Pressure Points and Fault Lines in which reader is the Barça Femení team doctor and Alexia becomes slightly obsessed with her.
Before (prequel), Aftermath and In Between in which reader is a rookie signing from Arsenal and they fall in love. Kind of slow burn-ish.
Phantom Pain part I, part II, part III, part IV and the final part V in which reader is the new assistant coach of Barça Femení and Alexia hates her instantly because they have unresolved history.
One Shot
Terms of Engagement in which reader is older and a little wiser than her. They meet on a plane and again in her hotel room.
Damage control, a sequel with the same power dynamic and more back story to r
Multiple chapters
Offside Hearts (unfinished) in which reader is the press officer for the Swedish national team during the World Cup 23 and they fall in love veeeery slowly.
I finally found some time to write the chef fic you voted for. I’ve actually had this one sex on the beach scene in my head for ages now and the rest kind of evolved around it. So now it’s basically a feel-good summer fic with a very flirty r, plenty of Kika, some of the others, and lots of sun, pool, beach and vacation vibes.
It’s told day by day, so I hope it kind of feels like you’re on holiday with them. The first week alone is already around 25k words, so I’m actually not sure how to post it. Would you rather have one post per day, or a few days combined into longer parts? It would probably end up being three or four parts.
Here is a little blurb and there might be a sneak peek soon ⬇️
Running your own restaurant in Sóller means you’re used to long days, demanding customers, and almost never taking a day off.
When some footballers ask you to spend two weeks as their private chef in a villa just outside Palma, saying yes seems like a welcome change. You expect it to be simple. Cook. Sleep. Repeat.
Turns out, nothing about them is simple.
Kika’s a shameless flirt who uses every opportunity she gets to make you blush. Jana nearly burns the kitchen down every time you let her near the stove. And Lia is living proof that only one person in the world can handle her. Luckily, that person is her girlfriend.
All in all they are a big happy chaos and adopt you into their little bubble soon. Between sunrise trips to the market, lazy afternoons by the pool, and very competitive board games, it’s easy to forget you’re technically working.
Alexia, though, drives you mad. She claims little pieces of your day, always finds a reason to be closer than necessary, and gets a little possessive whenever someone else has your attention.
You could shut it down. But then again, who doesn’t need a little summer fling every now and then?
tw:18+ flirting, smut, jealousy, swearing, alcohol, meeting the ex
Luna timeline: if I have missed anything let me know x
June 2022
18th - Lucy joins Barca after leaving Manchester City, Ona is still at Manchester United.
December 2022
22nd - Lucy Staniforth’s Wedding, the first time we see Lucy and Ona outside of football.
25th - Lucy follows Ona back on Instagram
April 2023
22nd - Chelsea vs Barca, UWCL semi final (first leg) 1-0. Ona was at the game but Lucy gets injured and later undergoes a keyhole surgery on the 25th. Ona returning to Barca rumours become pretty strong.
May 2023
21st - Lucy was spotted at the Man United/City match with Sarina
June 2023
5th - rumours start to be shared about Ona’s signing for Barca
19th - Barca officially announce that they have signed Ona on a deal until 30th June 2026
June 2023 - Vicky Losada’s wedding. Ona was in all the official wedding group photos and Lucy was spotted in videos, fans assumed Lucy was Ona’s plus 1
3rd/27th - Hair and Knee gate, both Lucy and Ona posted pictures from their holidays. Lucy’s picture has her leaning over someone which people assumed was Ona as it was a similar hair colour. Ona’s picture was her lay in a kayak with someone’s knee, everyone analysed the picture and realised Lucy had a scar on the exact same place of her knee as the person in the picture.
August 2023
20th - England Vs Spain, World Cup final. Both Lucy and Ona start, Spain win 1-0.
After the match Lucy was comforted by Barca players, she then came back out and sat in the dugout and was comforted by Ona after the medal ceremony.
28th - a picture was shared on twitter of them on holiday together
September - November 2023
They became teammates at Barca, they had a ceremony to honour the players and winners of the World Cup. Below is there interaction from the day:
They began going to training together: loads of videos on TikTok
TikTok - Make Your Day
November 2023
18th - Barca release a video leading up to el Classico and fans joked about them saying they were confirming that they were dating https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNRTDp6uF/
TikTok - Make Your Day
19th - El Classico, Barca vs Real Madrid. It’s the first time we see both families together, both Jorge and Joan (Lucy and Ona’s brothers) posted pictures of the same Paella to there story’s.
21st - Lucy posts her first picture of Ona, it’s blurry but cute
More content: check out @chono on TikTok for these
TikTok - Make Your Day
TikTok - Make Your Day
TikTok - Make Your Day
December 2023
Loads of cute content from after matches, Ona getting Lucy a blanket, Ona saying Lucy was the best dancer and she was the best DJ.
They turned up to every home game together and this is when they started to become very close.
TikTok - Make Your Day
They both spent Christmas with their families and this is when Ona got her dog Coco and her ‘lucky charm’ smiley face necklace.
Winter wonderland - Ona and this cute bear, people assume she was with Lucy as there are videos of them at a restaurant together
New years: Holiday to Andorra which they went on together with Narla and Coco
January 2024
21st - Barca won the Supercopa, lots of videos of them after the game together. Ona even took the trophy to Lucy for their first joint photo together 🥹
TikTok - Make Your Day
One of my fav videos, they are so cutesy and nervous:
TikTok - Make Your Day
February 2024
28th - Nations League final, Spain vs France. Spain won 2-0, Lucy and Lia Walti were watching. When the trophy celebrations happend, Ona was the only one wearing a different jacket and it was Lucy’s.
March 2024
After Nations Leauge, they spent a few days in Barca together, Ona in a full Lucy outfit!!! https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNRTUxrWd/
TikTok - Make Your Day
April 2024
23rd/ 30th- Sant Jordi, most important day in Catalonia for love. Lucy posted Ona in front of Casta Batllo which had roses on which symbolises love and passion
TikTok - Make Your Day
May 2024
10th - Barca win Liga F, Lucy and Ona were so cute after the match, Lucy gave Ona a piggy back, they danced and got another photo
The concept of writing a smut fic at 7:30 in the morning on your commute because you have to be a functioning adult with a job and family for the rest of the day. 🫠
So my predictions for her announcement didn’t exactly age well. 🥲 I thought we’d just get a transfer announcement.
Instead, it felt like a full-on PR campaing. The talk, the interviews, the videos, the messaging… none of it really felt like it was just about Alexia joining London City. They were trying to tell a much bigger story. One about a shared vision for the future of the women’s game.
And after reading the BBC article, I think I get why.
According to the article, Alexia first met Kang over dinner in 2024, where they talked about exactly that: their vision for the women’s game.
So, 2024 also happens to be the year Alexia launched Eleven, which she said was already funded for the next ten years.
I mean… being able to say your project is funded for the next ten years is kind of wild. It could mean someone wrote one massive cheque, but it could also mean someone committed to backing the project over the long term.
And Alexia also said she’d been watching what Kang has been building over the last few years.
The more I think about it, the more it feels like we weren’t watching the start of something yesterday. They let us catch up to a partnership that had already been unfolding for years.
And if the reports about her salary are accurate, it becomes even harder to see this move as being just about her salary.
So, maybe that’s why so many of our predictions missed the point. We were trying to predict the ending without knowing half the story.
London City Lionesses have pulled off one of the biggest signings in WSL history - but how did they persuade Alexia Putellas to join?
So my predictions for her announcement didn’t exactly age well. 🥲 I thought we’d just get a transfer announcement.
Instead, it felt like a full-on PR campaing. The talk, the interviews, the videos, the messaging… none of it really felt like it was just about Alexia joining London City. They were trying to tell a much bigger story. One about a shared vision for the future of the women’s game.
And after reading the BBC article, I think I get why.
According to the article, Alexia first met Kang over dinner in 2024, where they talked about exactly that: their vision for the women’s game.
So, 2024 also happens to be the year Alexia launched Eleven, which she said was already funded for the next ten years.
I mean… being able to say your project is funded for the next ten years is kind of wild. It could mean someone wrote one massive cheque, but it could also mean someone committed to backing the project over the long term.
And Alexia also said she’d been watching what Kang has been building over the last few years.
The more I think about it, the more it feels like we weren’t watching the start of something yesterday. They let us catch up to a partnership that had already been unfolding for years.
And if the reports about her salary are accurate, it becomes even harder to see this move as being just about her salary.
So, maybe that’s why so many of our predictions missed the point. We were trying to predict the ending without knowing half the story.
London City Lionesses have pulled off one of the biggest signings in WSL history - but how did they persuade Alexia Putellas to join?
We’re all waiting for London City’s official announcement, but the communication around this move has already started way back.
I don’t expect anything before July 1st or 2nd. Regardless of everything that’s happened over the last few days, it wouldn’t really make sense to announce her as a London City player while she’s still under contract with Barça. Once that’s over, I don’t see much reason to wait. The transfer news is already out there, and announcing it in early July gives LCL a couple of weeks before pre-season likely starts.
It’s interesting that the transfer news first came through Spanish media instead of British media, but it actually makes a lot of sense. If that was coordinated, it creates two different communication moments. Spanish media tell the story of Alexia leaving Barça. London City gets to tell the story of Alexia arriving.
The communication around this move has already started with the goodbye. That was Alexia’s space. She posted the video first, Barça only co-posted it afterwards, and the whole thing felt very much like it came from her team rather than the club. It felt exactly like it should have: emotional, personal, looking back, saying goodbye. And explaining why it felt like the right time for a new chapter.
Even the language reflected that. The farewell was in Catalan, speaking directly to the community she’d spent so many years with. I wouldn’t be surprised if the London City announcement is entirely in English. She’s been putting all that English practice to good use for a while now… might as well show it off.
By the time London City announces the signing, that part of the story has already been told.
From there, I actually think it makes sense for the club to take over the communication. The question isn’t really why leave? anymore. It’s why London City?
For Alexia, the project gives context to the decision. For London City, Alexia gives instant credibility to the project. Those two stories kind of need each other.
So the official announcement isn’t really about announcing the transfer anymore. Everyone already knows. What London City still gets to announce is what Alexia joining actually means.
And that’s valuable for both sides. It gives LCL the chance to show people what they’re building, and it gives Alexia the chance to shift the conversation towards why she chose this project instead of letting it stay on the salary.
I also have a feeling they won’t treat it like a one-day announcement. With pre-season likely not starting until mid-July, why rush? Announcement. Interview. Kit photos. Behind the scenes. First day at the training ground. First training.I think they’ll milk the moment a little. I’m here for it.
Anyway, those are my predictions. Curious to see how many of them end up being completely wrong. 😅
In your world built on reputation and power, desire is the one crisis you can’t control.
a/n I know this lost the poll, and I do feel a little bad posting it anyway. But it wouldn’t leave my head, and I figured I’d rather get it out of my system than let it sit in my drafts forever. Anyway, I’m not sure how this turned out, might delete it later.
tw age gap, control and power dynamics, smut, dirty talk, technically cheating
wc 7k
———————
“And that’s why we’re recommending a phased approach.”
The agent cuts you off. “He’s not doing phased. He wants to just say it and be done.”
You don’t look up from your tablet. “What your client wants and what’s viable in the current NHL climate are two different conversations. Would you like to have the first one, or should we focus on keeping his career intact?”
The team’s PR director shifts in his seat. “That’s a bit dramatic—”
“Is it?” You pull up a slide. “Let me show you what happened to the last three professional male athletes who came out during active contracts.”
Six men lean back in their chairs. The agent crosses his arms. You advance the slide.
“Travis Chen. Basketball. Career earnings dropped forty-two percent within eighteen months. Lost his Nike deal, his Gatorade sponsorship, and was traded to a team that benched him seventy percent of the season.” Click. “Marcus Webb. Football. Received death threats that required FBI involvement, was released from his contract six months later for ‘performance issues’ despite leading his position in every statistical category.” Click. “And Liam Nordstrom—”
“We know about Nordstrom,” the GM says quietly.
“Then you know he never played again.” You close the tablet and look at each of them in turn. “This boy is twenty-two years old with a rookie contract. He has no leverage, no tenure, and no union protection against the kind of targeted harassment that ends careers. So when I say phased approach, I’m not talking about staying closeted. I’m talking about him still having a career when he’s thirty.”
The agent leans forward. “He doesn’t want to wait—”
“What he wants,” you say, voice level, “is to come out and keep playing hockey. Those are my parameters. If yours are different, I can recommend three other firms who’ll take your money and let him walk into a press conference that destroys everything he’s worked for.”
Silence.
“Now.” You open your tablet again. “Let’s talk about the timeline that actually works.”
By the time you’re done, they’re all nodding, convinced that hiding who someone is constitutes sound business strategy.
You hate every single person in this room including yourself.
Especially yourself.
“We’ll draft some soft-launch posts for his social media,” you say. “Legal will review. He starts posting on Friday.”
“And if he refuses?” the GM asks.
You meet his eyes. Let the silence stretch just long enough that he feels it.
“Then you’ll have a twenty-two-year-old gay hockey player walking into a press conference alone, with no message control, no crisis management, and every reporter in North America ready to ask him about locker room dynamics and whether his teammates knew.” You don’t blink. “The story stops being about him. It becomes about your organisation. Your culture. Every gay slur that’s ever been used in your building. Every interview where your captain said ‘that’s so gay’ and laughed.”
The PR director shifts. “We can’t control what the media—”
“You can’t control anything if he goes rogue. Which is my point.” You stand up. “The phased approach protects him. It also protects you. Or you can let him do this his way and spend the next six months explaining to sponsors why your locker room culture is trending on Twitter.”
The agent clears his throat. “She’s right.”
“I know I’m right. The question is whether you’re smart enough to listen.”
They file out, murmuring amongst themselves, and you gather your things with hands that are steadier than they should be, given that you just spent ninety minutes convincing people that authenticity is a liability.
You’re very good at your job.
You also hate your job.
The door closes behind the last suit and you allow yourself exactly five seconds to stand there and feel the specific emptiness that comes from winning arguments you don’t believe in.
Alan is nursing his third cup of tea that afternoon, which usually means he was dumped the night before and is now licking his wounds with English Breakfast, milk, and two sugars.
“Rebecca called,” he says without looking up.
You drop your tablet on the chair. “What does she want?”
He sighs dramatically and waves his hand at you. “Robert wants you in the red silk tonight.” You raise an eyebrow. “Tell him I’ll wear whatever the fuck I want.”
Alan’s mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He sets down his cup with a clink and presses a button on his phone.
“Yes, Rebecca? I’m so sorry, the red silk is still at the cleaners— No, from when Robert spilled red wine on it at the Williamsons’ dinner.” He looks up at you and smiles tightly. “No, she’ll wear the dark green Armani,” he says into the phone. “Of course. Robert should dress accordingly.” He nods a final time and hangs up.
Then he takes a deliberately long sip of tea and lowers his eyes.
“How bad was it, Alan?”
He stares into the middle distance. “I don’t think I’ll ever love again.” He sighs deeply. “I invited him over for dinner. I cooked. I lit candles.”
“What happened?” you ask, going through the mail on his desk.
He looks genuinely wounded. “I spent three hours making homemade pasta. From scratch.”
“Alan.” You start getting annoyed.
“Do you know what that man said to me?” He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “He said it was almost as good as the one at Carluccio’s.”
You look up and raise an eyebrow. “The chain restaurant?”
“The chain restaurant.” He confirms. “Of course I dumped him right after I took advantage of his model body.” He sighs again. “Such a waste of flesh and muscle.”
You look at him and shake your head barely visible. You love him, the two of you have formed a deep bond while working together for the last ten years. He has your back and you have his. Always. But you have to admit that the stories about his excessive dating live tend to be slightly exhausting sometimes.
“Tell me about the gala tonight.” You deliberately ignore his innuendo.
He sighs again dramatically. “Car’s at seven-fifteen. Robert’s arriving separately, he’ll meet you at the door. Table’s confirmed, twelve seats, Hartley Group has the two on your left.” He rattles off. “Should be an easy walk-through.”
“Okay.” You inhale deeply. “I need an appointment with legal tomorrow— the NHL boy.”
“I’ll schedule it.” He answers, almost bored, and gets back to his tea just as you pick up your bag.
“The green Armani—”
“Already hanging in your dressing room on the seventh floor.”
———————
The gala is old London money. Crystal chandeliers, champagne that costs more than most people’s monthly rent, and enough influential people in one room to alter the trajectory of entire industries before dessert is served.
You arrive with Robert ten minutes after the official start time, because arriving on time suggests eagerness. The cameras turn immediately. Lights flash, people shout your name.
You’re a story people like telling.
The self-made crisis communication strategist and the managing partner at one of the largest private equity firms in the world.
The power couple.
The marriage that somehow manages to survive despite both of your schedules looking like acts of hostility toward the concept of free time.
The fact that almost none of it is true has never seemed to matter.
Robert rests a hand briefly against your back as the cameras begin flashing. It’s a gesture calculated to appear intimate without actually requiring intimacy. You resist the urge to shrug him off. Mostly because there are at least three investors watching.
“Try to look happy,” he says without moving his lips. “People get nervous when they think a marriage is falling apart.”
You keep smiling.
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time one of your affairs decides to get photographed leaving your apartment.”
To anyone watching, the two of you look effortlessly elegant. You wonder how many of them would still find the marriage aspirational if they knew Robert has spent the better part of three years sleeping his way through half the social calendar, including his assistant Rebecca. Probably most of them. People forgive infidelity surprisingly quickly when enough money is involved.
Inside the ballroom Robert immediately spots a group of investors and subtly adjusts course. Like a shark catching a scent. As soon as the flashlights disappear around the corner, you stay two steps ahead of him, avoiding his ever-present fingers on your back.
“Careful,” he says quietly as he notices. “Half the people in this room think we’re in love.”
You take a champagne flute from a passing tray and smile at a passing board member before answering.
“The other half think you’re incapable of it.”
His laugh is quiet. Convincing. Anyone watching would think the two of you enjoy each other’s company.
The marriage provides access, credibility, and a level of public trust that translates remarkably well into contracts and investment opportunities. For both of you.
An hour disappears into conversations that all sound vaguely identical. Someone wants funding. Someone wants influence. Someone wants something they could probably obtain themselves if they were willing to be slightly more competent.
You smile.
You network.
You perform.
And then you see her.
Across the room, near the bar. She’s wearing a fitted black tuxedo, her hair falling over her shoulders in waves.
Her face.
Her jawline.
Her body.
Good Lord.
Your stomach twists instantly as memories of her coming apart under your mouth flood back.
Alexia.
You set the glass down on the nearest tray without looking away.
Blink once, then again.
And then something cold and precise moves through you. The same instinct that tells you when a client is lying, when a journalist is fishing, when a room is about to turn.
She’s a problem in here.
You excuse yourself from the conversation you’re barely in and move through the crowd with such unhurried purpose that it doesn’t attract attention. A warm smile here, a light touch on an arm there, groups part without realising they’re doing it.
You reach her just as her companion excuses himself. Perfect timing.
“Alexia.”
She turns. And you see it immediately. The half-second where her composure slips. Where she freezes. Completely unguarded. You see her inhale, short and sharp.
And then she rebuilds it. Guard up, shoulders back. Public figure in place.
“What a coincidence to meet you here,” you say, keeping your voice low and pleasant. The smile is immaculate. It means nothing.
“Small world, indeed.” Her eyes move across your face with a familiarity she has no right to use in public.
You keep your smile and touch her elbow lightly, steering her to the left, behind a marble column. Out of eyeline. Still visible enough to look casual.
“What are you doing here.” You say through gritted teeth. It’s not a question.
She tilts her head. “I was invited.”
“By whom.”
“Does it matter?”
It matters enormously and she knows it. Her gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
“You look tense,” she says, tilting her head again. “Did you not enjoy your evening?”
“My evening was completely fine until five minutes ago.” You say dryly.
Her mouth curls slightly and she fixes her eyes on yours, deliberate.
You hold her gaze.
“I need to be sure,” you say quietly, pressing her arm, “that tonight stays professional.”
For a moment Alexia just looks at you. Then one corner of her mouth lifts.
“Professional,” she repeats softly.
You ignore the way the word sounds in her voice. Her gaze doesn’t leave yours.
“You think I’m going to cause a scene?”
“I think you’re unpredictable.” You cut her short.
Something flashes across her face. Gone almost immediately. “You didn’t seem to mind that before.”
You take a breath. This conversation is already going in the wrong direction. You should walk away. “If discretion is the issue, we can take care of it,” you tell her.
Alexia frowns instantly. “What?”
“You won’t have to worry about anything.” The confusion deepens. “Whatever amount you consider appropriate.” Her eyebrow lifts. “Name a number,” you say. “Something reasonable. Something that ensures tonight stays exactly what it should be. A coincidence. Nothing more.”
For a moment she looks at you in total disbelief. Then she narrows her eyes. “I don’t need your money.”
“Everyone wants money.”
“I’m not everyone.”
She takes a moment to collect herself, then smiles mischievously. Her eyes move over you slowly. Down. Back up again. Her gaze locks on yours. “I want something else,” she says calmly.
“Name it,” you say flatly, with every ounce of control you have left. She takes a step forward and leans toward your ear.
“You’re smart enough to know what,” she says. Her voice is low now. Almost gentle. “And honest enough, somewhere under all of this—” her finger hovers briefly over you “—to admit you’ve thought about it too.”
You should move. Your breathing quickens.
“That’s not a transaction I’m interested in making.” You keep your voice controlled.
“Isn’t it.” She tilts her head again. “Because you just offered me money to buy my silence, which means you’re already negotiating. I’m just suggesting different terms.”
Somewhere to your right, there’s movement. A familiar voice.
“There you are.”
Robert.
In turning, you take a step back. The movement is so practised by now that he doesn’t notice. He approaches with a glass of scotch and the particular ease of a man who has never once felt unwelcome anywhere.
His eyes move from you to Alexia, assessing.
“Robert,” you say. Your voice is friendly. “This is Alexia.”
Alexia’s eyes flicker briefly to you. Then she straightens, rolls back her shoulders, and extends her hand.
“Alexia Putellas.” She says, looking into his eyes.
You watch her face. Then his.
Oh. She knows how to do this. How to perform. It’s almost mesmerising to watch. The small tilt of her head. Her chin lifting a tiny bit. Her small, polished smile. All trained for moments exactly like this.
Robert’s posture relaxes instantly. He shakes her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
She looks at their joined hands for a moment not letting go. “And you are—?” she asks.
“This is Robert Ashford,” you say, watching her, “my husband.”
She controls herself perfectly on the outside. But you’re trained to see the smallest changes — her eyes widening for a split second, her fake smile faltering slightly, her weight shifting from one foot to the other before she collects herself and her posture returns to gala mode.
Robert smiles easily, with the confidence of a man who has always found that sentence useful in rooms like this. My husband. My wife. Look at us, we double our power.
“What a coincidence to meet you here,” Alexia says sweetly, then turns her eyes to you. “Both of you.”
“The pleasure is on us,” Robert answers easily, completely missing the undertone in Alexia’s voice. “How do you two know each other?” He looks between you.
For a split second you can’t read the purpose of his question. Heat rises in your chest as you calibrate your options.
“We met through a mutual contact.” The lie leaves your mouth smoothly. Alexia turns her head slightly.
“A mutual contact,” Robert repeats. His gaze moves between the two of you. He seems amused. “Interesting.” He observes your reaction. “I didn’t know you were into sports.”
You give him nothing.
Someone calls his name from across the room.
He glances over his shoulder. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says. “Unfortunately, some people believe galas are an acceptable place to discuss business.” You smile politely as he kisses your cheek and rests his hand at your lower back for a moment. “Enjoy your evening, Ms Putellas.”
Alexia watches Robert walk away. Without looking at you, she takes a long sip from her champagne flute. “I can see why you offered me money,” she says over the rim of her glass.
Your jaw tightens. “You don’t know anything about my life,” you answer flatly.
Alexia’s gaze settles on yours again. “No,” she says after a moment. “I don’t.”
A waiter passes between you carrying fresh drinks. You step aside automatically to let him through, grateful for the interruption despite it lasting less than three seconds.
“You should be careful,” you say.
Her eyebrow lifts. “About?”
“Making judgments with incomplete information.”
She lets out a small sound that could be a laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
You immediately regret giving her the opening. You need to get out of here. “Goodnight, Alexia.” You look into her eyes one last time.
Her fingers tighten slightly around the stem of her glass.
“There she goes, the self-appointed referee of endings.” She says to your back.
Something unpleasant settles in your stomach as you walk away from her. Relief should feel different. Without answering, you walk back toward the crowd.
———————
Alan drops a folder onto your desk before collapsing dramatically into the chair opposite you. “The hockey boy sent me flowers.”
You raise an eyebrow, continuing to write the email you’re working on.
Alan unfolds the card. “Apparently I’m the only person in this office who showed him genuine emotional support during his outing.”
You glance up. “He just signed a four-year extension worth forty-two million dollars.” You lean back. “Good for him, I guess.” You say with a deliberately straight face.
Alan narrows his eyes. “Good for him? I spent eight months listening to you threaten executives, media consultants, sponsors, agents, lawyers, and one particularly aggressive marketing director for his life.”
You shrug. “He came out. The world didn’t end. His jersey sales are through the roof. Three brands started a bidding war over his endorsement rights and now everyone involved is pretending this was their strategy from the beginning.” You can’t help it. A smile slips through.
“There she is,” he points at you. “The woman who committed psychological warfare against an entire professional sports league and accidentally fixed a man’s career.”
You laugh out loudly and throw a pen at him.
“What’s next?”
He crosses his legs and folds his hands dramatically. “I was just about to ask the same.” He pauses, possibly for drama.
“You have a visitor.” His smile turns mischievous.
“I don’t have anything scheduled until—”
“Not scheduled. Walk-in.” He pauses. “Well. Sit-in, technically. She’s been in the lobby for forty minutes.”
“Who?”
“That’s the interesting part.” Alan turns his chair to face you fully. “She wouldn’t say at first. Just that she was a friend and she’d wait.”
You’re already pulling out your phone to check your calendar. “What did she—”
“Brown hair, tanned skin, and an ass—” he whistles.
You frown.
“Very fit,” he continues. “Very determined about the whole waiting thing. You know, that patience that somehow feels more threatening than impatience?”
“Alan, I don’t know anybody—”
“She’s a footballer.” He’s grinning now. “I reverse image searched her when she went to the bathroom. Two-time Ballon d’Or winner, apparently, which means something in football that I’m sure is very impressive.” He practically shoves the phone screen into your face.
It hits you like cold water.
“She said to tell you—” Alan pauses again with theatrical precision, “—that you owe her.”
The cold turns to heat.
“Send her away,” you answer sharply.
Alan tilts his head. “I had a feeling she wasn’t a potential client.” His grin widens. “Also, and I’m just observing here, completely objectively, she is aggressively your type.”
Your brain works in overdrive. This can’t be true. Must be a misunderstanding. You’ve just finished the most important PR coup of your career. You can’t handle her right now.
You take a long breath. “I’ll handle it,” you say, press your hands flat against your desk, and get up.
“Oh. I’m sure you will.” Alan says sweetly as you walk past him toward the elevator.
———————
You watch the numbers descend. Press your thumbnail into your index finger until it leaves a mark. Your jaw aches — you force it to unclench, then feel it lock tight again three floors later. You tell yourself you’re angry. It would be easier if that were entirely true.
Your heels are sharp and precise on the marble floor. The lobby is all glass and steel and carefully curated minimalism, designed to communicate that the people who walk in are expensive and worth it.
She’s in the corner by the window, sitting in a chair. Her hair is pulled back. You’ve never seen it pulled back. She looks up when she hears your steps, and her mouth curves, slow, satisfied. She’s already won.
You cross the lobby without breaking stride.
“Get out,” you hiss at her.
She stands up. “Hello to you too.”
“I’m not asking.” Your voice is low and hard. “Leave. Now.”
She lets her gaze travel slowly over you. “You look angry.”
“I’m busy.”
“Hm. Bad meeting?” She steps closer. The scent of her perfume wraps around you immediately. “Or are you just upset that I’m here?”
“You’re crossing a line.”
“I know.” Her smile sharpens. “That’s the point.”
You glance toward reception. “Don’t test me,” you say quietly. “I’ll have security escort you out.” Alexia doesn’t even look over her shoulder.
“Go ahead.”
“You think I’m bluffing?”
“No.” She tilts her head. “I think you’re calculating.” Her smile softens, just slightly. “Security comes over here, people start looking. Someone takes a picture. Someone recognises me. Tomorrow it’s ‘Ballon d’Or winner removed from London’s top crisis consultancy.’” She holds your gaze. “That headline hurts you a lot more than it hurts me.”
Footsteps echo from the far side of the lobby. Alexia’s eyes flick past you, registering the movement, then return to your face.
She raises her voice just slightly. “It’s good to see you again.” Her hand comes to your arm — the touch burns through your sleeve.
“Then do it.” She steps closer. Her breath is hot in your face. “Tell me to go.”
Your hands tighten. “You think this is a game.”
“I think you walked away from me twice,” she says, voice dropping lower. “And I think you’ve been regretting it ever since.”
“You don’t know what I think.”
“No?” She tilts her head. Studies you like you’re a riddle she’s solving. “You’ve thought about it though. About me. About what it felt like when you had control over me.”
Heat flashes through your chest. Anger. It has to be anger.
“You need to leave before someone sees—”
“Sees what?” She cuts you off. Steps even closer. “Two people talking in a lobby? Your assistant already saw me. Probably half your floor knows I’m here by now.” Your jaw locks. She’s right. The damage is already done.
“What do you want, Alexia?”
“You know what I want.” Her gaze drops to your mouth. Stays there. “Same thing you want.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” She leans in. Close enough that anyone walking past would notice. Close enough that your pulse jumps. “You don’t get to fuck me like that and then pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Careful,” you say quietly.
“Why?” Her eyes are dark. “What are you going to do about it?”
Nothing. You can do nothing without making a scene. And she knows it.
“I have a commercial thing this afternoon,” she continues. “I’ll stay at the Ritz tonight, fly home tomorrow morning.” She pauses. “You’ll never see me again. Unless you want to.” She smiles sweetly.
Your brain starts calculating immediately. The Ritz. Too public. Too risky. Someone might see.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” she continues. “You’re going to come to my room—“
Your hand moves before you think, grabs her wrist, tight enough to make your point.
She doesn’t flinch. Just looks down at your hand, then back up at your face. Smiling.
“There you are,” she murmurs.
You drop her wrist like it burns.
Someone laughs from across the lobby. Your spine straightens reflexively.
“8 PM,” you say. Your voice is controlled. Cold. “A car will pick you up.” She lifts an eyebrow, her smile widening. “I won’t be late.”
“And Alexia?” You lean in now. Close enough to see her pupils dilate. “When you show up at my door, you follow my rules. Not yours. Understood?”
Her breath catches. “Yes.”
“Good.” You step back. Smooth your jacket. “Now get out before I change my mind.”
She holds your gaze one more second. Then she turns and walks toward the exit.
This time you watch her go. Watch the confident set of her shoulders. She doesn’t look back.
———————
Alan looks up when you pass his desk. “I need the car at 6:30 tonight,” you say without stopping. He doesn’t ask questions. Just picks up the phone.
You walk into your office, close the door, and stand there for five seconds. Your hands are shaking. You press them flat against your desk until they stop.
When you come back out, Alan is off the phone.
“I’ve shifted the Rodman meeting from 6 to 5. You should be out by 6:30,” Alan announces. “And— do you want me to reschedule Singapore for tomorrow morning?”
You nod.
Alan watches you with that particular expression he gets when he’s filing information away for later.
“Anything else?” he asks carefully.
You pause at your office door. “Send Clive to the Ritz tonight. 8 PM. She’ll be waiting in the lobby.”
Alan’s eyebrow lifts fractionally. “To the Hills?”
You nod. Your private residence outside London has been your go-to place for encounters like this for years. Far from the city, from society, from Robert.
“Have him take the route through Richmond. No motorway.”
“Understood.” He pauses. “Do you want me to make sure Robert—”
“No.”
You massage your temple.
“Just send the car.”
———————
The drive to The Hills takes forty minutes through evening traffic that thins as you leave the city behind. Clive doesn’t speak, one of the habits you appreciate about him. Discretion is everything. In your job, in your private life.
You watch London fall away through tinted windows. The dense buildings give way to wider streets, then roads lined with trees, then gates and long driveways.
Your house sits on a rise overlooking the Thames Valley. All glass and steel and clean lines. The gates open as you approach. Gravel crunches under the tyres. Clive stops at the front entrance.
The entry hall is all glass: huge windows looking out over the valley. Space and light and control. The last of the afternoon light catches the hills in the distance. Your heels echo on the stone floor.
You drop your bag and walk through the open-plan living area toward the bedroom, let your clothes fall away as you go. You fetch a fresh towel, carry it back through the living room, and push open the terrace doors. The towel lands on one of the loungers.
The sun still sits high enough to lay gold across the water, the air thick and warm and barely moving. You slip in from the edge and the cool hits you like a slow exhale.
It prickles down your throat, across your collarbone, over the curve of your stomach. The water draws out the heat that has been building in you all afternoon, pulling it through your skin. You let out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding.
You turn onto your back and float, looking up. The evening sky is still a deep, saturated blue with the sun somewhere behind the treeline now.
The water laps at the hollow of your throat, pools briefly in the dip of your stomach as you breathe. You close your eyes. The coolness is exquisite — just cool enough to feel like relief, like a hand pressed gently against warm skin.
A slow shudder moves through you at the thought of what the evening will bring.
As you pull yourself from the water in one slow motion, the evening air catches your skin. The heavy satin robe Robert gave you for your birthday wraps around your body, cool and liquid against your still-damp skin, and you tie it loosely at your waist.
You pour a glass of Whiskey, the first sip burns your tongue but you let it sit for a moment. Smoke and oak and sweetness underneath.
Then Tyres crunch on gravel.
She’s exactly on time.
Good for her.
You walk back to the pool, the satin shifting against your skin with every step. The door opens behind you. Closes again. You can tell by the footsteps on the floor that she’s taking in the space. She comes closer as you keep watching the valley.
“Nice house,” she says somewhere behind you, her voice low.
You turn around slowly.
Grey joggers. White t-shirt. Cap pulled low. A bubble gum in her mouth. And a thin gold chain around her neck.
It’s so cliché you almost have to laugh. Almost. Because the confident set of her shoulders and her hands buried in her pockets suggest that none of it is accidental.
You let your eyes travel over her, taking in the entire picture before lifting an eyebrow. “I suggest you get rid of that,” you say, nodding toward her mouth.
Alexia blows a bubble and lets it pop.
Then she reaches up, pulls the gum from her mouth, and glues it to the kitchen counter.
Her gaze moves slowly up your body before settling on your face. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Better?”
The audacity of it makes you want to scoff. It’s ridiculous. She walks into your house dressed like every girl’s gay awakening and somehow still manages to look pleased with herself.
Her confidence is infuriating. The fact that she can occasionally back it up is even worse.
“The shoes,” you tell her.
Her smile falters. “What about them?”
“Take them off.”
For a second she just looks at you. Then, without breaking eye contact, she kicks them off and leaves them by the table.
You nod once. “Cap.”
She takes it off and drops it onto the counter beside the gum. “What exactly are we doing?”
You ignore the question. Instead, you glance toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. “You’re going swimming.”
Alexia lets out a short laugh. “I’m sorry?”
“You obviously need to cool down.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Now.”
She studies you for a moment, clearly trying to determine whether you’re joking. Unfortunately for her, you rarely joke.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
The silence sits between you. Then, to your annoyance, she smiles again. “You always this welcoming to guests?”
“Only the unexpected ones.”
Alexia laughs again. The sound echoes through the kitchen. A minute later she walks past you, close enough that you catch her scent, and disappears toward the dock.
When she’s halfway across the lawn you allow yourself a small, private sense of satisfaction. Control, once established, is remarkably easy to maintain.
You watch her strip from the distance. She doesn’t glance in your direction once, though she knows you’re watching. With one perfect header she dives into the water.
When she eventually returns — damp-haired and dripping on your floor, wrapped in a towel — you toss a bundle of clothes onto the counter without ceremony. Alexia looks down at the long white linen shirt and the black briefs, then back at you. “You’re serious?”
“The shower is the second door on the left,” you nod in that direction.
She shakes her head, barely perceptible. “Que valga la pena,” she mutters under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads for the bathroom.
——————
The water runs for exactly two minutes and thirty seconds. She really does seem to be efficient in everything. You pour another drink to calm your nerves.
One night with the intention of never seeing her again is one thing. Two nights and what amounts to an invitation to your home is dangerously close to becoming something else entirely. The fact that she’s a world-renowned athlete and could even be your client brings a level of complication you had intended to avoid at all costs. Had intended. Past tense. You’re not entirely sure what you want anymore.
You take a deep breath and down your drink in one.
She emerges with wet hair dripping down her chest and onto the white shirt. This is so not accidental.
You let yourself look at her properly as she approaches. Her strong thighs. Her chin tilted up. Her confident walk. For one reckless moment you simply look.
Then you remember why she’s here.
This is not her game. It’s yours.
She stops in front of the window to the terrace and looks out. By now the sky is darkening, the first lights of the city appearing in the distance. You circle around her slowly, observing the way she stands in your space as though she belongs here. Her eyes track your movement.
“I don’t like unpredictable, you should know that by now,” you say, passing behind her and dragging a finger along her arm. “You walked into my office,” you say quietly, “in the middle of my workday.”
She huffs and shrugs. “I was in the area.”
“Is that so?” you ask into the room.
“I—”
“Shh,” you interrupt her and place a finger on her lips. “I’m talking.”
She breathes out and falls immediately silent.
“You don’t get to be around me casually, Alexia.” She opens her mouth but closes it again.
“You were at that gala, and you came to my office. You pushed until I had no choice but to give you what you wanted.”
Her head snaps toward you. “You could’ve said no.”
“Could I?” You stop in front of her. “With you standing there, threatening to make a scene? Knowing you wouldn’t leave until you got what you came for?”
Her jaw tightens. “You wanted me there.”
“I wanted you gone.”
You almost believe it yourself.
“Liar.” She looks right through you. “You wanted—”
No. You move fast. Close the distance and take her jaw in your hand. Firm, controlled, stopping her mid-sentence.
Her breath catches.
“I wanted,” you say quietly, “to tell you to leave. To call security. To make you understand that walking out of that hotel room meant something.” Your thumb brushes along her jawline. “But you didn’t let me.”
“So now what?” Her voice is rougher now. “You going to punish me for it?”
You release her jaw and step back.
“I want you to look at yourself.” You tell her and nod toward the window front. Behind it the sky is deepening to dark blue and both your reflections are caught in the glass, slightly blurred.
You step behind her. “All this confidence. The posture. The audacity of you standing in my house.” You slide your hand down her side and she shivers. “Shh, don’t move,” you command quietly. You continue to stroke her sides. “You like being watched,” you continue. “You like the risk. That’s why the lobby worked.”
She scoffs.
“So let’s see how you feel about this.” You press close behind her and slide your arms to her chest, letting them ghost over her breasts. She takes in a sharp breath.
“It feels like they can see you, behind that window. The whole city watching you come apart under my hands.” She lets out a quiet moan, which makes you smile, small and private. “Don’t you dare move,” you whisper.
She looks at the reflection. At herself, half-naked, and you behind her, your hand coming to rest on her stomach.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Your mouth brushes her shoulder. “To push until I pushed back.”
Her breathing turns shallow. “Yes.”
“Say it properly.”
“Yes.” Her voice shakes slightly. “I wanted this.”
“Good.” Your hand slides up between her breasts, feeling her heartbeat race beneath your palm. “Now you’re going to stand here and let me show you exactly what happens when you cross lines you shouldn’t.”
She starts to turn. You press her forward, holding her in place.
“I said don’t move. Don’t speak.” Your mouth finds the curve of her neck. “Just feel.”
You take your time. Map her body with your hands while she’s forced to watch herself in the glass — the way she responds, the way her control fractures, the effort it takes her to stay still.
When your hand finally slides lower, beneath the waistband of her underwear, she gasps and her knees buckle slightly.
You catch her. Hold her up. “I said don’t move.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” Your fingers press against her and she makes a sound low in her throat. “You’re going to stand here and watch yourself fall apart. Understand?”
She nods, unable to speak.
You work her slowly, methodically, with none of the tenderness from the hotel. This is sharper. Harder. You watch her reflection, the way her eyes struggle to stay open, her head tilting back against your shoulder, the absolute loss of the cockiness she walked in with.
“Please—” she finally whispers.
“Please what?”
“Please let me—”
She can’t finish.
“Let you what, Alexia? Use your words.”
“Let me turn around. Touch you. Something.”
“No.” Your mouth finds her ear. “You don’t get to touch. You don’t get to control this. You pushed me. Now I push back.”
She whimpers. The sound is raw, honest, stripped of all performance.
You bring her to the edge. Watch her fight to stay standing.
Then you stop.
She makes a desperate sound. “What—”
“Couch. Now.”
She turns, unsteady, and you guide her back to the couch. She sits and you follow her down, pulling the robe up your legs, straddling her lap.
“Look at me,” you command. Her eyes find yours, dark and desperate.
You kiss her hard, swallow the sounds she makes. Heat pools between your legs where your bare skin touches her thighs. You start rocking back and forth deliberately. She watches you with wide eyes. Your hand comes up and pushes your hair back, then settles on her chest.
“Touch yourself,” you command as your fingers press lightly into her skin. For a moment she looks at you in total disbelief. Then a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She slides one hand down her stomach, plays with the waistband of the underwear. Her eyes lock on yours. She bites down on her lower lip and you can barely hold your self back from coming apart right at this moment. You want to drag it out, feel her under you as long as possible.
She slides into her pants and lets out a deep moan. You breathe heavily as she pulls her hand back and licks her finger. Her eyes settle on you. “Does your husband know you’re fucking yourself on my thigh?” She asks and smiles sweetly. You rock faster, breathing uncontrollably now. When you feel you’re near the edge you push her pants aside and slide into her, pushing in and out frantically.
It doesn’t take long. You push her over the edge as you come apart on top of her, back arching, her hands finally grabbing your hips because she can’t help herself.
When she goes limp, breathing hard, you pull back and look at her. She’s wrecked. Beautiful.
“That,” you say quietly, “is what happens when you push me.”
She stares at you, searching for words.
You stand up, smooth your robe. “Bedroom is down the hall. Second door on the right.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re staying.” It’s not a question. “Get some water from the kitchen if you need it. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“You’re not—”
“I’m not asking, Alexia. You crossed into my space. Now you’re in it on my terms.” You meet her eyes. “Wait for me.”
She swallows. Nods.
You watch her walk toward the hall — still unsteady — glancing back once before she disappears.
You pour yourself another whiskey. Take a slow sip. Look out at the valley and the darkness and feel the control settle back into your bones.
You’ll go to her in ten minutes.
But she’ll wait as long as it takes.
You set the glass down. Look at your watch.
Twelve minutes.
You wait two more.
The bedroom door is open. Light spills from the bedside lamp. Alexia is sitting on the edge of the bed. She looks up when you enter and there is something uncertain in her eyes now. The cockiness from the lobby is gone.
“I wasn’t sure if you were coming,” she says quietly.
“I told you I would.”
“You also said ten minutes.”
“I changed my mind.” You close the door behind you. “Problem?”
She shakes her head.
You cross to the windows, another wall of glass looking out over the valley. The bedroom is darker than the living room, more intimate.
You start undoing the knot on your robe. She watches every movement.
“You’re very quiet suddenly,” you say.
“You told me not to speak.”
“I said don’t speak while I was touching you.” You slip the robe off. Fold it precisely over the chair. “You can speak now.”
She doesn’t. Just looks at you standing bare before her. She swallows hard.
You meet her eyes across the room.
“Come here,” you say.
She stands. Crosses to you. Stops close enough to touch but doesn’t.
You reach out and start unbuttoning the linen shirt. Slide it off her shoulders. She shivers despite the warmth of the room.
“You’re shaking,” you observe.
“I know.”
“Why?”
Her eyes search yours. “Because this feels different.”
“Different from what?”
“From the hotel. From the living room.” She pauses. “You’re letting me into your bedroom.”
Smart girl. She understands what that means.
“I am,” you confirm. “Don’t make me regret it.”
You guide her backward to the bed. She sits and you follow, pushing her down slowly until she’s lying beneath you.
This time when you kiss her, it’s slower. Less anger. You hadn’t intended for it to become gentle. Somewhere along the way, it simply did.
You take your time learning the shape of her mouth, the sounds she makes when you bite her lower lip.
Her hands come up to your waist. You let them stay. “You can touch me,” you murmur against her mouth. “But if I tell you to stop, you stop immediately.”
“Yes.”
You work your way down her body — neck, collarbone, breasts. She arches into your mouth, hands sliding into your hair. When you move lower, she spreads her legs without being asked.
You look up at her. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“Say it anyway.”
Her jaw tightens. “I want your mouth on me.”
“Where?”
“You know where.”
“Alexia.” You press a kiss to her inner thigh. “Say it.”
“I want—” Her breath catches when you bite down lightly. “I want you to fuck me with your mouth.”
The vulgarity spikes your heart rate and twists your stomach. “Better,” you murmur.
You take your time. No rushing. No teasing to prove a point. Just thorough, focused attention until she’s gasping your name and her thighs are shaking around your head.
When she comes, it’s quieter than before. Longer. She reaches for you after, pulling you up to kiss you desperately. You let her. Let her taste herself on your mouth. Let her hands slide down your body with clear intent.
“Can I—” she starts.
“Yes.”
She flips you onto your back with surprising strength. You let her, because the loss of control here, in your own bed, feels like a different kind of power.
She settles between your legs. Looks up at you once for permission.
You nod.
She’s good at this. Better than you expected. Attentive, responsive to every shift in your breathing. When you come, she works you through it with the same focused intensity she probably brings to everything else.
After, she crawls up your body and collapses beside you, breathing hard.
You stare at the ceiling. Feel her warmth against your side.
“I have a flight to catch tomorrow,” she says finally. “Today, technically. It’s past midnight.”
She looks at you, waiting for a response. A sign. You just look right back at her.
“I should probably sleep,” she adds, avoiding your eyes.
“Then sleep,” you simply say.
She hesitates, then shifts closer, rests her head on your shoulder.
You don’t push her away.
Her breathing gradually evens out. Slows. Within minutes she’s asleep, one arm draped across your stomach. You should move her arm. You don’t.
You stay awake longer. Looking at the ceiling. At the windows. At the valley outside wrapped in darkness.
Her hair tickles your shoulder. Her breath is warm against your collarbone.
You should move. Create distance. Remind her this doesn’t mean what her body is assuming it means.
Instead, you close your eyes.
——————
You wake to grey light filtering through the windows. Alexia is still asleep beside you, face peaceful, hair spread across your pillow.
You check your phone. Five forty-three.
Carefully, you extract yourself from her arm. She makes a small sound but doesn’t wake.
You pull on the robe and go to the kitchen. Make coffee while you look out at the valley as fog lifts slowly from the hills.
Your phone buzzes. Alan: Singapore call rescheduled for 9am. Benson confirmed for next week. Anything else you need?
You type back: Send the car at 8, to the airport.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then a simple thumbs up.
The coffee finishes brewing. You pour two cups.
When you go back upstairs, Alexia is awake. Sitting up in bed, sheet pulled around her, watching you enter.
“You made coffee,” she says.
You hand her a cup. “You’ll need it.”
She takes it. Sips. “What time is it?”
“Six.”
“Fuck.” She runs her free hand through her hair. “I need to be at the airport by 8:30.”
“The car will be here at 8.”
“That’s too late—”
“Then I’ll have Clive drive faster.” You sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re not taking the tube across London in yesterday’s clothes.”
She stares at you.
“I’m not done with you yet.” You tell her.
Her eyes widen slightly.
You take the coffee cup from her hands. Set both cups aside. Push her back down onto the bed.
“YN—”
“We have two hours,” you say, sliding the sheet away. “I suggest you stop talking and let me use them.”
In your world built on reputation and power, desire is the one crisis you can’t control.
a/n I know this lost the poll, and I do feel a little bad posting it anyway. But it wouldn’t leave my head, and I figured I’d rather get it out of my system than let it sit in my drafts forever. Anyway, I’m not sure how this turned out, might delete it later.
tw age gap, control and power dynamics, smut, dirty talk, technically cheating
wc 7k
———————
“And that’s why we’re recommending a phased approach.”
The agent cuts you off. “He’s not doing phased. He wants to just say it and be done.”
You don’t look up from your tablet. “What your client wants and what’s viable in the current NHL climate are two different conversations. Would you like to have the first one, or should we focus on keeping his career intact?”
The team’s PR director shifts in his seat. “That’s a bit dramatic—”
“Is it?” You pull up a slide. “Let me show you what happened to the last three professional male athletes who came out during active contracts.”
Six men lean back in their chairs. The agent crosses his arms. You advance the slide.
“Travis Chen. Basketball. Career earnings dropped forty-two percent within eighteen months. Lost his Nike deal, his Gatorade sponsorship, and was traded to a team that benched him seventy percent of the season.” Click. “Marcus Webb. Football. Received death threats that required FBI involvement, was released from his contract six months later for ‘performance issues’ despite leading his position in every statistical category.” Click. “And Liam Nordstrom—”
“We know about Nordstrom,” the GM says quietly.
“Then you know he never played again.” You close the tablet and look at each of them in turn. “This boy is twenty-two years old with a rookie contract. He has no leverage, no tenure, and no union protection against the kind of targeted harassment that ends careers. So when I say phased approach, I’m not talking about staying closeted. I’m talking about him still having a career when he’s thirty.”
The agent leans forward. “He doesn’t want to wait—”
“What he wants,” you say, voice level, “is to come out and keep playing hockey. Those are my parameters. If yours are different, I can recommend three other firms who’ll take your money and let him walk into a press conference that destroys everything he’s worked for.”
Silence.
“Now.” You open your tablet again. “Let’s talk about the timeline that actually works.”
By the time you’re done, they’re all nodding, convinced that hiding who someone is constitutes sound business strategy.
You hate every single person in this room including yourself.
Especially yourself.
“We’ll draft some soft-launch posts for his social media,” you say. “Legal will review. He starts posting on Friday.”
“And if he refuses?” the GM asks.
You meet his eyes. Let the silence stretch just long enough that he feels it.
“Then you’ll have a twenty-two-year-old gay hockey player walking into a press conference alone, with no message control, no crisis management, and every reporter in North America ready to ask him about locker room dynamics and whether his teammates knew.” You don’t blink. “The story stops being about him. It becomes about your organisation. Your culture. Every gay slur that’s ever been used in your building. Every interview where your captain said ‘that’s so gay’ and laughed.”
The PR director shifts. “We can’t control what the media—”
“You can’t control anything if he goes rogue. Which is my point.” You stand up. “The phased approach protects him. It also protects you. Or you can let him do this his way and spend the next six months explaining to sponsors why your locker room culture is trending on Twitter.”
The agent clears his throat. “She’s right.”
“I know I’m right. The question is whether you’re smart enough to listen.”
They file out, murmuring amongst themselves, and you gather your things with hands that are steadier than they should be, given that you just spent ninety minutes convincing people that authenticity is a liability.
You’re very good at your job.
You also hate your job.
The door closes behind the last suit and you allow yourself exactly five seconds to stand there and feel the specific emptiness that comes from winning arguments you don’t believe in.
Alan is nursing his third cup of tea that afternoon, which usually means he was dumped the night before and is now licking his wounds with English Breakfast, milk, and two sugars.
“Rebecca called,” he says without looking up.
You drop your tablet on the chair. “What does she want?”
He sighs dramatically and waves his hand at you. “Robert wants you in the red silk tonight.” You raise an eyebrow. “Tell him I’ll wear whatever the fuck I want.”
Alan’s mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He sets down his cup with a clink and presses a button on his phone.
“Yes, Rebecca? I’m so sorry, the red silk is still at the cleaners— No, from when Robert spilled red wine on it at the Williamsons’ dinner.” He looks up at you and smiles tightly. “No, she’ll wear the dark green Armani,” he says into the phone. “Of course. Robert should dress accordingly.” He nods a final time and hangs up.
Then he takes a deliberately long sip of tea and lowers his eyes.
“How bad was it, Alan?”
He stares into the middle distance. “I don’t think I’ll ever love again.” He sighs deeply. “I invited him over for dinner. I cooked. I lit candles.”
“What happened?” you ask, going through the mail on his desk.
He looks genuinely wounded. “I spent three hours making homemade pasta. From scratch.”
“Alan.” You start getting annoyed.
“Do you know what that man said to me?” He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “He said it was almost as good as the one at Carluccio’s.”
You look up and raise an eyebrow. “The chain restaurant?”
“The chain restaurant.” He confirms. “Of course I dumped him right after I took advantage of his model body.” He sighs again. “Such a waste of flesh and muscle.”
You look at him and shake your head barely visible. You love him, the two of you have formed a deep bond while working together for the last ten years. He has your back and you have his. Always. But you have to admit that the stories about his excessive dating live tend to be slightly exhausting sometimes.
“Tell me about the gala tonight.” You deliberately ignore his innuendo.
He sighs again dramatically. “Car’s at seven-fifteen. Robert’s arriving separately, he’ll meet you at the door. Table’s confirmed, twelve seats, Hartley Group has the two on your left.” He rattles off. “Should be an easy walk-through.”
“Okay.” You inhale deeply. “I need an appointment with legal tomorrow— the NHL boy.”
“I’ll schedule it.” He answers, almost bored, and gets back to his tea just as you pick up your bag.
“The green Armani—”
“Already hanging in your dressing room on the seventh floor.”
———————
The gala is old London money. Crystal chandeliers, champagne that costs more than most people’s monthly rent, and enough influential people in one room to alter the trajectory of entire industries before dessert is served.
You arrive with Robert ten minutes after the official start time, because arriving on time suggests eagerness. The cameras turn immediately. Lights flash, people shout your name.
You’re a story people like telling.
The self-made crisis communication strategist and the managing partner at one of the largest private equity firms in the world.
The power couple.
The marriage that somehow manages to survive despite both of your schedules looking like acts of hostility toward the concept of free time.
The fact that almost none of it is true has never seemed to matter.
Robert rests a hand briefly against your back as the cameras begin flashing. It’s a gesture calculated to appear intimate without actually requiring intimacy. You resist the urge to shrug him off. Mostly because there are at least three investors watching.
“Try to look happy,” he says without moving his lips. “People get nervous when they think a marriage is falling apart.”
You keep smiling.
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time one of your affairs decides to get photographed leaving your apartment.”
To anyone watching, the two of you look effortlessly elegant. You wonder how many of them would still find the marriage aspirational if they knew Robert has spent the better part of three years sleeping his way through half the social calendar, including his assistant Rebecca. Probably most of them. People forgive infidelity surprisingly quickly when enough money is involved.
Inside the ballroom Robert immediately spots a group of investors and subtly adjusts course. Like a shark catching a scent. As soon as the flashlights disappear around the corner, you stay two steps ahead of him, avoiding his ever-present fingers on your back.
“Careful,” he says quietly as he notices. “Half the people in this room think we’re in love.”
You take a champagne flute from a passing tray and smile at a passing board member before answering.
“The other half think you’re incapable of it.”
His laugh is quiet. Convincing. Anyone watching would think the two of you enjoy each other’s company.
The marriage provides access, credibility, and a level of public trust that translates remarkably well into contracts and investment opportunities. For both of you.
An hour disappears into conversations that all sound vaguely identical. Someone wants funding. Someone wants influence. Someone wants something they could probably obtain themselves if they were willing to be slightly more competent.
You smile.
You network.
You perform.
And then you see her.
Across the room, near the bar. She’s wearing a fitted black tuxedo, her hair falling over her shoulders in waves.
Her face.
Her jawline.
Her body.
Good Lord.
Your stomach twists instantly as memories of her coming apart under your mouth flood back.
Alexia.
You set the glass down on the nearest tray without looking away.
Blink once, then again.
And then something cold and precise moves through you. The same instinct that tells you when a client is lying, when a journalist is fishing, when a room is about to turn.
She’s a problem in here.
You excuse yourself from the conversation you’re barely in and move through the crowd with such unhurried purpose that it doesn’t attract attention. A warm smile here, a light touch on an arm there, groups part without realising they’re doing it.
You reach her just as her companion excuses himself. Perfect timing.
“Alexia.”
She turns. And you see it immediately. The half-second where her composure slips. Where she freezes. Completely unguarded. You see her inhale, short and sharp.
And then she rebuilds it. Guard up, shoulders back. Public figure in place.
“What a coincidence to meet you here,” you say, keeping your voice low and pleasant. The smile is immaculate. It means nothing.
“Small world, indeed.” Her eyes move across your face with a familiarity she has no right to use in public.
You keep your smile and touch her elbow lightly, steering her to the left, behind a marble column. Out of eyeline. Still visible enough to look casual.
“What are you doing here.” You say through gritted teeth. It’s not a question.
She tilts her head. “I was invited.”
“By whom.”
“Does it matter?”
It matters enormously and she knows it. Her gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
“You look tense,” she says, tilting her head again. “Did you not enjoy your evening?”
“My evening was completely fine until five minutes ago.” You say dryly.
Her mouth curls slightly and she fixes her eyes on yours, deliberate.
You hold her gaze.
“I need to be sure,” you say quietly, pressing her arm, “that tonight stays professional.”
For a moment Alexia just looks at you. Then one corner of her mouth lifts.
“Professional,” she repeats softly.
You ignore the way the word sounds in her voice. Her gaze doesn’t leave yours.
“You think I’m going to cause a scene?”
“I think you’re unpredictable.” You cut her short.
Something flashes across her face. Gone almost immediately. “You didn’t seem to mind that before.”
You take a breath. This conversation is already going in the wrong direction. You should walk away. “If discretion is the issue, we can take care of it,” you tell her.
Alexia frowns instantly. “What?”
“You won’t have to worry about anything.” The confusion deepens. “Whatever amount you consider appropriate.” Her eyebrow lifts. “Name a number,” you say. “Something reasonable. Something that ensures tonight stays exactly what it should be. A coincidence. Nothing more.”
For a moment she looks at you in total disbelief. Then she narrows her eyes. “I don’t need your money.”
“Everyone wants money.”
“I’m not everyone.”
She takes a moment to collect herself, then smiles mischievously. Her eyes move over you slowly. Down. Back up again. Her gaze locks on yours. “I want something else,” she says calmly.
“Name it,” you say flatly, with every ounce of control you have left. She takes a step forward and leans toward your ear.
“You’re smart enough to know what,” she says. Her voice is low now. Almost gentle. “And honest enough, somewhere under all of this—” her finger hovers briefly over you “—to admit you’ve thought about it too.”
You should move. Your breathing quickens.
“That’s not a transaction I’m interested in making.” You keep your voice controlled.
“Isn’t it.” She tilts her head again. “Because you just offered me money to buy my silence, which means you’re already negotiating. I’m just suggesting different terms.”
Somewhere to your right, there’s movement. A familiar voice.
“There you are.”
Robert.
In turning, you take a step back. The movement is so practised by now that he doesn’t notice. He approaches with a glass of scotch and the particular ease of a man who has never once felt unwelcome anywhere.
His eyes move from you to Alexia, assessing.
“Robert,” you say. Your voice is friendly. “This is Alexia.”
Alexia’s eyes flicker briefly to you. Then she straightens, rolls back her shoulders, and extends her hand.
“Alexia Putellas.” She says, looking into his eyes.
You watch her face. Then his.
Oh. She knows how to do this. How to perform. It’s almost mesmerising to watch. The small tilt of her head. Her chin lifting a tiny bit. Her small, polished smile. All trained for moments exactly like this.
Robert’s posture relaxes instantly. He shakes her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
She looks at their joined hands for a moment not letting go. “And you are—?” she asks.
“This is Robert Ashford,” you say, watching her, “my husband.”
She controls herself perfectly on the outside. But you’re trained to see the smallest changes — her eyes widening for a split second, her fake smile faltering slightly, her weight shifting from one foot to the other before she collects herself and her posture returns to gala mode.
Robert smiles easily, with the confidence of a man who has always found that sentence useful in rooms like this. My husband. My wife. Look at us, we double our power.
“What a coincidence to meet you here,” Alexia says sweetly, then turns her eyes to you. “Both of you.”
“The pleasure is on us,” Robert answers easily, completely missing the undertone in Alexia’s voice. “How do you two know each other?” He looks between you.
For a split second you can’t read the purpose of his question. Heat rises in your chest as you calibrate your options.
“We met through a mutual contact.” The lie leaves your mouth smoothly. Alexia turns her head slightly.
“A mutual contact,” Robert repeats. His gaze moves between the two of you. He seems amused. “Interesting.” He observes your reaction. “I didn’t know you were into sports.”
You give him nothing.
Someone calls his name from across the room.
He glances over his shoulder. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says. “Unfortunately, some people believe galas are an acceptable place to discuss business.” You smile politely as he kisses your cheek and rests his hand at your lower back for a moment. “Enjoy your evening, Ms Putellas.”
Alexia watches Robert walk away. Without looking at you, she takes a long sip from her champagne flute. “I can see why you offered me money,” she says over the rim of her glass.
Your jaw tightens. “You don’t know anything about my life,” you answer flatly.
Alexia’s gaze settles on yours again. “No,” she says after a moment. “I don’t.”
A waiter passes between you carrying fresh drinks. You step aside automatically to let him through, grateful for the interruption despite it lasting less than three seconds.
“You should be careful,” you say.
Her eyebrow lifts. “About?”
“Making judgments with incomplete information.”
She lets out a small sound that could be a laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
You immediately regret giving her the opening. You need to get out of here. “Goodnight, Alexia.” You look into her eyes one last time.
Her fingers tighten slightly around the stem of her glass.
“There she goes, the self-appointed referee of endings.” She says to your back.
Something unpleasant settles in your stomach as you walk away from her. Relief should feel different. Without answering, you walk back toward the crowd.
———————
Alan drops a folder onto your desk before collapsing dramatically into the chair opposite you. “The hockey boy sent me flowers.”
You raise an eyebrow, continuing to write the email you’re working on.
Alan unfolds the card. “Apparently I’m the only person in this office who showed him genuine emotional support during his outing.”
You glance up. “He just signed a four-year extension worth forty-two million dollars.” You lean back. “Good for him, I guess.” You say with a deliberately straight face.
Alan narrows his eyes. “Good for him? I spent eight months listening to you threaten executives, media consultants, sponsors, agents, lawyers, and one particularly aggressive marketing director for his life.”
You shrug. “He came out. The world didn’t end. His jersey sales are through the roof. Three brands started a bidding war over his endorsement rights and now everyone involved is pretending this was their strategy from the beginning.” You can’t help it. A smile slips through.
“There she is,” he points at you. “The woman who committed psychological warfare against an entire professional sports league and accidentally fixed a man’s career.”
You laugh out loudly and throw a pen at him.
“What’s next?”
He crosses his legs and folds his hands dramatically. “I was just about to ask the same.” He pauses, possibly for drama.
“You have a visitor.” His smile turns mischievous.
“I don’t have anything scheduled until—”
“Not scheduled. Walk-in.” He pauses. “Well. Sit-in, technically. She’s been in the lobby for forty minutes.”
“Who?”
“That’s the interesting part.” Alan turns his chair to face you fully. “She wouldn’t say at first. Just that she was a friend and she’d wait.”
You’re already pulling out your phone to check your calendar. “What did she—”
“Brown hair, tanned skin, and an ass—” he whistles.
You frown.
“Very fit,” he continues. “Very determined about the whole waiting thing. You know, that patience that somehow feels more threatening than impatience?”
“Alan, I don’t know anybody—”
“She’s a footballer.” He’s grinning now. “I reverse image searched her when she went to the bathroom. Two-time Ballon d’Or winner, apparently, which means something in football that I’m sure is very impressive.” He practically shoves the phone screen into your face.
It hits you like cold water.
“She said to tell you—” Alan pauses again with theatrical precision, “—that you owe her.”
The cold turns to heat.
“Send her away,” you answer sharply.
Alan tilts his head. “I had a feeling she wasn’t a potential client.” His grin widens. “Also, and I’m just observing here, completely objectively, she is aggressively your type.”
Your brain works in overdrive. This can’t be true. Must be a misunderstanding. You’ve just finished the most important PR coup of your career. You can’t handle her right now.
You take a long breath. “I’ll handle it,” you say, press your hands flat against your desk, and get up.
“Oh. I’m sure you will.” Alan says sweetly as you walk past him toward the elevator.
———————
You watch the numbers descend. Press your thumbnail into your index finger until it leaves a mark. Your jaw aches — you force it to unclench, then feel it lock tight again three floors later. You tell yourself you’re angry. It would be easier if that were entirely true.
Your heels are sharp and precise on the marble floor. The lobby is all glass and steel and carefully curated minimalism, designed to communicate that the people who walk in are expensive and worth it.
She’s in the corner by the window, sitting in a chair. Her hair is pulled back. You’ve never seen it pulled back. She looks up when she hears your steps, and her mouth curves, slow, satisfied. She’s already won.
You cross the lobby without breaking stride.
“Get out,” you hiss at her.
She stands up. “Hello to you too.”
“I’m not asking.” Your voice is low and hard. “Leave. Now.”
She lets her gaze travel slowly over you. “You look angry.”
“I’m busy.”
“Hm. Bad meeting?” She steps closer. The scent of her perfume wraps around you immediately. “Or are you just upset that I’m here?”
“You’re crossing a line.”
“I know.” Her smile sharpens. “That’s the point.”
You glance toward reception. “Don’t test me,” you say quietly. “I’ll have security escort you out.” Alexia doesn’t even look over her shoulder.
“Go ahead.”
“You think I’m bluffing?”
“No.” She tilts her head. “I think you’re calculating.” Her smile softens, just slightly. “Security comes over here, people start looking. Someone takes a picture. Someone recognises me. Tomorrow it’s ‘Ballon d’Or winner removed from London’s top crisis consultancy.’” She holds your gaze. “That headline hurts you a lot more than it hurts me.”
Footsteps echo from the far side of the lobby. Alexia’s eyes flick past you, registering the movement, then return to your face.
She raises her voice just slightly. “It’s good to see you again.” Her hand comes to your arm — the touch burns through your sleeve.
“Then do it.” She steps closer. Her breath is hot in your face. “Tell me to go.”
Your hands tighten. “You think this is a game.”
“I think you walked away from me twice,” she says, voice dropping lower. “And I think you’ve been regretting it ever since.”
“You don’t know what I think.”
“No?” She tilts her head. Studies you like you’re a riddle she’s solving. “You’ve thought about it though. About me. About what it felt like when you had control over me.”
Heat flashes through your chest. Anger. It has to be anger.
“You need to leave before someone sees—”
“Sees what?” She cuts you off. Steps even closer. “Two people talking in a lobby? Your assistant already saw me. Probably half your floor knows I’m here by now.” Your jaw locks. She’s right. The damage is already done.
“What do you want, Alexia?”
“You know what I want.” Her gaze drops to your mouth. Stays there. “Same thing you want.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” She leans in. Close enough that anyone walking past would notice. Close enough that your pulse jumps. “You don’t get to fuck me like that and then pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Careful,” you say quietly.
“Why?” Her eyes are dark. “What are you going to do about it?”
Nothing. You can do nothing without making a scene. And she knows it.
“I have a commercial thing this afternoon,” she continues. “I’ll stay at the Ritz tonight, fly home tomorrow morning.” She pauses. “You’ll never see me again. Unless you want to.” She smiles sweetly.
Your brain starts calculating immediately. The Ritz. Too public. Too risky. Someone might see.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” she continues. “You’re going to come to my room—“
Your hand moves before you think, grabs her wrist, tight enough to make your point.
She doesn’t flinch. Just looks down at your hand, then back up at your face. Smiling.
“There you are,” she murmurs.
You drop her wrist like it burns.
Someone laughs from across the lobby. Your spine straightens reflexively.
“8 PM,” you say. Your voice is controlled. Cold. “A car will pick you up.” She lifts an eyebrow, her smile widening. “I won’t be late.”
“And Alexia?” You lean in now. Close enough to see her pupils dilate. “When you show up at my door, you follow my rules. Not yours. Understood?”
Her breath catches. “Yes.”
“Good.” You step back. Smooth your jacket. “Now get out before I change my mind.”
She holds your gaze one more second. Then she turns and walks toward the exit.
This time you watch her go. Watch the confident set of her shoulders. She doesn’t look back.
———————
Alan looks up when you pass his desk. “I need the car at 6:30 tonight,” you say without stopping. He doesn’t ask questions. Just picks up the phone.
You walk into your office, close the door, and stand there for five seconds. Your hands are shaking. You press them flat against your desk until they stop.
When you come back out, Alan is off the phone.
“I’ve shifted the Rodman meeting from 6 to 5. You should be out by 6:30,” Alan announces. “And— do you want me to reschedule Singapore for tomorrow morning?”
You nod.
Alan watches you with that particular expression he gets when he’s filing information away for later.
“Anything else?” he asks carefully.
You pause at your office door. “Send Clive to the Ritz tonight. 8 PM. She’ll be waiting in the lobby.”
Alan’s eyebrow lifts fractionally. “To the Hills?”
You nod. Your private residence outside London has been your go-to place for encounters like this for years. Far from the city, from society, from Robert.
“Have him take the route through Richmond. No motorway.”
“Understood.” He pauses. “Do you want me to make sure Robert—”
“No.”
You massage your temple.
“Just send the car.”
———————
The drive to The Hills takes forty minutes through evening traffic that thins as you leave the city behind. Clive doesn’t speak, one of the habits you appreciate about him. Discretion is everything. In your job, in your private life.
You watch London fall away through tinted windows. The dense buildings give way to wider streets, then roads lined with trees, then gates and long driveways.
Your house sits on a rise overlooking the Thames Valley. All glass and steel and clean lines. The gates open as you approach. Gravel crunches under the tyres. Clive stops at the front entrance.
The entry hall is all glass: huge windows looking out over the valley. Space and light and control. The last of the afternoon light catches the hills in the distance. Your heels echo on the stone floor.
You drop your bag and walk through the open-plan living area toward the bedroom, let your clothes fall away as you go. You fetch a fresh towel, carry it back through the living room, and push open the terrace doors. The towel lands on one of the loungers.
The sun still sits high enough to lay gold across the water, the air thick and warm and barely moving. You slip in from the edge and the cool hits you like a slow exhale.
It prickles down your throat, across your collarbone, over the curve of your stomach. The water draws out the heat that has been building in you all afternoon, pulling it through your skin. You let out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding.
You turn onto your back and float, looking up. The evening sky is still a deep, saturated blue with the sun somewhere behind the treeline now.
The water laps at the hollow of your throat, pools briefly in the dip of your stomach as you breathe. You close your eyes. The coolness is exquisite — just cool enough to feel like relief, like a hand pressed gently against warm skin.
A slow shudder moves through you at the thought of what the evening will bring.
As you pull yourself from the water in one slow motion, the evening air catches your skin. The heavy satin robe Robert gave you for your birthday wraps around your body, cool and liquid against your still-damp skin, and you tie it loosely at your waist.
You pour a glass of Whiskey, the first sip burns your tongue but you let it sit for a moment. Smoke and oak and sweetness underneath.
Then Tyres crunch on gravel.
She’s exactly on time.
Good for her.
You walk back to the pool, the satin shifting against your skin with every step. The door opens behind you. Closes again. You can tell by the footsteps on the floor that she’s taking in the space. She comes closer as you keep watching the valley.
“Nice house,” she says somewhere behind you, her voice low.
You turn around slowly.
Grey joggers. White t-shirt. Cap pulled low. A bubble gum in her mouth. And a thin gold chain around her neck.
It’s so cliché you almost have to laugh. Almost. Because the confident set of her shoulders and her hands buried in her pockets suggest that none of it is accidental.
You let your eyes travel over her, taking in the entire picture before lifting an eyebrow. “I suggest you get rid of that,” you say, nodding toward her mouth.
Alexia blows a bubble and lets it pop.
Then she reaches up, pulls the gum from her mouth, and glues it to the kitchen counter.
Her gaze moves slowly up your body before settling on your face. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Better?”
The audacity of it makes you want to scoff. It’s ridiculous. She walks into your house dressed like every girl’s gay awakening and somehow still manages to look pleased with herself.
Her confidence is infuriating. The fact that she can occasionally back it up is even worse.
“The shoes,” you tell her.
Her smile falters. “What about them?”
“Take them off.”
For a second she just looks at you. Then, without breaking eye contact, she kicks them off and leaves them by the table.
You nod once. “Cap.”
She takes it off and drops it onto the counter beside the gum. “What exactly are we doing?”
You ignore the question. Instead, you glance toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. “You’re going swimming.”
Alexia lets out a short laugh. “I’m sorry?”
“You obviously need to cool down.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Now.”
She studies you for a moment, clearly trying to determine whether you’re joking. Unfortunately for her, you rarely joke.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.”
The silence sits between you. Then, to your annoyance, she smiles again. “You always this welcoming to guests?”
“Only the unexpected ones.”
Alexia laughs again. The sound echoes through the kitchen. A minute later she walks past you, close enough that you catch her scent, and disappears toward the dock.
When she’s halfway across the lawn you allow yourself a small, private sense of satisfaction. Control, once established, is remarkably easy to maintain.
You watch her strip from the distance. She doesn’t glance in your direction once, though she knows you’re watching. With one perfect header she dives into the water.
When she eventually returns — damp-haired and dripping on your floor, wrapped in a towel — you toss a bundle of clothes onto the counter without ceremony. Alexia looks down at the long white linen shirt and the black briefs, then back at you. “You’re serious?”
“The shower is the second door on the left,” you nod in that direction.
She shakes her head, barely perceptible. “Que valga la pena,” she mutters under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads for the bathroom.
——————
The water runs for exactly two minutes and thirty seconds. She really does seem to be efficient in everything. You pour another drink to calm your nerves.
One night with the intention of never seeing her again is one thing. Two nights and what amounts to an invitation to your home is dangerously close to becoming something else entirely. The fact that she’s a world-renowned athlete and could even be your client brings a level of complication you had intended to avoid at all costs. Had intended. Past tense. You’re not entirely sure what you want anymore.
You take a deep breath and down your drink in one.
She emerges with wet hair dripping down her chest and onto the white shirt. This is so not accidental.
You let yourself look at her properly as she approaches. Her strong thighs. Her chin tilted up. Her confident walk. For one reckless moment you simply look.
Then you remember why she’s here.
This is not her game. It’s yours.
She stops in front of the window to the terrace and looks out. By now the sky is darkening, the first lights of the city appearing in the distance. You circle around her slowly, observing the way she stands in your space as though she belongs here. Her eyes track your movement.
“I don’t like unpredictable, you should know that by now,” you say, passing behind her and dragging a finger along her arm. “You walked into my office,” you say quietly, “in the middle of my workday.”
She huffs and shrugs. “I was in the area.”
“Is that so?” you ask into the room.
“I—”
“Shh,” you interrupt her and place a finger on her lips. “I’m talking.”
She breathes out and falls immediately silent.
“You don’t get to be around me casually, Alexia.” She opens her mouth but closes it again.
“You were at that gala, and you came to my office. You pushed until I had no choice but to give you what you wanted.”
Her head snaps toward you. “You could’ve said no.”
“Could I?” You stop in front of her. “With you standing there, threatening to make a scene? Knowing you wouldn’t leave until you got what you came for?”
Her jaw tightens. “You wanted me there.”
“I wanted you gone.”
You almost believe it yourself.
“Liar.” She looks right through you. “You wanted—”
No. You move fast. Close the distance and take her jaw in your hand. Firm, controlled, stopping her mid-sentence.
Her breath catches.
“I wanted,” you say quietly, “to tell you to leave. To call security. To make you understand that walking out of that hotel room meant something.” Your thumb brushes along her jawline. “But you didn’t let me.”
“So now what?” Her voice is rougher now. “You going to punish me for it?”
You release her jaw and step back.
“I want you to look at yourself.” You tell her and nod toward the window front. Behind it the sky is deepening to dark blue and both your reflections are caught in the glass, slightly blurred.
You step behind her. “All this confidence. The posture. The audacity of you standing in my house.” You slide your hand down her side and she shivers. “Shh, don’t move,” you command quietly. You continue to stroke her sides. “You like being watched,” you continue. “You like the risk. That’s why the lobby worked.”
She scoffs.
“So let’s see how you feel about this.” You press close behind her and slide your arms to her chest, letting them ghost over her breasts. She takes in a sharp breath.
“It feels like they can see you, behind that window. The whole city watching you come apart under my hands.” She lets out a quiet moan, which makes you smile, small and private. “Don’t you dare move,” you whisper.
She looks at the reflection. At herself, half-naked, and you behind her, your hand coming to rest on her stomach.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Your mouth brushes her shoulder. “To push until I pushed back.”
Her breathing turns shallow. “Yes.”
“Say it properly.”
“Yes.” Her voice shakes slightly. “I wanted this.”
“Good.” Your hand slides up between her breasts, feeling her heartbeat race beneath your palm. “Now you’re going to stand here and let me show you exactly what happens when you cross lines you shouldn’t.”
She starts to turn. You press her forward, holding her in place.
“I said don’t move. Don’t speak.” Your mouth finds the curve of her neck. “Just feel.”
You take your time. Map her body with your hands while she’s forced to watch herself in the glass — the way she responds, the way her control fractures, the effort it takes her to stay still.
When your hand finally slides lower, beneath the waistband of her underwear, she gasps and her knees buckle slightly.
You catch her. Hold her up. “I said don’t move.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” Your fingers press against her and she makes a sound low in her throat. “You’re going to stand here and watch yourself fall apart. Understand?”
She nods, unable to speak.
You work her slowly, methodically, with none of the tenderness from the hotel. This is sharper. Harder. You watch her reflection, the way her eyes struggle to stay open, her head tilting back against your shoulder, the absolute loss of the cockiness she walked in with.
“Please—” she finally whispers.
“Please what?”
“Please let me—”
She can’t finish.
“Let you what, Alexia? Use your words.”
“Let me turn around. Touch you. Something.”
“No.” Your mouth finds her ear. “You don’t get to touch. You don’t get to control this. You pushed me. Now I push back.”
She whimpers. The sound is raw, honest, stripped of all performance.
You bring her to the edge. Watch her fight to stay standing.
Then you stop.
She makes a desperate sound. “What—”
“Couch. Now.”
She turns, unsteady, and you guide her back to the couch. She sits and you follow her down, pulling the robe up your legs, straddling her lap.
“Look at me,” you command. Her eyes find yours, dark and desperate.
You kiss her hard, swallow the sounds she makes. Heat pools between your legs where your bare skin touches her thighs. You start rocking back and forth deliberately. She watches you with wide eyes. Your hand comes up and pushes your hair back, then settles on her chest.
“Touch yourself,” you command as your fingers press lightly into her skin. For a moment she looks at you in total disbelief. Then a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She slides one hand down her stomach, plays with the waistband of the underwear. Her eyes lock on yours. She bites down on her lower lip and you can barely hold your self back from coming apart right at this moment. You want to drag it out, feel her under you as long as possible.
She slides into her pants and lets out a deep moan. You breathe heavily as she pulls her hand back and licks her finger. Her eyes settle on you. “Does your husband know you’re fucking yourself on my thigh?” She asks and smiles sweetly. You rock faster, breathing uncontrollably now. When you feel you’re near the edge you push her pants aside and slide into her, pushing in and out frantically.
It doesn’t take long. You push her over the edge as you come apart on top of her, back arching, her hands finally grabbing your hips because she can’t help herself.
When she goes limp, breathing hard, you pull back and look at her. She’s wrecked. Beautiful.
“That,” you say quietly, “is what happens when you push me.”
She stares at you, searching for words.
You stand up, smooth your robe. “Bedroom is down the hall. Second door on the right.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re staying.” It’s not a question. “Get some water from the kitchen if you need it. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“You’re not—”
“I’m not asking, Alexia. You crossed into my space. Now you’re in it on my terms.” You meet her eyes. “Wait for me.”
She swallows. Nods.
You watch her walk toward the hall — still unsteady — glancing back once before she disappears.
You pour yourself another whiskey. Take a slow sip. Look out at the valley and the darkness and feel the control settle back into your bones.
You’ll go to her in ten minutes.
But she’ll wait as long as it takes.
You set the glass down. Look at your watch.
Twelve minutes.
You wait two more.
The bedroom door is open. Light spills from the bedside lamp. Alexia is sitting on the edge of the bed. She looks up when you enter and there is something uncertain in her eyes now. The cockiness from the lobby is gone.
“I wasn’t sure if you were coming,” she says quietly.
“I told you I would.”
“You also said ten minutes.”
“I changed my mind.” You close the door behind you. “Problem?”
She shakes her head.
You cross to the windows, another wall of glass looking out over the valley. The bedroom is darker than the living room, more intimate.
You start undoing the knot on your robe. She watches every movement.
“You’re very quiet suddenly,” you say.
“You told me not to speak.”
“I said don’t speak while I was touching you.” You slip the robe off. Fold it precisely over the chair. “You can speak now.”
She doesn’t. Just looks at you standing bare before her. She swallows hard.
You meet her eyes across the room.
“Come here,” you say.
She stands. Crosses to you. Stops close enough to touch but doesn’t.
You reach out and start unbuttoning the linen shirt. Slide it off her shoulders. She shivers despite the warmth of the room.
“You’re shaking,” you observe.
“I know.”
“Why?”
Her eyes search yours. “Because this feels different.”
“Different from what?”
“From the hotel. From the living room.” She pauses. “You’re letting me into your bedroom.”
Smart girl. She understands what that means.
“I am,” you confirm. “Don’t make me regret it.”
You guide her backward to the bed. She sits and you follow, pushing her down slowly until she’s lying beneath you.
This time when you kiss her, it’s slower. Less anger. You hadn’t intended for it to become gentle. Somewhere along the way, it simply did.
You take your time learning the shape of her mouth, the sounds she makes when you bite her lower lip.
Her hands come up to your waist. You let them stay. “You can touch me,” you murmur against her mouth. “But if I tell you to stop, you stop immediately.”
“Yes.”
You work your way down her body — neck, collarbone, breasts. She arches into your mouth, hands sliding into your hair. When you move lower, she spreads her legs without being asked.
You look up at her. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“Say it anyway.”
Her jaw tightens. “I want your mouth on me.”
“Where?”
“You know where.”
“Alexia.” You press a kiss to her inner thigh. “Say it.”
“I want—” Her breath catches when you bite down lightly. “I want you to fuck me with your mouth.”
The vulgarity spikes your heart rate and twists your stomach. “Better,” you murmur.
You take your time. No rushing. No teasing to prove a point. Just thorough, focused attention until she’s gasping your name and her thighs are shaking around your head.
When she comes, it’s quieter than before. Longer. She reaches for you after, pulling you up to kiss you desperately. You let her. Let her taste herself on your mouth. Let her hands slide down your body with clear intent.
“Can I—” she starts.
“Yes.”
She flips you onto your back with surprising strength. You let her, because the loss of control here, in your own bed, feels like a different kind of power.
She settles between your legs. Looks up at you once for permission.
You nod.
She’s good at this. Better than you expected. Attentive, responsive to every shift in your breathing. When you come, she works you through it with the same focused intensity she probably brings to everything else.
After, she crawls up your body and collapses beside you, breathing hard.
You stare at the ceiling. Feel her warmth against your side.
“I have a flight to catch tomorrow,” she says finally. “Today, technically. It’s past midnight.”
She looks at you, waiting for a response. A sign. You just look right back at her.
“I should probably sleep,” she adds, avoiding your eyes.
“Then sleep,” you simply say.
She hesitates, then shifts closer, rests her head on your shoulder.
You don’t push her away.
Her breathing gradually evens out. Slows. Within minutes she’s asleep, one arm draped across your stomach. You should move her arm. You don’t.
You stay awake longer. Looking at the ceiling. At the windows. At the valley outside wrapped in darkness.
Her hair tickles your shoulder. Her breath is warm against your collarbone.
You should move. Create distance. Remind her this doesn’t mean what her body is assuming it means.
Instead, you close your eyes.
——————
You wake to grey light filtering through the windows. Alexia is still asleep beside you, face peaceful, hair spread across your pillow.
You check your phone. Five forty-three.
Carefully, you extract yourself from her arm. She makes a small sound but doesn’t wake.
You pull on the robe and go to the kitchen. Make coffee while you look out at the valley as fog lifts slowly from the hills.
Your phone buzzes. Alan: Singapore call rescheduled for 9am. Benson confirmed for next week. Anything else you need?
You type back: Send the car at 8, to the airport.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then a simple thumbs up.
The coffee finishes brewing. You pour two cups.
When you go back upstairs, Alexia is awake. Sitting up in bed, sheet pulled around her, watching you enter.
“You made coffee,” she says.
You hand her a cup. “You’ll need it.”
She takes it. Sips. “What time is it?”
“Six.”
“Fuck.” She runs her free hand through her hair. “I need to be at the airport by 8:30.”
“The car will be here at 8.”
“That’s too late—”
“Then I’ll have Clive drive faster.” You sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re not taking the tube across London in yesterday’s clothes.”
She stares at you.
“I’m not done with you yet.” You tell her.
Her eyes widen slightly.
You take the coffee cup from her hands. Set both cups aside. Push her back down onto the bed.
“YN—”
“We have two hours,” you say, sliding the sheet away. “I suggest you stop talking and let me use them.”
I’ve gone back and forth on whether to post this. But I think there are many misconceptions right now about how football journalism actually works, so I wanted to sort a few things out.
I’m also deliberately not naming names. We all know which story this is about, but this isn’t about defending or attacking a particular journalist.
The thing is, transfer exclusives are a journalistic genre of their own. They’re fundamentally different from investigative journalism. Transfer journalism runs on access to sources close to the people involved.
The goal here isn’t to uncover a secret nobody has ever heard before. In fact, more often than not, the football world already knows a deal is happening because rumours are deliberately planted. The exclusive is about confirming it through people directly involved in the deal and adding reliable context.
So the challenge is building enough trust that the information is handled professionally by the journalist. If you repeatedly burn trusted sources, you won’t keep getting exclusives. That’s simply the reality of access journalism.
The sources obviously have their own interests, which is why the journalist’s job is to verify the information, cross-check it where possible, and add context.
And yes, it can absolutely read as if a journalist is acting as a player’s mouthpiece. I get that. If most of the available information comes from one side of the negotiations, that perspective will naturally be reflected in the reporting. That alone doesn’t make it bad journalism. Personally, I’d judge those stories by whether the reporting is accurate, verified where possible, and presented with the right context.
Also, a transfer report isn’t there to tell you what to think. That’s what analysis and commentary are for. We saw plenty of that yesterday, and rightly so. But that’s a different genre.
One last point on the timing. Stories like these are often prepared under embargo or with coordinated publication timings. Ideally, those timelines line up with the club’s announcement.
None of this means the journalist is beyond criticism. It just means that a lot of the criticism I’ve seen over the last 24 hours seems to confuse how transfer journalism works.
Maybe this is an unpopular opinion, but I don’t really have a problem with Salma Paralluelo reportedly asking for close to €1 million.
One of the things I always loved about women’s football was the sense of loyalty. Players stayed at clubs for years. The game felt smaller, more personal, less transactional. It felt different. And if I’m honest, part of me still misses that.
But the older I get, the more I wonder how much of that loyalty was culture and how much of it was circumstance.
For decades, women in football had fewer options, fewer professional opportunities and far less bargaining power. They were praised for their passion and commitment while being expected to accept conditions that would have been unthinkable in the men’s game.
Now the sport is growing. More money is coming in. More clubs are competing for the same players. And for the first time, some women are finding themselves in a position where they can genuinely negotiate from a position of strength.
Players like Bunny Shaw have already shown where the market might be heading. If the reports about Salma are true, she’s simply pushing that door open a little further.
The thing is, this change doesn’t just affect salaries. It changes the culture of the sport.
More money means more leverage. More leverage means tougher negotiations, more transfers and probably less player loyalty than many of us became used to over the last decade.
Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing is up to each person to decide. Personally, I think it’s a bit of both.
I understand why some fans feel uncomfortable watching women’s football become more like the men’s game in certain ways.
But I also think it’s worth asking why we’re so surprised when women start doing what male athletes have done for generations and demand what they believe they’re worth.
The reality is that Salma is still part of a very small group. Most players are nowhere near these numbers. In many leagues, even now, the conversation is still about minimum salaries, professional contracts and whether players can afford to focus on football full-time.
That’s why I don’t see the reported €1 million as proof that women’s football has made it. I see it as another crack in the glass ceiling. A sign that some of the pioneers of this generation are finally gaining access to a kind of financial power that women in football have historically been denied.
And whether people like that change or not, I have a feeling we’re only seeing the beginning of it.
Thank you for writing ur 4+1 fics. There is something so real and personal about them all. I feel what they are feeling like I am the one experiencing it. It is so beautiful and different from others I've read. Pls never stop writing these 🫶
This has been sitting in my inbox for a while and it genuinely means a lot to me.
Thank you. 🤍
I actually have a few ideas I’ve been playing around with, so keep an eye out for a poll later today.
hello from earlier - i mustered up the courage to read part V and i’m so thankful i did because it was such a beautiful ending to an ethereal series. the way you wrote their intimacy was to me the epitome of a paradisiac connection highlighting the power of a deep bond between two complex individuals, i’m in awe of your talent and ability. this was the perfect amount of every emotion - this week has been difficult from the vast amount of feelings i’ve navigated and this has perfectly balanced the beauty of raw, human emotion. thank you so much for sharing this with us.
p.s. same anon who sent you this link about the vibe of phantom pain 🩷
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNRs5VVo4/
I’m glad the connection between them came across the way it did, because that was really the heart of the story for me.
Thanks for reading and for your thoughtful comment 🫶
For anyone looking for the complete Phantom Pain series, here’s the masterlist.
currently hyping myself up to read the final part of phantom pain cuz the angst might genuinely tip me over the edge with the week i’ve had
i can’t wait but i also can wait 🤦♀️🥹
I’m sorry you had such a rough week, anon!
pt V has some angst at the beginning, but it’s not a devastating ending. And it also has a lot of warmth and softer moments. Don’t be too scared of it, enjoy the ride and please tell me what you thought afterwards 🫶
4 + 1 mini-series | Alexia x coach | enemies to lovers
4 times you let her decide. 1 time you decide.
a/n Thank you for sticking with these two. I won’t promise rainbows and sunshine but their ending is earned. It ends exactly where it needs to. 🤍
Still enemies to lovers, by the way. Just the long way around.
tw angst, smut, end of season vibes, difficult choices
wc 19k
──────────────
#1
You walk through the streets of Barcelona for a long time. Through narrow streets, past cafés and shuttered stores. You feel sand under your feet at some point and realize you’re carrying your shoes.
Your chest aches, your stomach too. Heavy and dull.
You check your phone. 2:17 AM.
There’s a ringing sound in your ears.
Your fingers move slowly over the keyboard.
Are you awake?
The three dots appear almost immediately.
Where are you?
You look at the street sign and type the name of the street.
The three dots appear again.
Come over.
You knock. The lock clicks. She looks at you for a moment.
She’s wearing PJs and glasses. It makes her look older somehow. There are dark circles under her eyes.
“Come on in,” she says and steps aside. You walk barefoot into her kitchen. The tiles under your feet are cold.
Elena lights a small lamp in the corner. “I don’t want to wake the others,” she whispers and gestures for you to sit down at the table where a book lies face-down.
You sit down with your jacket still on, hair messy from the wind, your make-up probably smeared from crying. She sets a mug of steaming tea down in front of you and sits across with her own.
The clock above the kitchen door reads 2:34.
After a moment she takes a slow breath and reaches for your hands.
“Talk to me,” she says.
You look at her hand, at the offer.
“She told me to leave,” you mumble.
Elena wraps her hands around her cup. She looks at you for a moment. “Leave the party?” she asks, and you can tell from the way she says it that she already knows that’s not what you mean.
“The club.” Your voice sounds strange to you. “At the end of the season.” You push a crumb across the table with your index finger. “She’s going to veto my contract extension.”
Elena breathes in slowly. “Ay Dios—” she mumbles, looking down at her steaming cup.
You take a very long breath. It stutters. “After everything. She just—” You stop. “She said she can’t do another year of this.”
Elena turns her mug slowly. “Well—,” she turns it back. “What did you say?”
“I said no.” The word comes out harder than everything before. “She doesn’t get to make that decision for me.” You feel the anger raise and shake your head.
Elena scratches her temple and for a moment she just looks at you with that expression she uses when she’s deciding how much to say and in what order. “I’m not surprised,” she says finally.
You head snaps up. “That she’s vetoing me?” Elena makes an appeasing gesture with her hand. “That it came to this.” She simply says. “Something was always going to give.”
“Elena—” you start.
“Hey, I’m not saying it’s right,” she interrupts calmly and reaches for your hand over the table. “I’m saying it was predictable.” She studies you. “You both ran out of road.” She shrugs.
You press the pad of your thumb into the chip in the table edge. “She could have talked to me. Instead of going straight to—”
“Could she though?” Elena raises an eyebrow.
For a moment there is only silence You frown and open your mouth. Shake your head. “Of course I—” You look up. “She could have said— She could have said any of the things that she—” You stop. Look at your cup. Look back up. “There were so many moments where she could have just said something. Anything. To me. Instead of about me. Instead of for me.”
“Hm,” Elena hums and just looks at you.
“I mean, now she can’t just—” You gesture into the room. “She can’t just decide— Without asking me.” You shake your head. “My contract. My career. My—”
“YN.” Elena looks at you for another moment, tilting her head. “What are you afraid of?”
You exhale. It sounds thin in the quiet kitchen. “I’m not—”
“You walked through Barcelona for hours at two in the morning.” She raises both eyebrows. “Barefoot, apparently.” Her gaze drops to your feet, then back up. “I’m not asking what you’re angry about. I’m asking what you’re running away from.”
You press your lips together.
“Because if you ask me,” she continues, “you could have ten job offers from all over the world by Tuesday.” She looks at you pointedly. “So tell me, amor, what are you afraid of?”
You stare at the table and trace a line in the wood. “That I—,” you shrug, searching for words. “That I can’t hold it,” you say. Your voice comes out almost neutral. “All of it,” you add in a quiet voice.
Elena stills. Her thumb stops moving around the rim of her mug. She breathes in slowly through her nose. “Can’t hold what, YN?” she asks gently.
The wood is rough under your finger.
“This,” you say. Your chest raises and you shake your head. “Whatever this is. All of it. The—” You stop. “The not knowing. The— Whether I’m supposed to want it or not. Whether I’m even allowed to. Whether she—” You cut off. Press your lips together and exhale long.
Elena takes your hand over the table and squeezes it gently. After a moment she asks, “whether she what, YN?”
You look at your mug. “She said she can’t do another year of this. And—,“ you tilt it forth until the coffee nearly spills. “And I keep trying to work out if that means she’s done with me.” You say very quietly and move the mug back. “Or—,” you pause, “if it means something else.”
Elena breathes in through her nose. Slow. She looks down at her own cup. “What does your gut tell you?”
You laugh dryly. “My gut is the problem,” you tell her. Elena makes a quiet sound, somewhere between a hum and a laugh. “What were you going to do,” she continues, “if you hadn’t texted me? Just keep walking?”
You exhale. Outside, a car passes somewhere on the street, the headlights sweeping briefly across the ceiling. You track them with your eyes. “I don’t know,” you admit.
Elena wraps both hands around her mug again and leans back slightly in her chair. “You know what I think?” “I know you’re going to tell me,” you answer and try to smile.
She looks at you. “I think you came here,” she says carefully, “because you needed someone to stop you from going somewhere else instead.”
You drop your head into your hands. “Elena—”
“I’m not telling you to do anything.” She lifts one hand. “I’m just—”
She stops. Shakes her head slightly. “During the holidays,” she says after a moment, looking down at her tea, “she asked me for an unscheduled check-up.”
You look up and frown. “During the holidays?” Elena waves a hand dismissively. “You’ve never heard that from me. Medical confidentiality.” You tilt your head.
“So, I saw her on New Year’s Eve.” She shrugs. “We did the usual. Recovery. Mobility. Strength testing.” She counts it off on her fingers. “And then— she asked how you’d been.” Elena studies her tea. “She asked where you’d spent Christmas.” She pauses. “Whether we’d been in touch.”
You rub your forehead. “What did you tell her?” you ask. “The truth.” Elena shrugs again and takes a sip from her mug.
You wait. “And?”
She looks at you over the rim. “And what?” She asks.
You exhale sharply. “What did she say?”
Elena shrugs. “She said okay.”
“Okay?” You stare at her. “Why?”
Elena shrugs. “I don’t know.” She says.
“Oh, come on.” You raise your hand and challenge her.
“I don’t.” She simply tells your.
You shake your head. “She asked you that during a medical appointment on new years?” Elena takes a sip of her tea and nods.
“And that didn’t seem strange to you?” You hear frustration creeping through your voice. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “It seemed strange enough that I still remember it.” She says.
You look down at the table. “What does that mean?” You want to know. Elena looks and you, raises her eyebrows and shrugs.
“Oh come on, Elena,” you drum your finger on the table.
“I think you’re asking all these questions the wrong person.” She says and looks at you for a long moment.
You huff. Rub your eyes. And take a deep breath. Then you empty your mug.
The chair scrapes against the tile. Elena watches you without comment. You pick up your jacket from the back of the chair.
“I’ll text you,” you say and press a quick kiss to her temple. She squeezes your hand.
───────
The streets are mostly empty. You put your shoes back on and the Uber moves fast through the quiet city. Your phone reads 3:17. The city drops away below you.
The gate is open. You don’t know what you expected. You stand on the driveway for a second, gravel under your shoes. The house is dark except for a single light behind one of the high windows on the first floor. You put your phone back in your pocket and walk up.
You ring once.
Wait.
Ring again.
The lock turns.
She’s still dressed in her outfit for the celebrations. Dark pants, a pale grey shirt, her hair is loose.
She looks at you and nothing in her face moves except her eyes, which drop briefly to your shoes and back up.
You push past her. “You can’t do that.”
She breathes out and steps back.
The entrance hall is dim, only the light from the staircase above cutting down in a thin band. “You can’t just tell me to leave and then walk back as if—” You hear the door close behind you. “You don’t get to make that decision and then—”
“YN.” Her voice behind you is quiet.
“No.” You shake your head. “You said you can’t do this anymore.” You rise a finger. “Those were your words, Ale.” You shake your head again. “And then—”
“I know what I said.” She says flatly behind you.
“Then why—” You turn around. She’s standing a few feet away, watching you with that careful, contained expression you’ve been trying to read for almost a year. “Why would you—” The anger rises sharper. “Is that your solution? Erasing me from the equation?” She just looks at you. “That makes no sense. You can’t—” You spread your fingers. “You can’t want to fix something and at the same time blow it up. That’s not—” You shake your head. “That’s not fair, Alexia. That’s not—”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.” Her calmness is infuriating. It always has been. You take a step toward her, your pulse loud in your ears. “Then say something.” Your voice comes out cracked on the last word.
She looks at the ground. “Say something that’s actually— say something real,” you challenge. She lifts her head, her eyes fixed somewhere on your hair. Her jaw shifts. “I’m tired, YN,” she says.
You huff. “You said that already.”
Something in her expression tightens. “I’ve been saying it for months.” Her fingers flex once at her side, then go still. “You just weren’t listening.”
“I was listening,” you say, still upset. “I’ve been listening to everything you’ve said. Everything you haven’t said. Every time you looked at me and then didn’t.” Your voice is uneven. You hate it. “And you tell me I wasn’t listening?”
She closes her eyes. Opens them again and fixes her gaze somewhere near your ear. The silence between you is very loud.
“Fine, then stop,” you say. “Stop making decisions about my life.” You take another step forward. She freezes. “Stop managing me, stop deciding what I can handle.”
She flexes her right hand at her thigh. “This— isn’t about what you can handle.” She cuts in suddenly, louder now.
“Then what is it about?”
She finally lifts her eyes and looks at you. The light from the staircase catches on the line of her face, her cheek, her collarbone, the small mole beneath it you saw again at the board meeting. Her chest rises and falls. Again. She takes a step back. Shakes her head.
“I don’t know how to be near you,” she says finally. The words come out quiet. “I don’t know how to be in the same room and not—” She stops. Her chin dips slightly as she shakes her head.
“Not what?” you ask. Your voice is barely above a breath. Her eyes move across your face. She’s not calm, you realize. Her hands have tightened into half-fists at her sides, her shoulders deliberately straightened.
“Explain it to me.” You don’t move back. “Because I’ve spent a year trying to understand what you want from me and every time I think I’m close, you—” You gesture sharply into the room. “You change the rules.”
She laughs once. Short and without humor. “You think there are rules.”
“I think you make them up as you go,” you fire back. “When it suits you.” Her eyes snap to yours. “That’s not—”
“You told me to stay away from you.” Your voice rises despite yourself. “Then you brought Carmen to training. Then Stockholm.” Her jaw tightens. “And now this.” You let it sit there. “So tell me what it’s about, Alexia. Because I genuinely cannot tell.”
She looks away. Her hand comes up and scratches her neck.
“One true thing,” you say. Quieter now, which is somehow worse. “Just say one true thing.” She breathes in through her nose. Her eyes track somewhere along the wall beside you, then back. When they land on your face they’re tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour.
“You know,” she says quietly.
“No, I don’t.” You raise your arms and gesture helplessly.
“Yes.” Her voice is barely audible. “You do, YN.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have right now.”
“That’s not good enough.” You step closer. She doesn’t step back this time. “After a year of this, after everything—” Your throat tightens. You breathe through it. “You owe me more than that.”
Something shifts in her expression. Fast and then gone. “I owe you,” she repeats. Flat.
“Yes.”
Her head tilts back slightly, her jaw working once. She looks at the ceiling for a moment, then back at you.
“Do you know what it’s like,” she starts, her voice different now, lower and less controlled, “to watch you walk into every room and have to—” She stops. Her fingers press into her thigh. “Have to decide, every single time, what to do with that.” Her eyes are fixed on yours. “Every training session. Every match. Every time you stood next to me and pretended—”
“I wasn’t pretending—”
“You were.” She takes a step forward and you stay where you are. “You were doing exactly what I was doing and you know it.” Another step. You’re close now. Too close again. “And I can’t—” Her voice drops further. “I can’t keep doing that. I cannot keep standing in the same room as you and—”
She stops, looks at you. And suddenly her hand comes up. Cups your jaw.
And then she kisses you. Sharp and certain. The impact of it steals the breath from your lungs. Her lips are warm and so soft.
For one second, everything else disappears. The noise from the street. your sore feet. The anger.
Just her.
Then you push her back.
Both palms flat against her chest. She stumbles a half-step. Her hands fall immediately.
The space between you feels suddenly cold.
You breathe. Your heart slams against your ribs. Her eyes are on yours, dark and open, and she can’t take it back now. Neither of you can.
“Don’t do that.” Your voice comes out rough. You take a step back until your shoulders find the wall. “You don’t get to do that.”
She stands very still. A strand of hair has fallen across her face.
“You just told me to leave the club.” The words come out harder than you mean them to. Or maybe exactly as hard. You can’t tell anymore. “And then you—” You shake your head. Your hand is pressed flat against the wall behind you. “You can’t do both, Alexia.”
She looks at you. Her chest rises. Falls. “No,” she says quietly. “I can’t.”
“Then what was that?” you ask. She doesn’t answer immediately. Her fingers find the hem of her shirt. Twist into it once. “I don’t know,” she says finally. And it sounds, for the first time tonight, like she means it. Like she’s actually not sure.
You look at her for a long moment before you push yourself off the wall. “No, Alexia, no. You don’t get to kiss me because you ran out of arguments.” You shake your head. “I’m going,” you say.
She just looks at you. In the dim light you can’t tell if she nods.
When you pass her she doesn’t turn, and you don’t look back.
──────────────
#2
You step out of the spring sunshine and immediately regret it. The supermarket’s air conditioning hits you like a slap. Cold. Stale. The faint smell of damp cardboard and old refrigeration units. For a second your skin prickles from the sudden change in temperature.
You need some milk, maybe bread, bananas.
The plan is to get out before the afternoon heat settles properly over Barcelona.
The supermarket near your apartment is quiet at this hour. The lunch rush is long gone. Somewhere near the produce section an elderly woman studies tomatoes with the concentration of someone making a life-changing decision. The hum of the refrigerators fills the empty spaces between people.
You stop in front of the dairy section. Cold air spills out every time somebody opens a door. You pull a carton from the shelf without looking at the label. You breathe in deliberately to loosen the knot under your ribs.
“YN?”
You know the voice before you turn around. You close your eyes for a second before putting on a weak smile and turning.
Carmen is standing at the next refrigerator, holding cheese in one hand and a yogurt tucked under her armpit. A basket hangs from the crook of her elbow. Your eyes flicker briefly to its contents. Oranges, a bag of pasta, something wrapped in white paper from the deli counter.
When you meet her eyes, she looks at you with an expression that’s mostly neutral. The left corner of her mouth lifts briefly but it’s not enough to pass for a smile.
“Hi,” you manage and lift your free hand somewhat awkwardly.
“I knew it was you,” she replies and closes the refrigerator door. “I saw you down the other aisle but didn’t want to shout your name—,” she stops and frowns. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Sorry. I just—” You shake your head. “Wasn’t expecting—”
“Oh, yeah. No, me neither. This isn’t my usual place — I was just nearby and thought I’d make a quick run for groceries.” She lifts the yogurt as proof before putting everything into her basket.
The refrigerator hums steadily behind you. You scratch your neck. “How are you?” you ask, because you can’t think of anything else.
Carmen raises her eyebrows and looks at you. She tilts her head. “You’re asking me how I am?”
Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Does she know?
“I’m—” She pauses. You brace yourself.
“Fine. Honestly.”
You breathe out through your nose, didn’t even realize you were holding your breath for so long. “Cool, yeah, that’s— that’s good to hear,” you say awkwardly and gesture towards her.
She looks back at you and makes a small sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “I’ve had some time.”
Now you tilt your head. Her fingers adjust the basket handle. The refrigerator next to you makes a loud humming sound as the compressor kicks in. “So, how’s Alexia?” you ask and immediately regret it. The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them and you bite your lip.
Carmen looks at you as if you’d just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. Her eyebrows rise and her head tilts back, barely noticeable. “That’s not—” She stops. Shakes her head and shifts her weight from one leg to the other. “Not really my department anymore.”
You look at her. “What?” Your mouth is faster than your thoughts.
She meets your gaze steadily, frowns again. “We broke up,” she says carefully and looks at you quizzically.
“You— you broke up?” You look at her and now you’re frowning. “Yeah, a while ago,” she replies. “Alexia didn’t tell you?” Her voice pitches slightly. “I always thought the two of you were close.” She dismisses it with a shrug.
“She— yeah, no. No, we were fine, just— just not that close, you know?” You try to play it casual.
Carmen looks down at the pasta in her basket. Moves it slightly with her thumb. “It wasn’t working,” she says simply. “Hadn’t been for—” She shrugs. “For a while, really.” She exhales through her nose and glances up at the shelf beside you, squinting at something, not really reading it.
“She was away all the time.” Carmen shrugs. “Training. Matches. Recovery.” Her thumb moves over the basket handle. “Then football documentaries. Football podcasts. Football dinners with football people.” A small laugh escapes her. “You get the picture.” She looks at you.
“Sorry. I—,” Carmen shakes her head. “You don’t need to hear this.” She waves her hand dismissively. “You’re so into football yourself.”
“No, it’s—” You shake your head and rock forward on your toes. “It’s okay.”
She studies you for a second. “Actually— I was even mad at you for a while.” She gives you a small smile, somehow challenging.
“Me?” you say, surprised.
“Yeah, kind of—,” she says and squints. “You know, the two of you probably have more in common than she and I ever did,” she says casually, but her gaze stays locked on you.
Your eyes drift to the nearest shelf. “Carmen—” you huff. “What— I—,” you try to collect your thoughts. Then her laugh interrupts you.
“Yeah, I know— stupid, right?” She gestures vaguely and shrugs. “She and I— It just wasn’t a match. Never mind.”
You swallow hard. “I’m— I’m sorry,” you say and try to force your breathing steady. Carmen’s expression loosens a fraction. “Yeah.” She looks down at her basket. “Me too, a bit.” She tilts the basket slightly, resettling the oranges. Neither of you speaks for a moment. An older woman pushes her cart past the end of the aisle, metal wheels squeaking against the tile. She doesn’t look up.
“Anyway. I should get going,” Carmen says. She looks at you and smiles. She takes a step back, then stops. “For what it’s worth.” She looks at you. “I’m not mad at you or anything, please don’t think that.” She exhales. She shakes her head. “It was nice meeting you. Say hi to the team.” She waves at you awkwardly and turns toward the checkout. Her basket swings once at her side. You watch her go until she disappears around the end of the aisle.
───────
Ten days before the CL final the team organized one last night out for the season. Mapi picked the place, somewhere in Eixample, with high ceilings, amber lighting, and apparently a gold and green theme because everything either glitters or looks like a freshly mowed pitch.
Half the team is already there when you arrive with Elena. You’d spent an hour in front of the mirror figuring out what to wear.
Jana waves you over from a table near the back. You sit down next to her, Elena on your other side. You order a glass of wine and ask Patri to pass the peanuts. Soon your corner of the table is covered with shells. You’re pushing them into a small pile with your little finger when the chair opposite you scrapes back.
You push the last shell into the pile. Pick up your glass and take a sip. Then you look up.
Alexia is already in the seat. Already settled. Her hair falls across her face as she leans forward and she pushes it back with one slow movement of her left hand, her attention on Ingrid two chairs down, mid-sentence, laughing at something.
You look at her and take your time with it. The line of her jaw. The way the amber light catches along her collarbone. The small mole below it.
Her head turns and she glances across the table. Her eyes find you immediately. For one long second she doesn’t move at all. Then she looks away. Back to Ingrid. Alexia smiles at something she says as if she’d never left the conversation.
You pick up your glass again, look at Patri and pretend to follow what she’s saying to the group. Then you let your eyes drift to Alexia’s face again. Stay there. She scratches her neck just below that point while still looking at Ingrid. You can’t hide a small smile.
A few minutes pass. Jana’s hand lands on your shoulder, mid-story. You nod. Somewhere to your right Mapi is losing an argument about music. Patri steals a fry off Jana’s plate. The table is loud and warm and full.
You feel eyes on you and turn your head slowly. Alexia is already looking at you, steady and direct, like she forgot the table existed. You don’t move, just hold it.
One beat.
Two.
Three.
Something low and warm settles in your chest. The amber light shifts across her face. Her jaw tightens, almost imperceptible. Her fingers rest against her glass. You lift your glass slowly and take a sip of wine. Eyes still on hers over the rim.
She blinks once and looks away.
After that, you make a game of it. You let her get pulled back in. Let her laugh at something Mapi says, let her lean across to Patri, let her look anywhere she wants. You wait. Patiently.
And then you look. And every single time, every single time, she feels it. Her head turns. Her eyes find yours. And you’re already there, waiting, like you never looked away.
Sometimes she cuts it fast. Jaw setting, gaze snapping back to whoever’s talking, very deliberate, very clean. Like she’s correcting something. You let her.
It’s the other times that matter.
The times she doesn’t cut it fast. The times she looks up and whatever she was about to say just vanishes. The times something moves across her face that she can’t quite contain, open for half a second before it gets shut again, and her eyes stay on yours a beat longer than they should and the noise of the table seems to fall away completely and there’s nothing in the room except the space between your eyes and the amber light and her breathing slightly differently than she was a moment ago.
Those are the ones you collect.
By the second glass you’ve stopped pretending you’re doing anything else. Alexia catches you again. Holds it this time instead of breaking. One eyebrow lifts. Slow. Deliberate.
A challenge.
You smile. Unapologetic. The kind of smile that says I know exactly what I’m doing and so do you.
Something happens in her expression. Her chin lifts a fraction. She exhales through her nose and the corner of her lips moves and she smiles back. Like she’s handing you something precious and daring you to ask for more.
Your stomach pulls tight.
You hold her gaze for one more second. Then you drop your eyes to your glass and take a long sip.
You’re most of the way through your third glass when you lean toward Elena. “I’m going to the bar,” you tell her. She looks at you and squints. “Why?” You just smile at her, already standing up.
“YN.” She grabs your arm and pulls you in.
“I just want to see what happens,” you half-whisper. Elena raises an eyebrow. “You’re playing with fire.”
“I know.” You smile at her. Elena claps you on the shoulder. “You’re both idiots,” she says and presses a kiss to your cheek. You pick up your glass, let your eyes drift to Alexia one last time. She doesn’t turn around but you see her shift in her chair.
The bar is crowded. You squeeze through, find a gap, and lean your elbows on the counter.
“Waiting long?”
You turn your head. That didn’t take long. The guy next to you is smiling. Dark hair, nice face, the kind of easy confidence that comes from doing this often. He nods at the bartender. “They’re slow tonight.”
“I’ve noticed,” you say and smile easily.
He laughs. Leans a fraction closer. “Let me get that for you.” You smile at him. “What are you having?” He’s already flagging the bartender down. His shoulder is almost touching yours now, the bar crowded enough that it’s not exactly his fault. Almost.
“You’re here with the football table,” he says. “I recognized a few of them.” “Guilty,” you say and smile again. “You play?”
You shake your head. “I’m one of the coaches.” His eyebrows go up. “Oh wow, that’s impressive. You don’t look that old.” He smiles easily at you. “Oh, I didn’t know you had to be,” you retort and raise an eyebrow. He laughs again.
It’s a nice laugh.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He holds up both hands in mock defense. “I really didn’t mean to—,” he apologizes. You join in laughing and smack his arm. “I’ll ignore that this time,” you wink at him, “but just because you obviously didn’t know better.”
The drinks arrive. When he slides yours across, his fingers brush yours. He tilts his glass toward you. “Álvaro.”
“YN, nice to meet you.” You clink your glass against his. “Thanks for this.”
He opens his mouth to say something else and leans a little closer to be heard over the music. You let him, because the bar is loud and he’s perfectly nice and there’s no reason not to.
It is easy. Uncomplicated. His eyes stay on your face when you talk, his smile is genuine and open.
You’re most of the way through the drink when you see the people behind him move. Alexia is standing at the end of the bar. Far enough away that she could pretend she’s there for another reason. Her eyes find yours as you glance over Álvaro’s right shoulder. You hold it for a second. Two. Your chest tightens but it feels good somehow. She came. For you.
You turn back to the still-talking Álvaro. When you look past his shoulder again the place where she’d been standing is empty. For a second your stomach drops.
Then you find her.
She’s closer now, standing beside a group, like she’d drifted there by accident. Her eyes find yours immediately. Something shifts across her face, almost too quick to catch, and she looks down at her drink.
Your stomach turns over slowly. Álvaro touches your arm lightly. “So what are the odds?” he asks and looks at you curiously.
You shake your head slightly, caught off guard. “Sorry, what?” He laughs. “I asked if Barça will win another CL trophy.” He explains. “You were far away.” He touches your arm lightly.
You join in laughing. “Oh, sorry.” You take a moment to give the right answer. “We’re prepared. It’s the two best teams in Europe right now, so it’ll be a close match.” Álvaro raises an eyebrow and laughs. “Oh, wow, that was the most media-trained answer I could have gotten tonight.” He smiles and starts to say something else when Alexia appears at his elbow.
“Hola,” she says simply. And her presence does the rest. It’s so fascinating to witness: she takes a step and suddenly she’s there. Completely unannounced but so present that one simply can’t ignore her. You see Álvaro’s shoulder turn toward her before he even realizes it. Only then does he look.
Alexia’s eyes are on you. She smiles. It’s warm, and you know immediately it’s for you and no one else.
Álvaro looks from her to you. Then it clicks. “Oh, you’re one of the Barça players. You—,” he raises his hand toward her arm. “You won that Ballon d’Or, no?” Alexia looks at him for the first time. Her eyes drop to his hand mid-motion and she steps back slightly. He lowers his arm.
“I thought you—,” Alexia starts. Her chest rises. “We’re doing a group photo.” She gestures behind her. “Jana’s been asking for five minutes. I said I’d get you.” Her eyes don’t leave yours.
“Sorry,” she says in Álvaro’s direction without really looking at him.
“I think Jana can wait another minute,” you reply easily, “I’ll just finish my drink.” You smile at Álvaro.
Something moves across Alexia’s face. She exhales once through her nose. “She’s very insistent,” she tries again. “Jana always is.” You retort dryly and wave your hand dismissively. “She’ll survive.” Álvaro looks between the two of you with the quiet amusement of someone watching a tennis match. He takes a sip of his drink and says nothing. “And if not,” you continue, “go ahead without me.” You wink at Álvaro.
Alexia shifts from one foot to the other. She straightens her spine. “Mapi wants to leave soon,” she tries. You look at her, surprised. “Mapi never wants to leave.” Alexia just looks at you. “She does tonight apparently.” She raises an eyebrow.
You press your lips together to suppress a smile. “Hm.” You hold her gaze for a beat.
Then you turn back to Álvaro. “I think I’ll have to go then,” you shrug at him. “Sorry,” you smile easily. He raises his hand. “No, no. It’s fine.” He smiles at you, genuine. “It was really nice to meet you.”
He nods at Alexia. She gives him a brief, polite smile in return. He takes the hint graciously, picks up his drink, and turns back toward the bar.
You look at Alexia.
She looks at you.
“So, Mapi is about to leave,” you say.
She tilts her head. “Mm.” Holds your gaze. “She might have changed her mind by the time we get back to the table.”
You press your lips together again. “Is that so?”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Come on,” she says and turns. You pick up your glass and slide off the barstool. She takes a small step back to give you room and you end up closer than either of you planned, the crowd pressing in from behind. You follow her to the table. She doesn’t turn around once. Maybe she knows she doesn’t have to.
Jana spots you first, already waving. Mapi is very much still seated, deeply involved in what looks like a passionate argument with Patri about something involving a lot of hand gestures.
You glance at Alexia. Her gaze is locked on the table.
You slide back into your seat next to Jana. Alexia takes the chair across from you. Jana immediately leans into your shoulder. “Where were you? I’ve been waiting forever.” “The bar,” you say. “With who?” She wants to know. “Nobody important.” You shrug. Elena squeezes your knee lightly under the table.
Across the table, Alexia reaches for her drink. Her eyes find yours over the rim. She looks away first this time. But slowly.
───────
You’re reaching for your jacket when Elena nudges your shoulder and makes you look up. She points across the room. “Keira,” she says.
Keira is waving at you from a table near the windows. You point at yourself. She nods and gives you a thumbs up. “Give me one second,” you tell Elena and weave through the tables.
Keira is sitting with a woman you don’t recognize. Dark blazer, a glass of wine in front of her. Maybe forty. Maybe older. It’s hard to tell.
“There she is,” Keira says. The woman looks up.
“Oh good,” she says and smiles at you warmly. Keira gestures vaguely. “This is Rachel.” Then points at you. “Rachel, this is—” “YN,” you interrupt her and extend your hand.
Rachel smiles and shakes it. “Nice to meet you,” she says. You recognize her accent immediately.
“Oh, a fellow English girl down in Spain,” you say with a grin. “Guilty as charged,” Rachel laughs and raises both hands in mock defense.
Someone calls Keira’s name across the room. She looks at both of you apologetically. “Don’t move,” she says, already standing. “I’ll be right back.” Then she disappears into the crowd.
“Does she always do that?” Rachel asks and lifts her wine glass. “Constantly,” you answer and pull out the empty chair. Rachel laughs softly.
For a moment neither of you says anything. The music is loud over here. Somebody cheers near the bar. A chair scrapes across the floor behind you. Rachel tilts her head slightly. “So where’s home?” she asks. “Outside London,” you answer and take a sip of your drink. Rachel nods.
“Do you miss it?” she asks, tracing one finger around the stem of her glass. “Sometimes,” you admit. “What do you miss?” she asks. You smile. “My mum. Friends.” Rachel nods. “The weather definitely isn’t making the list.” She laughs. “Fair.” She shifts slightly in her chair.
“And Barcelona?” she asks. “Are you happy here?” You shrug. “Most days.”
“Only most?” Rachel asks with a small smile. “Depends on the day,” you answer. “Depends on the football.” “That sounds unhealthy,” Rachel says. “It probably is.” You reply lightly. Rachel laughs again.
“Do you see yourself staying in Spain?” she asks, studying you over the rim of her glass. You let out a laugh. “That’s a serious question for a Thursday night.” Rachel smiles. “Yeah, probably.”
“I don’t know,” you admit after a second. “I’ve never planned that far ahead.” Rachel nods slowly. Across the room movement catches your eye. Alexia is still sitting exactly where you left her. She’s looking directly at you.
Rachel follows your gaze. Her eyes settle briefly on Alexia. She takes another sip of wine. “Barcelona’s table is hard to miss,” she says lightly and lifts her chin toward the table. You look back over your shoulder. “They’re not exactly subtle.” “No,” Rachel agrees. The corner of your mouth lifts as you find Alexia’s eyes again. She smiles back at you.
“So how long have you been with the club?” Rachel asks. “I joined in pre-season,” you answer. “So almost a year now.” Rachel nods. “And before that?” she asks.
You raise an eyebrow. “Aston Villa,” you answer. “Granada before that.” Rachel hums quietly. “And before football?” she asks. You laugh. “There was never really a before football.” “No?” Rachel asks and tilts her head. You shake your head. “I wanted to play.” Rachel’s expression softens slightly. “Ah.”
You smile. “Life had other ideas.” Rachel nods slowly. “And the ACL— is that what got you into biomechanics?” she asks.
You look at her and frown. “A lucky guess?”
Rachel smiles. “Educated guess.” You look at her. “Let’s say I’m somewhat familiar with football. And Keira might have told me one or two things,” she adds and lifts the glass to her lips.
You lean back slightly and cross your arms. “Kind of,” you give her, “my knee sealed my personal fate into biomechanics.”
Rachel only nods. “Interesting.”
Across the room your eyes drift back toward Alexia. She’s looking at you again. This time her gaze flickers briefly to Rachel. Then back to you.
A few minutes later Keira finally drops back into the empty chair. “There you are,” she says and steals a peanut from the bowl. “I never moved,” you retort dryly. Keira glances between the two of you. “Did you have a good chat?” she wants to know. “Oh, we sure did,” Rachel replies and checks her watch. “I should head out,” she says and reaches for her blazer.
You nod. “It was nice meeting you.” “You too,” Rachel says as she stands. Then she reaches into her pocket. You watch her pull out a business card. She places it on the table in front of you.
Just a name.
Just a number.
Nothing else.
“What’s this for?” you ask and pick it up. Rachel looks at you. “In case you ever need anything in London,” she says simply.
Beside you Keira coughs into her drink. Rachel doesn’t even look at her. You glance between them. She smiles at you and heads for the door.
You watch her leave, then immediately turn to Keira. “What was that?” you ask and point toward the door. Keira reaches for another peanut. “What was what?” she asks and vanishes toward the others.
Across the room Alexia’s eyes find yours again.
Her jaw tightens. Just slightly.
──────────────
#3
The hotel air conditioning hums somewhere above you. A door closes softly down the corridor, distant enough that you almost miss it. Beyond the curtains, the city glows in scattered orange and white, the lights bleeding through the narrow gap in the fabric. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past twenty minutes.
You lean up and tap your phone screen. 1:17. A groan slips out before you can stop it. You drag a hand over your face, press your fingers briefly against your temple, then swing your legs over the edge of the bed.
The corridor outside is empty. Your sneakers make no sound on the thick carpet as you head for the elevator. The team lounge is two floors down. One of the conference rooms has been converted for the week. Coffee machines, fruit, recovery shakes, snacks. A kettle sits permanently on one side of the room beside rows of tea tins that somehow never run out.
Maybe tea helps. Maybe it doesn’t. At this point you’re willing to try anything that isn’t another hour staring at the ceiling.
The lounge is almost empty. One lamp has been left on in the corner. The city glitters beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The refrigerator hums quietly. You reach for the kettle, then realize someone has already filled it. The outside is still warm. You are reaching for a tea bag when the door opens behind you. Fabric rustles.
“Can’t sleep?”
You turn around. Alexia is standing in the doorway, dark blue training pants and a white long-sleeve pulled over her hands. You make a small sound, something between surprise and acknowledgement.
She pushes off the frame and walks over, immediately focusing on the selection of tea bags as if the choice requires serious consideration.
“I can never sleep the first night,” you say.
“Mm.” She picks up one tea bag, frowns at it, puts it back, then reaches for another.
You hide a smile. “What brings you down here in the middle of the night?” you ask.
“Same.” She fumbles with the packaging, finally tears it open, and drops the tea bag into your cup before preparing her own. She pours hot water into yours first, then clears her throat and reaches for the sugar. “I think the beds are too soft.”
“You think?” You don’t hide the amusement in your voice.
“Maybe.” She answers a little fast and shrugs.
“Mhm.” You raise an eyebrow and look at her. You have to press your lips together so you don’t smile.
She looks at you sideways and then immediately back, shrugs, and tears open a sugar packet, empties it into her tea. Then another.
You hide your smile behind your cup.
Alexia keeps stirring.
And stirring.
And stirring.
Your eyes drop to the cup. Then back to her face. A second passes.
She follows your gaze and glances up. “What?”
“Nothing.” You shake your head, still smiling.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest hint of pink on her cheeks. She finally looks down at the cup herself. For a moment she just stares at it before shaking her head slightly. You have to look away before she catches your grin.
When you glance back, she’s scratching the back of her neck and inhaling slowly. “Want to see something cool?” she asks, tilting her head at you. The question comes out almost casually, but not quite. Your eyes drift to her face, to the strand of hair that has fallen forward.
“Okay,” you say, unable to stop the crooked smile spreading across your face. Something about the way her shoulders relax makes the smile grow wider as you follow her through the hotel corridor.
The terrace is hidden away at the edge of the rooftop, small enough to feel private. A few cushioned chairs sit beneath soft amber lighting, separated from the main roof deck by tall planters and glass panels that cut the wind. Beyond them, Paris unfolds in layers of slate rooftops and scattered lights. The Eiffel Tower dominates the skyline from this angle, glowing gold against the night, while the Seine threads through the city below like a strip of dark silk.
You pick a chair near the railing and sink into it, balancing your cup on one armrest. The terrace is empty; there is plenty of space.
Alexia lingers behind you for a moment. When you glance over your shoulder, she’s looking at the row of empty seats. Then she walks past them all and settles into the one beside yours. Close enough that your elbows would bump if either of you moved.
She wraps both hands around her cup and turns her attention to the city. For a while neither of you says anything.
“I forgot how much I like Paris,” you say, inhaling slowly. The air is warm against your skin, unusually soft for a night in mid-May.
“Mm.” She hums and takes a sip of her tea. “When were you here last?”
“A tournament. Years ago. U-19s.” You think about it. “We lost in the quarter-finals. Penalty shootout.” You shake your head. “I was on the bench the entire match. Didn’t play a single minute.”
“The worst,” Alexia says immediately. “A hundred percent.” You look at the city. “You just have to sit there. You can’t do anything.”
“I know.” She turns her cup slowly in her hands, lost in thought. Then she takes a breath. “The first time we went out on penalties, I was sixteen,” Alexia says. She shifts in her chair, staring out at the lights of Paris. “It was a youth tournament. Somewhere in Germany.”
You smile. “Somewhere in Germany?”
“I don’t remember where.” She shrugs. “I remember the penalties.” You laugh softly and take a sip of your tea.
“I took the second kick,” Alexia continues. “I scored, but we still lost.” She shakes her head. “I was so furious.”
“Because you lost?”
“Because I had done everything right.” Alexia huffs out a laugh and drops her gaze to her cup. “I was sixteen and I had done everything right and we still lost and I could not—” She breaks off and rubs her thumb against the ceramic. “I cried in the bathroom for nearly an hour.”
Your head turns so fast you nearly spill your tea. “What?”
Alexia bites back a smile. “I cried in the bathroom.”
“For an hour? No, you didn’t.” You shake your head in disbelief.
“I did.” She nods.
You stare at her. “No.” A laugh escapes you. Without thinking, you reach over and put a hand on her arm. “Alexia.”
“I did,” she insists, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“You did not cry in a bathroom for an hour.”
“I absolutely did.”She raises her arms in mock defense. You look at her again. Her expression doesn’t help. She’s trying very hard not to laugh.
You groan and let your head fall back against the chair. “No. I don’t believe this story.”
Alexia finally gives up and smiles. “My mother had to come and get me.”
Now you’re laughing openly. “I cannot picture that.”
“Because you only know the grown-up version of me.”
“As if that version weren’t challenging enough,” you mutter, still grinning.
“Hey!” Alexia nudges your shoulder with hers.
You laugh. It comes out easier than you expected and she turns her head at the sound of it. Her mouth curves.
“Did she talk you down?” you ask.
“No.” Alexia shakes her head. “She sat on the floor outside the bathroom door and waited. She didn’t say anything.” She looks back at the city. “After a while I came out and she just— She hugged me and that was it. We went and had dinner.” Alexia smiles faintly at the memory. “She’s very good at that. Knowing when to wait.” She nods to herself.
A car accelerates somewhere on the streets below, the sound carrying up to where you sit. “Where did you grow up?” she asks.
“Outside London,” you tell her. “A suburb. Very flat.” You shift and pull one knee up, wrapping your arms around it. “Very grey in winter. Very grey in summer, actually.”
“Did you always want to do this?” She gestures vaguely. “Football, I mean.”
“I wanted to play,” you say. “Until I couldn’t.” You grimace, because the thought of it still hurts. “And then I wanted to stay near it somehow.” You think about how to explain it. “I didn’t want to leave the thing I loved just because my body wouldn’t cooperate.”
Alexia is quiet for a moment. “What happened?” she asks.
“ACL, twice in a row. I was nineteen.” You shrug. “Not dramatic. Just— the wrong landing at the wrong angle. And then again.” You knock your fist lightly on your knee. “Which is actually what made me interested in biomechanics.” You look at her sideways. “Turned out it was preventable.”
Alexia turns her head at that. Her eyes find yours. “That is very you,” she says. Her tone is soft.
“What is?” you ask.
She shakes her head, smiling to herself. “Finding out something is preventable after it already happened to you. And deciding to fix it for everyone else.”
You look at her. “And that—” You point at her. “That’s very psychoanalytical for two in the morning.”
She shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” she says simply.
You don’t know what to do with that so you look back at the city. The Eiffel Tower pulses once, a shimmer of light across its structure. You’ve seen it a hundred times in photographs and twice in person and it still looks slightly unreal.
“Do you remember,” Alexia asks, “the first away camp you ran? In the Pyrenees.”
“I remember all of it,” you say softly. “I was so—”
She shakes her head before you can finish. “ I mean the minigolf.”
“Yeah, I do remember that.” You laugh lightly. “You scored a five on a par two.”
“The windmill timing was inconsistent—” You raise an eyebrow at her. “—and the ramp on hole fourteen had an irregular bounce that no reasonable person could have—” She huffs helplessly. “I hate losing,” she admits.
“Oh, I couldn’t tell.” You smile at her.
“Even at minigolf.”
“Especially at minigolf, apparently.”
She looks at you. And her eyes are suddenly so open, her expression so unguarded, that everything in your body aches — in a good way.
“I think— I think that was the first time I—” She stops. Tilts her head slightly. “I thought you were very annoying,” she settles on.
You smile at her. “I know.”
“And also—” She pauses and takes a deep breath. Looks back at the city. But doesn’t finish the sentence.
You look at her profile. The strong line of her jaw. Her eyes that seem tired and awake in equal measure. The vein that pulses faintly at her throat. The mole you’ve noticed a thousand times by now.
You turn your head toward the city. “I still have that small stuffed dragon in a Barça jersey,” you say. “It’s on my nightstand at home.” She turns to look at you. Your eyes meet. “It has a number eleven on it.” Your voice becomes quieter. Alexia’s mouth twitches.
Your pulse is suddenly loud in your ears. “I look at it every day,” you whisper. She looks at you for another moment. Then turns her eyes to the city again.
Somewhere around two o’clock you’ve both shifted. Your chair has moved. Or hers has. The armrests touch now, a narrow strip of contact, and neither of you has moved away from it. You look at her face in the low light.
You’ve watched her for a year from across pitches and down corridors and through the glass of your office window in the early mornings when she runs herself into the ground. You’ve watched her be composed and furious and exhausted and brilliant and guarded and, twice now, completely unguarded.
She turns and finds you looking. You don’t look away. She doesn’t either.
“What?” she asks quietly.
“Nothing,” you say. “Just— nothing.” She holds your gaze for a moment longer, studying your face with that focused attention she usually reserves for things that matter. Then she looks back at the city. “I like this,” she says without setup or emphasis. The way you’d say *it’s cold* or *that’s a good song*. A simple observation about a present fact. Your chest does something complicated. “Yeah, me too,” you say.
The Eiffel Tower pulses once more below you as the side of her hand finds yours over the armrest. It’s barely touching. The hair on your arm rises anyway. You take a stuttered breath and stay exactly where you are.
“Training is at nine tomorrow,” she says. You nod.
After a while, you both get up without another word. She picks up both cups and sets them on the tray beside the door. You hold the glass door open and she passes through, close enough that you catch the faint scent of her. Clean and familiar, the same as it has always been.
──────────────
#4
You stand on the sideline, head tipped back and hands over your wet eyes. You inhale deeply. The noise of the stadium is muffled in your ears.
Elena appears beside you and grabs your arm with both hands, saying something you can’t hear. You look at her face. She’s crying and laughing at the same time, her mascara already gone. You pull her into a hug and she squeezes hard enough to hurt and neither of you lets go for a while.
Next to you on the pitch Patri has just collapsed onto the grass in a heap of limbs and tears. Mapi is trying to reach her and misjudges the angle entirely and stumbles and lands on her, and then Ona and Lucy and Keira and Aitana. “WE WON!” she shouts at no one and everyone. Ingrid reaches the pile two seconds later and grabs Mapi by the shoulders and they spin in a circle like children.
On the pitch, Alexia stands completely still. Her hands are at her sides. She looks around, takes it all in. Smiles just to herself.
Then Vicky jumps on her back, she spins around, and they both sing along to a song playing from the stadium speakers.
Then Alexia turns. She finds you or you find her, you can’t tell. You hold her gaze over the distance. And without a single gesture or word you start moving toward each other. Her eyes never leave yours and when she’s about five meters away you see a wide smile spreading across her face. You can’t help but mirror her, grinning like a child.
You reach her and she wraps her arms around you and she smells like sweat and grass and Alexia. It’s all her, everywhere. She buries her head in the crook of your neck and murmurs something you can’t quite make out.
Then she’s jolted forward because apparently three others have jumped on her back at once, kissing both her and you and shouting incomprehensible things.
Jona grabs you around the shoulders from the other side. “YN! YN!” He’s yelling something about the pressing shape holding up in the last fifteen minutes and he’s completely right and you cannot follow a single word of it.
You nod.
You squeeze his arm.
You look back at the pitch.
It’s all one big blur of happiness.
You smile so hard your face aches.
───────
The trophy is heavier than you expected.
Salma presses it into your arm without warning, already letting go before you’ve closed your hands around the handles. The weight of it pulls your arms down an inch and you laugh, and tighten your grip. Around you the noise of the locker room presses against your ears, your chest, your head. They’re all singing and dancing and drinking.
You hold the trophy and look at your own reflection in the curved surface, distorted and silver. Then Jana appears beside you with her arms already open and you hand it over and watch her tip it sideways and immediately begin pouring the last of the champagne into it.
“YN!” Keira wraps both arms around your neck from behind, still in her kit, sweat-damp and smelling strongly of grass and whatever she’d been drinking since the final whistle. You grab her forearms to keep your balance. “We did it.” She’s speaking directly into your ear. “We actually bloody did it.” “We did,” you smile, and mean it, and feel it settle somewhere low in your chest.
There’s a moment, very brief, between two songs where the chaos quiets enough that you can see across the space. Alexia is standing near the far wall with Mapi’s arm slung around her neck. The trophy is in her free hand, and she’s laughing. Her head is tilted back, her eyes closed. You’ve seen this version of her before, just once, on video footage from a previous final.
She opens her eyes and finds you immediately.
The laugh softens and stays in the lines around her eyes, and she looks at you across the room the way she looked at you from the terrace in Paris two nights ago.
You scan for Elena and find her near the physio table, deep in conversation with Marc. You cross toward her, weaving between bodies and discarded kits, and listen to whatever they’re talking about without processing a word of it.
You don’t need to look back at Alexia. You can feel exactly where she is in the room.
───────
The bus back to the hotel takes forty minutes and is complete chaos from the moment the doors close.
Jana plugs her phone into the speaker system before anyone can stop her and a Spanish pop song you’ve heard approximately six hundred times this season blasts through the entire bus at a volume that makes the driver check his mirrors. Pina stands in the aisle jumping. Patri somehow still hasn’t showered. She balances the trophy on her knees, allowing each person who passes to touch it like a relic. “Stop touching it with your beer hands,” Alexia shouts from two rows back. “It’s MY trophy too,” Patri informs her. Alexia wags her finger. “It is everyone’s trophy and you are getting fingerprints on it—”
“Fingerprints,” Mapi announces loudly from somewhere at the back. “She’s upset about fingerprints. We won the Champions League and la Reina is upset about fingerprints,” she hollers.
Alexia drops her head back against the seat and stares at the ceiling with the expression of someone who has accepted their fate. Her mouth is doing the thing where she’s trying not to smile and losing.
“They’re not going to stop,” you tell her and smile. “I know,” she mutters. “The trophy will survive fingerprints.” You wink at her.
“Probably.” She straightens and looks at Patri, who is now allowing Jana to take a selfie with the trophy pressed against her cheek. “I’m choosing my battles,” she says.
The bus takes a corner and the music lurches. Mapi starts singing along, badly, deliberately badly, until Ingrid takes her hand and sings with her and somehow makes it worse.
───────
The hotel bar closes at 2. At 1:45 it is still showing no signs of winding down. The trophy is on the bar. The bartender has taken several photographs of it. Mapi is attempting to teach someone from the Bayern coaching staff a song in Spanish. It is going poorly.
Across the bar, Alexia is with Irene and Keira and one of the board members. She’s wearing the winner’s shirt with her captain’s armband and it’s so much her that your chest aches. She’s laughing at something Keira said, really laughing, the unguarded version again. She seems lighter tonight than you’ve seen her in months. Less assembled. Less managed.
She glances over. Finds you immediately, like she already knew where you were. Her mouth curves as she raises her glass slightly. The familiar knot returns but you force it down.
At some point Jana materializes at your side and dances for exactly one song. She’s properly drunk and stumbles into you more than hugs you. “Just— just go for it already,” she slurs into your ear. Then disappears again, screaming and dancing her way through the crowd.
Alexia is always somewhere nearby. You don’t track her. You couldn’t stop tracking her if you tried and you’ve stopped pretending otherwise, at least privately. But you keep the distance. Every time something in your body orients toward her you find a reason to turn the other way. Pick up your beer. Look for the bathroom. Start a conversation you don’t particularly need to have. It’s a muscle now, almost automatic. It doesn’t stop being exhausting.
At some point you end up near the back of the room, where the speakers are slightly further away and the air moves a little. Your back is against the wall. You’re watching the room without watching anything in particular.
She turns without looking and you’re already facing the other direction before she completes the rotation. Your shoulder blades press against the wall and you look at nothing and count your own pulse in your throat for three seconds, four.
Then you take a long sip of your drink, straighten up, and go find Elena.
───────
Mapi stumbles into you on your way back from the bathroom. She comes through the door at an angle that suggests she’s been walking carefully for a while. Her hair is half down and she has a glass of something peachy in her hand. “You!” She exclaims and points at you, squints.
“You are such a dumbass.” She slurs slightly but still manages to smile underneath it. You raise an eyebrow at her, because what else do you do when a World Cup champion and multiple-time CL winner comes at you in the middle of the night after a win?
She leans on the wall beside you and closes her eyes for a second, then rubs them and slides down to sit on the ground. “You know what’s funny?” she asks. You take a deep breath and crouch down next to her, your back against the wall. “Tell me,” you say and look at her.
“I’ve been watching you avoid her all night.” She gestures vaguely at the room behind the door. “You’re good at it, you know. Very—” she moves one hand through the air, fluid and slow, “—tactical.”
“I wasn’t avoiding her,” you tell her. She looks at you. The peachy drink tilts slightly in her hand. “YN.”
“What?”
She narrows her eyes. “It’s actually impressive.” She raises her eyebrows and shakes her head.
You lean your head back against the wall. The bass from the music travels through it in dull pulses. “No, no, seriously.” She shifts, tucks one knee up. “Let me say this. It’s my night too.” She points at the ceiling above you. “We won. And you’ve spent the whole evening—” she makes the hand gesture again, more emphatic this time.
“Mapi, I’m still your coach, do you really want to talk private stuff now?” you say, mockingly. The sound Mapi makes at that is long and completely unconvinced. She takes a sip of her drink, then stares at it for a second. “Can I ask you something?”
“You’re going to anyway.” You drag a hand down your face.
She nods. Points at you again. “Do you actually think she doesn’t know? What you’re doing? Every time you turn away from her?” She tilts her head. “She notices everything. She noticed you the second you walked into that boardroom a year ago and she hasn’t stopped noticing since.” She holds up one finger. “That’s the problem.” She slurs.
You look at the floor in front of you. At the thin strip of light coming under the door.
“I’m her coach,” you say. “Effectively. That’s real. That matters.”
“Sure,” Mapi says easily.
“It’s not—” You stop. “It creates a dynamic that isn’t fair.”
“Because?”
“Because every decision I make affects it.” You gesture into the room as you search for the right words. “It’s about being the kind of person people can trust in that building. About not making it complicated for everyone else because I—” You stop, shake your head. “It’s not fair. Not to her and not to the team.”
Mapi is quiet for a moment. She turns the glass slowly in her fingers. The music thumps through the wall behind you.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Sure.” She nods slowly. “That all makes sense.” She looks at you sideways. “But.”
“But what.” You roll your eyes.
“But she’s Alexia.” She says it simply, like that closes an argument. “You’ve seen her. You know what she’s like. You think she’s sitting somewhere in there—” she points at the door “—not knowing what’s going on? Not making her own calculations?” She raises her eyebrows. “She’s not some rookie who doesn’t understand what she’s getting into.”
“That’s not the point,” you say.
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is that I’m responsible for—”
“For what?” Mapi cuts in, not unkind. “For her feelings? For what she wants?” She tilts her head. “Because last I checked she’s very capable of deciding that herself.”
You breathe out through your nose. “I can’t—”
Mapi nods slowly and looks at her drink for a moment. “I watched you spend an entire season being very, very careful.” She glances at you. “And I watched her spend an entire season—” She stops. Shakes her head.
“I love her like family,” she says. “I know what she looks like when she’s fine. Happy, actually. And she’s been better these last couple of weeks. Lighter, somehow. I don’t know why. But she’s happy, YN.”
You don’t answer.
“So here’s my question.” She turns to look at you properly, her back against the wall, the glass resting on her knee. “When you keep all that distance. When you turn away every time—” she does the hand gesture again, smaller this time. “Is that for her? Or is it for you?”
Mapi holds your gaze for a moment. Then she nods once and pushes herself up from the floor slowly, using the wall. She straightens her trousers and looks at her drink.
“We won the Champions League tonight,” she says and grins. “Yeah,” you say. “We did.”
She looks down at you for a second. Then she offers her hand. “Don’t be a dumbass forever,” she says and pulls you up.
───────
The parade through Barcelona two days later is pure chaos. You stand near the front railing of the bus, below you thousands and thousands of people in Barça shirts, holding flags and scarves. You’ve been at celebrations before, other clubs, other tournaments, and they’ve never felt quite like this. It’s something about Barcelona specifically. The city takes it personally.
Alexia moves up beside you at one of the turns. She just stands there at the railing, holds the trophy in one hand as if it weighs nothing, and looks at the crowd. When she lifts it in celebration the roar that comes back is enormous and she turns toward it like she’s absorbing it, filing it somewhere she’ll be able to find later. “Every time,” she says, “it’s different.” You look at her. “The first time you don’t believe it’s real,” she says. “And after that you spend the rest of them trying to remember how it felt not to believe it.” You look back at the crowd. “Does it work?” She glances at you. “No,” she says and shakes her head.
Her eyes settle on you, open and raw. “But it’s worth trying,” she says and smiles.
The bus turns again. The noise rises. Confetti comes from somewhere above you, landing in her hair and on your shoulders and everywhere.
She reaches up and pulls a piece of confetti from your hair. She holds it up, looks at it, then lets it go into the wind.
“Come,” she says, and nods toward the center of the bus where the rest of the team is already waiting for a photograph.
───────
The training ground on the Thursday two weeks later is a different place. The lights in the main corridor are on but several offices are dark. You walk through it with your coffee and your tablet, past three already empty lockers.
Elena’s door is open. She’s on the phone, feet up on the desk, spinning her chair slightly. She waves at you as you pass and you wave back and feel your stomach drop.
Some of the players went straight to international duty after the final — Alexia, Aitana and Keira among them — and half the squad is elsewhere. You’ve asked some of the more promising players from the second team to join for training that day. It’s light, no pressure; the league title was won weeks ago.
When you return to your office the window is open. You’d opened it first thing this morning and haven’t closed it since. Birds are singing outside. Once a door bangs shut somewhere across the facility. No boots on grass. No whistles. No laughter.
You sit down and open your laptop. The preseason schedule draft is already in your inbox from Josep’s assistant. You open it and scroll without really reading.
There is a list of proposed dates for pre-season camp and some ideas for team-building activities for when they all return from their holidays. You look at the little stuffed dragon on the corner of your desk and pull at a loose thread coming out of its jersey. You’d brought it from home after the final; it’s been sitting on your desk since.
You turn back to the email. The provisional squad announcement dates from the media department are attached. Mostly things you already know. You close it. Open it again. Try to concentrate on the first paragraph properly this time. Read it once and then again and then look out the window at the empty pitch.
As you turn your head your eyes land on the dragon again. You reach over and pick it up. Turn it once in your hands, run your thumb across the tiny jersey, the uneven stitching on the back. The eleven.
You close your eyes for a second. Then set it down and open the top drawer of your desk. Under the tape dispenser, the spare charging cable, and the folded physio protocol from last October, you find a business card. White on the front, just a name and a number.
You look at it for a moment. Then turn it over. The back is royal blue with a golden lion standing upright and holding a staff.
You inhale. Then you reach for your phone and type in the number.
It rings once. Twice.
“Hello, Rachel speaking.”
──────────────
+1
On Monday, Elena is standing in the doorway with two takeaway cups in her hands. You look up when she knocks lightly. A smile spreads across your face.
“So— big week,” she says and steps into your office. You save the document you were working on. “Well, good Monday morning to you too,” you reply dryly.
She drops into the chair opposite your desk and stretches her arm to hand you one of the cups. “Oat milk latte,” she announces, “from down the street.” “Thanks,” you reply and let the cup warm your hands, the smell drifting up to you.
Her eyes travel across the room once. “You still haven’t cleaned this place,” she states.
“I like knowing where things are,” you say and shrug. “You have three empty water bottles on your windowsill.” She lifts her chin in that direction. “And I know exactly where those are,” you explain and wink at her.
Elena laughs and you both take a sip of your coffees. Then she tilts her head. “Have you talked to her?” You hold her gaze over the rim of your cup. “About the veto,” she adds. You put the cup down and close the laptop. “No.” You shake your head.
Elena nods once. “Okay,” she says.
You narrow your eyes. “That’s all?” you ask suspiciously. “What did you expect?” Elena asks. “A three-hour PowerPoint presentation on your relationship?” You scoff and shake your head, taking another sip.
Elena studies you for a second. “You look different,” she says after a moment. “Mhm,” you hum. “Tired?” you offer.
“No,” she answers.
“Older? Wiser?” you say with amusement.
“No,” Elena says, smiling. “Definitely not older.” You smile back at her. Elena leans her elbow on the armrest. “Good different, actually,” she tilts her head again.
Somewhere outside, a door slams. You glance toward the open window. “Yeah,” you say after a moment. “I think I feel good.” Elena’s eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Some things fall into place eventually.” For a second Elena just looks at you. Then something softens in her expression. She reaches across the desk and squeezes your forearm once. “About time,” she says.
───────
The final board meeting of the season is on a Friday at Camp Nou.
You know the way by now. Security waves you through at the Oficinas entrance with just a nod. You cross the marble entrance hall, the championship banners overhead, the crests in the tile underfoot.
Through the glass the stadium opens as the elevator rises. Lower bowl first. Then the second tier. Then the third. By the fifth floor you can see the whole pitch below, perfectly green, the white lines sharp, the stands rising on all sides.
Més que un club.
By now you’ve seen it about a hundred times from this height. It still looks slightly unreal.
The conference room door is already open when you reach it. Sixteen chairs along the table, your name card set near the middle this time. Just a white card with black lettering in the club’s corporate design, placed among the others.
You set your notes down and move to the window. Below, groundskeepers move slowly across the far end of the pitch. A door opens somewhere in the stands and closes again as the room fills behind you.
Josep, then Jona, the man from finance whose name you still can’t remember, and Elena, who finds you at the window and stands beside you for a moment without saying anything, looking down at the pitch. “Here we go,” she says quietly, to the stadium or to you, you can’t tell.
“Here we go,” you say and nod.
The meeting opens with the Champions League bonus distribution. Administrative and longer than it needs to be. Alexia arrives six minutes after the meeting starts. The door opens and closes and without looking up you know it’s her. She takes her seat two down from yours.
The meeting continues with equipment budgets. Then the physio rotation, which is Elena’s territory.
Around forty minutes in Josep turns a page and announces that the meeting is moving from logistics into planning for next season. “So, let’s talk about players first,” he says. “There are two potential signings already flagged for preseason medical clearance” — he nods toward Elena — “and we agreed on inviting two players from the second team to the first.” He nods to himself. “We are still negotiating terms with Bayern, Turin and Liverpool for the other potential signings. Turin and Liverpool are on good terms; we’re not so sure about the Bayern transfer, but I hope to have an update on that by next week.”
“So—” he inhales, “staffing structure for next season,” he says and nods in yours and Jona’s direction.
Jona sets down his coffee mug and clears his throat. “YN’s contract is up for renewal,” he says. “I’d like to keep her on. I think the numbers speak for themselves — squad injury rate down thirty-one percent compared to last season, and we made the final.” He clears his throat again. “YN has had an exceptional first season. The ACL programme. The recovery protocols after Stockholm. The welfare framework we’ve been building toward.”
He glances briefly around the table, open-handed and inclusive. “We want to expand that significantly next season. Load management across the full league calendar. Formal liaison with Elena’s team. Squad welfare as a primary responsibility.”
He looks at you and pauses. “To me this sounds like more of a formality than anything else,” he says to the table.
You force a smile you hope comes across as professional. Josep nods once. “I agree.“ He folds his hands over his chest. “All in favor?” He asks.
Hands rise around the table, one by one. The finance guy. Elena, who smiles at you when she raises hers. Jona, already half-reaching for his coffee again. You catch them all in your peripheral vision while keeping your eyes on your notes.
Josep cleares his throat. You glance up. Alexia’s eyes are on the table. Her chest rises and falls. “Alexia?” Josep asks. “Any objections?”
Her eyes move upward. They meet yours. They dart to the table again. Then back to you.
Then she shakes her head once.
Her eyes stay on yours, steady and clear. “No,” she says. “No objections. I’d love for her to stay.”
She clears her throat immediately. “We— the team would love for her to stay. We’d be making a mistake if we let her go.”
She nods once.
Then she raises her hand—
—and smiles and you.
It’s open. Inviting. Certain.
For a second, you just stare at her. Your mouth is slightly open. The words don’t quite track.
Then heat floods your face before you can stop it. Alexia is looking away quickly when she notices.
Around the table nobody seems particularly interested. Elena is trying very hard not to smile.
Josep glances around the room. “Good. Then that’s approved.” He makes a note on the paper in front of him. “We’ll have legal prepare the paperwork and finalize everything after the break.” His gaze shifts to you. “Enjoy your holiday, YN. We’ll sort out the formalities when everyone’s back.”
The guy from finance starts knocking the table in approval. As the others join in, Alexia looks at you for a moment. Then blinks and joins in. “Congratulations,” Elena says quietly beside you. You smile automatically. “Thank you.” Josep closes the folder.
You draw a slow line under the last thing you’d written and let the pen rest against the paper.
The meeting continues for another twenty minutes. When it ends and people stand and gather their things, Josep shakes your hand on his way out. “Good season,” he says. “Looking forward to the next one.” You smile. “Thank you.”
Jona squeezes your shoulder. “We’ll talk preseason properly next week.” You nod.
The room empties. Marc holds the door for Elena. She looks back at you from the threshold. You give her a small nod and she goes.
You stand at the table for a moment longer. Look out of the window. “Més que un club,” you murmur to yourself. You close your eyes for a second, open them. Then knock twice on the table before you gather your things and walk out.
───────
The garden is strung with lights. Jana spent the entire Saturday afternoon on a ladder while Alexia stood below with her arms crossed and her jaw set, telling her she was doing it wrong. At some point Mapi physically removed her from the situation and steered her inside with both hands on her shoulders.
The result is exactly what Jana promised. Warm and golden and slightly uneven lighting worthy of a summer night. The lanterns loop between the olive trees in long arcs. There are candles in glass jars on the table and along the low stone wall. The garden smells like lavender and woodsmoke and the sea.
It’s the middle of June. You’re sitting at the end of the long table with a glass of wine you’ve been nursing for the past hour. Around you the season is coming to an end with one final dinner before everyone leaves for the holidays.
The sound of Jana’s playlist drifts out through the open terrace doors. The plates have already been cleared and the candles have burned down an inch.
Across the table Lucy is explaining something to Patri and Keira with both hands, switching between English and Spanish and Catalan, her laughter contagious enough that you catch yourself smiling at her. Two seats down from them Ingrid is leaning her head against Mapi’s shoulder with her eyes half-closed and a glass of wine loosely in her hand.
You look at the candle in front of you. The flame bends with a slow breath of warm air and straightens again.
At the other end of the table Alexia is talking to Elena. You catch that specific movement of her hands, the one she makes when she’s making a point. Then your eyes drift to her face. Elena says something and Alexia laughs, genuinely, her head tilting back for a second before coming forward again, and the sound of it cuts through everything else at the table for just a moment. And all you hear is her and all you see is her.
By eleven the table has thinned. Aitana and Lucy, then Patri, Claudia and Pina. Keira leans down to press a kiss to your cheek before she goes. She squeezes your shoulder once and her eyes lock on yours without a word. You nod at her once and watch her walk back through the garden toward the gate. Her shadow is long in the warm light.
Jana is one of the last to leave. She hugs Alexia for a long time at the gate. You watch them from the terrace. Alexia’s arms come up and cradle her, her chin dropping to the top of Jana’s head. Jana says something into her shoulder and Alexia nods once with her eyes closed. When they pull apart Jana’s smile is bright and her eyes are slightly wet at the edges. She finds you across the garden and gives you a small wave.
Mapi and Ingrid are still at the table, almost asleep. Elena is standing near the outdoor kitchen, gathering wineglasses. You empty your glass, push yourself up from your chair and start collecting the dessert plates scattered between the candles.
“Leave it,” Alexia says behind you. She’s standing a few feet away and dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” Her voice is low. The candlelight catches the line of her collarbone and the small mole below it.
At the table Mapi stands slowly. Ingrid’s hand appears at the small of her back. “We’re heading out,” Mapi announces to the garden. She picks up her jacket from the back of her chair, then stops in front of you. Her eyes move over your face for a moment. “Nos vemos,” she says, her hand coming up to pat your arm once, firm and brief.
Elena appears at your elbow with a glass of water you didn’t ask for. “Drink something that isn’t wine,” she says. She squeezes your arm, warm and long. Her mouth is at your cheek for a second. “I’ll see you,” she whispers.
You stand there with the glass of water and listen to their footsteps on the gravel.
Alexia is at the end of the table now, gathering the last of the glasses. You stand at the edge of the terrace and watch her. The garden is full of cicadas; a moth bumps against the lantern next to you. In the background the playlist has shifted to something slow. The candles have burned low, one flame going out while you watch.
Alexia carries five glasses inside and steps past you. When she passes, the air carries her scent. You close your eyes for a moment, then lift your head and look up at the stars.
She returns with two glasses of wine.
The remaining lights are warm behind her, catching in her hair, along the curve of her jaw. Her expression is open in a way it almost never is in rooms full of people. No performance. No guard. Just her face, in the quiet, looking at you.
“Do you want another glass?” she asks, already extending her arm.
“Yes.”
She hands you the glass and walks slowly to the edge of the pool. She sits down and lets her feet drift into the water. For a moment she turns the glass in her hands before setting it beside her. When she looks up, her eyes meet yours in a silent invitation.
You hold her gaze for a beat before moving toward her. The tiles beneath your bare feet are still warm from the day’s sun. You set your glass beside hers and lower yourself onto the edge of the pool, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her arm without quite touching.
Together, you watch the underwater lights shimmer across the surface, their reflections shifting in the dark water between you. For a while neither of you says anything. The water laps against the tiles.
“You know,” Alexia says eventually, her gaze still on the water, “Jana has been talking about those lights for three weeks.” You chuckle. “Believe it or not, she made spreadsheets.” Alexia laughs. “She showed me three different lighting plans.” You laugh openly. “That sounds exactly like her.”
“It does.” The smile lingers between you. For a moment neither of you looks away.
“You had a good season,” Alexia says then. You look back at the reflections on the water. “Yeah.” You nod slowly. “You should be proud of yourself.” Something in her voice makes it difficult to answer. “I am,” you say, quietly.
She looks up. “You don’t sound convinced.”
You shrug.
Her voice is quieter now. “I mean it.” You glance at her. “You made a difference this year.” A tightness settles unexpectedly in your chest. You look away. “Thank you,” you murmur, and notice the heat rising in your neck. You breathe in and fidget with a loose thread on your shorts.
Alexia studies your profile for a moment. “Hey.”
You look at her.
“You can go home if you want.”
You blink. “What?”
She lifts one shoulder. “You look nervous.”
You shake your head, barely visible. “I don’t want to go home, Ale.” Her eyes soften at her name.
“Then we can sit here all night if you want,” she says quietly.
You hold her gaze. “I don’t want that either,” you whisper.
Your eyes drop to your hand. Your pinky moves forward half an inch and brushes hers. Your heart hammers in your chest. For a second neither of you moves.
Then her finger hooks gently against yours. The touch is so small and still jolts through your whole body. You don’t hear the cicadas anymore, don’t pay attention to the music or the water at your feet. There is just her finger against yours, warm and electric. Alexia’s gaze drops to where your fingers touch. A slow breath leaves her. When she looks back up her expression is soft and completely certain.
She pushes herself to her feet. The music drifts across from inside, muffled by the glass. A woman’s voice, a piano, something slow.
She holds out her hand. “Dance with me.”
You look up at her. The light from the pool moves across her face in slow patterns. Water-light, restless and pale. You’ve seen her in floodlit stadiums and grey training mornings and the back of a car at 2 AM. You’ve never seen her like this.
You take her hand. She pulls you up and draws you in immediately. No gap between pulling and holding. Her hand finds yours. Then she looks down, takes your left hand and places it more deliberately, a little higher. Her own hand settles at the small of your back.
Your body tightens all at once. “Relax,” she says quietly. Her forehead drops to yours. She takes your right hand and folds it between your bodies, close, like something she doesn’t want to lose. Then she starts to move to the music in very small steps.
You breathe out deliberately. Something in your spine loosens, fraction by fraction. “I’m not going anywhere,” she says into your ear. You nod against her shoulder.
The garden is dark past the pool light. The music is barely audible out here. But she moves like she can hear every note clearly, and your feet follow.
“Okay?” she asks after a while, her voice very quiet. “Yes,” you say. Her thumb traces one slow arc against the small of your back. The skin along your arms prickles instantly, the fine hairs rising all at once. You feel her smile against your temple.
You turn your face into her shoulder. Into the curve where her neck meets it. You breathe in.
On impulse you press your lips there. Her whole body shudders. One sharp, involuntary movement through her shoulders and down.
You smile. And do it again. Same place. Same pressure. She shudders again and her grip tightens, her fingers pressing briefly into your back.
You lift your head. Your hand moves slowly along her shoulder until your fingers reach the line of her jaw. You press your lips to her earlobe, barely touching, and feel her exhale catch halfway. Her hand tightens further at your back.
“All sensitive there?” you murmur against her skin. She hums, low and a little unsteady. You stay close, your mouth at her ear, and let the moment stretch one more beat. “I want to kiss you,” you say softly, “in so many other places.”
She goes very still. Then pulls back, just enough to look at you. She’s so close that the lights in the trees are just gold blurs behind her. Her eyes are on yours. Her fingers have tightened at your waist. Her expression is open and frightened and so completely certain at the same time that it knocks the breath out of you.
“Come,” you whisper and take her hand. Her fingers close loosely around yours. You lead her inside through the terrace doors. The house is dim and still, only a single lamp left on somewhere in the living room, throwing a pale band of light across the cool stone floor.
You lead her through the living room and she follows, her hand still in yours, past the low furniture and the abstract pieces on the walls you’d noticed the first time you were here. The night of Jana’s party, when you stood on this same terrace and watched her kiss someone else in the pool.
At the foot of the stairs you stop and turn to look at her. The question hanging in the air between you is silent. You squeeze her hand once. Then she starts up and you go with her.
Her bedroom is simple. Large windows face the hills, the curtains half open, and through them scattered lights of the city, all yellow and orange.
She turns to you at the window in the half-dark. For a moment you just look at each other. Your hands loosely tangled, still linked. Then you reach up and push a strand of hair back from her face. Your fingers brush her jaw. Her eyes close briefly at the contact.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi yourself,” you whisper back.
Her hands find your hips, playing with the fabric of your shirt. A quiet laugh escapes her as her eyes drop to the floor and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
“I’m—” she starts, and the words come out slightly unsteady. She takes a breath.
You catch her eyes and tilt her chin up with one hand. Shake your head. “I’m not,” you tell her. “Not a single bit.” You lean in and your lips brush hers. Light, but certain. Warm. A question you both already know the answer to.
When you pull back she looks at you. Her lips curl. And her eyes settle on yours.
You curl your fingers into the fabric of her shirt and pull her in, letting your mouth meet hers with more force this time.
She answers immediately, her hands sliding from your hips to your arms to your shoulders, drawing you closer, and whatever carefulness was left between you dissolves.
She walks you back until the edge of the bed catches behind your knees. Her left hand slides into your hair and pulls you in. You breathe out into her mouth. A sound escapes your throat. You feel her pull air in sharply. Feel her breath go uneven.
You take her down with you until she’s above you, her weight settled over your body. She pulls back just far enough to look at you, forehead to forehead, and in the low orange light coming through the curtains her eyes are so dark, her expression so completely unguarded, that you have to shift your gaze slightly over her shoulder for a moment. It’s almost too much.
“I’m still here,” she says, and presses her lips to your forehead. Your chest rises and falls slowly. You nod. “I know,” you whisper. “I know.”
You find her mouth again, hungrier this time. Her hand slides to the hem of your shirt and then beneath it, fingers moving slowly upward, tracing circles against your skin. “Let me take this off,” she breathes between kisses.
You can only nod.
She lifts your shirt up and over your head, leans down, and catches your skin with her mouth. Your back arches off the mattress. She smiles into you.
Her hands move over you without hesitation. Her mouth is at your throat, your shoulder, the curve of your collarbone, like she has been thinking about this for a long time. When you pull her back up to your mouth she makes a sound that is barely audible, swallowed by the kiss almost before it happens. You feel it in your hands where they rest against her back, and in your chest, and everywhere at once.
You lift the back of her shirt. She pulls it over her head. Her skin is warm against yours and still carries the faint smell of the day’s sun, her perfume, and the chlorine from the pool.
You trace the tattoo along her upper spine with your fingertips. She goes still beneath your hands. Her eyes are closed, her chin lifted. Her breathing has changed entirely. You watch her face; the line of her jaw tightens and releases, her mouth opens slightly on a long exhale and she turns her face toward yours.
Her left arm comes down beside your head as she pulls herself up. You tighten your hand around her bicep. Press your lips to her tattoo. Her right hand slides between your bodies, over your waist, your hip, until it reaches the waistband of your shorts. She pauses there. You’re both breathing hard.
Her eyes find yours.
You nod.
Her hand slides in without hesitation. Your stomach tightens at the sensation. Her mouth finds yours and swallows the sound from your throat.
She finds you already wet; you have to close your eyes. You feel her smile into your lips as her middle finger rests there and she covers you with her palm. Then she brushes back a strand of your hair and looks at you. Her body starts to move on top of you, slow and deliberate. Your hands come up to either side of her face and you match her pace, rolling your hips to meet her, searching for more.
Her forehead drops to yours. Your noses brush. Her eyes stay open and dark. You breathe harder. Roll your hips again. She holds your gaze through all of it.
It takes an embarrassingly short time. You moan as your body arches from the mattress. You shudder, once, twice, again. Her lips find yours, barely there. Again and again.
A smile spreads across her face. “You look beautiful,” she murmurs against your mouth as she draws her hand slowly from between your bodies.
She shifts onto her side and finds your waist, fingers pressing lightly into your skin as she pulls you closer. You go without resistance.
Her mouth is on your throat now. Your jaw. The corner of your lips. You turn your face toward her. The kiss is slower this time. Less urgent than before, but deeper somehow. “I need these gone,” she says, tugging at your shorts. You take them off and lie back beside her, completely bare.
Her hand slides up your back and you feel every point of contact. Her palm, her fingers, the warmth of her forearm against your spine.
You press closer. She exhales against your mouth. Her leg slides between yours. You shift to meet it and she makes a quiet sound low in her throat that you feel more than hear. You rock against her bare thigh as your hand finds the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, and she tilts her head back slightly on a slow inhale.
Her hands move over your back with certainty. Like she knows exactly where she’s going and is taking her time getting there. Your breath catches when her fingers drag slowly from the small of your back to your hip and down.
“Okay?” she murmurs against your collarbone. “Yes,” you breathe. The word comes out thin and low. She lifts her head and looks at you. Her hair falls forward. In the low light her eyes are very dark, her expression completely steady. She holds your gaze for one long moment.
Then the corner of her mouth curves, just slightly, as her fingers find you and slide inside in one fluid motion. Your hand tightens in her hair as you exhale
You feel a breeze through the open window, warm against your skin. Then it’s gone and there is nothing in the room except her and the warmth of her and the rhythm between your bodies.
She brings you up until your body tightens around her fingers and you can’t hold it anymore. You come apart a second time with her name on your lips.
She holds you through it and kisses you, and when her hand finally stills and she pulls her finger out you shudder at the loss of her.
You roll over until she’s on her back, her hair spread across the pillow. Her chest rises and falls quickly.
You press your lips to her shoulder. Hold them there for a moment. Then you lift your head and look at her. “I meant it,” you say quietly.
She looks at you and raises her eyebrows, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“What I said outside.”
She still looks at you expectantly.
You press your lips together to contain a smile. Then lean down to whisper in her ear. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”
You place your lips at her earlobe. “Here.” You continue at her breast. “And here.” She holds her breath as you move to her hip. “Here.” You take your time, bend down to her inner thigh and drag your lips slowly up along her skin. “And here,” you breathe.
A moan slips from her mouth. She pulls at her underwear and slides it down. “Can’t wait?” you tease and bite gently into her skin, breathing her in.
Her head lifts as she looks down at you. “Fuck,” she breathes, and buries her left hand in your hair, tugging lightly. You smile into her skin. “Okay, okay,” you tell her softly.
Her lips part slightly. She doesn’t speak as her eyes stay on you. You lower your head and press your tongue to her center. She inhales deeply. You stay there until she gently presses your head down. “So eager,” you tell her and flick your tongue once. You feel her breathing change beneath your lips, feel the small involuntary tightening of her muscles. You move your tongue faster just to hear it. Her fingers curl in your hair as her moans grow louder.
You feel the exact moment it reaches her. Her breath breaks on an exhale she can’t quite control. Her back lifts fractionally off the mattress, her jaw tightens, one hand twisting in the sheet beside her. Her fingers press gently against the back of your head. You stay exactly where you are, a smile on your lips.
When she finally stills, her chest is heaving and her hand has gone loose in your hair. You press your lips once more to her hip, her stomach, the curve of her ribs. Then you pull yourself up beside her.
You watch her face in the low light. Her eyes are closed, her breathing becomes normal slowly. After a moment her hand finds yours on the mattress. She turns her head and looks at you, cups your cheek with her hand and kisses you deeply, her tongue sliding against yours.
The corner of her mouth lifts and a small sound escapes her mouth as she tastes herself on you. Her fingers tighten around yours once before going still again.
You hold her face in your hands afterward. Her hair is loose and spread across the pillow and across your shoulder and across the sheet. One of her hands rests open on your ribs, fingers slightly curled. You watch the ceiling for a long time.
She falls asleep slowly, her breathing evening out in gradual stages. Her hand on your ribs goes still. Her face, turned toward you on the pillow, goes slack and you watch the exact moment the last of her tension releases.
The clock on the nightstand says 1:43.
You turn your head and look at her.
2:17.
She stirs once.
You wait until her breath evens out again.
3:22.
Until it’s barely there.
4:01.
You place a small kiss on her forehead. Then you lift her hand slowly from your chest and set it on the sheet beside you.
You rise slowly. One foot down, then the other. You collect your clothes from the floor.
You go downstairs. Dress in the living room without a sound.
You reach for your bag. No one asked why you carried it with you today. Keira smiled at you.
You push the stuffed dragon to one side and take out the envelope that’s been sitting in there for three days.
You place it on the table where she’ll find it in a few hours. It simply reads A.
You stand there with your fingertips still resting on it for a moment. The house is completely silent around you. Through the windows the sky at the horizon has begun to shift from black to a pale, pale blue.
The garden is quiet except for a bird singing. The lights in the olive trees have gone out, their cables are dark between the branches. The candles on the table are cold.
You walk to the gate without looking back. The gravel shifts under your steps. Your hand finds the latch. Your chest is tight and full at the same time.
You breathe in and out and smile.
The Uber takes four minutes. You sit on the low wall outside with your bag between your feet and watch the city go from dark blue to grey to the beginning of orange. The bird in the garden behind you starts again, more certain this time.
A young driver in a silver BMW pulls up. The leather of the backseats is cool against your thighs.
He glances at you in the rearview mirror.
“To the airport?”
─────── ─────── ───────
Epilogue
The soft light from the Christmas tree falls through the half-open door. It’s catching the edge of the nightstand, the ceiling and the curve of her jaw. Everything else is dark. Through the half-drawn curtain you see the lights of a red double-decker sweeping briefly across brick walls. Thick December rain drums at the window.
She’s lying on her back beside you with one arm folded behind her head. Her eyes are tracking something on the ceiling.
You’ve been watching the side of her face for a while now. The sharp line of her jaw, her lips, the dimple above them.
Alexia’s lips curl up lazily. “You don’t have to keep watching me,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere in this weather.”
You smile. “I know,” you say quietly as your finger starts drawing small circles on the bare skin of her chest.
She turns her head and looks at you. Her eyes are dark in this light and her nose nearly touches you. She just looks at you for a long moment. Your finger keeps moving against her skin.
“It’s because I don’t quite believe it yet,” you whisper. “I keep waiting for the part where it stops,” you whisper. You take a long breath and turn onto your back.
The sheet moves slightly as she shifts onto her side to face you fully. You feel it without looking. “YN.”
“I know,” you say. “I know it’s—” You stop. Your fingers tug at a thread on the edge of the blanket. “I’ve done a lot of work on this. I know what it is. I can name it.” You press your lips together briefly. “But naming it doesn’t always stop it from happening.”
The rain lets up, until it’s just a quiet sound. She doesn’t fill the silence between you. One of the things about her you’ve learned in the past few months. She holds the silence until you’re ready to put something in it.
“My father,” you start, and take another breath. You’ve said this sentence before, in a small office in Notting Hill with a plant on the windowsill and a tissue box on the table. You’ve said it many times there. It sounds different here, in the dark, with her breathing beside you.
“He didn’t leave dramatically,” you say. “He just—” Your hand makes a small movement. “Faded.” You trace the edges of the light on the ceiling with your eyes. “Work, then a new city, a new family.” You close your eyes briefly. “He wasn’t cruel about it. He was just—” You search for the right word. “Indifferent.”
Alexia still looks at you.
“And when you’re seven,” you continue and swallow a knot forming in your throat, “and then nine, and then twelve, and the visits get shorter and further apart and you can see that he’s not—” You blink. “That you’re not enough to make him stay—” Your voice cracks. “You learn something from that. Your body learns it even if your brain argues with it later.”
She cups your face and brushes away the tear forming in the corner of your eye. “What did it learn?” she asks. Her voice is careful.
“That people leave,” you say. You turn your head toward her. “That the ones you want to stay are the ones who eventually go.” You press your tongue against the inside of your upper lip, fighting back tears. “And that the way to survive it is to go first.”
She searches your eyes for a moment. Her thumb strokes your cheek. “Is that what happened in the hotel three years ago?” she asks.
You nod. “And almost Stockholm.” You hold her gaze. “And a hundred smaller versions in between that you probably didn’t see.”
Her hand on your face is warm. “I saw some of them,” she says quietly as her nose brushes yours.
After a while, her eyes move, just slightly, away from your face. They settle on the nightstand behind you, where the light just reaches.
"It moves in straight lines," you tell her. "Forward. Sideways. Never diagonally." You pause. “Predictable directions. Safe ones.” You turn around and reach for the rook on your nightstand. “My therapist gave it to me, years ago.”
You place the small figure in her hand. “I didn’t understand it at first,” you say as your mouth curves. “And then I started noticing. When I was already moving and hadn’t decided to. When I’d just— picked a line.”
Her finger traces the outline of the rook. “Is that bad?” she asks without looking at you. “Moving in straight lines?”
“It’s not weak,” you say and shake your head. “That’s not the point. A rook is actually—” You search for the right words. “It’s powerful. But sometimes— life does not go in straight lines, right? Then you have to reconsider, decide.” You take the figure back and place it on the nightstand. Then you turn back to her. “I try to remember that more often now.”
She holds your gaze and then places a soft kiss on your nose.
“My therapist will be very pleased to know I’m having this conversation.” You smile. “She’s been waiting for it for about three years.”
She smiles at you and you both just lie there as her thumb traces your jaw.
“I’m not like your father,” she says quietly after a while. You close your eyes briefly and nod. “I know,” you whisper.
“I know you know,” she answers. "But—" now it's her searching for words. "As long as you're still— learning, I'll just—". She pauses again. “Keep showing it.”
Your eyes sting. You blink once, slow, and hold it.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “For Granada. For Stockholm. For all the—” You exhale. “For all the times I went first.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I know,” she whispers and nods barely visible. “I know you are.”
Her jaw tightens and releases. “It still hurt.”
“I know.”
“But—” She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyes find yours in the dim light. “We’re both here now.”
“We’re both here now,” you say and nod.
She looks at you for a moment longer. Then she places another kiss on your forehead and settles back. She takes your hand and laces your fingers.
After a while her breathing deepens and evens out. Her hand doesn’t move from yours even as sleep takes her.
You lie there in the dark and watch the ceiling and feel the weight of her hand until your eyes begin to close and you drift slowly into sleep.
