After 14 unforgettable years, you’ve given us everything; your brilliance on the pitch, your leadership, your endless sacrifices, and memories that will stay with us forever. From the way you commanded the midfield to the pure joy you brought to every trophy, every comeback, every moment in blaugrana… you didn’t just play for this club. You were this club. 💙❤️
It’s bittersweet watching you walk away at your peak, but how fitting for a legend who always put the team first. Thank you for the years of magic, the battles you fought through, and the standard you set for women’s football. You’ve inspired millions, including me.
I hope you can finally rest without the weight of expectations, or the pressure to always be the one carrying the team. I hope you recover fully, not just physically from everything your body has been through, but emotionally too, giving yourself the time and space to heal and rediscover the simple joys away from the spotlight. And I hope you are finally at peace, surrounded by loved ones, feeling proud of the extraordinary legacy you’ve built and free to embrace whatever comes next with that same beautiful smile we all fell in love with.
Summary: a short flashback of Alexia’s and Y/Ns competitiveness.
The team bonding night had been Irene’s idea. A new season, new signings, and a stack of takeaway boxes littering the living room floor of Alexia’s apartment called for something more structured than just watching Netflix.
“Okay, okay!” Vicky stood up, brushing crumbs from her lap. “I have a classic. A perfect team-building game.”
Clara Serrajordi, the newest face in the group, looked up with interest. Aïcha, another fresh signing, grinned. “Ooh, I love games. What is it?”
“Charades!” Vicky announced proudly.
The room went silent.
It was the kind of silent that is louder than a scream. Aïcha’s grin faltered. Clara looked around, confused. Patri, who had been mid-reach for another slice of pizza, froze. Mapi slowly lowered her sunglasses from her forehead to her eyes, as if to shield herself from the mere mention of the word.
Ona, ever the diplomat, held up her hands. "No. No, no, no. That's a lovely idea, but… no."
“No,” Jana said, her voice flat. “Absolutely not.”
“We’re not playing charades,” Kika agreed, shaking her head with the solemnity of a funeral director.
Clara blinked. “Why not? It’s fun! Aïcha and I used to play it with the B team all the time.”
Aïcha nodded, now puzzled by the team’s reaction. “Yeah, it’s not exactly a high-stakes game. What’s the big deal?”
There was a heavy, collective sigh. Pina looked at Irene. Irene looked at the ceiling, as if asking for divine patience.
Mapi finally broke the silence, her voice a low rumble. “You don’t understand. You weren’t here.”
“Weren’t here for what?” Clara asked, her journalistic instincts now fully engaged.
Alexia, who had been quietly sipping her water, suddenly became very interested in a loose thread on her sweatpants. Y/N, sitting beside her, developed a sudden fascination with the label on a beer bottle.
“Last year,” Kika began, her Portuguese accent making the story sound even more ominous. “We made the same mistake. We thought charades would be a laugh.”
“It was supposed to be a welcoming party for a few of the new girls last season,” Irene picked up the tale. “It started normally enough. Patri was acting out ‘The Lion King.’ People were guessing random things. Everyone was having fun. It was fine.”
“Then,” Patri leaned forward, her eyes wide, “it was Alexia and Y/N’s turn.”
Another collective shudder ran through the room.
“We were on the blue team, I think,” Y/N mumbled, not looking up from the bottle.
“No it was the green team,” Alexia corrected her quietly, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “We were unstoppable.”
“That’s the problem!” Mapi yelled, gesturing wildly. “Look, just… you just had to be there and see it to understand.”
~~ Last Season ~~
The scene was almost identical. Takeaway boxes, the team sprawled across the same sofas. A younger-looking Clara wasn't there, but the room was full of laughter. It was Frido’s turn, and she was currently attempting to mime something involving a lot of hip thrusts and pointing at her own teeth.
“Is it… ‘Brush Your Teeth’?!” Ingrid shouted.
“No! ‘Hungry Horse’?!” Kika attempted a guess.
The timer went off. Frido threw her hands up in defeat and sat down, laughing. “It was ‘White Horse’! By Taylor Swift!”
The room erupted in a mix of groans and giggles. “Okay, okay, Red team with 1 point!” Lucy called out, ever the ringleader. “Alexia and Y/N, you’re up!”
Alexia stood up, a competitive glint instantly replacing her relaxed expression. Y/N followed, rolling her eyes but grinning. They were a formidable pair, their understanding on the pitch translating seamlessly to… well, everything. They didn't even need to huddle.
Alexia looked at the card Lucy held up. Her eyebrow quirked. A Quiet Place. She turned to Y/N and gave a single, sharp nod.
“Okay, go!” Lucy shouted, setting the timer off.
Then, she simply sat down, put a single finger to her lips, and stared, unblinking, at Y/N.
Y/N, without a moment's hesitation, snapped her fingers. "Horror movie. No, suspense. It's a film title. A… Quiet Place."
The room erupted. Patri’s jaw was on the floor.
"It was a fluke!" Ona argued from the memory. "A lucky guess!"
"Your turn," Alexia said, a serene smile on her face as she handed the card back to Lucy.
This time, the clue was for Y/N. She scanned the card. The Great Escape. She stood, mimed holding handlebars, and started doing a little bunny-hop motion, her face a mask of exaggerated triumph.
"Bicycle," Mapi guessed. "Tour de France!"
Alexia’s hand shot up. "The Great Escape!" she called out, her voice ringing with certainty.
The room fell silent this time. Y/N pointed at Alexia, a huge grin on her face, then did a slow clap.
"Again!" Pina demanded. "Give them a hard category this time!"
The next card was passed to Alexia. She read it, and for the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed her features. It was a complicated Spanish idiom: Mucho ruido y pocas nueces (Much noise, few nuts – the equivalent of 'much ado about nothing').
Alexia thought for a second. Then, she cupped her hands around her mouth and made a loud, rumbling "Wooooosh!" sound, waving her arms wildly to signify chaos and noise. Then, she stopped, held up two fingers, and mimed cracking open an imaginary nut, peering inside, and shrugging with disappointment at finding nothing.
Y/N watched, utterly focused. Her eyes lit up. "A saying. Something about… a lot of fuss over something small? Mucho ruido y pocas nueces!"
The team were stunned. Half in awe, half in outrage. Mapi was standing up from her seat.
"That's impossible!" Frido yelled.
"Impossible?" Alexia repeated, her competitive spirit fully ignited. She looked at Y/N. "Cinco dedos de una mano?" she said, naming another idiom: 'five fingers of a hand' – meaning they were two parts of the same whole.
Y/N laughed, a happy, bright sound. "Siempre," she agreed. Always.
“Lucky guess,” Pina muttered. “One more round.”
It was then that the card for the final round was drawn. This one was for Y/N to act out for Alexia.
Y/N looked at the card. Her face went completely blank. Then, she stood up, turned her back to the team, and began to act. She started with a simple, elegant wave of her arm, like a royal greeting. Then she mimed holding a small, round object. Then she pointed to her face, specifically her eyebrows.
Alexia watched, her head tilted. "Okay. Royalty. Queen. Something round… a crown? You're wearing a crown. And… your eyebrows?" She frowned. "Eyebrows… Ceja. Queen… Ceja?"
Y/N nodded frantically, then made a grand, sweeping gesture, as if presenting everything to Alexia.
Alexia’s face went through a series of micro-expressions before it dawned on her. Her eyes widened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with laughter. Finally, she managed to choke out, "Reina… Isabel… y sus… sus… Cejas! Queen Isabel and her eyebrows!"
She was referring to Queen Letizia of Spain, and a very old, very niche meme about her eyebrows.
The silence stretched for an uncomfortably long time. Mapi slowly removed her sunglasses from the top of her head. Her mouth was open.
Then the room was no longer chaos; it was anarchy. People were crying with laughter. Patri was on the floor. Kika was hitting Pina sat beside her, rolling around each other. Ona and Irene just stared at Alexia and Y/N, mouths hanging open.
Y/N turned back around, taking a bow as Alexia stood up and met her in the middle of the room for a triumphant, laughing high-five.
“How?” Jana whispered, looking at Alexia with a mixture of horror and awe. “How did you get that from practically nothing?”
“We just… get each other,” Y/N said, slinging an arm around a beaming Alexia.
“It’s like watching a magic trick you can’t explain,” Irene added, her voice still haunted. “And then you realise it’s not a trick, it’s just… them.”
~~~~~
Back in the present, Clara and Aïcha stared at the couple with a million questions flying around their heads. Alexia was now inspecting her fingernails. Y/N was trying to hide a proud smirk behind her beer.
“So you see,” Mapi concluded, gesturing to them like they were a pair of unexploded bombs. “They are not allowed to team up for charades. Not anymore. It’s demoralising. It’s terrifying. It ruins the game for everyone else.”
“They make us feel like we have the collective IQ of a houseplant,” Patri added, pouting.
Clara looked at Alexia, the Ballon d’Or winner, the leader, the serious one. Then she looked at Y/N, who was now quietly giggling.
Irene threw a cushion at them, "They didn't even need words! They had created their own language with eye contact. They acted out a 500-year-old Spanish queen's eyebrow situation, and Alexia just… knew." She shuddered. "We had to ban them. For the good of the team, and for our own fragile egos."
Kika chimed in, “So yeah, we can play anything, just… no charades. We’re playing Uno.”
“Deal,” everyone agreed quickly in unison.
And so, the great charades ban of 2024 remained firmly in place, a legendary tale passed down to every new signing as a warning: you can play any game you want with FC Barcelona Femení. Just don’t let Alexia and Y/N be on the same team. For the sake of everyone’s sanity.
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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