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The Girl That Strictly Didn’t Dance

Alexia Putellas x Reader

3.3 WC | Fluffy | GIF not mine

The first time it happened, Y/N had been cornered near the hydration station by Vicky and Clara, their phones held aloft like tiny, rectangular shields. A trending TikTok audio, something fast and percussive that blared into the otherwise serene recovery room.

“Come on, Y/N, it’s just four steps!” Vicky pleaded, her grin wide and infectious. Clara was already doing a simplified version of the choreography, her movements sharp and effortless.

Y/N took a deliberate step back, nearly upending a tower of protein shake cups. Her hands came up, palms out, in a gesture of pure, unadulterated surrender. “My contract says nothing about coordinated limb movements for social media. I defend. I pass. I do not… gyrate to viral sounds.”

“Gyrate?” Vicky laughed, lowering her phone. “It’s a body roll, not an exorcism.”

From her perch on a nearby bench, a slight twinge in her knee being meticulously worked on by a physio, Alexia watched the scene unfold. A soft, amused smile played on her lips. She observed the way Y/N’s nose scrunched in mild distress, the way she physically recoiled from the implied performance.

It was a stark contrast to the woman Alexia knew on the pitch: all fierce concentration, tactical intelligence, and a quietly commanding presence in the back line. Off the pitch, Y/N carried a different kind of gravity, a serene stillness that Alexia found compelling.

“Leave her alone,” Alexia called out, her voice warm but carrying the unspoken authority of the captain. “Some of us have dignity to uphold.”

Claudia shot Alexia a mock-offended look. “You’re just saying that because we stopped asking you, capitana. After the ‘Sempero’ incident…”

Alexia held up a hand point back, her smile turning wry. “We do not speak of the ‘Sempero’ incident. My point stands. Not everyone needs to dance for validation.”

Y/N threw a glance of profound gratitude toward Alexia, who felt an inexplicable little warmth bloom in her chest. “Thank you,” Y/N mouthed silently.

That became the pattern. Every few weeks, a new dance challenge would sweep through the younger contingent of the team. Carla, Esmee, or one of the other kids would inevitably try to pull Y/N into a video whenever they had the chance. And every time, Y/N would refuse with a polite but firm shudder, usually finding an excuse involving tactical analysis or an urgent need to re-tape her ankles.

And every time, Alexia would be there, a silent, amused spectator. She found herself looking for these moments, enjoying the way Y/N’s steadfast refusal created a small, calm island in the energetic chaos of their world.

Alexia, too, was spared. The “kids,” perhaps sensing the captain’s legendary focus or still haunted by the memory of her famously stiff-armed attempt at trending TikTok dances, had long since given up on recruiting her. They were a united front of non-dancers, an alliance built on dignified refusal. It created a strange, unspoken alliance between her and Y/N: The Two Who Did Not Dance.

Off the pitch, their interactions were a careful, polite dance of their own. They’d discuss set-pieces, share a quiet coffee after training, and laugh at Mapi and Ingrid’s antics. But there was always a current, a palpable tension that Alexia couldn’t name but constantly felt.

She noticed the exact shade of color that sparkled in Y/N’s eyes in the Barcelona sun, the way she bit her lip when concentrating on a tactical board, the soft sound of her laugh. Alexia filed these observations away, a private collection she turned over in her mind during quiet moments, feeling equal parts foolish and enthralled.

Her teammates, of course, noticed her noticing.

“You stare at her like she’s a puzzle you can’t solve,” Mapi León said bluntly one day as they changed after training, nodding to where Y/N was patiently explaining a defensive drill to one of the La Masia girls.

Alexia flushed. “I do not. I’m observing her technique.”

“Her technique,” Ingrid repeated, wiggling her eyebrows. “Right. Very technical, that smile of yours. Very… analytical.”

Alexia threw a sweaty shirt at them, but the teasing had found its mark. She was pining, and it was becoming a problem she had no tactical answer for.

Then, the news broke. It was Patri who saw it first, her phone emitting a scandalised gasp in the middle of lunch. “Dios mío. Y/N. Strictly Come Dancing. The British show. She’s signed up as a celebrity contestant.”

The cafeteria noise died. Forks hovered mid-air. All heads swiveled to Y/N, who was calmly eating a salad, a faint pink tinge rising on her cheeks.

“It’s for charity,” Y/N said, her voice quieter than usual. “A huge children’s hospital initiative. They asked the club for an ambassador, and I… I don’t know, I thought it would be a challenge. A different kind of discipline.”

Aitana’s jaw was on the table. “But… you don’t dance. You hate dancing!”

“I don’t hate it,” Y/N corrected, finally looking up. Her eyes, almost instinctively, found Alexia’s across the room. “I just don’t do it publicly. They wanted a ‘non-dancer’ for the journey narrative. The club agreed. The contract is… formidable.”

Alexia said nothing. She just stared, her mind trying and failing to reconcile the image of Y/N; the steadfast, still, dignified defender – in sequins, in the arms of a professional dancer, moving to a Viennese waltz. The thought sent a completely irrational and sharp bolt of something through her. It wasn’t jealousy. It was… shock. And a desperate, sudden curiosity.

The next two months were a strange purgatory for Alexia. Y/N split her time between Barcelona and London, her presence at training becoming intermittent. When she was there, she moved with a new, unfamiliar soreness, complaining of blisters in places footballers didn’t get blisters. The team’s group chat was flooded with links to the Strictly website, voting reminders, and screenshots of Y/N in increasingly dazzling costumes.

The decree came from Mapi, slammed onto the lunch table with the force of a judicial ruling. "Saturday nights. Alexia's place. We watch our girl in the sparkly thunderdome. Attendance is mandatory. Snack rotation will be posted."

Alexia, mid-sip of her post-training smoothie, choked. "My place? Why my place?"

"Because your TV is the size of a small European car," Ingrid stated matter-of-factly. "And your sofa is a sinkhole of comfort. It's the optimal viewing environment."

"And you're our leader," Patri added with a mischievous glint. "You must lead us in this moral support."

There was no arguing. It was a tactical operation, and Alexia's apartment had been selected as HQ.

The first watch party, for the premiere, had the chaotic energy of a pre-Classico locker room. Players piled in, arms laden with bags of crisps, tubs of guacamole (courtesy of a very proud, recipe-guarding Irene), and an alarming number of energy drinks brought by the kids.

Vicky and Salma arrived together, each holding one side of a massive, homemade banner that read "¡A POR ELLAS, Y/N!" in glitter glue that was still slightly wet and shed all over Alexia's hallway.

"Sorry, capitana," Salma mumbled, trying to pick glitter off her jeans.

"You are vacuuming that," Alexia said, pointing a stern finger, but her heart wasn't in it. The atmosphere was buzzing, a strange mix of supportive and wildly curious.

They all crammed into her living room, a tangle of legs and club tracksuits on the vast L-shaped sofa and various floor cushions. Alexia took her customary armchair, a position of slightly removed authority that also gave her the best, unimpeded view of the screen.

As the glittering intro of Strictly Come Dancing began, a hush fell. Then the whoops and shouts started.

"There she is! In the group shot!”

“Look at her suit! She looks terrified!"

"She looks like she's being held at glitter-point."

Y/N’s introductory VT played, showing her at the Ciutat Esportiva, looking painfully earnest as she said, "I'm used to communicating with my feet, but usually to pass a ball, not... tell a story."

The room erupted in supportive "Awwwws!" and whistles.

Then came her first dance, a Salsa. The professional dancer led her out. Y/N was clad in a simple blue dress, her posture rigid, her smile fixed in a rictus of concentration.

"Oh, mi niña," Marta whispered, clutching a cushion to her chest.

The music began. Y/N moved. It was... technically present. Her footwork was neat, but her upper body was as pliant as a marble column. Her frame was strong, yet entirely devoid of swing.

The Barcelona squad's live commentary was brutal, loving, and utterly hysterical.

"Watch the shoulders! No, más suave!" "She's marking her partner like he's Sam Kerr making a run!" "Turn! Turn! Yes! Okay, a bit stiff, but she completed the rotation! That's a completion percentage Pere would admire!" "I think she just whispered 'sorry' to him after that underarm turn."

Alexia, meanwhile, said nothing. The popcorn bowl sat forgotten on her lap. She wasn't seeing the stiffness the others were mocking. She was seeing the intense focus in Y/N’s eyes, the sheer effort. She saw the slight tremor in her fingers where they rested on her partner's shoulder, the way her jaw was clenched. This was a woman facing a fear, publicly, for charity. It was the bravest thing Alexia had ever seen. A fierce, protective warmth flooded her chest, so intense it felt like a physical ache.

When the judges gave their scores, with notes on "needing to relax" the team booed loudly.

"Rigged! She didn't fall over! That's a 10 in my book!" Vicky yelled, shaking her '10' paddle. The second watch party had a different energy. Y/N was doing a Quickstep. The VT showed her in training, frustrated, saying, "It's like trying to think in two languages at once. My feet want to defend, not... flick."

This time, when she danced, there was a change. The stiffness was still there, but it was being chiseled away. The steps were sharper, faster. There was a moment, a series of quick running steps across the floor, where she actually seemed to fly. A genuine, surprised smile broke through her concentration.

The room lost its mind.

"¡OLÉ! Look at her go!"

"Did you see that smile?! A smile! On the dance floor! It's a miracle!" Alexia, from her armchair, felt her own smile stretch so wide her cheeks hurt. That flash of joy on Y/N’s face... it was a gift. She found herself leaning forward, elbows on her knees, utterly captivated. She didn't join the loud commentary. Her reactions were quieter: a soft intake of breath at a tricky spin, a low hum of approval at a clean finish. Her eyes tracked only Y/N, absorbing every detail; the new confidence in her posture, the way the shorter dance dress showed the powerful, defined lines of her legs she knew so well from training, now moving with an unfamiliar elegance.

It was after this dance, as the credits rolled and the team debated the scoring (unfairly low, they all agreed), that Ingrid caught Alexia’s eye. Alexia was still staring at the now-blank screen, a faint, wistful smile on her lips.

Ingrid nudged Mapi and nodded subtly toward their captain. Mapi’s eyebrows shot up. She mouthed, "Oh, she’s gone."

The teasing entered a new, more subtle phase.

"Alexia, you were very quiet during that," Patri said innocently, gathering empty plates. "Deep in tactical analysis of the Quickstep? Thinking of incorporating it into our pressing game?"

"Just appreciating the discipline," Alexia replied, her voice a little too neutral.

"Right, the discipline," Mapi said, deadpan. "Of the... sequins. Very disciplined sequins."

By the time of the Movie Week Waltz, the watch parties had become a sacred ritual. The snack rotation was optimised (Claudia’s homemade tortilla was the halftime star). The banner was permanently tacked to Alexia's wall. The team had fully, emotionally invested. The VT for this week showed Y/N looking more pensive. "It's about emotion," she said to her pro partner. "Not just steps. I find that... harder." The lights went down in the ballroom. The first, sweeping notes of the waltz began. Y/N appeared at the top of the stairs, in that sunset-pink gown, her hair soft and up. She descended, and from the very first step into her partner's arms, something was different.

The tension was gone. Replaced by a breathtaking fluidity. She wasn't just performing steps; she was floating on the music. Her head tilted with a gentle grace, her extensions were long and lyrical, her turns were dreamlike. The expression on her face was soft, open, vulnerable - a side of Y/N Alexia had only glimpsed in their rarest, quietest moments.

The room in Alexia's flat didn't just go quiet; it went utterly still. The crunching of snacks ceased. No one spoke. Vicky’s '10' paddle drooped in her hand.

Alexia felt the world narrow to the glow of the screen. Her breath caught, suspended in her chest. It was like watching a secret being unveiled. This beauty, this poetry in motion, had been there all along, hidden beneath the composure and the dry wit. The crush she’d been nursing transformed, in that instant, into something deeper, more profound, and utterly terrifying in its intensity. Her eyes prickled. She was witnessing a revelation, and it was breaking her heart wide open.

As the final note faded and Y/N struck her pose, head gently resting against her partner's shoulder, a single, awed whisper broke the silence in the flat.

"Joder..."

It was Irene, of all people.

Then, the room erupted, but differently than before. It wasn't just loud support; it was genuine, stunned admiration.

"Wow. Just... wow." "She’s an artist! A bloody artist!"

Alexia couldn't speak. She just stared, her heart hammering against her ribs, a storm of emotion she couldn't name raging inside her.

Ingrid, ever observant, turned from the screen to look at Alexia. She saw the glistening in the captain's eyes, the slightly parted lips, the complete and total captivation etched on her face. She leaned over to Mapi and whispered, voice thick with both emotion and amusement, "Checkmate. Our captain is down so bad she’ll need a crane to get her up."

Alexia didn't even hear them. All she could see was the replay, the way Y/N had smiled in the judges' comments, a real, relieved, beautiful smile. The watch party had done its job, it had bonded the team in support of their teammate. But for Alexia, it had done something far more dangerous. It had shown her the woman she was falling for in a light so dazzling, she knew she’d never be able to look away again.

The watch party for the Grand Final was almost a party before it had even began.

The tension was palpable. No one joked. They watched, breath held, as Y/N delivered a Jive of pure, sparkling joy, a Rumba of such smouldering intensity that Alexia had to look away and take several steadying sips of water, and finally, a Showdance that was a breathtaking, acrobatic, emotionally charged masterpiece.

When the hosts began the elongated, torturous announcement of the winners, Alexia felt Patri’s nails digging into her forearm. She didn’t shake her off. She was holding her own breath.

"AND THE WINNERS OF STRICTLY COME DANCING ARE…"

The pause stretched into eternity.

"Y/N AND ANTONIO!"

The sound that erupted in Alexia's living room was primal. It was a roar of pure, unadulterated triumph. Caro and Marta were screaming, hugging, and spinning each other in a clumsy, joyful waltz of their own. Claudia was openly sobbing.

On screen, Y/N’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief as the glitterball trophy was placed in her hands. Confetti rained down. She was engulfed by her pro partner, the other contestants, a whirlwind of silver and sparkle and tears.

Alexia stood perfectly still in the center of the chaos. A single, hot tear tracked down her cheek, followed swiftly by another. The pride was a physical force, swelling in her chest until she thought it might burst. She watched Y/N lift the hideous, glorious glitterball, her face a picture of stunned, exhausted, radiant joy. In that moment, Alexia knew she didn't just love her. She was in awe of her.

The celebration at the training ground the following Tuesday was epic, but the true homecoming was a surprise. The team had conspired.

Y/N walked into the main dressing room after a light session, expecting normalcy. Instead, she was met with a wall of sound.

"CAMPEONA! CAMPEONA! OÉ, OÉ, OÉ!"

Hanging above her locker, in place of her usual jacket, was a cheap, plastic, shimmering disco ball. Taped to it was a note that read, "Official Team Glitterball (Visca Barça!)."

Y/N stopped dead, her kit bag dropping from her shoulder. She blinked, looking around at the beaming, expectant faces. Then she burst out laughing, the sound rich and free, covering her face with her hands just as she had on TV. "You are all ridiculous!"

One evening, a couple days after Strictly had ended, Alexia and Y/N found themselves alone in the players’ lounge. The others had trickled out, leaving a comfortable silence. Y/N was reading on a sofa, and Alexia was reviewing performance data on her tablet. The air between them hummed with the unspoken. “Did you… enjoy it?” Alexia finally asked, her voice slightly rough. “The dancing, I mean.” Y/N looked up, marking her page with a finger. A small, private smile touched her lips. “I did, actually. Once I got over the terror. It’s not so different, in a way. It’s about rhythm, partnership, knowing where your body is in space.” “You were… incredible,” Alexia said, the words leaving her in a rush, too earnest to be casual. “I watched. Every week. The waltz, especially.” Y/N’s smile deepened, and she tilted her head, studying Alexia. There was a new awareness in her eyes, as if she was seeing Alexia’s quiet observation for the first time. “Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you.” Encouraged, Alexia put her tablet down. The boldness that made her a champion on the pitch flickered to life. “It’s just… you always said you didn’t dance. And then you did. Like that. It was a surprise.” “A good surprise?” Y/N asked, her voice dropping to a murmur. “The best,” Alexia breathed. The silence stretched, thick and sweet. Alexia’s pulse thrummed in her ears. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “The kids don’t ask for TikToks anymore?” Y/N laughed softly. “No. I’ve been demoted from prospect to professional. They ask for the ‘Strictly Salsa’ instead.” “I don’t want a TikTok,” Alexia said, her gaze unwavering. “And I don’t want the Salsa.” Y/N’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. “No?” Alexia shook her head, a slow, confident smile finally gracing her features, the one she usually reserved for stepping onto the pitch at Camp Nou. “No. I was thinking… maybe just a waltz. One day. If you ever wanted to show someone who… who really appreciated it.” The confession hung in the air, soft as the dusk settling outside the windows. Y/N closed her book, her eyes never leaving Alexia’s. The serene stillness was still there, but beneath it, Alexia could now see the potential for motion, for grace, for a dance that was just for them. “A waltz,” Y/N repeated, her own smile widening into something bright and knowing. “I think that could be arranged, capitana. But only if you lead.” And as Alexia laughed, the sound full of joy and relief and burgeoning promise, she knew with absolute certainty that for this woman, the girl who didn’t dance, she would learn every step in the world.

AN: So sorry for the break, but I had a baby 😁 Hoping to get a few more drafts out, but feel free to send in some ideas. Hope you have a lovely day 🫶🏽

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