riah @disparxat - Tumblr Blog

la noche de anoche ᛝ Alexia Putellas x OC

Part 3 —

summary: a Lyon born and raised prospect has spent her entire life chasing one dream: wearing Olympique Lyonnes on the biggest stage of women's football. when her first Women's Champions League final ends in heartbreak in Bilbao, an encounter with Alexia Putellas in the tunnel sets a beginning to a chain of events neither player can stop.

as Lyon enters new era under Michelle Kang, the club's brightest diamond finds herself carrying expectations far heavier than any teenager should, in a position she was years ago, back to square one— fighting for minutes, trust of the new manager and for the right to stay. in a sport where every performance becomes a headline, every wrong decision follows you everywhere.

what begins in Bilbao as respect between two completely opposite players— one still searching for her place, the other already standing at the top of the game— slowly becomes something neither of them expected. what once seemed impossible has become far more complicated, far more consuming and fragile than either of them can carry without breaking.

warning: 18+ smut, angst, age difference, mutual pining, minor injuries.

wc: 10k something.

a/n: so it is going to be way quicker from here, next chapter will hopefully be bilbao in full where we will FINALLY see the french and the spanish interact (reminder this is set on real events and only characters are fictional soo.. we know how that final ended, we know who scored. merely speaking we know EVERYTHING we need to know about the final and from there Alexia and Noé will be on the goo..), so that's a long one because there's lore before that, here and theree.. we are getting somewhere.

drunk noé is a flirt, so don't mistake it for anything else with selma ! strictly teammates , we hold that , or do wee.. anyway , check the tags .

what do we think about olympics??

Part 3 — Más Cara

April 2024: Present Day - Stade Gérard Houllier, Lyon

The Guingamp match was a fixture sandwiched in between the Champions League semifinals, a game nobody would remember except maybe when looking at statistics.

Lyon had already secured their place at the top of the table to play the playoffs for the league title and that meant players had already begun polishing the seventeenth league title for the club in their minds and the stadium reflected that. It was quieter than usual, stands stood half-full, everyone’s head already closing in on the upcoming Sunday in Paris.

Sonia had rotated the squad heavily, more than half a dozen changes from the side that had clawed back against PSG in the first leg.

Out of everyone, only Majri, Vicki and Van De Donk had started, but otherwise they were playing with reserves.

Noé for once had felt relieved to be on the bench, even if it meant sitting in complete quiet with teammates even younger than her who she had not once avoided, the rest of the main squad sitting somewhere on the stands behind the bench. They were preserving themselves for the match that actually mattered and the midfielder understood that. Her own legs still had bruises from the Parc des Princes, blooming purple, turning to yellow at the edges. Those would take weeks to fade. In Paris, she had run until her lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass, pressed and disrupted until the final whistle. Rest was logical, it was necessary.

Around the seventieth minute, an assistant coach called, a young one standing anxiously with a clipboard who definitely had nothing to do with her previous conflicts. “Noé,” he said, gesturing toward the touchline. “Warm up.”

There was no tactical discussion, no sense that her presence was required to change the game when they were 2-1 up, just fresh legs and rotation. She stood, feeling the blood rush back into her calves and walked to the corner of the pitch where the warm-up area was marked by cones that had seen better days.

In the 77th minute, the fourth official’s board finally displayed her number. She removed her training jacket and crossed the line.

She touched the ball for the first time within ten seconds, receiving it from a throw-in, and her first touch was too hard, adrenaline making her eager, the ball bouncing half a meter ahead of her foot. Control, she told herself. Breathe.

Guingamp were trying to play from the back, so she allowed herself what she didn’t before– rushed at their centreback who had received the ball from their goalkeeper and closed the distance in five steps that looked more like strides. Noe angled her approach to cut off the pass, forcing the ball to break loose and start an instinctive combination, one touch– forward into the feet of Vicki, who was still breathing hard from exhaustion of playing the whole game in one piece, and she flicked it back for Noe to keep running, her thighs burning and a taste of metal in her mouth.

She received the ball again at the edge of the penalty area, took one touch to set herself and saw the goalkeeper advancing, saw the gap opening at the far post and without overthinking, did what her body had been designed to do, swung her left foot through the ball.

It wasn’t her best finish. Definitely not the powershot against Benfica in Lisbon or when she had flicked it over Brann’s keeper in the group stage. It was her easiest– a rolling ball into an open net, the work put in to reach that position mattered more than how she had sent the ball in. As the small crowd made noise that was half cheer and half relief, even though the match didn’t even matter, Noe felt something fleeing she hadn’t really expected.

There was no anger, no messy celebration like she had once celebrated in Lyon against Bordeaux, to the shouting of the away fans who took account of her being a traitor. Just the ball in the net and her standing there, the sudden, shocking realisation that she had enjoyed it washing over her, as teammates crashed into her. Shouted into her ear. Wrapped legs around her waist. She was laughing, her face breaking into a foreign smile for once, with grass stains on her knees and her teammates’ sweat on her shoulder, watching the ball get retreated from the net by defenders and back into the centre of the pitch.

It happened and it had been easy, which was a miracle.

To the questions in the mixed zone, she gave routine answers, happy with the three points, important to keep momentum and looking forward to Sunday.

She stood against the board filled with Lyon’s badges and sponsors, microphones shoved into her face from every side possible and repeated those same phrases she had learned. Nothing she said would make the headlines, the goal would appear in the match report as a statistic, one of a few she might score this season, notable only for its timing throughout the season and its convenience, as all of the reporters were already interested in what she had to say about Paris being next.

“Do you feel like you proved something today?” one man asked, thin and pale with a RTL accreditation hanging down his neck, “Does this performance put you in a position where you expect to start against Paris-Saint-Germain on Sunday?”

Noé smiled politely, the expression practiced enough to survive another camera flash.

“Franchement, non,” she said with a small shake of her head. “Le coach décide. Everyone in this squad has a role. My job is to be ready whenever the team needs me. Today was about helping the team win. We have a massive game in Paris and we will need everyone, whether they start or come off the bench. Maintenant, toute notre concentration est sur dimanche.”

The reporter nodded but wasn't satisfied.

“You have scored in Europe and you have scored again tonight. There are people who think you've earned a bigger role.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Noé replied, suddenly aware of how embarrassing it was becoming.

A woman from L'Équipe leaned forward before the midfielder could have taken her chance to rush out towards the exit of the mixed zone.

“You have become one of the youngest regulars in this team. Have you started feeling more comfortable?”

Noé let out a quiet laugh.

“Un peu,” she shrugged. “Every day in training you're competing with some of the best players in the world, so–”

“And personally?”

And personally?"

She paused just long enough to think.

“Personally? I mean I am learning. I still have a lot to improve.”

Another hand shot up.

“Does it still surprise you to hear your name sung by the supporters?”

For the first time, the practiced smile softened into something genuine.

“Oui,” she looked down for a second before meeting the microphones again. “I don't think you ever expect that as a kid because you dream about playing here. You don't really dream about hearing your name.”

“One last one,” the press officer warned, trying to nudge Noe down the hall.

“You've won here before, but Sunday could send Lyon to another European final, which would be your first. What would that mean to you?”

Noé reached for the medal of the club crest stitched across her tracksuit jacket, rubbing her thumb over the embroidery before she answered.

“Everything.” The word escaped before she could dress it up.

She caught herself and smiled again.

“Mais on n'y est pas encore. We haven't won anything yet. Paris is one of the best teams in Europe. We know what they'll bring, and we have to match that first.”

Noé offered her audience a small wave and a merci, as Majri took her beneath the arm and steered her away from the microphones, her grip so firm you could say she was protecting something fragile.

The corridor behind the mixed zone was already emptying. Amel guided her back towards the changing room, further away from the reporters, before stepping right away as soon as Sonia seemed to approach the young midfielder. The coach squeezed her shoulder and said something about the title race, about PSG, about destiny. She said something about the goal against Guingamp disappearing into the statistics by morning, another number beside her name. It wasn’t like the midfielder minded.

Merely speaking, if Lyon beat Paris, nobody would remember tonight anyway. And that, she thought, was exactly how it should be.

“Good work today,” Sonia said, her eyes scanning Noé’s face for something, probably fatigue or the first crack. “Rest tomorrow. We need you sharp for Sunday.”

Noé watched her move onto the next player, Melissa Bethi, who stood with a sheepish smile of being confronted for the first time, not far away from giving Sonia the reaction she had wanted, and felt the weight of the expectation closing in on her, settling deeper into her chest. Then she nodded to no one in particular and walked through the doorway. Didn’t think twice, already wished she had thought twice before the word had escaped her lips in front of the reporters– everything– and how it hung, vulnerable and undressed, before she had time to change something.

The changing room had completely changed in the time she had left it to give the media some attention, with Cascarino’s music playing, something with heavy bass and not French anymore. The players who had been watching from the stadium’s VIP zone, including Delphine herself, have come down to the changing room, filling the room with an energy most players on pitch lacked.

Wendie was standing right next to her locker, in her usual clothes, her arms crossed and wearing a small but genuine smile. She pushed off the wall when Noé, reaching out to grip the back of her neck in a small captain’s gesture, her thumb pressing into the muscle just hard enough for it to hurt. “That finish–” she started, her voice low and almost private, as if she couldn’t let any praise escape beyond, “waouh, you really make it look easy, don’t you?”

“Will I get told off if I say that it was easy?” Noé asked, chuckling to herself, surprised by the praise she was receiving against a weaker side at the end of the season.

“Nothing is easy in the eighty-fourth.”

Selma appeared from somewhere, already showered even though she hadn’t played the game, but decided to use the player’s privilege, her hair visibly wet, wearing jeans and a hoodie that advertised some brand Noé was pretty sure she was sponsored by. She had a grape in her mouth– where she had found grapes, the midfielder had no idea because there were never any on the table in the changing room– and leaned against the locker on the other side with her arms crossed, her eyes traveling down the midfielder’s frame with an assessing gaze that lingered a bit longer than usual.

“So,” Selma said, leaning against the locker beside Noé’s while plucking another grape from the plastic bag she held. “The press love you now? Asked you about your feelings? Your journey? Whether you dreamt about this as a little girl?”

Noé had showered before going out to the mixed zone, so she began pulling her street shirt over her head, the damp fabric replacing the club polo and sticking to her skin. “Something like that.”

“Did you cry?” Selma asked, her eyes bright, though there was something else there too– a sharpening of focus, a predatory interest that Noé didn’t quite register at first, but settled it down into teammate banter, “I bet you cried. They love it when you cry. Makes good footage for the pre-final package.”

“Bacha,” Ada laughed from across the room. “Five minutes. Can you ever go five minutes without speaking?”

“Selma is right,” Cascarino chimed in immediately from where she was trying to change the song on the speaker. “They all want you crying.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“Shame, you should have. I would have cried. You know what, I would have given them a whole performance, talking about my grandmother, my struggles, the time I almost quit football to become a florist–”

“You were never going to be a florist,” Delphine quickly shut her up, still unable to find the right song on her Spotify playlist to match the mood.

“Wesh?” Selma shot back, then turned her attention back to Noé, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But seriously, watch out. First they ask about your dreams, then they ask about your failures. First you are the future of France, this gem they apparently talked about when no one else did, then you become the disappointment who did not live up to the hype. The media is like that–” she made a gesture with her hand, a wave rising and crashing, “they build you to knock you down. Enjoy the building up part.”

She pushed off the locker, her eyes staying on Noé.

“It lasts longer than you’d think,” Selma said, “but not as long as you want.”

Noé looked at her, at Selma's performative chaos. “Is that experience talking?”

“My observation,” Selma said, popping another grape. “I’ve seen it happen to others. I think I am still on the building up part, but I am not completely sure.”

Wendie who was still standing right in between them laughed and Noé felt something loosen in her chest. The midfielder had to come to understand that they were champions elect and behind all of those jokes, they behaved like it, but there was warmth here too, she realised, just a different species than what she imagined existed somewhere else. “Mel didn't come?”

“Nope,” Renard replied. “Called in this morning.”

Noé hummed in acknowledgement, thinking she'd ask her later.

The drive back home was quiet, leaving the stadium, Majri offered her to share a ride instead of ordering a taxi and the midfielder had gratefully accepted it.

April 2024: Present Day - Stamford Bridge, London

The rain in London seemed personal, judgemental even, soaking the pitch at a sold-out Stamford Bridge with three thousand Barcelona supporters huddled beneath flags where the roof didn’t quite reach to cover the stand.

Vicky, Jana and Esmee sat in the dugout with their knees bouncing, warm-up jacket zipped up all the way to their chins despite the humidity of the April air. Beside them sat Alexia, her hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago, and Marta Torrejón, both barking at the kids to stay quiet when the referee did not seem to make close calls. When Jonatan had told them they would not start, sitting here now seemed like madness, watching Chelsea’s midfield compress space for Keira, leaving her completely out of the game, no ball reaching her.

Once Aitana’s ball hit the net, everyone was on their feet before they knew it. Alexia’s hands found Jana’s shoulder, but her eyes still tracked the celebration on the pitch with the calculating intensity of the general watching a battle.

Then came the second half, and with it, the war.

Alexia watched Chelsea retreat into their defensive shell, the red card forcing them into desperation, and saw Jonatan’s mind working from the outside. Watched him pace, his hands in his pockets, his eyes tracking the spaces opening up on the flanks where Buchanan's absence left gaps like missing teeth. She wanted to be out there, wanted her cleats on the grass, wanted to feel the rain in her face instead of watching it bead on the pitch in front of her.

Age. It all came down to age and injuries. She was thirty years old, and her knee was to be held together by tape and hope, a child’s hope, a hope she once held when coming to Camp Nou with her dad– one day she was to shine there. She knew that Jonatan was saving her for Bilbao, if they made it to Bilbao.

When the penalty came, the midfielder watched the referee's hand point to the spot, watched the Chelsea players surround him in protest, and counted the minutes remaining like a plea. If Frido scored now, there would have been fifteen minutes to hold a lead. Fifteen minutes to survive. So, she did convert it, the net rippling and the fans erupting. Alexia was on her feet, finally, now pulling Vicky into her chest, feeling the heartbeat of someone who had not yet learned that victories could be taken away as quickly as they were given.

“Stay calm,” she found herself saying into Vicky's ear, though no one had asked for instruction. “Stay calm. It's not over.”

She entered the pitch on the ninety-second and then it was over. Chelsea had nothing left and Barcelona had every single thing in the world, the tension leaving Alexia’s body in a rush that made her dizzy. She watched teammates collapse onto the London grass like puppets with cut strings. Bilbao was surely coming.

The changing room felt small, too hot and too loud and that’s where she stood as the center of stability, the captain’s armband still cutting into her bicep and felt the responsibility settle over her shoulders like something she couldn’t quite fully remove. She watched Jana and Selma shriek and chase each other around the changing room, her mind already drifting back to Lyon, back to the clips she was pretty conscious she had watched on repeat of that nineteen-year-old who had no business but to come out of nowhere.

“Alexia,” Mapi said, appearing in front of her with a bottle of water that was definitely not water. “Drink. You’re scaring the children.”

“I am not scaring anyone,” the midfielder replied, but she took the bottle.

“Pues estás aquí como si alguien hubiera muerto. We won.”

“I know we won?”

“Then act like we are going to Bilbao, carallota.”

She let herself be pulled along. That was the trick of it, something she had learned over the years– let them pull you, when you were just allowing the current to carry you where you needed to go. They went to a bar in Kensington, the back room with the low ceiling and the owner who already knew their names, because Lucy and Keira had already sneaked out from the hotel and had booked the whole bar to themselves even if Barcelona would have lost tonight.

That same bar had a weird duality to it, a particular warmth of a place that had given up trying to be a proper business and had simply surrendered to the chaos of becoming a full-stacked pub with the chaos of twenty-three footballers celebrating their upcoming final and the horrific smell of piss. Alexia sat with her back against the brick wall, the dampness seeping through her jacket as she watched her teammates. Mapi had her arms draped over Ingrid’s shoulders, laughing at something Jana had said in that deadpan way of hers, that sometimes had people wondering if she was aware that she existed.

Anyway, everything was funny now.

Even the idea that they were going to Bilbao seemed funny.

Alexia nursed the drink Patri had pressed into her hand a few seconds earlier– something clear and something that burned– no matter how much protesting it took to hand her it, as they were still midseason. She let the warmth loosen the knot that had been tied in her chest since before London, since before everything.

The music had shifted to something Catalan and nostalgic, with Cata protesting as a proud Canarian to turn it off, but it didn’t matter as half the room was shouting lyrics that didn't quite match the actual words anyway.

It was good. It was family.

There was a space beside her where someone should have been and Alexia kept catching herself turning her head to say something to empty air.

Olga had been acting weird for weeks before London. She was distant in that way that usually meant she was upset about something but wouldn’t say what unless she was asked, answering texts with emojis and nothing else, cancelling each time Alexia found a space in her busy end-of-season schedule to meet. The problem was that they hadn’t exactly fought. There was a gradual cooling that Alexia had felt happening and had chosen to ignore because there was Chelsea at Camp Nou and then there was Lyon with a kid who probably wasn’t even worth the trouble and how could she explain that her head was full of diagrams when Olga ever wanted to talk about was feelings?

And now she was back in Barcelona, probably at some launch party or dinner with her friends, posting stories that Alexia had stopped checking because seeing her smile at a camera felt like swallowing glass. She’d seen the cryptic caption under one of her posts earlier– protegiendo mi paz– and she liked it before shoving her phone into her pocket just for the sake of not causing a scene.

She should text or call. Maybe both to sort it out.

The thought felt as heavy as wet concrete. Truth was, she wasn’t even eager to sort it out. She didn’t want to have a conversation about how she had been absent, how she had prioritized her career over everything, when she knew that was true and didn’t even want to fight it. Alexia wanted to sit here in this piss-smelling pub with her stupidly happy teammates and pretend that her chest didn’t feel hollow when she looked at her phone.

When Patri knocked her shoulder against Alexia’s to ask what she was so thoroughly thinking about, she considered lying for the sake of it being easy.

Just thinking about Renard’s aerial threat. Tall defender, you know, something Mapi clearly lacks.

The last part came to her when she saw Ingrid first lean into the defender’s side and melt into an easygoing smile when she most likely heard something filthy from her.

“Olga,” she said instead, because Patri had the face that invited confession.

“Ah.” Patri nodded, staring out at the room where Ona was currently attempting to balance a teaspoon on her nose while Jana filmed it. “No ha venido, did she?”

“She’s being weird,” Alexia supplied instead of the answer. “She is being weird. And I am being weird. It’s all–” she gestured vaguely with her glass, not noticing how she spilled a bit on her jeans, “I have to sort it out when we get back. Talk or whatever.”

“You don’t want to.”

“I really don’t want to.”

“Because?”

Alexia swallowed the last of her drink, feeling it burn all of the way down. “Because I am scared I will choose this,” she said, quiet enough for Patri to sway on her feet before leaning in. “Every time. I am scared I will choose the team, all the people in this room before her and then I will keep resenting it, because I couldn’t afford losing this over her. And because I also don’t want to know if that’s who I am.”

Patri went silent for a moment, watching Jana finally succeed and win Ona at holding her spoon on her nose and shriek with triumph. “Or,” she said slowly, “podría ser que te da miedo que ella no entenderá que esa de aquí eres tú. That all the people here are your family and she has to share.”

“That’s the same thing,” she sighed. “She knows that being here matters to me.”

“It is not,” Patri brushed off her jeans, her movements a bit unsteady. “One is about you being bad,” she repeated, pointing a finger at Alexia. “The other is about you being complicated. You are complicated, capitana. Not bad.”

She thought of Noé, somewhere across the Channel, probably sitting in silence, probably reviewing tactical clips, probably preparing for Paris with grim determination. She thought of the Barcelona clips she had watched, the way her eyes tracked the ball before it arrived, the way she played with a fury that could be easily mistaken for hunger.

The Catalan had been that young once. Had played with that feeling, before the trophies and the injuries and the responsibility had taught her that survival meant keeping control, that winning meant discipline, that joy was a luxury you could only afford in small doses.

Alexia opened her mouth to argue or thank her– she wasn’t sure which– but Patri had already caught herself on the brick wall with one hand and she took it as a sign to stop listening to her as a whole.

“Ven,” Patri said, nudging Alexia’s knee with her own. “Stand up. You look too sad like this.”

“I am not sad–” she got cut off as Guijarro pulled her up and she let herself be maneuvered, the room tilting slightly before finally settling. “Look.”

She gestured towards the bar, where Lucy had appeared from the direction of the bathrooms. She was wearing a ridiculous bright yellow jacket, sleeves pulled down over her hands, looking like a disheveled lighthouse in the dim bar. She spotted them and wandered over, collapsing onto the chair where Alexia sat with a dramatic sigh.

“Save me,” the English said.

“From?” Patri narrowed her eyes.

“Keira’s over there talking to Frido about distribution patterns,” Lucy said, gesturing toward te bar where they stood. “She has been doing that for twenty minutes.”

“Who the fuck even talks about distribution patterns outside of training?” Patri asked, her eyes narrowing with more of a disgusted look.

“Right, so,” Lucy sighs before continuing. “I think she is avoiding me.”

Alexia and Patri exchanged a look.

“What?”

“Nada,” Alexia said carefully. “Just.. you two split up a while ago. The avoiding seems mutual at this point.”

Lucy waved a hand, grabbing Patri’s drink and taking a sip without asking. “I know, I know. But.. we were together for more of a while than we have been avoiding each other and now she's explaining throw-ins to Frido and I am–” she looked around the bar, her eyes landing on the corner booth where Ona sat with Jana. “I'm trying to avoid Ona, actually.”

Patri nearly choked on her drink. “Ona?”

“She's being very..” Lucy searched for the word, her face flushing slightly. “Attentive.” They all looked toward the booth. Ona had apparently noticed Lucy's arrival, when merely speaking it was impossible not to, since Lucy was wearing that ridiculous bright yellow hoodie that could probably be seen from space, but was playing it cool, listening to Jana tell some story with her full attention while somehow also keeping Lucy in her peripheral vision. It was smooth. Annoyingly smooth.

“She bought me a drink when we went out in Gràcia,” Lucy admitted.

“That's–” Patri started.

“Smooth,” Alexia finished. “She's smooth.” “What is?” Mapi interrupted, leaving her girlfriend behind and moving at a quick pace towards their corner. “Who is smooth?” She followed their collective gaze toward the booth, where Ona had abandoned her pretense of listening to Jana and was now leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, watching their corner with the patience of a cat outside a mouse hole. “Oh.”

“She’s twenty-four,” Lucy groaned. “What does she want with me? I am ancient and broken. I am—”

“Hot,” Patri shouted towards the booth, clearly not as focused on her volume as she had pretended. “She wants you because you are hot, Lucy! Stop being dense!”

Keira shot Alexia a sympathetic glance from across the room and the Catalan could practically feel the second hand embarrassment she was getting from both Lucy and Patri by her side, as the entire bar went quiet for a second and then suddenly erupted in laughter.

Ona, for her part, didn’t even flinch, in a conversation with the younger girls now– Esmee, Vicky, Salma and Jana all surrounding her.

“Oh my god,” Lucy whispered.

Jana had given up in a few minutes and wandered over, holding a beer that she definitely shouldn’t have had access to. “All of you should control yourselves, because everyone can hear you from all the way over there. Ona has been planning the drink part for weeks,” she informed them cheerfully without any worry in the whole wide world. “She’s got a whole strategy. She even asked Patri what you usually drink.”

“She did not,” Lucy said.

“She did,” the Spanish midfielder wasn’t slow at confirming it either. “I told her you prefer beer cause you are English and the English are simple people with simple tastes.”

“Thanks.”

“I also told her you cry during Disney movies with Spanish voiceovers because you don’t understand a single thing and you are vulnerable.”

“Patri–”

“What? Soy una buena amiga. To both of you,” Patri grinned, unrepentant. “Ona’s my girl. But you are my girl too. I am just making it easier for both of you.”

Alexia watched the chaos unfold with the alcohol buzzing through her and summoning some sort of affection until Patri settled on the floor next to Jana, the two of them leaning on each other like puppies in a pile.

“Jana’s going to be sick later,” she predicted, looking at the new beer that had by magic reappeared in her hand, even though she remembered perfectly well that she was the one who gave up her third drink to her.

“I am not,” Jana protested. “I am as much of an athlete as all of you are.”

“You are a child.”

“I am a mature–” she hiccupped. “Okay, maybe I need water.” Mapi laughed and went to fetch some, catching Lucy by the arm to bring her to the bar– somewhat closer to Ona, leaving Alexia standing with both Jana and Patri at her feet.

“You okay, capitana?” Patri asked, looking up with eyes that were surprisingly clear despite the alcohol.

“Yeah,” she replied, watching Mapi navigate the crowd with three water bottles balanced in her hands. “Yeah, I'm good. We're going to Bilbao.”

“We’re going to Bilbao,” Jana repeated, and hiccupped again. “And Ona’s going to get laid.”

“Jana!”

“What? It’s true.”

April 2024: Present Day - Parc des Princes, Paris

The final whistle dissolved into the sound of the roaring away section– something between a thin whine that seemed to come from the bright stadium lights themselves rather than the referee. Noé stood motionless at the center circle of the pitch, her chest heaving from running and the badge ironically plastered to her ribs with sweat that had cooled rapidly in the Paris evening air.

The scoreboard confirmed what her body already knew: 2-1. Aggregate 5-3.

Around her, Paris-Saint-Germain players fell to their knees, fingers clawing at the turf as if they could try and dig their way back into the game. Chawinga was a few meters away, her face buried in her palms, shoulders shaking as proof of her tears– grief of elimination. The Parc des Princes, which was a hostile homeground for Lyon’s biggest rivals, suddenly went quiet, their ultras suspended in a moment of disappointment. Katoto, whom she had held down on a leash in the first game, was now getting comforted by Noé’s veteran teammates, as she was their national team teammate.

The midfielder looked down at her own hands. They were not far off the hands of those who lost, also trembling, though not from cold, but from the aftershock of ninety-four minutes on pitch. Her shins throbbed where Karchaoui had raked her studs a few minutes before halftime and she could already see past her hands, where the skin had started blooming with a forming bruise. She could taste copper in her mouth from an air duel during a corner, when she had knocked her head with de Almeida and had to stay on the ground for a few minutes when they checked her. Paris had most definitely targeted her, but the reality didn’t take long to settle in.

Wendie was the first to reach her.

The captain moved across the pitch, looking massive in the floodlights of Paris. She didn’t speak once she reached her, simply placed one hand on Noé’s shoulder to ground her and when the midfielder looked up, she nodded once, the gesture small and private before pulling her in, her chest solid against Noé’s cheek, smelling of grass and tape.

They were going to Bilbao.

Of course, the thought didn’t arrive quickly, but it came as if in a language she had only started to learn. The Champions League final, the biggest stage in club football. The destination that had a year ago seemed like something that will never feature in her life, but in somebody else’s.

She had won the Trophee des Championes last fall– her first professional trophy with the club and then she had realised that her best moments happened not when she was told to wait, but she made the decision herself to stop waiting. This was what it was now.

Someone opened a bottle of champagne that got sneaked in by one of the club official’s, whom Delphine had nominated as their secret-bearer, and sprayed it across the ceiling tiles and the room. Noé came into the changing room jumping and shrieking, but now she sat without her shirt on, gave it away to one of the fans in the away sector, on the bench before her locker, the plastic creaking as she shifted her weight from side to side. The French stared at the whiteboard in front of her– in the middle of the room– where Sonia had written in black marker during halftime, Une de faite. Maintenant, on va à Bilbao.

She had stared at those words while retying her laces almost an hour earlier, finding the words too hard to carry even though they were still one up during halftime. Now, watching the ink smudge slightly from the champagne being sprayed around, the phrase felt like something Sonia had put in their heads before the match ended, One down. Now, we go to Bilbao.

“Hey,” Melchie slid onto the bench beside her, radiating with a smile that never reached her eyes after scoring a goal on the eightieth. She bumped her shoulder with her fist, the contact solid and warm. “You good? Doesn’t look like you believe it, do you?”

“Yeah,” the French said automatically, almost as if shielding herself without thought.

But Dumornay was already pulling her up, her grip insistent and Noé found herself standing as Cascarino cranked up the volume on her giant portable speaker, the changing room suddenly becoming a nightclub once everyone realised that Delphine has done Danielle a favour and added her Spotify account to her playlist so she could edit it with some of her own techno, which was accompanied by Carpenter’s whines and groans about how this was not fair.

Selma was at the center of it, shirtless now, swinging her jersey over her head and jumping on the bench. She had taken someone’s phone (this someone was likely to be Morroni, by the way she was trying to snatch the phone out of her hand) and was attempting to film a TikTok, her free hand calling everyone up to her. Somewhere in the middle of it, Wendie got grabbed from behind by Cascarino, forcing her massive frame into a sway in the frame, the two of them moving like two giants and Bacha was surely happy with the results until she wasn’t.

“Noé, get in the frame!” Selma shouted, her voice cutting through the music.

The midfielder allowed herself to be pulled into the shot by Dumornay, who was making sure everybody knew Noé was rooming with her in Bilbao and that had caused a warm feeling of affection to form inside of her, which quickly got disrupted by Selma who really got into moving her hips in exaggerated circles right in front of her amid filming a video. She filmed three takes and on the fourth, Ellie had sprayed champagne directly at the camera, the lens blurring with golden droplets and the group started a chant.

Melchie was standing on a bench, her feet bare, her phone in one hand as she attempted to FaceTime her cousin back in Haiti, shouting something incomprehensive into the screen while the team screamed behind her.

Music was layered over music, having someone change the song in the middle of another one, switching to a French rap that half the room knew by heart and the other half was forced to improvise.

Selma grabbed Noé’s hands again, pulling her away from the wall where she’d retreated. “Ah– non, non, non–” she shouted. “You don’t get to hide tonight.”

The midfielder was forced to dance, do whatever to make her teammates happy, earning chants from the room surrounding her as they started filming again until someone called for a group photo and they piled together, a heap of bodies with each one in a different state of undressed– some in towels, some still in kits, others naked and unashamed. Noé found herself crushed between Diani and Endler, the unnecessary camera flash blinding her.

Then, everyone went back to their individual celebrations and she stood there watching her teammates celebrate. Everyone was aware that they drank not just to celebrate, but to forget those ninety minutes of terror and the pressure of the aggregate score, the way they have been so close to elimination anyway.

“Why are you standing still?” Selma demanded, appearing in front of her again, her face flushed, her eyes bright with alcohol and adrenaline. She had two phones now– hers and Morroni’s, attempting to finish a transition video. “You’re supposed to be happy, Noé. This is the happy part.”

“I am happy,” Noé said, but her voice was lost in the music, swallowed by the bass.

“What?”

“I’m happy!” Noé shouted.

Selma studied her for a second, not realising the phone was still recording. Then she grinned full of knowing mischief and pulled Noé into a hug that smelled like sweat and champagne and grape juice. “Liar,” she whispered into Noé’s ear, but it was soft, almost tender. “But you’re a cute liar. Viens danser.”

This time Noé gave in, spun Bacha around as she requested and watched Melchie attempt to teach Wendie the steps to Haitian kompa and some of the younger players record every single thing onto their private Snapchat story. The midfielder danced until her thighs burned the same way they did on field, until her bruise on the shin screamed and accepted the hugs and the sweaty kisses on her cheeks from teammates who loved her in this moment, in this room, even if she couldn’t quite feel it.

The taxi smelled of cigarettes and vanilla air freshener, a combination that made Noé’s stomach churn when the driver drove through the narrow streets of Croix-Rousse. Winning had never meant celebrating at Lyon, they weren’t that type of team. Everyone simply went home, recovered and came back to work the next morning, which meant this had taken planning. Melchie had booked a table at a club for the evening after they returned to Lyon and invited Selma had insisted Delphine come. Vicki had agreed before anyone even asked Noé, correctly assuming that she would say yes if Melchie was going.

She was dressed in charcoal trousers, a white tank she had tucked into the waistband and a black linen shirt thrown over the top, unbuttoned despite the evening cold. The sleeves were unevenly pushed up, one stopping slightly higher than the other because she had done it carelessly as soon as she sat inside the taxi. Her phone buzzed against her thigh, vibrating through the fabric of her trousers.

Marianne Arnaud.

Noé stared at the name, watching it light up the dark interior of the cab and answered the call just as the driver took a turn sharp enough to press her shoulder into the cold window.

The line connected with a click and Marianne’s voice filled the cab with an immediate urgency to it. “Are you driving?”

“No,” the midfielder replied. “I am in a taxi right now, Melchie booked a table somewhere. We are going out.”

A pause.

“Did you see today’s coverage?” the agent asked.

Noé closed her eyes, feeling the bruise on her shin Sakina had left a few days ago throbbing in time with her heartbeat. “No.”

“Prepare yourself then. You will need a distraction after this,” Marianne sighed before dropping the bomb. “L’Équipe has you on the front page. Apparently, you are the reason Lyon are in the final. Sonia’s decision to start you has shocked everyone in a good way.”

The taxi driver’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, curious, then away.

“I didn’t know they were going to–”

“Adidas called me a few hours after the papers got stocked. Convert called– the marketing head of football. Noé, they are not sniffing around anymore. They are wanting to build a campaign. Listen to me, they want you as the face of the new Predator cleats they are planning to release as a part of the Stellar Icon Pack ahead of the Olympics. They want to build a positive brand image and you are hot right now, you are the disruption Yoann wants. He mentioned your performances this season and he complimented them.”

“The Olympics?” Noé frowned, watching the streetlamps blur past, streaks of orange against the dark facades. “I haven’t even been called up once for France.”

She shook her head. “They should be trying to get someone who is actually going.”

“They are not trying to buy the Olympics, Noé. They are trying to buy momentum, because if you make the squad, they will be geniuses. If you don’t, you are still a nineteen-year-old who exploded out of nowhere on Europe’s biggest stage this season,” Marianne tried to explain.

“How much?”

“Does it matter?” Marianne’s voice sharpened again. “Look, it is more than Lyon pays you right now. It is more than most players in the league see in three seasons. That is not why I am calling.”

The taxi hit a pothole, jarring Noé’s spine and making her grip the door handle.

“Back to the Olympics,” Marianne continued, her accent thickening around the anglicisms, opting for a safer way to deliver the information. “The FFF called again. Now, they moved your name to the preliminary list for Paris. Hervé wants you in Clairefontaine next month. They are talking about you as the future of their midfield, someone who could replace Geyoro once she ages out. They, at their pace, are building timelines. Three years already bring a trip to Switzerland for EUROs and a flight to Brazil. They need to look for options and they see you in Bleu.”

“Are you telling me I have to decide my entire future in– what? A week?” Noé closed her eyes. The image came unbidden– the navy blue shirt, the cockerel crest, the weight of eighty million expectations. “I’m nineteen,” she said quietly.

“I know how old you are, chérie. I have your passport in my filing cabinet. You are nineteen and you are playing a Champions League final in three weeks. Wendie occasionally calls me to make sure you are protected, because she doesn’t want to come up to you and ask– she knows you will deflect and she thinks it is weird for her to be talking about your contracts to you in person. For God’s sake, you are nineteen and you’ve got the biggest sportswear brand in Europe that runs an oligopoly dreaming to design cleats with your name outside of concepts,” Marianne paused, letting it all settle in and Noé was pretty sure she could hear her own heart thudding against her ribcage. “But here’s the thing– I don’t give a fuck. I want this to be clear– I do not care what Hervé wants. Neither do I care what Sonia needs from you next season, or what Adidas thinks your market value is. I have represented players who let this whole machine of football and media eat them whole– become what everyone wanted until there was nothing left but the wanting.”

“I just got here– to Lyon. I just started playing regularly. The Champions League final is in three weeks. I haven’t even thought about–”

“You don’t have to think about it tonight,” Marianne interrupted. “But you need to start thinking about it. The FFF wants an answer in principle by next Monday, so whatever you think of right now, you can still change. They need to know if you’re committed, because if you’re not, they have to look at other options. There’s a girl at Montpellier they’re considering, but they made it clear that you are their first choice.”

The taxi stopped at a red light. Noé watched a couple walking into a bistro, laughing and leaning into each other.

“You asked me once why I took you on,” Marianne continued, her voice dropping and with it– losing its professional tone. “Wendie called me and said she had seen and she had thought, this girl doesn’t know how to fail. I did not know why I took you— seventeen and stupid– I am sorry, Noé– but so damn stupid. I only understood why when I visited you in that rehab room two years ago and you didn’t even ask about your contract or the coverage for your injury. You asked if you’d ever feel the ball again or run without thinking about your knee again. You looked pathetic and you were thinking about the game, not the money.”

Noé’s throat tightened.

“So now you’ve got Lyon wanting your pen on paper to sign an extension until summer 2028. You have the Federation wanting to fast-track you into the senior squad for the Olympics when you could still easily go and play some friendlies for the under-nineteens. Adidas wants to put your face on billboards from Paris to the South Coast. And I am sitting here, offloading all of this on you, all the spreadsheets of offers in front of me and I am wondering– what does Noé want?” The question seemed thick and suffocating. Noé pressed her palm against her stomach, feeling the muscle there, tense and knotted.

“What do you want?” Marianne repeated. “Not what you should want, not what makes sense. What do you actually want? Because if I sign these papers, if I say yes to all of them, you will be locked in a cage made of other people’s expectations before you have time to turn twenty.”

Noé looked out at the street. She figured the taxi was close now– she could hear the distant thump of bass from the clubs and bars they were passing by. Her friends were somewhere in there, not a bother in this world.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” she said and admitting it for once had felt easy. “The season’s already– Marianne, I am exhausted. My legs feel like they’re going to fall off. I have bruises on top of bruises. And Bilbao is– Bilbao is everything. If we win, I want to– I don’t know. I just hope we win,” she breathed out, even though not knowing felt foreign, but that was the most she could push out in the rawness of the moment. “I just want to stop feeling hollow each time I win.”

The silence on the line lingered until it was disrupted by the older woman.

“Then that’s what we will negotiate with them for,” Marianne replied softly. “Not the money or the caps, even though I know the caps matter more than you allow them to. We will fight for space and for time. For the sake of them knowing that you are young and not a product they can sell off quickly. You tell the FFF you will come to camp, but you don’t promise them you will play and Lyon will get the pen on paper, unless you don’t want that part, but only if they let you breathe.”

“Or you can also say no.”

“I can’t say no,” Noé laughed, but it came out broken. “It’s the Olympics. In Paris. How do you say no to the Olympics in your own country?”

The taxi pulled up to the curb. Noé could see Delphine standing next to the entrance, Selma fiddling with the collar of her shirt and desperately trying to fix it.

“I know that it is not what the Federation wants,” Marianne said with an anchoring tone, trying to ground Noé’s thoughts as though she could feel them. “It is not what Lyon or Adidas want for you as a new, still establishing brand, but you have always been about yourself and you are allowed to want things that don’t make sense when signing papers, or once again, not signing them. That is happy and you are allowed to feel like that.”

“They are asking now,” Noé said. “They want me now and I still don’t think–”

“Then you say, Thank you for the opportunity, but I need to prioritize my physical and mental health, or you can say: I’m honoured, but I’m not ready. You say whatever you need to say, Noé. You’re nineteen, you said it yourself. You have all the time in the world.”

“What if they won’t want me in four years–”

“EUROs, World Cup, Nations League. I am saying– all the time in the world,” Marianne sighed. “They are asking now because you are trending and having you in the squad would convince sponsors that the federation is investing in youth. That’s just how it works.”

The midfielder pinched the bridge of her nose in defeat and quietly asked, “What do you think I should do?”

“I think,” Marianne offered carefully, “that you’re the most talented player I have represented in fifteen years. Adidas is what you deserve, but maybe, asking them for time is the right thing to do. Lyon on the other hand, is where things get complicated– they are offering you a lot, but it will be hard to leave. Four years is a long time, you don’t know who you will be at twenty-three. Then, I also think you are running on fumes. If you play the Olympics this summer, you are risking burning out by Christmas. I have seen it happen– all kinds of brilliant girls who say yes to everything because either they chased money or they were afraid to simply disappoint anyone and by the time they turned twenty-two, they were physically, mentally, broken.”

Noé’s throat tightened.

“But,” Marianne continued, “I also think that playing in the home Olympics is something that happens once in your entire life. I think that the whole experience of representing your country and living through smaller things, like the village, at such a big stage is something you would carry with you forever. So, on the other hand I think that if you say no, you will spend the rest of your career wondering what would have happened if you had said yes.”

“What’s the timeline?” the French asked her agent.

“Monday for the preliminary yes. Then you’d need to pass medicals in May, after the league playoffs. The final roster gets announced in June, after the final in Bilbao. If you’re on it, you’re committed and there won’t be any backing out unless you are injured. They want to see you at Clairefontaine June 25th. The tournament runs July 25th to August 10th.”

Noé did the math around it. Champions League in the finals of May. Olympic camp June 25th. Essentially three weeks of rest, then, if God allows it, a month of high-intensity tournament football and straight into pre-season.

“What about Lyon?” “There is no official offer yet, but they reached out about it as a suggestion, but they will be slowly becoming more insistent on your decision, but you don’t have to worry about them for now.”

A moment of quiet passed.

“I need to think,” she said and paid the driver as soon as he pulled in, opening the taxi door and letting the cool night air rush in. “I’ll call you in the next few days.”

As quick as a hawk, Selma had immediately dropped her act with fixing the shirt and rushed over to Noé before the midfielder held up a finger, asking for a moment.

“You better,” Marianne said, and Noé could hear the smile in her voice, tired but genuine. “And Noé? Buy a suit. The final is in three weeks, you’ll need to look the part.”

The line went dead.

Melchie was already by Selma’s side, taking the first step and pulling Noé into a side-hug, wrapping one arm around her. “Thought you’d changed your mind.”

“No,” Noé said, forcing a smile. “Just football.”

“Agent?”

“Yeah.”

“Good news?”

Noé looked at her teammate, at the joy radiating from her, it seemed so uncomplicated and pure. She thought about telling her, probably would have if it wasn’t for the other three girls gathering around her.

“She was just talking about the future,” Noé said instead.

Delphine landed a friendly pat on her shoulder which seemed closer to a slap, while Melchie was already pulling her towards the door. “Well, the future can wait. Tonight is for us, for Lyon.”

Noé had lost track of time– still somewhere between Melchie dragging her to dance and Selma spilling gin on her own shirt and sending the French to buy her a new one at the bar. She had ordered two, one for herself even though she didn’t particularly want it at the start of the night, but was more focused on using the surface of the counter as an anchor against the spinning room around her than ordering something else.

The tequila shots which Cascarino couldn’t stop ordering at the very start of the night had finally caught up with her, or maybe it was the vague pink drink Vicki had ordered that tasted like watermelon after which Noé had exaggeratedly performed choking herself once she tried it. Whatever it was, the midfielder was drunk– properly, stupidly drunk, having her shoulders drop away from her ears, easing the tension settled in the expression on her face and allowing herself to dance with every girl that came up to her on the dancefloor. Wasn’t thinking about anything except the sweat on her neck and how irritating it was.

She put hands on a girl’s waist, some foreigner– guiri, was the first thought– blonde and shorter than her, wearing a skirt that caught the light in a way Noé would have hated to ignore. Pressed her front to the guiri’s back, rolling her hips in motion to find the blonde’s ass even when her hands hovered for a second, unsure, then settled on gripping on the fabric covering the girl’s hips, partly wandering off to grip her flesh as well because the alternative was letting her hands hang and she was too drunk for any sense of dignity, thought that the girl was too, so she wouldn’t remember her face by the next morning anyway.

Up close, the blonde looked even more stunning, but it was probably the way she looked Noé up and down before trying to pull her towards the bathrooms ten minutes into them dancing. The girl had told her that she was quiet, her breath hot and wilding, which had quickly earned a loose chuckle and dismissal from the midfielder. Noé leaned in close enough to feel the girl’s breath hitch, then darted her head to the side at the last second, her mouth ended up brushing her ear instead of her lips. “You’re too pretty to remember,” she murmured some nonsense and pulled back with a grin that was all teeth and no promise.

The girl had blinked, confused, then laughed too, swatting at Noé’s shoulder and calling her something in a foreign language, the player convinced it was some kind of swear word she couldn’t really recognise and Noé was smiling. She hadn’t ended up giving her number to the girl, she never would.

The midfielder had already turned away to find her next target. It wasn’t that hard when most people inside the room were already too drunk to see clearly and no matter how hard Noé tried to avoid girls who seemed to be very much straight and looking around for a guy– she couldn’t care less in the moment. So, with the tequila, or whatever it was, already humming in her veins, she let the crowd carry her towards the next body. She found a girl with darker hair than the last one, wearing something metallic that caught the strobes. Noé didn’t ask– just pressed forward once the girl’s eyes had met hers, her hands finding her waist and her mouth finding the curve of her neck, where she tasted salt, perfume and something sweet like vanilla. The girl gasped, then laughed, her hands coming up to grip Noé’s hips, pulling her closer.

“Easy, tiger.”

Melchie materialized out of nowhere, her braids swinging, her hands landing on Noé’s shoulders and turning her around before she could go any further with the poor girl. “Half Lyon is grinding on you right now. Leave some for the others.”

“I am being friendly,” Noé protested, but she was grinning, her face hot, her whole body loose and buzzing.

“You're being a menace,” Melchie corrected, but she was laughing, her forehead dropping against Noé’s shoulder. “Delphine’s trying to get the bartender to make Selma something called a French Revolution and it's getting embarrassing. Come help me save them.”

“She sent me to buy her a gin–” “And you bought two, then downed both of them yourself. Don’t you remember?” Melchie looped her arm through Noé's, tugging her away from the dark-haired girl, who pouted but found someone else immediately.

Mel steered her through the crush of bodies toward the corner booth where the rest of them had taken up all of the space. Selma was indeed perched on the bar counter, her legs swinging, shouting liberté, égalité, fraternité at the poor bartender who was trying to explain that if she didn’t tell him what the contents of the drink were, he wouldn’t be able to make it. Delphine was now standing beside her, phone in hand, filming the whole thing with the dedication of documenting history.

“She’s going to get us kicked out,” Melchie observed, but for some reason she didn’t sound the slightest bit concerned.

Vicki appeared from the direction of the bathrooms, face flushed, holding shots that she distributed efficiently. “Noé! There you are. We thought you left with that blonde.” “Yeah, no,” the Haitian midfielder standing by her side corrected her. “That blonde was like ages ago, I had to pull her away from some other girl.” “Hormones of a teenager they say,” Noé knocked the shot back. It tasted like peppermint and she started to wonder why every drink Vicki offered had to taste worse than the previous one. “Where’s Cascarino?” “With Selma,” Melchie pointed at both of them, Selma with her arms above her head and the poor bartender now working around her feet without trying to stop her.

“We should get them down,” Vicki said.

“We should get you down, connard,” Selma countered, sliding off the counter and landing unsteadily on her heels. “Noé, come. We dance.”

Melchie shot Selma a glance, clearly weirded out by her response. “I am danced out,” Noé shouted over the music. Selma grabbed her hand, her grip strong and sure, pulling her toward the small space between the bar and the booth. “Come on, then we can find you another girl.”

They ended up dancing in that cramped corner, or rather swaying, pressed too close together to really move. Noé’s hands found Selma’s waist, her thumbs pressing into the hollow of the defender’s hips through the fabric of her jeans. Selma let her own hands settle on Noé’s shoulders, feeling the vibration of her laughter against her chest.

Somewhere throughout the second song they were dancing to, Selma’s forehead dropped against Noé’s shoulder, her breath hot through the cotton of the shirt.

“You’re warm,” Selma mumbled.

“You’re really drunk,” Noé said, but she didn't pull away. She let her hands slide up, one finding the back of Selma’s neck, her fingers tangling in the hair there, pulling her head back slightly. Selma looked up at her, eyes half-lidded, her mouth slightly open, and Noé felt the booze humming in her veins, felt the space between them shrinking as Selma leaned in–

“Okay, no.” A hand appeared between them, physically pushing Selma away from Noé. Cascarino, suddenly there, her palm now flat against Noé’s forehead like she was checking for a fever, when the midfielder stood there– her hands lifted in surrender, like she was about to give herself in to the police. “Absolutely not. Not happening.” “What?” Selma protested, trying to duck around her hand, but Delphine just pressed harder against her, pushing her backward.

“You two are gross,” Delphine said, firm despite her own obvious drunkenness. “And you are not doing this, not while I’m watching. Teammates don’t kiss teammates unless it is Ellie and Danielle who have been together for longer than I have played professionally."

“We’re just dancing,” Noé finally slurred out. “I wasn’t going to kiss her.” “You were just about to make a huge mistake,” Melchie added, appearing at Delphine’s shoulder, her arms crossed. “Noé, step away from the French girl.” “This one is French too,” Noé pointed out, gesturing vaguely at herself.

“You are not French, you are a menace,” Melchie corrected. “And Selma is–” she waved her hand, searching for the word. “Vulnerable. In a glitter shirt. It's not fair.”

Noé let Cascarino’s hand push her back another step, felt the cool air rush in between her and Selma where there had been heat. She should have been annoyed, should have argued, but she was too drunk, too loose, and Delphine’s palm against her forehead felt almost like affection, like someone caring enough to stop her from doing something stupid.

“Fine,” Noé said, raising her hands in surrender once again. “Fine. Promis, je vais pas rouler une pelle à Selma.”

“Good girl,” Melchie said, and steered her toward the bar with a hand between her shoulder blades. “Now come help me convince the bartender to make us something involving fire. I want to see flames.”

Noé let Melchie push her onto a bar stool and let Vicki, who had appeared to be by her side all this time, slide a glass of water into her hand instead of another shot– the coolness clearing the fog just for a bit. They were looking out for her, she realised, in their own way. Not letting her disappear into a stranger's mouth, not letting her become the girl who made out with teammates in public bars just because she was drunk and sad and lonely underneath it all. Was thankful, she thought. It had always been like that with Selma anyway, easy and frictionless, understanding as teammates and their friendship definitely did not need to be complicated by mouths or hands or the awkward day after. She would have thought the same thing if anyone else was in her spot, whether it was Mel, Vicki or Delphine.

The tequila had taken what belonged to it and the loneliness took place, seeking for the closest person who seemed convenient, familiar and safe which made her relieved that she wouldn’t have to explain tomorrow that she didn’t feel that way, that she couldn’t imagine feeling that way, especially when she was the one standing still and Selma had been the one who leaned in.

“You are good friends,” Noé announced to the room at large.

“Terrible friends,” Melchie corrected. “The worst. Now drink your water before you die.”

#woso #barcelona femeni #woso fanfics #woso writers #angst #barca femeni #olympique lyonnais #woso community #alexia putellas x oc #alexia putellas

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