through.
Alexia repeats the sentence inside her head in the flat, even voice she uses for tactical analysis, the voice that does not editorialise.
It does not help. The small hot stupid thing turns over in her chest again, harder this time, and this time it has a name, and the name is not a flattering one, and Alexia is thirty-one years old and has two Ballon d'Ors and is standing in a pub called The Wag & The Dog being quietly, comprehensively undone by the words just in the alley.
She does not know what they are talking through. She knows — she can see it on Hayley's face — that Hayley does not really know either. She is just a person passing along a true and ordinary fact: Jude is outside. Leah is with her. They are talking.
It is, in the literal sense, all the information there is.
It is also, in the way information sometimes works, exactly enough to set the whole small flock of birds going under Alexia's ribs at once.
She thinks, with a clarity that arrives the way clarity arrives in the last ten minutes of a level match, all the noise of the room dropping away from it: I did not come here for the wall. I did not come here for the soup. I did not fly to a country I am cold in and lie to Ona about a panel and not message her for two days so that I could stand at this bar and lose my nerve over an alley door.
She has decided. She decided somewhere over the Channel, probably, and is only now catching up to it.
She is going to walk out there. And whatever is happening in that alley — whoever Jude is standing with, whatever they are talking through, however this goes — Alexia is going to do the one simple animal thing she has wanted to do since a FaceTime call six weeks ago lit up her dark bedroom with Jude's stupid, crooked, unguarded face.
She is going to hug her.
That is all. That is the whole plan. It is not a good plan and it is not a clever plan and Alba would have notes, but it is hers, and it is the truest thing she has carried through two airports.
"Hold this," Alexia says.
She does not look to see who takes the glass. Someone does — Ona, probably; Ona has spent the whole evening being handed things and being kind about it.
She pushes her hair back from her face with the flat of one hand, tucks the loose piece behind her ear, the way she does before a penalty, small grounding gestures that float out of the pitch to her daily life.
Behind her, she hears Jana say, very quietly, "Oh my god."
Alexia does not turn around.
She crosses the pub. Past the booth of haircuts, past the old men, past the ancient woman and her paperback, and she finds the kitchen door and she steps through it.
The kitchen is small and hot and golden, and it smells of stock and bread and the long animal sweetness of onions cooked down for hours, and on the counter there is a stack of receipts with a pencil sitting on top of it — exactly, exactly where Alexia, who once watched Jude tuck a pencil behind her ear on a phone screen and write a recipe on the back of a receipt, would have put money on finding it.
She does not stop.
At the back of the kitchen there is a door. Heavy. Painted over many times. A brick on the floor holding it propped half an inch open against the cold, and through that half-inch comes the night air, and the thin sound of two voices, and somebody laughing.
No bc that cliffhanger was absolutely brutal and you WILL be hearing from my lawyer 😲
Seriously though, AMAZING chapter and I will just be over here patiently refreshing your page until the next one bc I desperately need them to see each other in person (emphasis on patiently bc that was a super long chapter and you deserve some rest after that)
wait no that was so perfect I missed them so much!!!
and the dynamic with Vicky 🥺, always love to read that , she can’t imagine how much Mara will mean to her soon 🥺🥺🥺
Thank youuuuu! I'm so happy you liked it :)
I know 🥺 It was so funny to write shy Vicky bc she and Mara are so so close by the later chapters that I had to switch off the part of my brain that wants to just write their usual adorable, unhinged dynamic
Okay FINE I’ll read Luminous again. 😅 But I just smiled and laughed like a fool at the social media posts at the end. They really are my favorite. The one about seeing Alexia in a crowd one time and deciding she needed to go to her place of work had me laugh out loud. I loved this and it was the serotonin boost I needed to start my day. ALSOOOOOO the concert part made me even more excited for the Rosalia concert I have tickets to for next month!!! It’s going to be life changing. THANK YOOUUUUU! Any time you get the itch to come back to these two for a little one shot please know it’s highly encouraged and supported. 🤣 you’re the best!
HAHAHA OMG SAME!! Over the past couple days I've been editing/ adding to parts 1 and 2 to fit this new timeline better and it was so much fun.
I laugh sm at the social media posts too!! I love WOSO twitter and it's hilarious to imagine the absolute meltdown that would be occurring on there if this was real life. I just channel their energy and write down all the unhinged things they would say and notice.
OOOOO THATS AWESOME!! I'm going to see her next month too and I'm soooo excited :)
Thank you for your sweet comment ❤️❤️❤️ I'm so so happy you enjoyed and I'll keep the one-shot idea in mind lol :))
Summary - When a pop star attends El Clásico as part of her collaboration with FC Barcelona, she meets Alexia Putellas, the captain of Barça Femení.
Word Count - 4.9k
The streets around Montjuïc were already overflowing by the time the team van crawled up toward the Teatre Grec. The entire hillside glowed under floodlights and camera flashes while clusters of fans pressed themselves against barricades singing pieces of Mara Solís songs loud enough to carry through the glass.
Alexia stepped out first, one hand briefly resting against the side of the van as she scanned the entrance before turning immediately toward the chaos unfolding behind her.
“Slow down,” she said as Vicky nearly barreled past her in excitement. “Nobody is getting separated before we even make it inside.”
“We’re not children, capi,” Clara complained, though she was already craning her neck toward the venue with obvious awe, her phone halfway out to record the lights spilling across the stone amphitheater.
“That’s debatable,” Alexia replied dryly, earning a chorus of offended reactions from behind her while the younger players spilled out onto the pavement in a blur of excitement and overlapping conversation.
Aïcha was talking about the setlist rumors she’d seen online, Kika talked about how amazing it was to have an openly queer woman achieve such international success, Clara insisted she had heard Mara changed part of the stage production specifically for Barcelona, and Esmee was trying unsuccessfully to explain something about Spotify streaming milestones while Vicky interrupted every few seconds to point at another group of fans screaming somewhere along the barricades.
Alexia pretended not to listen too closely as she greeted one of the club staff coordinators moving quickly toward them, but she caught enough pieces of the conversation behind her to know they had all been discussing this concert for at least three straight days at training.
Honestly, probably longer.
The collaboration with Barça had detonated through the locker room the second it was announced, special edition shirts selling out within minutes while half the squad suddenly acted as though they had personally discovered Mara Solís themselves. Patri had spent an entire recovery session trying to explain the significance of twenty-five songs surpassing one billion streams while Mapi argued that there was no way any artist really had that many monthly listeners, and somewhere in the middle of all of it Alexia had mostly stayed quiet, amused despite herself by the genuine excitement radiating through the team.
Because even she, despite not following celebrity culture closely, understood that this was massive.
Spotify had transformed the historic Teatre Grec into the centerpiece of Mara’s Barcelona collaboration for one night only, honoring the streaming milestone with a special concert tied to her recent album, Luminous.
El Clásico week always drew attention but this time the entire city seemed to have reorganized itself around the event. Every billboard in Barcelona had carried Mara's face, every café and taxi seemed to be playing one of her songs, and even during gym sessions at the training center Alexia kept catching choruses drifting through the speakers whenever one of the younger players hijacked the music.
She didn’t know much about Mara herself beyond what was impossible not to know.
The number one hits, the sold-out stadium tour currently moving across Europe, the interviews clipped endlessly across social media. It was the kind of fame that had become so enormous it stopped feeling entirely real and started existing more like weather, something constant people simply lived around.
Still, there was something about her presence Alexia had noticed even through screens, a calmness underneath all the spectacle that felt unusually genuine for someone operating at that level of visibility. She carried herself like someone completely aware the entire world was watching without ever seeming consumed by it.
“Alexia.”
She looked back toward the staff coordinator walking beside her.
“We’re taking you through the lower entrance tonight since the main terrace is completely packed already,” the woman explained over the noise of the crowd. “The club delegation is seated near the front with Spotify executives and invited guests.”
Alexia nodded easily, glancing behind her just in time to catch Vicky stopping in the middle of the pathway because she had recognized an attractive TikTok influencer near the barricades.
“Vicky,” Alexia called calmly. “Walk.”
Immediately, the entire group dissolved into laughter while Vicky groaned dramatically and hurried to catch up.
“I hate that you always notice everything.”
“It’s literally my job.”
The theater opened around them a moment later, and even Alexia felt herself slow slightly as they stepped inside.
The venue looked unreal beneath the night sky, the old stone amphitheater washed in warm gold light while towering translucent panels framed the stage and reflected shifting constellations across the surrounding walls. Candles flickered along the terraces in soft rows of amber, strings of hidden lighting woven carefully through the ancient architecture so the entire space glowed without losing any of its history. Above the stage hovered the Luminous sigil, three interlocking circles threaded by a beam of light, suspended almost like part of the sky itself.
Behind her, the younger players fell briefly silent for perhaps the first time all evening.
“Oh my God,” Serra breathed quietly.
“Okay,” Esmee said after a second, sounding genuinely stunned now. “This is actually insane.”
Alexia heard herself laugh softly under her breath as they continued down toward their section, staff members guiding them carefully through rows already packed with actors, musicians, executives, athletes, and people Alexia vaguely recognized from magazine covers without knowing their names. Cameras flashed constantly near the lower terraces while servers moved through the aisles carrying trays of champagne beneath the rising hum of thousands of conversations blending together into something electric.
The entire amphitheater felt suspended in anticipation, that particular kind of energy that only existed a few moments before something enormous began.
Vicky leaned closer beside her as they reached their seats near the front. “You know,” she said conspiratorially, “if she performs the acoustic version of-”
“Hey! No spoilers,” Kika interrupted immediately. “Some of us avoided the setlist on purpose.”
“You people are unbelievable,” Alexia murmured while settling into her seat.
Yet despite herself, she found her eyes drifting toward the stage again, toward the glow of the album sigil against the Barcelona night and the massive crowd stretching upward through the stone terraces.
Performing in front of thousands of people who already adored you before you even stepped onstage wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling to Alexia, not really. She knew what it was like to walk into a stadium and feel expectation settle over an entire crowd before she had even touched the ball. She knew the strange balance of pressure and adrenaline and instinct that came with understanding people were waiting for you to give them something unforgettable.
But this felt different somehow, less sharpened by competition and urgency, softer in the way music allowed emotion to spread openly through a crowd instead of demanding victory from it, and she found herself unexpectedly fascinated by the scale of Mara’s presence, by the effortless way she seemed to command the attention of an entire city through nothing but voice, charisma, and melody.
The lights dimmed before she could think much further about it.
Instantly the amphitheater erupted, the sound swelling so quickly and completely that it seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath their feet while gold light flooded across the stage in long sweeping beams. Around her, phones lifted into the air all at once, the entire crowd leaning forward together in anticipation.
The concert unfolded with the kind of scale that should have felt overwhelming and somehow didn’t, every transition seamless, every lighting change precise without ever feeling cold or mechanical, as though the entire production had been designed around making the ancient amphitheater feel intimate instead of enormous.
And at the center of all of it was Mara.
Alexia had expected someone polished, someone technically impressive in the way global pop stars usually were, but she hadn’t expected this strange gravitational pull the woman seemed to possess the second she stepped onstage, the effortless way she held the attention of thousands of people without appearing to demand it even once.
She moved through the performances with startling ease, sometimes dancing beneath floods of gold and silver light while the crowd screamed every lyric back at her, other times standing completely still with nothing but a microphone and somehow commanding even more attention that way. There was confidence in her, obviously, but not the sharp performative kind Alexia associated with celebrity culture. Mara felt open onstage, alive in a way that made the entire amphitheater seem to lean unconsciously toward her.
At some point during the third song, Alexia realized she had completely stopped paying attention to anything happening around her.
Which, apparently, the younger players noticed almost immediately.
By the middle of the set Vicky and Clara had already started exchanging exaggerated looks every time Alexia failed to respond to something one of them said, while Aïcha openly bit back laughter watching their captain stare toward the stage with an intensity usually reserved for Champions League finals.
“She hasn’t blinked in like ten minutes,” Vicky whispered loudly.
“I literally think she forgot we’re here,” Clara whispered back.
Alexia ignored them entirely, though the faint color rising in her cheeks suggested she had absolutely heard every word.
The stage darkened briefly between songs, soft blue light washing across the amphitheater while Mara laughed breathlessly into the microphone after finishing an extended vocal run, thanking the crowd in a mixture of Spanish and broken Catalan that sent another wave of screams rolling through the terraces.
As the band reset behind her, Alexia leaned slightly toward Kika without taking her eyes fully off the stage.
“How do you know she’s interested in women?” she asked casually, or at least casually enough that she clearly hoped nobody else would notice the question. “She’s singing about men in some of these songs.”
Kika’s entire face lit up instantly.
“Oh, she is definitely interested in women,” she said, dragging out definitely with immediate delight. “She sings about women in a lot of songs too. She’s publicly dated both.”
Alexia glanced toward her properly then, trying very hard to look only mildly curious.
“You know that actress?” Kika continued eagerly. “The one from that sci-fi movie we were obsessed with last year? The really confusing one you said made no sense?”
“Because it genuinely made no sense,” Alexia muttered.
“Well, Mara dated her for like nine months or maybe more, I don’t know.”
Alexia nodded once, slow and thoughtful, before looking back toward the stage where Mara was speaking softly to the audience now, smiling as thousands of phone lights shimmered across the amphitheater like stars.
“But they aren’t together anymore?” she asked after a beat, her tone carefully neutral.
Beside her, Kika went completely still for half a second before turning with the slowest, most knowing smirk Alexia had ever seen.
“No, capi,” she said innocently. “I hear she’s very single these days. Has been for a long time actually. Like over year.”
Alexia just nodded once, absorbing the information quietly before turning her attention fully back toward the stage as another familiar song began, glittering synths filling the warm night air while the crowd erupted immediately at the opening notes.
Next to her, Kika and Vicky exchanged violent sideways glances before elbowing each other so hard Clara nearly started laughing out loud.
Alexia pretended not to notice any of it.
The show only grew more immersive as the night continued, the energy shifting constantly between explosive stadium-scale performances and softer moments where Mara spoke directly to the audience with an ease that made even the enormous crowd feel strangely close to her.
At one point, midway through one of her most famous ballads, the stage lights softened completely and Mara stepped down from the platform, disappearing briefly into the lower aisle while security moved carefully ahead of her through the crowd.
The amphitheater lost its mind instantly.
Phones shot upward from every direction as she moved slowly through the audience still singing, close enough now for people to reach toward her hands while the orchestra swelled softly behind the melody. The entire moment felt cinematic somehow, Mara illuminated in soft gold light as she passed through the crowd with effortless intimacy, smiling at fans, brushing fingertips against outstretched hands, never once losing the thread of the song.
Alexia watched her approach almost absently at first, still caught somewhere between admiration and fascination, until Mara reached their section and glanced upward toward the Barça delegation.
Then she looked directly at Alexia.
And very visibly did a double take.
It happened quickly, barely more than a flicker in her expression, but unmistakable all the same, her eyes catching on Alexia with sudden surprise before her entire face softened into a dazzling smile that looked far more personal than performative. For half a second Mara seemed almost amused by whatever thought had crossed her mind, her gaze lingering just slightly too long before she continued moving through the aisle, still singing as though nothing had happened at all.
The silence around Alexia lasted approximately two seconds before every younger player turned toward her at once.
Completely engrossed in watching Mara disappear farther through the crowd, Alexia didn’t notice immediately.
“What?” she asked finally, dragging her attention back toward them.
Vicky looked physically unwell.
“Fucking La Reina, I swear to God,” she gasped dramatically, clutching Esmee’s arm.
“No seriously, Ale,” Kika added staring at her with complete disbelief, “you actually have to tell me your secrets because how do you pull like that?”
“Wait, we all saw her staring at Alexia, right?” Clara asked incredulously.
“Yes,” everyone answered at once, far too enthusiastically.
Alexia rolled her eyes, attempting composure despite the unmistakable smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth now.
“You’re imagining things,” she lied smoothly.
Nobody believed her for even a second.
By the time the final song faded into the warm Barcelona night, the entire amphitheater was on its feet. Gold confetti drifted through the air beneath roaring applause while Mara stood at the center of the stage smiling almost disbelievingly at the crowd around her, one hand pressed briefly against her chest as thousands of people continued chanting her name long after the music ended.
The younger players spent nearly the entire walk out of the venue talking over each other at full volume.
“No because the lighting during the second set actually changed my life.”
“I still can’t believe she walked through the crowd.”
“That acoustic arrangement was insane.”
“And our jerseys are going to look so good next match,” Vicky added immediately, tugging excitedly at the end of the special edition Barça scarf she’d already somehow managed to acquire before half the city. “Like actually iconic.”
Kika groaned dramatically. “We’re going to break sales records again.”
“She deserves it,” Clara said. “That was amazing.”
Alexia walked a few steps ahead of them toward the vans, listening to the noise with quiet amusement while flashes from photographers continued bursting across the entrance behind them.
Truthfully, she understood the excitement now.
There had been something strangely magnetic about the entire night. Not just the scale of it, but Mara herself, the way she seemed to hold an entire crowd effortlessly in the palm of her hand while still making moments feel personal somehow.
And if Alexia caught herself replaying one particular smile on the drive home afterward, well.
Nobody needed to know that.
------
The next morning Alexia woke to her phone vibrating violently against the nightstand.
She frowned sleepily, reaching for it before immediately blinking at the screen in disbelief.
One hundred and fifty unread messages.
All from the team group chat.
Alexia groaned softly and dropped back against the pillows before opening it anyway, instantly assaulted by dozens of messages flying past faster than she could read them.
Vicky: OH MY GOD
Kika: PATRI TELL THEM WHAT YOU JUST TOLD ME
Mapi: if this is fake i’m suing someone
Esmee: WAIT SHE’S ACTUALLY COMING???
Pina: I suddenly care about training today
Alexia scrolled upward until she finally found the explanation buried somewhere in the chaos.
Apparently Twitter had exploded late last night after someone connected to Spotify posted that Mara had requested to meet the women’s team personally following the concert, and sometime around seven in the morning Patri had apparently cornered Pere in the hallway and confirmed that yes, it was true, and yes, Mara Solís would in fact be visiting training later today.
Alexia sighed deeply and let the phone fall back onto the bed beside her.
Training was going to be unbearable.
And, unfortunately, she was completely correct.
The atmosphere around the training center felt deranged from the second everyone arrived. Every time somebody spotted a vaguely brunette woman anywhere near the facility, half the squad visibly froze before realizing it was absolutely not Mara Solís.
At one point Vicky nearly walked directly into a cone because she had whipped around so quickly trying to look toward the parking lot.
“Vicky,” Patri called across the pitch without even attempting to hide her laughter, “you know that’s Júlia from finance and she’s blonde, so I don’t know why you’re craning your neck so much.”
The entire team dissolved immediately into laughter while Vicky covered her face dramatically.
“I’m nervous!” she defended herself.
“You need help,” Salma informed her.
Even Alexia found herself smiling more than once as the chaos escalated throughout warmups, though she tried very hard not to contribute to it. She was captain. Supposedly mature. Supposedly setting an example.
Still, every time movement appeared near the entrance to the training grounds, she looked too.
By the time they finally heard the hum of a golf cart approaching from the lower pathway beside the field, Vicky was practically vibrating with anticipation.
“There!” she hissed loudly, grabbing Ona’s arm with enough force to nearly drag her sideways.
The cart rolled slowly into view a moment later beneath the bright morning sun, and instantly every conversation across the pitch faltered.
Mara sat casually in the back beside an older woman Alexia assumed was part of her team, one foot propped against the side rail while they laughed together at something the Barça marketing executive driving the cart had just said. Even dressed simply in loose jeans and an oversized button-up with dark sunglasses shielding half her face, she carried the same impossible sort of presence she had onstage, relaxed and captivating all at once.
The cart stopped near the entrance gate, and Mara climbed out gracefully, thanking the driver before pushing her sunglasses slightly higher against her nose as she looked out across the training field.
Even from a distance Alexia could tell she was taking everything in carefully, her gaze moving across the players, the facilities, the drills already set up along the grass.
Around Alexia, her teammates had apparently forgotten how to function.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
Sydney looked moments away from passing out entirely.
Suppressing a sigh, Alexia jogged toward the gate before the silence became genuinely embarrassing.
“Hola, qué tal?” she greeted easily as she approached, reaching out automatically to shake Mara’s hand.
“Hola,” Mara replied smoothly.
Her hand was warm against Alexia’s, her smile immediate and dazzling even in the bright daylight, and for one strange suspended second neither of them let go quite when they were supposed to. The eye contact lingered too long too, something warm and quietly curious flickering across Mara’s expression before she seemed to catch herself and slid the sunglasses up into her hair instead.
“I wanted to come thank you guys in person for coming to the concert last night,” she said. “It meant a lot to me.”
“Of course,” Alexia answered automatically. “I love music.”
Mara blinked once, lifted her hand to her mouth clearly trying to hide her amusement.
Alexia froze internally almost immediately.
“I mean,” she corrected quickly, suddenly sounding far less composed than usual, “the concert was fantastic. And you were absolutely incredible.”
A faint flush rose across Mara’s cheeks before she recovered with enviable smoothness.
“Well, now I’m glad you clarified,” she teased lightly. “I was starting to think you just support music in a very general sense.”
Alexia laughed softly under her breath despite herself. “Hmm yes, I’m actually very well known for my support of the arts.”
“Interesting,” Mara mused, tilting her head slightly. “And here I was thinking you were famous for football.”
“I do that sometimes too.”
“Only sometimes?”
Alexia smiled faintly then, the kind of restrained expression that made Mara’s stomach flip. “Depends who’s asking.”
Mara blinked once at that, visibly amused now, the smile pulling wider across her face before she shook her head slightly. “Okay,” she laughed softly. “That was smoother than I expected.”
Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Expected?”
Mara hummed softly, her gaze drifting almost absentmindedly down Alexia’s frame before returning to her eyes a second later, the movement quick but not quick enough to go unnoticed. “I’ve seen clips of you,” she admitted lightly. “Interviews, match videos, things like that. You always look very professional.”
“You looked me up?”
A faint grin tugged at Mara’s mouth. “I may have done a little internet sleuthing.”
Alexia’s smile turned into a devious smirk, unable to help it. “Maybe I should do the same.”
“Maybe,” Mara said easily, still watching her in that unnervingly direct way. “Because honestly, you’re handling this much better than most people do.”
“And what exactly is this?” Alexia asked, though the warmth creeping into her voice made it clear she already knew the answer.
Mara’s smile deepened almost imperceptibly as she held her gaze. “Me flirting with you.”
For perhaps the first time that entire morning, Alexia genuinely lost her composure for half a second. Mara caught it immediately, her smile widening slightly with quiet satisfaction.
Alexia exhaled a soft laugh through her nose before recovering, one hand settling against her hip as she tilted her head. “You do this often?”
“Banter with very pretty footballers?” Mara asked with faux thoughtfulness. “Not as often as you’d think.”
The look Alexia gave her then made Mara laugh again, warm and completely unguarded now, and for a brief second the noise from the training pitch behind them seemed strangely far away.
“I’m Alexia, by the way,” Alexia said after a beat, offering it with the faintest trace of amusement, like she knew perfectly well the introduction was unnecessary but wanted to hear what Mara would do with it anyway.
Mara’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Alexia,” she repeated slowly, like she was testing the sound of it. “Yes, I know who you are, capitana.”
There was something about the way she said it that lingered a little too long in the space between them, playful on the surface but softened underneath by unmistakable interest.
Alexia opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, the older woman from the golf cart finally approached beside the Barça executive, both of them wearing expressions that suggested they had been politely pretending not to interrupt for at least the last minute.
Mara glanced upward at the movement, visibly startled for half a second as though she had genuinely forgotten anyone else existed around them.
“This is my publicist, Tessa,” she said, stepping slightly aside as the older woman approached with an amused expression already forming. “I was just thanking Alexia and the team for coming to the show last night.”
“Yes,” Tessa replied smoothly, looking between the two of them with entirely too much awareness. “I saw you thanking the team.”
Mara groaned softly, bumping her shoulder with an eye roll.
“Well, on behalf of the team,” Kika suddenly cut in as she and Vicky finally managed to approach without combusting from excitement, “the pleasure was all ours.”
Beside her, Vicky nodded so enthusiastically she nearly lost balance, though her attention still kept darting back toward Alexia with wide-eyed disbelief.
Mara threw her head back laughing then, sunlight catching against the gold jewelry at her wrists as she lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Wowww,” she dragged out dramatically. “I’m getting called out left and right today.”
“You deserve it,” Vicky informed her with a shy smile.
“Honestly? Fair,” Mara admitted easily, still smiling. “But seriously, thank you guys for coming. I saw so many clips afterward of all of you dancing and singing and having fun, and that truly made me so happy.”
That softened the group almost instantly.
And then, as though some invisible barrier had finally broken, the entire team surged forward at once.
For the next several minutes the training ground dissolved into complete chaos. Mara moved easily through the group with the same effortless warmth she carried onstage, hugging players she recognized from social media clips, shaking hands with staff members, signing vinyls someone had apparently produced out of nowhere, crouching for selfies while Clara looked moments away from fainting entirely. Every few seconds another burst of laughter erupted somewhere around her as she cracked jokes or answered questions or exaggerated dramatic reactions to the team teasing her about football.
Alexia stayed near the gate for most of it, arms folded loosely across her chest as she watched the scene unfold with quiet amusement.
Mara was exactly the same offstage.
That surprised her a little.
There was no visible shift between performer and person, no moment where the polished charm faded into something rehearsed or detached. If anything, she somehow seemed softer here beneath the bright morning sun, laughing openly with the younger players while listening to Clara explain some complicated inside joke about locker room music choices.
And every so often, in the middle of everything else, Mara would glance back toward Alexia and smile briefly, as though checking she was still there.
The Barça executive eventually approached carrying a garment bag and gently pulled Alexia’s attention away from the scene.
“It would be great if we could get a photo of Mara with the team,” he explained, handing Alexia the special edition jersey carefully folded inside.
Alexia nodded in understanding before making her way toward the growing circle of players surrounding Mara.
The moment she approached, the group shifted apart for her automatically.
“So,” Kika asked brightly as Alexia stepped closer, “are you excited for the boys match this weekend?”
“Yeah,” Mara answered easily. “I’m excited. I don’t know much about football, I’ll be honest.” She laughed softly. “But whenever the crowd cheers, I’ll know the team did something good.”
The girls burst into laughter.
“Capi,” Patri called in a sweet tone from somewhere near the back of the group, drawing everyone’s attention toward Alexia with entirely intentional timing, “aren’t you going to the game too?”
As soon as nobody else was looking directly at her, Patri wiggled her eyebrows obnoxiously.
Alexia narrowed her eyes in warning before answering anyway. “Yeah,” she said carefully. “The club asked me to come. So I’ll be there too.”
Mara’s face brightened immediately at that. “Oh, good,” she said warmly. “I’m glad I’ll have a familiar face there with me.”
“Ooooh,” Vicky jumped in instantly. “Ale, you’ll have to explain all the rules and tactics to her.”
“Yes,” Kika agreed solemnly. “Very educational.”
“You guys act like I’m eighty years old,” Mara groaned.
“No no,” Patri added with smooth reassurance. “We just think Alexia would be a very attentive teacher.”
A chorus of exaggerated agreement erupted around them while Alexia pressed her lips together trying unsuccessfully not to smile.
“You’re all incredibly annoying,” she informed the team.
“And yet you love us.”
“Debatable.”
“Mmhm.”
The Barça executive finally interrupted before the teasing could spiral even further, guiding everyone into place for the photos while staff members lifted cameras around the edge of the field.
Almost instinctually, Alexia moved toward Mara’s side.
Mara glanced at her as she stepped closer, smiling softly before reaching for the jersey Alexia was holding. Their hands brushed briefly during the exchange, fingertips grazing for barely a second, but the contact still lingered strangely longer than it should have.
Alexia looked up at the same moment Mara did.
For a heartbeat both of them just stood there smiling slightly at each other while camera shutters snapped wildly around them.
“Okay!” the photographer called. “Everyone look here!”
The moment broke gently, though not completely.
After several more photos and another round of hugs and selfies, Mara finally stepped back toward the pathway leading to the golf cart while the team gathered near the edge of the pitch waving goodbye.
“Good luck with your match tomorrow,” she called warmly to the group. “And I’ll try not to embarrass myself by asking too many questions.”
“You’ll fit right in then,” Mapi shouted back.
Mara laughed before her attention shifted toward Alexia one last time.
“Bye, Alexia,” she said, softer now somehow beneath all the noise around them. Then, with a small wave and a smile that felt just a little more personal than the others, she added, “See you this weekend.”
Before Alexia could answer properly, Mara slid her sunglasses back down over her eyes and turned toward the waiting cart.
Halfway there, she glanced back once over her shoulder.
Just to make sure Alexia was still watching.
She was.
And as the cart finally disappeared down the pathway, all Alexia could hear behind her was the team immediately dissolving into teasing chants of:
“Bye Alexiaaa!"
“See you this weekend, Alexiaaa!”
“Ooooh, familiar face!”
“Very attentive teacher!"
Alexia closed her eyes and let out a controlled breath.
“None of you are starting tomorrow!!”
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Authors Note: This idea came to me with the recent OR collaboration. It doesn't fit perfectly but it was still really fun to write and hopefully you guys can stretch your imagination for the other parts of this story (but I did edit Part 1 to have it fit this alternate beginning a bit better). Thank you for all your love with this story!! It means so much to me :)
Hi friends! I have a special bonus chapter of Luminous coming out tomorrow :)
The Olivia Rodrigo collaboration has inspired me a lot and reminded me how much I love this story. The chapter will also have some fun social media posts at the end bc I’ve gotten a lot of requests for more of those :)
I read Luminous exclusively on here and found Under Her Wing on ao3. I just finished it and I loved it soooooo much then got on here and realized both fics came from you and wasn’t surprised at all because I absolutely love your writing. I’m a seasoned fanfic reader, very seasoned, and Luminous is in my top 10 for sure. BUT I saw an anon talking about being able to relate to looking for acceptance and love from non family and I relate to that as well sooo much. I grew up with a family I couldn’t be myself around, they weren’t neglectful or abusive but I was a very young baby gay(not to give my age away but Willow and Tara gave me the warmest feeling I had ever experienced straight in the chest and I knew VERY young that seeing them was the most “right” thing I had ever seen or felt) who could never openly be that. And it drove a distance between myself and anyone in my family I may have gone to for comfort and understanding so I looked for it elsewhere. Camp counselors who showed me kindness and acceptance. Family of friends. Any adult in my life that showed me acceptance and love i latched on to so hard but also so carefully because am I a bother? Do I annoy you? Am I being too clingy? Do you wish this random kid who isn’t yours would stop looking at you like you hung the moon because you were kind to her? And the accidental jealousy is so real. Like you know it’s not really reasonable but you’re so afraid of losing that connection that anyone else having it seems like a threat and also fuels the doubts you already have. I remember those days clearly and it’s hard to navigate for a kid. Can’t imagine being a kid in R’s situation. It was such an emotional read and sooooo well written. I do love my romantic fics but I have such a soft spot for pure platonic love, they’re some of my favorites actually. Especially teen reader because my God I needed that connection and that mentor and just someone who would accept me and love me and be there for me while I was dealing with so much depression and anxiety about who I was and hiding it from my family. It’s a little bit healing I can’t lie. Thank you, once again, for your words! Fanfiction is unpaid and often under appreciated as I always say but your words do matter. Never forget that!
I’m honestly speechless! This has genuinely made my day 🥹 I’m so appreciative of your kind words and your thoughtfulness. Thank you for taking the time to write this ❤️
It truly makes me really happy that you connected with my story and that you found it healing in some way.
I’m really sorry that younger you didn’t have the protection and support you needed/deserved ❤️ I just want to say that although this is not IRL, you clearly are a wonderful, thoughtful person and I am very grateful for you 🤗
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