Fault Lines (Final/Part 3)
Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (Y/N)
Summary: You were hired to keep FC Barcelona Femení at their physical best — not to get entangled with their captain. Alexia Putellas, however, doesn’t make it easy. She notices your calm professionalism, your refusal to orbit her like everyone else does, and the way your humour cuts through even her most careful walls.
She asks you for coffee. Then to hang out with the team. Then for more.
After the dinner, something loosened in Alexia. She walked lighter, laughed easier. She even teased you in the physio room once, a dry remark about your handwriting that made Mapi gasp theatrically like she’d seen a ghost.
And you — you didn’t shut it down. You allowed the warmth, the nearness. You even caught yourself smiling when she lingered at the doorway, not with tension, but with ease.
It was enough to embolden her.
So one evening, as you were packing away resistance bands, she leaned against the counter, casual but with a restless flicker in her eyes.
“Y/N,” she said, voice low. “Can I ask you something not about football?”
You glanced up warily. “Depends.”
She smiled faintly. “Depends, hmm? That sounds like a yes.”
You arched a brow. “Or a very firm maybe.”
Her laugh was soft, nervous. Then, more serious: “Would you go out with me? Properly. A date. No team, no coffee excuses. Just… us.”
The words hung in the air, fragile and hopeful.
Your chest tightened. You wanted to say yes. Every part of you wanted to. But the email you’d received that morning — from your solicitor, about your husband dragging his feet on financial settlements — was still burning in the back of your mind.
Her expression faltered. “Too soon?”
“It’s not that.” You set the band down, exhaling slowly. “I’m still… untangling things. My husband—” You corrected yourself. “Estranged husband. The divorce isn’t final. There are complications. It’s messy. And until it’s done, I can’t… it wouldn’t be fair.”
She went still, every muscle tight.
“So that’s a no,” Alexia said, voice flat.
Her eyes darkened, hurt flickering quick and sharp. “You don’t have to soften it. I get it.”
She pushed away from the counter, shaking her head. “Forget I asked. It was stupid.”
“Stop.” Your voice sharpened. “It wasn’t stupid. I just—this divorce is dragging. It has nothing to do with you.”
But she wasn’t hearing you. The old wounds — the betrayal she thought she’d seen in London, the weeks of silence — they flared up again.
“You could’ve just said you weren’t interested,” she muttered, turning toward the door.
The slam of it closing behind her echoed louder than it should have.
You stood in the empty physio room, heart pounding, hands trembling.
You hadn’t rejected her. Not really. But she didn’t hear the difference.
And for the second time, you felt the ground shift beneath you, cracks widening just when you thought you’d started to bridge them.
The office smelled of dust and old carpet cleaner. Your solicitor slid a thick folder across the table, expression pinched.
“He’s contesting the asset split,” she said flatly.
You blinked. “We agreed. Months ago.”
She sighed. “Agreed verbally. But not in writing. Now his new counsel is arguing you owe him half your Spanish income from the past five years.”
Anger flared in your chest. “He didn’t contribute a cent to my career in Spain.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “He’s stalling. Dragging this out until you’re too tired to fight.”
You pressed your palms into your thighs, steadying your breath. This was exactly why you couldn’t say yes to Alexia. Not when this weight still clung to your ankles like chains.
You met him in a nondescript café near King’s Cross. Neutral ground, your solicitor’s advice.
He arrived late, as always. Sharp suit, phone buzzing constantly, that same casual arrogance that had exhausted you long before the marriage ended.
“You look well,” he said, sliding into the chair. “Spain agrees with you.”
“Let’s not do this,” you replied coolly. “Let’s just finalise the paperwork.”
He smirked. “You used to be warmer.”
“I used to be married,” you shot back.
His smile faltered, then sharpened again. “I just don’t see why you’re in such a rush. You’ve got a good life. A steady job. Why complicate it?”
You clenched your jaw. “Because I’m not your wife anymore.”
He leaned back, studying you. “Maybe not on paper. But technically—legally—you still are.”
And suddenly you saw Alexia’s face in your mind — the way she’d looked when you said no, the way she thought it was rejection. You wanted to scream that this was why. That this man, this mess, this anchor was what kept you from saying yes.
You returned to training carrying the weight of it. The players joked, moved, laughed around you, but it all skimmed off your skin like water on glass.
Alexia didn’t look at you. Or if she did, it was quick, unreadable.
During warm-up, Mapi leaned in, dropping her voice. “Oye, you look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“Fine,” you said automatically.
“No one who says ‘fine’ looks like that,” she muttered.
Irene caught the exchange from a distance, her gaze steady. She didn’t press, but you could feel the question in her eyes: What’s pulling you under now?
Days blurred into each other. Training. Rehab sessions. Notes logged with precision sharp enough to cut glass. You told yourself routine was safe, that if you clung to the structure of your job, you could keep everything else from spilling out.
But there were cracks. The weight of your estranged husband’s complications sat heavy on your chest, dragging you down. Some mornings you came in with dark circles under your eyes; some nights you stayed late, staring at data you’d already checked twice.
The team noticed. They didn’t press, not directly. Vicky tried once, asking softly if you were tired. You’d smiled, lied, and changed the subject. Mapi kept her jokes gentler, as though she knew one wrong word might tip the balance. Marta hovered more than usual, quiet watchfulness, her way of saying she cared.
And Alexia — Alexia didn’t look through you anymore. She looked at you, but from behind a wall. Guarded. Careful.
She was polite. Professional. Not sharp, not cruel. But every word felt weighed before she spoke it.
“Does this angle look right?”
Simple. Safe. A language of limits.
And yet — there were moments.
One afternoon, you found her in the gym, stretching alone. She looked tired, shoulders bowed, jaw tight. You hesitated, then said quietly, “Push too far and you’ll undo all the progress.”
She looked up, startled. Your voice had been soft, not scolding — concerned. Sincere.
For a second, the wall slipped. Her eyes warmed, just briefly, before she looked away again. “Gracias,” she murmured.
Another time, during a cooldown, you corrected a younger player’s form with gentle patience. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Alexia watching — her expression softened, almost fond. When she realised you’d noticed, her mask snapped back in place.
And once, after a long training day, you dropped your water bottle. She bent to pick it up at the same time, and your hands brushed. Her breath caught audibly. The wall shuddered, cracks visible — then she cleared her throat and stepped back, guarded again.
The season carried on. Matches. Training. Travel.
You kept the rhythm: tape, stretch, note, ice. Professional, precise.
Alexia mirrored you — distant but not hostile. Guarded. Like someone keeping one hand always on the wall, afraid of what might happen if she let it fall completely.
The cracks appeared more often.
One afternoon, you were sitting with your tray when Salma dropped into the seat across from you, animatedly describing a half-finished TikTok dance. You laughed — genuine, unguarded.
When Alexia walked in, her eyes flicked straight to you. She paused, tray in hand, watching you laugh. For a moment, her face softened, unguarded, before she turned and sat down at another table.
But Marta noticed. So did Irene. And both exchanged a glance that said, she still feels it.
You were guiding Vicky through resistance work when Alexia lingered at the doorway, already finished with her drills.
“You have a minute after?” she asked quietly, when Vicky wasn’t listening.
Later, she returned. “You looked tired today,” she said. Not accusing. Concerned.
“I’m fine,” you replied automatically.
Her eyes narrowed, as though she wanted to push. But she only nodded. “Vale. But don’t lie to me.”
The wall wavered, then rebuilt.
On the way back from an away match, you fell asleep against the window, exhaustion finally claiming you. When you stirred awake, you found a blanket draped over your shoulders. The others were asleep or scrolling their phones.
Alexia sat a few rows back, gaze fixed out the window, pretending she hadn’t done it.
It happened during training. A sharp turn, a misstep, and suddenly Kika was down, clutching her ankle.
The pitch froze. Coaches shouted, players ran. You were already there, kneeling, assessing the swelling.
“Ligament strain,” you said quickly, calm but firm. “We need ice and elevation.”
The others hovered, panic rising, but you stayed steady, grounding the moment.
And when you looked up, Alexia was watching you — not with guardedness, not with hurt. With something else entirely: trust.
Something cracked fully open in her then, even if she didn’t say it aloud.
That night, after Kika had been sent home with crutches and clear protocols, Alexia found you in the hallway.
“You hold everything together,” she said softly. “Even when you’re breaking yourself.”
You froze. Her eyes searched yours, unguarded at last.
And in that moment, you knew: the injury hadn’t just exposed a weakness in the squad. It had exposed the truth you’d been carrying, the strain you’d hidden.
The wall wasn’t just cracked anymore. It was ready to fall.
The weeks after Kika’s injury stretched you thin. Long rehab sessions, late-night paperwork, phone calls with your solicitor that ended with clenched teeth. You kept your mask in place at work, but Alexia kept noticing the cracks.
Sometimes it was in your silence during cafeteria banter. Sometimes it was in the way your hand lingered too long over a note, as if words could anchor you. Sometimes it was in your eyes — tired, but unflinchingly steady.
And every time, Alexia’s wall wavered. She started sitting nearer again, offering small kindnesses: carrying cones back after training, handing you a water bottle when she saw your hands full, brushing her fingers just barely against yours when you passed her a clipboard.
The others noticed. They teased gently — Mapi’s smirk, Patri’s arched brow, Marta’s quiet smile. But you ignored it. So did she.
One evening, after another grueling session with Kika, you were gathering your things when Alexia appeared. Hoodie again, damp hair, eyes restless.
“You’re not eating enough,” she said softly.
You arched a brow. “Excuse me?”
“You come in early, stay late, you skip meals.” She hesitated, then: “Let me cook for you. Just… dinner. At mine. Nothing else.”
You should’ve said no. Boundaries had been your safety net for months. But the exhaustion won. And something in her voice — not demanding, not coaxing, just earnest — tipped the scale.
“All right,” you said quietly.
Her apartment was simple, clean, and warm. Photographs lined the shelves — Alba, her parents. A few trophies tucked almost carelessly in a corner, as though she didn’t want them to dominate the space.
She cooked with surprising ease: grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, wine poured into mismatched glasses.
You ate at her small table, shoulders relaxing for the first time in weeks. She asked about your work, listened when you spoke, even made you laugh once with a dry, unexpected joke.
The tension eased. But underneath it, something heavier hummed.
After dinner, you found yourselves on the couch, wine glasses abandoned. The conversation dipped into silence.
“You looked so tired,” Alexia said suddenly. “The night of Kika’s injury. But you still held everyone together. Even me.”
You looked at her, startled. “You noticed.”
“I always notice you,” she admitted, voice raw.
The words landed heavy. You felt your chest tighten, your throat close. The months of restraint, of tension, of silence — they all collided in that one truth.
And then the slip became a fall.
Her hand brushed yours. Yours didn’t pull away. Her eyes searched yours once, twice — and then her mouth was on yours, desperate, hungry, as though all the months of walls and silence had led here.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn't careful. But it wasn’t careless, either.
It was the months of longing and denial unraveling at once — her hands in your hair, your breath against her throat, clothes tugged away with urgency.
The couch. The floor. Her bedroom. You didn’t know, didn’t care. All you knew was that the wall had shattered completely, and you both were tumbling through the wreckage, clinging to each other like salvation.
When it was over, the room was quiet except for your uneven breaths. She lay beside you, her hand tracing absent circles against your arm.
Neither of you spoke. Because words would make it real, and neither of you was ready for that.
You woke to sunlight streaming through half-drawn curtains. The sheets were warm, soft, and unfamiliar. For a brief, quiet moment, you allowed yourself to feel it: the comfort of another body beside you, the way Alexia’s arm draped lightly across your waist, her breathing steady against your back.
It was peaceful. Normal. Sweet in a way you hadn’t let yourself imagine.
When you shifted, she stirred, murmuring something incoherent in Catalan before pressing her face into your shoulder. You laughed quietly, surprised at how natural it felt.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she mumbled, voice husky with sleep.
“Then stop being funny,” you teased back.
Her lips curved into a smile you couldn’t see but felt against your skin.
For a few hours, it was easy to forget the weight of everything else.
The day unfolded gently. She made coffee while you found mismatched mugs. You teased her about the state of her fridge — mostly vegetables, yogurt, and a suspicious jar of something green. She grinned and called herself “efficient.”
Later, she offered you one of her hoodies, too big on your frame, and smirked when she saw you in it.
“You look better in it than I do,” she said, half-joking.
“Of course I do,” you shot back, earning a laugh.
It was light, domestic, dangerously easy. For a few fleeting hours, it felt like possibility instead of complication.
But sweetness can only hold so long.
By evening, the world pressed back in. Your phone buzzed with another email from your solicitor, subject line heavy: Settlement Update. You didn’t open it in front of her. You couldn’t.
Alexia noticed anyway. The way your smile dimmed, the way you tucked the phone away like it was radioactive.
Her warmth faltered. The wall, freshly shattered, threatened to rebuild.
“You still haven’t told me everything,” she said quietly. Not accusing, but heavy.
“Because it’s not your burden,” you replied.
Her jaw tightened. “But if we’re—” She stopped, shook her head, frustrated. “I don’t know what we are. I don’t even know if this was—” Her voice broke off.
“Alexia.” Your tone was steady, but your chest tightened.
She looked at you, eyes raw. “You’re still married on paper. And I let myself…” Her voice cracked, unable to finish.
You laughed — bitter, sharp. “Don’t play the victim, Alexia. You knew I was married on paper. You knew it from the beginning. And still you kept pushing, still you pursued me. So don’t stand there acting like I tricked you.”
The silence that followed was jagged, heavy. Alexia flinched, but said nothing.
You grabbed your bag, slung it over your shoulder, and walked out without another word.
The city air outside was cold against your skin, but not colder than the knot tightening in your chest. You hated yourself for letting your personal life bleed into your work, for letting the boundaries blur, for letting her in at all.
The next morning, you were ice. Professional. Distant. Efficient to the point of cruelty. You taped ankles, wrote notes, and answered questions with clipped tones. Alexia didn’t try to breach the silence — and you didn’t invite her to.
By the end of the week, you found yourself staring at a blank page in your notebook, the words spilling out almost before you thought them:
Resignation letter. End of the season. Clean exit.
The pen dug into the paper until it almost tore.
You told yourself it was professionalism. That you couldn’t keep bleeding like this at work. That walking away was control.
But beneath it, you knew the truth: she’d gotten under your skin, and you couldn’t stand it.
London again. Same solicitor, same stack of folders. Different storm brewing inside you.
She slid papers across the desk, tapping her pen. “We’re close. He’s agreed to release his claim on your Spanish income. But he’s holding firm on property. He wants the flat.”
Your chest tightened. “The flat was mine before we even married.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said flatly. “On paper, it’s joint. If you fight, we’ll be here another year. If you sign, you’re free.”
You pressed your palms against the desk. The word free rang louder than it should have.
Wasn’t that what you wanted? To walk away clean?
And yet, all you could think was how walking away had become a pattern: first him, now maybe Barça, maybe Alexia.
The solicitor softened. “Sometimes it’s about choosing what matters more — the thing you lose, or the life you gain.”
On the flight back to Barcelona, you stared out the window, clouds of a restless sea beneath you.
You thought about your resignation draft. The neat lines of text you’d typed but not sent. I intend to resign at the end of the season.
It felt like control. Like a shield. Like the only way to reclaim your professionalism after letting Alexia break through.
But it also felt like the same script: walking away before anyone else could. Before you had to stay.
You closed your eyes, a bitter laugh catching in your throat. How many times could you rewrite the same story?
It was a long session. Too long. The coaches pushed high-intensity drills; players groaned, sweat streaming, movements sharper and sloppier as fatigue set in.
You moved through it all with your usual precision — calling corrections, handing out resistance bands, keeping notes. Professional. Cold. Controlled.
During a rondo, Clara misstepped and rolled her ankle. You were on the pitch instantly, dropping to your knees. As you bent over her, the clipboard slipped from your hand. Papers scattered across the grass.
Everyone froze. Not because of the ankle — Clara was fine, just a mild sprain. But because the notes you’d been scribbling were visible, pages fluttering in the breeze.
And on one of them, in black ink, beneath the neat rehab charts:
Resignation draft: end of season.
The words hung heavier than any injury.
Mapi’s brow furrowed. Aitana’s eyes widened. Marta bent, quietly scooping the page before the wind carried it farther. She read it once, her expression tightening, then passed it silently to Irene.
And Alexia. She just stared. Not at the page — at you.
Your mask slipped further when you snatched the paper back, shoving it into your bag with trembling hands. “Focus on Clara,” you snapped, voice sharper than you intended.
No one said a word. But the silence was loud.
After training, you retreated to the physio room, furious at yourself. At the exposure. At the loss of control.
The door slammed open. Alexia.
“Resignation?” she demanded, voice low but shaking.
You didn’t look at her. “Not your concern.”
“Everything about you is my concern,” she shot back. “Don’t you see that?”
You whirled on her. “I’ve worked too hard to be reduced to gossip. To have my professionalism questioned. And now I’ve let this—” You gestured between you. “—bleed into everything.”
Her jaw tightened. “You think walking away fixes it?”
She shook her head, stepping closer. “No. It just keeps you alone.”
Before you could answer, your phone buzzed violently on the counter. Another email from your solicitor. This one with a subject line impossible to ignore: Court Hearing Scheduled.
Alexia saw your face drain, saw the phone slip slightly in your hand. “What is it?” she asked, softer now.
You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Y/N.” Her voice was gentle, but her eyes burned. “It does.”
You swallowed hard. “The divorce. It’s… escalating. Public hearing. He’s contesting again. Which means—” Your voice broke. “Which means it won’t stay quiet anymore.”
Silence filled the room. Heavy. Real.
For the first time in weeks, Alexia’s guardedness shattered. She stepped closer, her hand brushing yours, tentative but steady.
“Then let me stay,” she whispered. “Even if you push me away. Even if you hate me for it. Just… don’t go through this alone.”
You wanted to tell her no. To keep the walls up. To shove her out.
But her hand lingered, warm against yours, and for the first time since you’d written that resignation note, you didn’t pull back.
The mask had cracked. And there was no pretending it hadn’t.
You came into training determined to rebuild the wall. Notes in hand, voice clipped, gaze fixed anywhere but her.
When Alexia walked in, you didn’t even look up. “Warm-up bands on the floor. Fifteen minutes, then strength drills.”
She nodded. No push, no bite. Just: “Vale.”
But she lingered after the session, standing quietly while you logged data. Finally, she said, “Do you need a ride?”
You glanced at her, frowning. “No.”
She shrugged lightly. “Offer’s still there. Every day.” Then she walked away before you could answer.
It kept happening. Little things.
A coffee waiting on the counter, no note.
A protein bar tucked beside your clipboard.
Her shoulder brushing yours when you passed in the hallway, the contact casual, but deliberate enough to remind you she was there.
None of it was demanded. None of it was forced. Just a steady, quiet presence.
And though you rolled your eyes, though you told yourself you didn’t care — the cracks widened anyway.
After training, you were taping Vicky’s ankle when Alexia appeared, arms folded, watching.
“You’re good with them,” she said softly, when Vicky left the room.
“It’s my job,” you replied.
She shook her head. “No. It’s more than that. You make them feel safe.”
Your hands froze on the tape roll. The sincerity in her voice was too much, too dangerous. “Don’t do this,” you said sharply.
“Chip away at me. Pretend like everything’s fine.”
Her eyes didn’t waver. “I’m not pretending. I’m showing you I’ll stay. Even when you push.”
Late evening. You were packing up alone when Alexia appeared again in the doorway.
“Do you ever stop?” she asked.
She smiled faintly. “Not when it matters.”
You exhaled, tension breaking into bitterness. “You don’t get it, Alexia. You can stay now, when it’s easy. But when it gets ugly? When my divorce is dragged through court and maybe even papers? You’ll regret this.”
She stepped forward, voice low but fierce. “Then let me regret it. But let me choose that. Don’t take the choice away because you’re afraid.”
Her words landed heavy. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But you also didn’t move when she reached for your hand.
It started with a headline.
London physiologist’s divorce turns messy — Barcelona captain at the center?
You saw it on your phone before training, the pit of your stomach dropping out. The article was thin on facts but heavy on speculation: blurry café photos of you and your husband in London, court filings leaked to tabloids, and a paragraph spinning Alexia into the narrative. The two have been spotted together around Barcelona, fueling rumors that Putellas may be more than just a teammate’s captain.
Your chest tightened. It wasn’t just your name anymore. It was hers.
By the time you walked into the gym, whispers had already started. Vicky glanced at her phone and quickly locked it. Patri’s face was tight with concern. Mapi muttered a curse under her breath loud enough for the room to hear.
And Alexia — Alexia stood in the middle of it all, jaw clenched, eyes storm-dark.
When she looked at you, there was no anger. Just hurt. Not at you — at the world.
“We’ll handle it,” she said quietly, almost to herself.
But you could feel the tremor in the room. Professionalism felt like a thread about to snap.
That evening, Alexia sat in her mother’s kitchen. Alba had her phone on the counter, the headline still open. Their mother, Elisabet, folded her arms, gaze steady.
Alexia exhaled slowly. “The divorce? Yes. The mess? Yes. But me being in the middle? No.” She paused, then added softly, “Not like that.”
Elisabet frowned. “Then how?”
Alexia looked down at her hands. “Because I care about her. More than I meant to. More than I should have.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve fallen for her. Completely.”
Alba reached across, squeezing her sister’s hand. “Then tell her. Tell her before someone else tells that story for you.”
Meanwhile, you sat alone in your apartment, the article glowing on your screen. Every sentence twisted tighter in your chest. The professionalism you’d built your reputation on — shattered. The private pain you’d fought to keep quiet — exposed. And Alexia’s name dragged through it all.
You pressed your palms to your eyes, guilt roaring. This is what you were afraid of. This is why you almost resigned. You’ve ruined her too.
When your phone buzzed, it was her name on the screen.
Later, in her own apartment, Alexia typed a message to you and erased it three times before finally sending one line:
I don’t care what they say. I care about you.
It was nearly midnight when the knock came. Sharp, insistent.
You froze, heart hammering. Nobody came unannounced at this hour. Not unless—
“Y/N,” Alexia’s voice, muffled through the door. “Open it.”
You hesitated. Your phone still glowed on the table with her unsent call. You hadn’t replied to her message either. Not because you didn’t want to — but because guilt sat like stone in your chest.
Another knock. Louder. “Please.”
You exhaled shakily and opened the door.
Alexia stood there in a hoodie, hair damp from a late shower, eyes dark with exhaustion and fire all at once. She stepped past you without waiting for an invitation.
“You ignore me now?” she demanded, spinning on her heel. “After everything?”
You bristled. “It’s not about you—”
“It is about me,” she cut in, voice rising. “My name is in their mouths, in the papers, tied to a divorce I had nothing to do with. And you sit here in silence? Do you know what that feels like?”
Your throat tightened. “Like what I’ve been living for months,” you shot back. “Like being reduced to gossip. Like being torn open when all I wanted was to keep this professional.”
Alexia’s chest heaved. “Professional? After last week in my bed, you want to call this professional?”
The words cut, sharp and raw. Silence cracked between you.
Finally, you said quietly, “That’s why I didn’t answer. Because I don’t know how to hold both. My career, my reputation — and you.”
Her expression softened, pain flickering across her face. She stepped closer, slower now.
“You think I don’t understand reputation?” she said quietly. “My whole life is reputation. Every step I take is under a microscope. But you—” Her voice cracked. “You’re the only place I’ve felt like more than that. Like a person. Not a headline.”
You blinked, heat stinging your eyes. “And now I’ve ruined even that.”
She shook her head, fierce. “No. They can write whatever they want. I don’t care. I care about you. About what we are. And I’m not letting noise outside decide it.”
Her hand found yours then, tentative but firm. Warm. Steady.
You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
But you didn’t pull away, either.
And in that quiet, Alexia’s grip tightened — a promise, unspoken but undeniable: she wasn’t leaving.
The tabloids hadn’t cooled. Headlines were everywhere. Photos of you at training, Alexia walking beside you, your names tangled together in captions that turned fact into spectacle.
When you walked into the gym, every phone seemed to buzz. You braced yourself, professionalism wound tight, ready for whispers.
Because the moment you stepped in, Mapi whistled loud enough to cut through the air. “¡Mírenla!” she called, grinning wickedly. “The most famous physio in Spain. Should we start charging for autographs?”
Laughter rippled through the room, breaking the tension. Mapi slung an arm around your shoulders theatrically, shielding you from the imaginary paparazzi. “Back off, prensa. She’s ours.”
And just like that — the silence broke. Not with whispers. With solidarity.
Later, during warm-up, Irene jogged beside you. She didn’t say much, just: “Don’t let them make you smaller.”
You glanced at her, startled. She met your gaze evenly. “We know who you are. They don’t get to rewrite it.”
Simple. Steady. Anchoring.
After training, you found a thermos of tea waiting by your notes. Marta passed by with her usual calm, not breaking stride.
“Hydration,” she said softly. “And patience.”
You smiled faintly. It was her way of saying: you’re not alone in this.
In the cafeteria, Vicky and Sydney flanked you at the table, chattering loudly about playlists and memes. Laia dropped a protein bar in front of you without asking. Ona leaned over and whispered, “We trust you.”
It wasn’t dramatic, but it was enough.
Through it all, Alexia stayed close. Not possessive, not defensive — just present. She laughed at Mapi’s jokes, took Irene’s nod with quiet gratitude, clinked glasses with the youngsters at lunch.
But when her phone buzzed — another headline, another noise — she turned it face-down, ignoring it completely.
Her message was clear: she was choosing you and the team over the outside world.
It was Alexia’s idea. “We don’t need to go far,” she said after training, voice low but certain. “Just… away.”
So you went. Not to a restaurant or a bar — too visible, too risky. Instead, she drove you up the winding road to Tibidabo, past the glowing sprawl of the city. The air grew cooler, the noise fainter, until Barcelona was just a sea of lights below.
She parked near the overlook. The only sounds were cicadas and the faint hum of wind.
For once, there were no cameras. No headlines. Just you, her, and the night.
You leaned against the railing, the city glittering beneath you. “Funny,” you murmured, “how small everything looks from up here. All the noise, all the mess — just dots of light.”
Alexia joined you, her shoulder brushing yours. “You make it sound like we’re giants.”
You laughed softly. “Maybe we are. Just badly disguised.”
She smiled, eyes fixed on you instead of the skyline.
For a long while, you both stood in silence. Then Alexia spoke, voice quiet but steady.
“When the headlines broke… my mother asked me if it was true. If you were the reason.” She paused. “I told her no. That you weren’t the reason my heart changed — you were the reason it started beating like that at all.”
Your breath caught. “Alexia…”
“I don’t care about the papers,” she pressed, eyes fierce now. “I don’t care about gossip. I care about what’s here. With you. Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s hard.”
You turned to face her fully, the city glowing behind her. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, the knot in your chest loosened.
“You’re stubborn,” you said softly.
Her lips curved. “Takes one to know one.”
She reached for your hand, tentative but steady. You let her.
And for the rest of the night, you stayed like that — side by side, looking down at the city, the world spinning loud and messy beneath you, but finding a pocket of quiet between storms.
Her apartment was warm when you stepped inside, the faint smell of detergent and something citrus lingering in the air. Tibidabo still clung to your skin, the wind, the city lights. You thought the quiet would fade when you shut the door behind you. But it didn’t. It thickened, intimate.
Alexia dropped her keys in the dish by the door, then turned to you, uncertain for the first time in hours. “Do you… want to stay?”
You should have said no. For professionalism. For boundaries. For every reason you’d told yourself since the day you’d met.
It started slow — a brush of her fingers at your wrist as she passed you a glass of water, a shared glance that lingered a beat too long, the way she laughed under her breath when you teased her about her crooked stack of magazines.
And then the air shifted.
You set the glass down. She stepped closer. The silence stretched, heavy with months of tension.
When she kissed you, it was careful, hesitant, as though she was still asking permission. You gave it.
The second kiss was hungrier, her hand sliding to your jaw, your breath catching.
You let yourself forget the world outside, the headlines, the solicitor, the walls you’d built. You let yourself want.
What followed wasn’t hurried. It was reverent. Months of guarded looks and missed touches unraveling in slow, careful devotion.
You traced the lines of her shoulders, the curve of her back, the strength in her arms. She whispered your name like it was something fragile, holy.
There was laughter too — when she bumped her head on the headboard, when you teased her about being bossy even here. She grinned against your skin, unashamed, blissed.
Every touch said what neither of you had dared to: I want you. I see you. I’ve wanted this longer than I’ll admit.
It wasn’t perfect. It was better. It was real.
Later, tangled in sheets and silence, you watched her breathe. Her face softened in sleep, stripped of captain’s armor, of headlines, of pressure. Just Alexia.
And something in you broke.
Because you knew this wouldn’t last. Not with the media circling, not with your divorce looming, not with your resignation note still folded in your bag.
You reached for your phone, the glow harsh in the dark. Opened Instagram. Wrote:
“For those speculating: I am in the middle of a divorce. It has been long, painful, and private until now. No one else is responsible for it but me and my estranged husband. Please leave others out of it.”
You hit the post before you could stop yourself.
Then, heart pounding, you opened your laptop. Pulled up the draft resignation letter. Finished it with shaking hands. Effective end of season. Hit send.
You closed the laptop quietly, like shutting a door.
Alexia stirred beside you, reaching for you in her sleep, pulling you closer without waking. You let her. And you tried not to cry.
The morning light had barely broken when your phone buzzed. Your solicitor’s name on the screen.
Your statement has changed the tone of the settlement. His side is arguing that your post confirms infidelity, even if it’s not true. We need to talk today.
You stared at the message until the words blurred.
Beside you, Alexia shifted awake, eyes soft, bliss still lingering. She smiled, reaching to brush hair from your face. “Bon dia.”
You swallowed hard, hiding the screen. “Bon dia.”
And you knew then: you’d chosen her over yourself. And it would cost you everything.
And for the first time since London, you wondered if falling in love with her had been the most selfish, selfless thing you’d ever done.
The morning after, the sweetness had already soured.
You stepped into the hallway outside your flat, phone pressed to your ear. The solicitor’s voice was clipped, clinical.
“Your post complicated things,” she said without preamble. “His side is using it as implied admission. They’re spinning it as an affair.”
You shut your eyes. “That isn’t true.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re leveraging perception. You’ve handed them a narrative.”
Anger rose, bitter in your throat. “I was trying to protect someone.”
“You’ve put yourself in a worse position,” she replied bluntly. “You need to decide what you’re willing to lose — property, money, reputation — because you cannot keep all three.”
The line went dead heavy, leaving you with nothing but the echo of your own choices.
You walked back into the flat, shoulders tight, only to find Alexia sitting at the counter with your laptop open. The resignation letter glowed on the screen.
She looked up at you, eyes wide, betrayed. “You weren’t going to tell me?”
Your stomach dropped. “Alexia—”
“You wrote it. You sent it.” Her voice cracked. “You were going to walk away without even—” She stopped, shaking her head. “Without even letting me fight for you?”
You exhaled, guilt burning your chest. “I did it to protect you. Your name. Your career. I won’t be the reason you get dragged through my mess.”
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “Protect me? You think resignation protects me? It makes it worse. It makes it look like guilt.”
You flinched. “I’m already guilty, Alexia. Guilty of letting this bleed into the job. Guilty of letting myself—” You stopped before the word love could escape.
She stood abruptly, chair scraping. “No. You don’t get to call it guilt. Not when it’s the only thing that’s felt right in months.”
Her eyes blazed, hurt and fierce all at once. “You think walking away protects me? It doesn’t. It just leaves me without you.”
The silence stretched, both of you breathing hard, neither backing down.
Finally, Alexia whispered, “If you go, you’re not protecting me. You’re breaking me.”
And the truth of it hung between you, heavier than any headline.
Her words still hung in the air: If you go, you’re not protecting me. You’re breaking me.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“Alexia,” you whispered, “I can’t stay. Not like this. Not with the press circling. Not with my divorce being torn apart in court. And not every time I walk into this building, I wonder who’s watching, who’s whispering, who’s blaming you because of me.”
Her eyes shone, but she didn’t cry. She’d always been too proud for that. “So your answer is to run?”
“My answer is to survive,” you snapped.
The silence after was jagged. Painful.
Finally, you grabbed your bag, your resignation still glowing on the laptop screen, and walked out before she could stop you.
The weeks blurred. Matches, travel, treatments. You did your job to the last detail, but with the cool detachment of someone already half-gone. The players noticed — Mapi tried to joke you out of it, Irene offered quiet counsel, even Marta lingered longer than usual in the physio room. But no one could change your mind.
The board accepted your resignation. End of the season.
And suddenly, the last game was played, the whistle blown, confetti in the air — and then it was your turn to leave.
The team threw you a farewell party in a tucked-away restaurant, candles glowing on tables, laughter trying to soften the ache. They toasted you — Mapi loudly, Aitana shyly, Irene sincerely. You smiled, thanked them, and tried to memorize every face.
She didn’t make a speech. She walked straight to you, voice low but carrying. “Come outside with me.”
You followed, heart heavy, into the cool Barcelona night.
She turned to you, fierce and fragile all at once. “Don’t do this. Don’t go back to London. Don’t leave me like this.”
You wanted to fold. To say yes. To let her arms be the place you stayed.
“I have to,” you said, voice breaking. “It’s the only way to untangle myself from all of it. The marriage, the noise, the gossip. I need clean air. And that’s not here.”
Her face crumpled, just slightly. “And us?”
You swallowed hard. “We don’t survive long-distance. And even if we did… I can’t stay in Barcelona for love. Not when it’s cost me so much already.”
The silence between you was brutal.
Finally, she whispered, “Then you’re breaking my heart.”
You bit down on the sob in your throat. “I know.”
And you walked back inside, leaving her alone under the streetlight.
London was colder than you remembered. The flat you’d chosen was small, tucked on a quiet street in Islington. Clean, neat, anonymous — exactly what you’d told yourself you wanted.
Boxes lined the wall, still half-unpacked. Some nights, you sat on the floor with tea in your hands, staring at the blank walls. Blank was better, you told yourself. Blank was clean.
But sometimes, in the silence, you swore you could hear Mapi’s laugh echo, or Alexia’s voice soft at your shoulder.
You’d taken a consultancy contract at a sports clinic. Professional. Safe. Efficient.
Colleagues called you friendly, reliable. They didn’t know every time Barcelona slipped into conversation, your chest tightened.
“Why’d you leave Barça?” a junior physio asked once.
You smiled thinly. “Time to come home.”
It sounded almost convincing.
Nights were worse. Cool sheets, quiet air, a hand reaching instinctively for warmth that wasn’t there.
You told yourself this was survival. Freedom. But every time you caught her smile online — fierce, untouchable, luminous — your chest reminded you of the cost.
Barcelona hadn’t changed. But her apartment had. It was quieter. The hoodie you’d once borrowed still hung in her closet, untouched.
Nights, she turned onto the empty side of the bed, reaching out before pulling her hand back.
The city moved on. She didn’t.
She led as always. Capitana. Fierce, steady, lifting trophies.
But the physio room wasn’t the same. The new hire was efficient, kind — but not you. Sometimes, she glanced at the door, expecting you to walk in. She hated herself for it.
Her family noticed. Alba teased, Elisabet asked softly. Alexia never answered. Silence said enough.
At night, she re-read your Instagram post — your attempt to protect her. It made her chest ache each time.
Months later, she drove to Tibidabo alone. Sat at the overlook, staring down at the sea of lights.
She whispered your words into the wind: Funny how small everything looks from up here.
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