firstly, hi i’m kamotecue but you can call me kamote or cinco. i’m 20, and my astrological sign is a virgo. i’m a filipino who writes about women’s football, and maybe i might write for other things—or perhaps a side blog in the future.
feel free to send in requests, or if you want to chat about anything, just send a message! i don’t really have a certain time or date when i publish so just expect random works. i also don’t know when i can publish your requests so please be patient with me.
♔ Alexia Putellas gets a little too interested in a Bayern analyst, and suddenly “professional distance” stops being very professional at all.
♔ Author’s Note: Is this anything? Let me know please, I was very enthusiastic but now very uncertain haha!
♔ Not spell- or grammar-cheked, also not reread.
♔ Word count: approx. 8,200
➳ Masterlist
➳ Dividers by @diviniyae
25th of April 2026 - Allianz Arena, Bayern Germany
There was always something strangely unsettling about being inside a stadium before the crowd arrived, when tens of thousands of empty seats were mocking you. The Allianz Arena felt enormous like this, glowing beneath the evening sun while staff hurried through the stands making final preparations for the evening ahead, and for a brief moment it was difficult to imagine that within only a few hours the entire stadium would look a lot different.
Bayern had already arrived and spread out by the time Barcelona stepped onto the pitch for the pre-match inspection, players and staff scattered across the field with the easy confidence of people standing on familiar ground. It was their stadium after all, their territory, and they carried themselves like they belonged there.
But Alexia could see the nerves lying beneath the surface, no matter how brave and intimidating Bayern tried to appear - she wasn’t scared, and neither was the rest of the team.
Pitch inspections had become routine to her. A chance to feel the grass beneath her shoes, feel it in her hands, adjust to the atmosphere of the still empty stadium and see her opponents before kickoff. But as Barcelona spread out across the pitch, the blonde's attention caught on someone standing near a goalpost.
While most of Bayern’s training staff stood huddled together near the bench, already relaxed and laughing amongst themselves, one lone figure had wandered further onto the pitch entirely on her own. An iPad was tucked securely beneath her arm while she held a notebook and pen in her hands.
If not for the moving pen in her hand, Alexia might have mistaken her for a statue with how still she was standing. Not even looking down to see what she was writing, instead completely focused on how the girls from Barcelona behaved and moved on the pitch - even if they were just walking around and joking.
Alexia found herself staring at the mystery woman much more than she should.
The difference between her and the rest of the Bayern staff felt unsettling to the captain - so concentrated and isolated while the rest were already done with the inspection and were just chatting in a corner.
“Who is that?” Alexia asked quietly, more to herself than anyone else. Mapi followed her gaze and shrugged. “No idea. Maybe an analyst? Bayern’s got like five of them.”
She didn’t really expect her teammate to have a useful answer but was disappointed by the answer nonetheless. Just as she was about to tell her as much, she felt a stare settle on her.
Alexia looked up, and the stare didn’t falter. She was still and composed, pen hovering above her notebook, as if she had been studying Alexia just as closely as Alexia had been studying her.
The moment stretched for only a few seconds, but it was enough to feel deliberate, neither of them in a hurry to look away first. Then, almost casually, the woman lowered her gaze back to her notebook, breaking the connection with a small shift of her shoulders before continuing to write as if nothing had happened at all - but Alexia could see the small smirk on her lips.
The blonde frowned slightly.
She had expected something. A reaction, a flicker of recognition, anything that showed the woman knew exactly who she was - Alexia Putellas, two-time Ballon d’Or winner, with more than enough titles under her belt to intimidate most opponents.
But there was nothing.
“She’s weird,” Patri muttered, having just caught the end of her captain’s interaction. If you could even call it that.
Alexia didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were still fixed on the goal area, watching the way the woman moved a few steps closer, completely absorbed in whatever she was writing down.
Then, without really thinking about it anymore, Alexia turned her head slightly. “Bühl?” she called as the German approached them.
Klara Bühl looked over. “Hm?”
Alexia nodded subtly towards where the woman had just sat down, leaning against a goal post “Who is she?”
Klara followed her gaze, then let out a small laugh, like the answer was obvious. “Oh,” she said, “that’s our tactical assistant coach. She basically runs half our tactical prep.”
Alexia’s eyes drifted back toward the goalpost almost immediately.
The woman still hadn’t moved much, now sitting against the white metal frame with one knee pulled up slightly while she wrote something down across an already crowded page of notes. Every now and then her gaze flicked back toward Barcelona’s players, focused and thoughtful in a way the Catalan found increasingly difficult to ignore.
And before she could properly think things through her feet were already moving towards you.
“Oh my god,” Patri groaned somewhere behind her. “You’re actually going over there?”
The woman noticed her approach long before Alexia reached her and just stared at her while she was making her way over. Before the captain had reached her, she had stood up, the pen had stilled and the notebook had been closed and vanished into a coat pocket.
Up close, she looked younger than Alexia expected, however the stare didn’t waver and was still scary as hell.
For a moment neither of them spoke, just sizing each other up. But the blonde broke first, nodding to the coat pocket, “Find anything useful?”
The corner of the woman’s mouth lifted slightly.
“That depends,” she replied smoothly, finally closing the notebook. “Are you planning on making this easy for us?”
The faint smirk still lingered on your lips, subtle enough that Alexia almost thought she had imagined it, but there was something undeniably amused in the way you watched her now, as though her walking over had only confirmed whatever conclusion you had already come to.
“Confident,” Alexia noted lightly.
One of your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Would you prefer I wasn’t?”. The Catalan found herself caught off guard for half a second by how easily you held your ground beneath her stare.
Up close, you somehow seemed even calmer than before, completely unaffected by the fact that the Alexia Putellas was standing directly in front of you. There was no nervousness in your expression, no awkward fumbling for words.
And it unsettled her more than she cared to admit, how your eyes seemed to constantly analyse her.
“What exactly are you writing down?” Alexia asked after a moment, nodding subtly toward the notebook now tucked away inside your coat pocket.
You tilted your head slightly, considering her question for a second before answering.
“Tactical adjustments, patterns, weaknesses.” That small smirk appeared again, just barely visible at the corner of your mouth. “And maybe,” you said smoothly, “which Barcelona players are easier to distract than others.”
Before she could respond, someone further down the pitch called your name sharply and said something in German. Your attention shifted immediately toward the Bayern bench before returning to Alexia one last time.
“You should probably go warm up properly, Putellas,” you said calmly as you stepped around her. “I’d hate for all those Ballon d'Ors to lose against Bayern.”
Then you walked away before Alexia could think of an answer good enough to stop you.
Usually warming up before the match was calming, and helped Alexia focus on the game. The familiar rhythm of drills, repeated movement and stretching were addicting to her, but this night was different, no matter what the blonde tried her attention kept drifting off.
The stadium was slowly filling up with supporters clad in red and white, while music echoed through the speakers - just enough to entertain the people but, but quiet enough that conversations were easy to overhear.
Barcelona had been warming up for nearly ten minutes before the Bayern staff started to take their places on the bench and behind it. Her eyes immediately found your figure again - the reason for her distraction.
Just behind you was a woman that appeared to be close to your age, also dressed in staff gear, holding a cooler of Powerade while you walked slightly ahead, flipping through the notebook with concentration.
Alexia could hear the woman talk to you in English, the Brit was loud enough that her words made their way over to the captain, but she only caught part of it at first.
“... seriously need to relax.”
She could only scoff at the woman’s words. Relax? You certainly didn’t look stressed. You barely looked up from the page. “I am relaxed.”
The woman snorted beside you. “Right. Because stalking Barcelona’s warmup from the goalpost definitely screams relaxed.”
Alexia’s mouth twitched despite herself, just a bit amused at how passionately you had watched them.
You finally glanced sideways at the woman with weary eyes. “It’s called tactical preparation.”
“Sure,” she said dryly. “And I’m sure your actual coaches appreciate their little overachiever assistant doing all the hard work for them.”
Something about the comment immediately bothered Alexia.
Maybe because of how quickly you went quiet afterward. Or maybe because Alexia had already spent enough time watching Bayern’s technical area to know your role clearly extended far beyond “assistant” and that it simply wasn’t true.
You only stood quiet at the comment, eyes already dropping back to your notes. The woman sighed quite loud and dramatically. “God, you’re impossible before matches,” then, quieter this time, “You act like you’re the one actually coaching.”
Alexia’s jaw tightened, her eyes locking onto the British woman beside you. Because from everything she had seen so far, it certainly looked like you were coaching and analysing.
And judging by the way your shoulders stiffened almost immediately beside the woman, this clearly wasn’t the first time she had said something like that.
Eight minutes.
It had taken Barcelona all of eight minutes to be ahead.
The stadium erupted instantly in anger, as Ewa Pajor disappeared beneath a crowd of celebrating Barcelona players. If there’s one thing the polish woman knew how to do, it’s score goals, especially against Bayern. No matter if in Barça’s blaugrana or Wolfsburg’s neon green.
Alexia patted the goalscorers back with pride and satisfaction while her gaze swept to the sideline where the Bayern bench looked shocked.
The head coach was already speaking rapidly to one of the assistants beside him, frustration clear in every sharp movement, but you had gone strangely still again, eyes locked onto the pitch with that same intense concentration Alexia remembered from the inspection earlier.
And then suddenly you moved - the notebook was gone, replaced by the iPad tucked beneath your arm as you stepped directly into the technical area beside the coach, who stopped talking immediately.
The Catalan didn’t have more time to observe your actions closely as play resumed, she did however see Giulia Gwinn make her way over to you in the coaches box, where she listened to your instructions.
Bayern’s shape changed almost instantly after Gwinn made her way back and made a few gestures that clearly meant something to the others.
The midfield line dropped slightly deeper whenever Barcelona tried building through the center, forcing them wider instead. Bayern’s strong and experienced wingers stopped tracking aggressively and started blocking passing lanes first - effectively shutting every attempt on goal down.
Alexia frowned slightly as she jogged back into position after another corner, eyes flicking toward the bench area again. The head coach had stepped back already but you hadn’t.
You were still standing near the line, one arm folded across your chest while the other held the iPad against your side, eyes constantly moving across the pitch as Bayern reorganised themselves exactly the way you had indicated moments earlier.
You were observing and shaping the game. Just as a content smile made its way onto your face the Brit tugged you back by the jacket, out of Alexia’s sight.
The whistle for halftime couldn’t have come sooner, finally letting you breathe for a moment as Barcelona still led, but only barely. The home team's adjustment had worked well enough to slow the game down, much to the frustration of the Spanish team.
As Alexia made her way toward the tunnel, she found you again - hands full with an iPad, notebooks and a tactical board. You flinched when a heavy hand landed on your shoulder.
“Nice adjustment,” she said casually, her spanish lilt soft in your ears. For the first time all evening, you looked genuinely surprised. Then your expression settled back into something smoother, more controlled, though Alexia didn’t miss the faint satisfaction that flickered across your face at the compliment.
“Careful, Putellas,” you replied lightly. “People might start thinking you enjoy talking to me.”
Alexia’s mouth twitched upward, a cocky smirk settling on her lips. “They wouldn’t be wrong.” And before you could answer that one, she disappeared further down the tunnel alongside the rest of Barcelona’s squad.
The second half started much messier than the first had ended. Barça still had most of the possession, moving the ball across the pitch with the same irritating patience and speed that had frustrated Bayern in the first half. But the home side looked sharper, hungrier.
The equalizer came in the sixty-ninth minute. The Allianz Arena exploded in cheers, the second Franzi Kett buried the ball into the back of the net with a stunning shot assisted by Pernille Harder. Bayern's bench erupted into chaos, finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel.
Alexia swore quietly under her breath while Bayern’s players disappeared into celebration near the corner flag. And despite her teammates teasing comments from earlier, her eyes searched for you again. For the first time all evening, you weren’t composed, no you looked thrilled.
One of Bayern’s assistant coaches grabbed your shoulders excitedly while players on the bench shouted toward you, and for a brief moment you laughed openly, the sound completely swallowed by the roaring stadium around you.
Your face looked much softer when you were this happy.
However, the game turned ugly quickly after that.
The foul happened directly in front of the sideline with the team benches and the coaches boxes. One second Franziska Kett was desperately trying to recover against Salma Paralluelo, the next Salma hit the ground with an angry shout as she held up some strands of hair - the referee’s whistle cut sharply through the stadium noise.
At first, nobody seemed too worried - only a couple of weeks earlier Katie McCabe didn’t get anything for her action.
Then the referee reached into her pocket.
Red.
The entire stadium erupted instantly.
Bayern players crowded the referee almost immediately while the Barcelona bench shouted for the decision to stand, and a few meters away Kett looked completely stunned as she backed away slowly with both hands pressed against her head.
José Barcala was already storming out of the coaches box furiously, shouting so aggressively toward the ref that everyone could hear it. Several staff members tried unsuccessfully to calm him down, but the Bayern coach only grew louder.
Then came the second red card.
The stadium noise somehow became even louder.
Barcala stared at the referee in disbelief before being forced away from the sideline by security and staff members alike, still shouting over his shoulder while Bayern’s bench dissolved into confusion around him.
You were already stepping forward before Barcala had even fully disappeared down the sideline tunnel, one hand reaching automatically for the tactical board while Bayern’s assistants and players turned toward you.
Alexia watched as you spoke rapidly in German, pointing sharply toward the pitch while Bayern’s players looked uncertain, now a player down and desperately trying to reorganize.
A strange thrill settled low in Alexia’s chest as your eyes lifted briefly from the tactical board and met hers across the pitch again. In the middle of complete chaos, you looked terrifyingly calm and completely happy.
The final whistle finally released the high strung tension of the crowd. The Allianz Arena erupted into a relieved applause as Bayern’s players collapsed into each other, congratulating themselves on making it through the game.
After saying good game to her opponents and teammates alike Alexia made her way back over to where you were standing on the pitch. The captain pointedly ignored Pina’s wiggling eyebrows. You looked tired for the first time since she’s met you, while your fellow staff celebrated.
“That was good,” Alexia said as she stopped in front of you, slightly breathless. “Very good.” Your eyebrows only lifted a bit in surprise at the kind words. “We still only drew.”
“Sí, but after all this?” Alexia gestured vaguely toward the pitch with a small scoff. “With ten players and crazy coach?” A grin pulled at her lips. “Vale, maybe you save them a little.”
A soft laugh escaped you as you shook your head, knowing damn well that the catalan herself wasn’t happy with a draw, always wanting to win.
Before you could make her aware of her hypocrisy, the British woman from earlier suddenly appeared beside you again, a possessive hand on your shoulder. Well, she hadn’t exactly materialized out of nowhere, but Alexia had been far too busy admiring your smile to notice the woman approaching.
“There you are,” she sighed dramatically in a heavy English accent before finally noticing Alexia properly. “Oh.” You straightened slightly. “Alexia, this is Emma.”
“Her girlfriend,” Emma added smoothly before you could say anything else. Well. That certainly wasn’t what the footballer wanted to hear, but she could see something unreadable flicker across your face for the briefest second.
Emma, meanwhile, looked far too pleased by the attention she had gotten by such a prominent figure of women's football. “I handle travel schedules and staff accreditation for the club,” she explained quickly. “Matchday logistics mostly.”
Alexia blinked once. Because the way Emma had been talking and behaving all evening, she had half expected her to be running Bayern herself.
Then Emma laughed lightly, nudging your side. “She takes football way too seriously honestly. I swear she cares more about tactics than actual people sometimes.”
“Hmm.” A faint smirk pulled at her lips. “One organises buses, the other organises football.”
Emma’s smile faltered slightly and for the first time all evening, she didn’t seem to have a response ready. “Right,” she muttered after a second, patting your shoulder once more before stepping away toward the rest of Bayern’s staff.
The Catalan looked back at you with a much softer smile now.
“So,” she said casually, switching the conversation back where she wanted it, “you like Spain?” Your head lifted again, confusion flickering across your face. “What?”
Alexia grinned faintly. “Barcelona.” She shrugged. “Maybe one day we steal you, no?”
This time your laugh sounded more genuine as you tilted your head, “Can Barcelona even afford me?” you asked lightly.
Alexia’s grin only widened.
“For you?” she said smoothly. “Vale. Maybe I ask president personally, huh?”
27th of April - Barça Training Facilities, Barcelona Spain
Back in Barcelona the analysis session had been over for nearly 20 minutes, but Alexia was still there, reviewing their lines against Bayern and what went wrong. Pere Romeu stood beside her, arms folded as he watched his captain re-watch the game again and again.
“The adjustment they made after our goal, that wasn’t Barcala,” she said suddenly.
Pere glanced over briefly. “Hm?”
Alexia pointed on the screen where she could see you talk to Gwinn, giving her the changes they were supposed to make. “That was her.”
A small smile pulled at the coach’s mouth, like he had been waiting for somebody else to notice. “She’s good,” he admitted simply.
She crossed her arms loosely. “You need another assistant?”
That earned her a proper look this time. Pere leaned back slightly against the desk. “Why? Are you recruiting for me now?”
“Maybe,” Alexia replied without shame.
The older man laughed quietly before glancing back toward the frozen image on the screen where you stood near the sideline, iPad tucked beneath your arm.
“She already applied.”
Alexia blinked.
“What?”
“For next season,” Pere clarified casually. “Not officially finalized yet, but we’ve been watching her for a while.” Something strange twisted low in Alexia’s chest at that. “She wants to leave Bayern?”
Pere shrugged lightly. “From what I heard, Bayern’s not exactly trying very hard to keep her, and they’re losing a few of their core players of the last few seasons as well.”
“Well,” she said lightly, already turning toward the door, “sounds like Barça will be happy about that.”
02nd of May 2026 - Barça Press room, Barcelona Spain
The heat in the press room felt unbearable in preparation for the second leg of the semi final, now in Barcelona. Not only the heat of so many people in a room without windows, the bright lights or the cameras heating up, but also the what of the questions.
Alexia sat upright beside Pere Romeu, hands loosely clasped in front of her, though she wasn’t really listening to the final questions anymore, her attention drifting in small, toward the other side of the table where you were sitting with Klara Bühl and bombarded with questions about the red cards and how you’ll move on from it as a team.
“Alexia,” a journalist called from somewhere in the middle rows, voice cutting cleanly through the room as the last of the movement settled, “in matches like this, how much do you think influence from the bench actually changes what happens on the pitch, especially when the coaching structure shifts during the game?”
Alexia leaned back slightly in her chair, hands still loosely interlaced, listening properly this time and taking a moment before she answered.
“It depends,” she began slowly, slightly measured, “but in games like this… you can feel when something changes from outside, no?”
She paused for a second, searching for the right word, eyebrows drawing together slightly.
“Like… hm… how do you say… when someone is seeing the game before it happens?” She glanced briefly toward Pere, then shook her head lightly, continuing anyway. “Sometimes it is not the coach shouting, it is someone who is… already there, mentally.”
“And that kind of influence can decide matches?” The question came again, a bit sharper now.
Alexia exhaled softly through her nose, almost amused.
“Sí… It can be very dangerous, or very good. If you understand football like that… you don’t need to be on the pitch to change everything.”
The end of the press conference couldn’t have come sooner in your opinion, as chairs were scraping back and journalists started talking to each other.
Alexia stood with Pere, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder when she saw you pass just a little too close to the edge of the exit path, holding one of your notebooks against your chest.
The hallway outside was quieter, dimmer after the harsh lights of the press room, the noise of voices bouncing further down toward the exit. Pere was a step ahead of her, when a movement at the edge of the corridor near a side passage caught her eyes. The blonde gestured to her coach that she would see him tomorrow, telling him she wanted to use the washroom before leaving.
In front of the bathroom you sat on a bench, files iPads and notebooks stacked on top of each other as one of them dropped. With a soft slap of paper and leather it landed on the florór, sliding slightly before coming to rest near the wall.
Alexia got to it first, picked it up and looked at the open page. Your handwriting was dense, chaotic and a mess of german and english.
A small sound left her, halfway between amusement and disbelief at seeing her name in there. “Hm,” she said quietly, tilting the notebook slightly so you could see what she was looking at.
You shifted instantly. “That’s private.”
“No,” Alexia replied easily, finally looking up at you with far too much confidence for someone currently invading your privacy, “I think maybe you should watch us again, vale?”
“I watched you for ninety minutes.”
“Mm.” She tilted her head slightly, unconvinced. “Not enough, clearly.”
The smugness in her voice only made you step forward quicker, reaching for the notebook before she could continue embarrassing you further, but the second your fingers nearly brushed the paper, Alexia reacted faster.
Her hand closed around your forearm smoothly, almost lazily, while her other arm lifted the notebook higher and further away from you in the same motion.
The movement was so effortless it completely caught you off guard with how easy it clearly was for her.
Her hand was large and warm against your skin in the cold hallway, fingers firm around your arm while she held you back without even properly looking like she was trying, and for one brief second your body simply stopped responding the way you wanted it to.
Alexia noticed the lack of bite coming her way, and looked at you again - amused by the flicker of surprise across your face and the way your eyes darted down toward where she was holding you before lifting back up to her again.
And the smile that spread across her face after that was unbearably smug. “Ah,” she said softly, amusement dripping through every syllable now, “mira eso.”
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“If I knew you go this quiet when I hold you like this,” she continued, voice lower now, teasing in a way that made heat crawl annoyingly fast into your face, “maybe I do it earlier, hm?”
Your mouth fell open slightly in disbelief.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, trying once more to tug your arm back, only for Alexia’s grip to tighten just enough to stop you again with ridiculous ease.
“Sí,” she agreed immediately, completely unashamed. “But you are still trying.”
The worst part was that she looked entirely too pleased with herself now, dark eyes flicking between your face and your arm in her grasp like she was enjoying every second of watching you realize exactly how much stronger she was than you had expected.
Then, almost casually, she tilted the notebook again.
“Hm,” she hummed teasingly, “and this here is definitely wrong.”
You groaned quietly. “Alexia…”
“No, no, listen.” She laughed softly now, clearly having the time of her life. “You think you understand us, but maybe you are too distracted every time I look at you.”
“That is not happening.”
“Mm.” Her eyebrows lifted knowingly. “You sure, cariño?” Heat rushed even faster into your face at that, making your cheeks burn and eyes divert. “Ah,” she grinned, satisfaction written all over her face now, “there she is.”
You stared at her in disbelief. “You’re so annoying.”
“Venga,” she scoffed lightly, finally letting your arm go, though not before her thumb brushed once against your skin almost absentmindedly. “You started this when you stare at me from goalpost like psychopath.”
“I was analysing you.”
Alexia’s grin only widened. “Sure you were.”
Only then did she finally lower the notebook enough for you to snatch it back, though she kept standing far too close afterward, eyes still fixed on your face with amusement.
“You know,” she added lightly after a second, “for someone so scary before the match, you get very quiet when I touch you.”
You scoffed softly, trying to ignore the heat still sitting in your face. “You’re unbelievably full of yourself.”
“Mm, maybe.” Her grin only widened slightly. “But I am also right. ”Your eyes narrowed at her while you gathered your notebooks back against your chest. “Do you flirt with everyone like this?”
A slow grin spread across Alexia’s face. “Cariño, you are not everyone.” The answer came far too easily.
Before you could recover properly, her gaze flicked briefly toward the notebook in your arms before returning to your face again.
“And your girlfriend?” she asked casually, though the curiosity beneath it was obvious. “She knows you get like this?”
You blinked once, then let out a soft breath through your nose. “Emma’s not my girlfriend anymore,” you corrected calmly. “Hasn’t been for a while.”
For the first time since picking up your notebook, Alexia looked genuinely caught off guard.
The reaction only lasted a second before something far more pleased settled across her face instead, slow and smug and entirely too satisfied for your liking.
“Ah,” she murmured softly, unable to stop the grin pulling at her mouth now. “This keeps getting better for me.”
You rolled your eyes immediately. “You’re unbelievable. What’s with the sudden obsession?” Before she could answer that, the bathroom door beside the bench suddenly opened.
Klara stepped out first, still fixing the sleeves of her hoodie before she stopped dead at the sight in front of her.
You standing flustered with your notebooks clutched against your chest.
Alexia standing far too close with the most self-satisfied expression Klara had ever seen on another human being.
The German blinked once. Then slowly looked between the two of you again. “…Oh my god,” she muttered in disbelief.
Your face immediately hardened. “Don’t.”
Klara ignored you completely, her gaze moving slowly between the two of you before one eyebrow disappeared into her hairline. “…Why are you two standing so close?” she asked suspiciously.
“Nobody is standing close,” you answered immediately. At the exact same time Alexia said, completely calm, “We are having conversation.”
Klara stared at both of you for a second.
Then her eyes dropped briefly to your face, clearly noticing the embarrassed look and wide eyes, before looking back at the Barcelona captain, who still looked unbearably pleased with herself.
You let out a long sigh. “Please don’t start.” But the winger was already grinning now. “You flirted with her,” she accused Alexia outright. The Catalan only shrugged lightly, entirely unashamed. “Maybe.”
Klara looked between the two of you again, visibly trying and failing not to laugh.
“Wow,” she said slowly, eyes lingering on your still warm face, “I leave for five minutes and somehow you’re the one losing your head?”
“I’m not losing anything,” you shot back immediately.
Alexia hummed softly beside you, clearly unconvinced. “No?” she asked innocently. “Then why you look at me like that?”
Your mouth opened briefly before closing again when absolutely no good answer came to mind fast enough. Which only made Alexia’s grin widen.
Klara outright laughed this time, folding her arms across her chest. “This is incredible actually.”
“You’re both annoying.”
“Sí,” Alexia agreed easily, not taking her eyes off you for even a second. “But only one of us has you blushing in hallway, no?”
You shot Alexia one last look, still visibly flustered and annoyed all at once, before adjusting the notebooks against your chest again. “Enjoy your ego while it lasts, Putellas,” you muttered dryly. “Tomorrow I’m making your life miserable for at least ninety minutes.”
The grin on Alexia’s face only widened at that. “Ah, vale,” she laughed softly, “there she is again.”
You rolled your eyes hard enough that Klara snorted beside you.
“Come on,” you said, nudging the taller blonde sharply with your elbow as you finally started walking down the corridor. “Use those stupidly long legs and move your ass. Some of us actually have work tomorrow.”
“Excuse me?” Klara called after you, laughing in disbelief as she hurried after you with far less dignity than she probably wanted.
“And good luck tomorrow,” you called over your shoulder. “You’ll need it.”
Alexia let out a quiet laugh through her nose, shaking her head as she watched you disappear around the corner with Klara still complaining beside you in German.
“Qué mujer,” she muttered under her breath, still smiling long after you were gone.
03rd of May 2026 - Camp Nou, Barcelona
Camp Nou was already loud by the time Barcelona stepped onto the pitch for warmups, fans clad in blaugrana trickling in and filling the stands, music echoed around the stadium. Normally the atmosphere helped Alexia settle into herself before a match, but tonight her attention kept drifting elsewhere.
Straight toward Bayern’s bench.
You were already there, standing near the technical area with an iPad tucked beneath your arm while clips from the first leg flashed across the screen in front of you. Two analysts stood beside you, along with Gwinn and Bühl, all listening while you pointed something out with quick, sharp gestures toward Barcelona’s midfield shape during rondos.
“Madre mía,” Mapi muttered after catching her staring again. “You have a serious problem.”
Alexia scoffed immediately. “I am warming up.”
“With Bayern’s assistant coach?”
“She is a tactical assistant,” Alexia corrected automatically.
Mapi’s grin widened instantly. “Ah, so now you know the exact title too?”
Patri snorted somewhere behind them while Alexia ignored the both of them with as much dignity as possible, though the smug looks on her teammates’ faces made that increasingly difficult.
A shout cut through the noise, forcing Barcelona back into drills, though even then her gaze kept wandering between passing sequences and stretches. It wasn’t until a short water break that your eyes finally lifted from the iPad.
Straight toward her, but you only smiled faintly before looking away again, continuing your conversation with Gwinn as if nothing had happened.
“Alexia!”
Pere’s voice snapped across the pitch sharply enough that several players turned.
The blonde looked over. “Sí?”
“You plan to finish warming up today or keep scouting Bayern staff for me?”
Patri nearly folded over laughing, catching herself on Pina’s shoulder, while Alexia rolled her eyes hard enough to make Mapi shove her shoulder teasingly.
“Very funny,” she muttered under her breath before jogging back into position.
Still, when she glanced toward Bayern’s bench one last time, she caught the corner of your mouth twitching upward again.
Barcelona came out aggressively from the very first whistle, moving the ball with sharp, suffocating movements that immediately forced Bayern deep into their own half. Within the opening minutes they had already created two dangerous chances, one forcing a strong save from Mahmutovic while another flashed narrowly wide after a quick combination through midfield.
Once the match started properly, Alexia’s focus narrowed almost completely toward the game itself.
This was a Champions League semi-final at Camp Nou. There was no room for distractions once adrenaline took over. Every movement became automatic, and Bayern spent most of the opening minutes trying desperately to survive Barcelona’s intensity.
The pressure finally paid off in the thirteenth minute.
A quick switch of play pulled Bayern’s defensive line apart just enough for Salma Paralluelo to attack the space behind Gwinn, and once she got through on goal there was never really any doubt about the outcome. Camp Nou erupted as Salma buried the finish confidently into the bottom corner before disappearing beneath celebrating teammates.
Alexia barely even looked toward Bayern’s bench afterward, already jogging back to her position while Barça tried to keep momentum high.
But Bayern answered almost immediately.
Only four minutes later Linda Dallmann found space after a messy second ball dropped awkwardly outside Barcelona’s box, and before anyone properly reacted the midfielder drove the ball low past Cata into the corner.
Alexia swore quietly under her breath while retreating back, frustration flashing hot through her chest. Bayern settled deeper after that, slowing the tempo wherever possible while Barcelona tried forcing openings through the middle again.
Then came the twenty-second minute.
The attack itself was ugly, the ball bouncing wildly around Bayern’s box after a corner while defenders desperately threw themselves in front of every attempt. One clearance failed, then another, until suddenly the ball rolled loose toward the penalty spot.
Straight to Alexia and her instincts won.
One touch. Strike. Goal.
The stadium went nuts around her, teammates on and off the pitch screaming as the culers started another chant.
Alexia turned immediately toward the sideline as the net rippled behind Mahmutovic, and this time, her eyes found you instantly.
Without slowing down properly, she angled her run closer toward Bayern’s coaches box before dropping into her familiar celebration, a bow, with a smug grin pulling at her mouth.
Directly toward you.
Then, just before teammates crashed into her from behind, Alexia lifted her head again and winked.
You just stared at her for half a second too long before rolling your eyes sharply and gesturing for your players to reset. But the Catalan still caught the reluctant twitch at the corner of your mouth before she disappeared beneath celebrating teammates.
The match settled into something scrappier after that.
Bayern dropped deeper and deeper, trying to slow Barcelona’s rhythm whenever possible while frustration slowly crept into challenges across midfield. In the twenty-ninth minute Stanway earned herself a yellow card despite her protests.
From there Bayern focused almost entirely on surviving until halftime.
Barcelona dominated possession while Bayern defended and tried to calm the game down whenever possible to get it back to their side. One minute of added time appeared on the fourth official’s board.
Then finally, at 45+1, the whistle for halftime echoed through Camp Nou.
The tunnel under Camp Nou was loud with halftime movement, boots echoing off concrete as both teams filtered away from the pitch, and Alexia barely had time to reset her focus before someone bumped lightly into her shoulder and, when she turned, there you were walking beside her, Bayern jacket half open and iPad tucked under your arm.
“Nice goal,” you said casually, though your eyes lingered on her just a fraction too long. “Bit dramatic with the celebration.”
Alexia’s smile came immediately, easy and unbothered as she kept walking in step with you. “Ah, you watching very close hm?,” she said, voice warm with amusement, letting the words roll a little as her gaze flicked over you.
“Hard not to when you bow in front of our bench.”
That earned a quiet laugh from her, low and pleased.
“Vale,” she replied, leaning just slightly closer as the tunnel narrowed around them, “so you like it enough to remember.”
You shot her a sideways look. “Don’t overthink it.”
Alexia tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully as if she was weighing something she already knew the answer to, and then she said it, light and almost teasing as they kept walking, “you trying to get into my head?”
The captain saw the shift in your expression, the brief hesitation before you recovered, and the corner of her mouth lifted as she softened into something almost fond. “Mm,” she added, quieter now, amused rather than sharp, “cute.”
Your stare sharpened immediately. “It’s not…”
“Tranquilo,” she cut in easily, still smiling like she’d already decided what she thought, “I like it.”
A voice called your name from further down the tunnel, pulling you away as you turned your head and began to step back toward Bayern’s dressing room. “Second half,” you said over your shoulder, regaining yourself quickly, “don’t get too comfortable.”
Alexia’s grin lingered as she watched you go.
“No promises,” she called after you, still amused, before finally turning toward Barça’s dressing room and shaking her head once under her breath.
The second half started with a similar energy.
But Barcelona came out sharper, faster, more ruthless in possession, and it didn’t take long before Bayern started getting pushed deeper again, forced back into survival mode as the pressure built.
In the 54th minute, the breakthrough came again.
A quick combination through the left half pulled Bayern’s defensive line just half a step too late, and Ewa Pajor didn’t need a second invitation, she finished and Camp Nou erupted as Barcelona stretched the lead.
Two minutes later, Claudia Pina came on for Caroline Graham Hansen, and immediately Barcelona looked even more dangerous in the final third, the game speeding up with fresh legs as Bayern tried to adjust.
Then in the 58th minute, it happened again.
From the right half, Pina floated a long free-kick cross toward the far post, Esmee Brugts rose to meet it and nodded it back into the danger area, and there, half turning, body already falling, Alexia connected instinctively, guiding the ball into the far corner.
She celebrated only briefly, turning toward the crowd with that familiar lift of her arm and a grin.
She didn’t dwell on it then, not with the game still alive, not with Bayern still dangerous, and her attention snapped back into place almost immediately as Barcelona pushed forward again, not giving up.
When the 85th minute board went up and her number appeared, she already knew what was coming, on her way toward the sideline she clapped for the fans in thanks, handing over the captain’s armband to Patri.
There were tears in her eyes, as she took in the sight of a packed Camp Nou wearing her colours and her name, of a semi-final played at home for the club she had grown up dreaming of, and she blinked hard once again.
On the bench she sat slightly back from the noise, breathing more evenly again now but still watching the pitch, still locked into the game even without being on it, and her gaze inevitably found you once more at the edge of Bayern’s coaching box, where your focus remained absolute despite the pressure building around you.
She saw Emma beside you then, talking frantically, gesturing confidently and saying something that you clearly didn’t agree with, based on your expression, as you tried to stay locked on the game while clearly fighting the distraction beside you.
The Catalan could see the tension in the way you stood, the way your attention kept snapping back to the pitch, and when Emma continued speaking you finally shook your head once, firm and decisive, cutting through it and turning your focus fully back to the match, effectively ending the discussion.
Then came the 89th minute.
Caruso won the ball in the midfield and Bayern shifted forward instantly, as Harder drove through the centre and slipped Imade into space before the ball came back across in a messy way that ended with the finish. Bayern didn’t celebrate much as they could immediately hear the Spanish team and fans protest.
Even from the bench Alexia felt her eyes finding you, because she had learned by now that you didn’t react like everyone else. At first you were completely still while your players were protesting on the field.
The blonde saw the slight drop in your shoulders, the shift in your weight, the way your head turned toward the officials before anyone else had even processed what was happening.
You were waiting. And then came the announcement, the goal would be VAR-checked.
Foul in the buildup - Goal disallowed.
The noise flipped violently from Bayern celebration to frustration and disbelief, but on the sideline Alexia saw you let out a controlled exhale that didn’t try to hide the disappointment, only accept it.
Just disappointment, clean and honest in a way that made you look younger for a second.
The final five minutes passed in a blur of exhausted pressing, clearance after clearance, and Barcelona simply trying to manage the game rather than force anything new, while Bayern threw everything forward in one last attempt that never quite broke through the Catalan structure.
When the whistle finally went, it didn’t explode into chaos so much as release—arms dropping, bodies bending forward, players collapsing into exhaustion and relief all at once, before both teams slowly began to find each other for the ritual that always followed matches like this.
Handshakes first, then brief embraces, words exchanged in passing that were half respect, half disbelief at what had just been survived.
Pere found you almost immediately, “Very good,” he said simply, nodding once as he looked at you properly, with respect. “You did incredible for the first time coaching.”
A few Barcelona players passed by while shaking hands, some offering quick smiles, others stopping long enough to pat your shoulder or exchange a few words in Spanish or English, still slightly breathless but clearly appreciative of what they had just been through.
After you joined the rest of the Bayern players and Staff on the pitch in a quieter circle, shoulders close, with visible emotions. A few wiping their faces quickly before they all walked together toward the away end, clapping their hands and raising them in thanks to the small cluster of travelling supporters who had stayed until the end. Finally they retreated to their dressing room.
Barcelona, in contrast, had already started their full lap of the stadium, players moving together toward the stands where drums were already being played for team chants and huge flags were being waved, the atmosphere shifting fully into celebration.
Alexia only broke away from the celebrations once the initial wave had settled, slipping out of the cluster of teammates, her breathing still slightly elevated as she crossed back toward the centre circle where Pere Romeu and you were still standing.
She slowed as she reached you both, a faint grin already forming like she had been waiting for this exact moment.
“Oh,” she said lightly, glancing between the two of you with clear amusement, “I see my scouting worked, no? Very good job for me.”
Pere let out a short laugh, shaking his head as if he had expected nothing less from her. “Careful, Alexia, you start taking credit and I will start charging you.”
“That is fine,” she replied without missing a beat, still smiling as she shifted her attention fully onto you now. After a quick shared look with Pere, he gave a small nod before stepping away, leaving the two of you with the noise of the stadium stretching out behind you.
Alexia didn’t waste the space he left.
She tilted her head slightly, studying you for a second before speaking with that effortless confidence you were just slightly jealous of.
“Next year you win… in blaugrana then, vale?”
You exhaled softly through your nose, not quite a laugh, but not resistance either. “Maybe,” you replied, more careful now, eyes flicking briefly toward the pitch before returning to her.
That made her hum lightly, but instead of pushing further, her gaze sharpened just a little. “What was that Emma talking to you about?” she asked.
You paused, then gave a small shrug. “She wanted me to make substitutions again,” you said honestly, glancing down for a second as if replaying it in your head, “but I didn’t see the point. Not if I couldn’t actually fill the gaps properly with what we had on the bench.”
Alexia nodded slowly, like she was filing that away, but her eyes stayed on you. “And what is the deal with her anyway?” she asked after a beat, more direct now, though still calm. “Why she says she is your girlfriend?”
That made you let out a short breath, tiredness slipping through. “She isn’t,” you said simply. “Not anymore. She just… doesn’t really accept that.”
“And you?” she asked then, quieter. “What is stopping you from coming to Barça?”
“I’m scared of the change,” you admitted, voice lower now, “but I still want to grow. That’s why I sent the application to Pere in the first place… a while ago. I just wasn’t sure if I would actually follow through with it.”
Alexia didn’t push further right away, she just watched you for a second longer, then her expression softened, the intensity easing back into that confidence she wore so naturally.
“Vale,” she said quietly, more so to herself, then let out a small breath through her nose, “I know you will like Spain,” she added after a beat, tilting her head slightly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “the sun, the food… the people.”
A faint grin tugged at her mouth as she glanced at you again, a little more pointed now, “Especially the people,” she added, not really trying to hide what she meant with that.
You gave her a look at that, somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement, and Alexia noticed it immediately, of course she did.
She just smiled a little wider in response, unfazed.
“And you are already here a lot in your head, no?” she continued, calmer now, voice dropping slightly as she stepped half a pace closer again. “So it is not so big a change. Just… make it official.”
There was a brief pause, the stadium noise distant enough now that it felt like it belonged to another world entirely.
“Next season, you come. And I show you the rest properly, vale?”
“And if I do come,” you asked, tilting your head slightly, “and you get what you want… will you just keep looking at me like this, or do you move on to the next thing you decide you want?”
Alexia didn’t answer immediately. She just looked at you, really looked, like she was weighing the question properly instead of brushing it off. Then her grin came back, honest in its amusement.
“Ah,” she said quietly, almost like she understood what you were really asking. “So that is what you think.”
Her gaze didn’t waver.
“I don’t think you are something I ‘finish’,” she said simply, her voice steady and matter-of-fact, like the idea itself didn’t really make sense to her. “If you come… I think you will just be there.”
“And I don’t get bored of interesting things,” she added, a faint exhale through her nose. Then her expression softened just a fraction as she lifted her hand, brushing it lightly over your cheek, the touch brief and soft making the heat shoot up to your face.
“And you, cariño,” she murmured, her tone dropping slightly, “you are very interesting. Always will be.”
okay, i must admit...i've been away for far too long. i've been busy at college, with the club organizations that i'm in, student council business, and the classes i've been taking to graduate, and transfer to a new university.
the writer's block has been hitting me, for a while actually. i've wrote bits of pieces from here and there. but i am actually working on one right now. i wanted to give a sneak peak.
“…not yet.” and even more silence had occured. “there's more you should know, älskling” he adds. a bitter laugh has slipped through your mouth, your father disregarding it. “when is there never more news?”
“your sister has abdicated.” to which you didn't reply to, his finals words delivered the blow. “she’s relinquished her claim, and i accepted her decision.”
“you accepted it?” your voice had sharpened, it wasn't so quivering anymore. how could it? “father, i was told there wasn't a chance of me being in line of succession.”
"i know, älskling. but you must come home, i'm sorry to ruin the news, i heard you had secured the bronze medal with the team."
the call just drops, no goodbye, not even an "i love you". it was as if your parents was allergic to those words, never heard before. and for a second, you freeze, not moving. the phone still at your ear, and your hand locked in a place, as if your body hasn't caught up to the news. the noise heard through the tunnel, cheering, laughter, the afterglow of the match, winning the bronze medal, it turns into something distorted, too loud and at the same time, too far all at once.
Ciphered Romantics Announce Identity Reveal of Lead Vocalist Vesper
Los Angeles, CA — Indie-pop phenomenon Ciphered Romantics confirmed that their lead vocalist, songwriter, and creative visionary Vesper, or should we say Y/N L/N, has officially revealed her identity following years of performing behind a signature rose-adorned mask
The reveal took place at a University of Southern California event honoring emerging alumni in music innovation, where L/N was recognized as one of USC’s most distinguished young music prodigies.
“From the very beginning, Ciphered Romantics has been more about emotional truth,” the band shared in a joint statement. “The mask was never about deception. It was about protection — about creating a space where the music could speak before the world decided who she was.”
Formed in high school and strengthened through their performances across both USC and UCLA campuses, Ciphered Romantics became known for uniting rival audiences through their art, their music. Their cross-campus performances became symbolic of their ethos: love over division, music over the noise
“Despite being the youngest of the band, Y/N has always lead with courage.” Aria Bennet, the lead guitarist said.
“Taking off the mask isn’t the end of a chapter, but rather the beginning of one. The music still remains; the heart remains. Now the world sees the face behind it” Julian Park, Ciphered Romantics bassist continued.
guess who’s coming out of their long hiatus? i think i’ve been on a writer’s block for so long, but luckily enough, i was busy trying to find out things.
anyways, here is a sneak peak. i do have a love interest in mind, but i’m not sure if i’d like to pursue that player as the love interest.
sneak peek below:
“do you ever lie awake and wonder if there was a moment that was small, yet careless, almost like it was barely there, when you angered the world? a choice you made, or didn’t make, that tipped something delicate out of balance? being british-american always felt like living between places, never fully belonging to either. england was stitched into you through the countless summers and school breaks, through the long flights taken with your parents, just to see your cousins, leah and jacob, and her parents waiting on the other side.
your eldest cousin on your mother's side, leah was the one who handed you a football and told you to run. she taught you how to read the pitch, how to kick and score a goal, how to trust your body. back then, she was just your cousin, you however, never imagined she would one day wear the armband for england, never imagined how far either of you would go.”
Summary: Y/N is put to the test to prove she doesn’t have a crush on the Spanish defender
The late afternoon sun washed over Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, turning the training ground gold as the session wrapped up. The Barcelona women’s team filed off the pitch, stretching, laughing, and exchanging playful jabs.
Y/N lingered on the grass, sprawled out with one leg bent, pretending she was too tired to move. In truth, she was waiting. She knew Ona would be the last off, just like always, taking a few extra minutes for finishing drills, then fussing over her boots as if they were fine china.
“Are you going to nap there or should I carry you inside?”
The familiar Catalan accent made Y/N smile before she even opened her eyes. She peeked up at Ona, who was standing over her with hands on her hips, sweat still glistening at her temples.
“Carry me,” Y/N said flatly, stretching her arms up like a child.
Ona rolled her eyes but crouched anyway, offering a hand. Y/N took it and let Ona pull her up. Instead of letting go, Ona kept their fingers linked as she guided Y/N toward the tunnel.
“Childish,” Ona muttered with a grin, though her thumb brushed across Y/N’s knuckles like it was second nature.
Behind them, Patri and Mapi exchanged smirks.
“You two done with the honeymoon walk?” Mapi called out.
Y/N immediately dropped Ona’s hand, face flushing. “Shut up, we’re just walking.”
“Sure, just walking,” Patri echoed in a sing-song tone.
Ona shot them a look but didn’t bother answering, instead nudging Y/N with her shoulder as they entered the changing rooms.
Inside, the atmosphere was the usual chaos; music blaring from someone’s speaker, boots clattering into lockers, voices bouncing off the walls. Y/N sat on the bench, still catching her breath. Ona plopped down right beside her, close enough their knees touched.
“You okay?” Ona asked softly, her voice lower now that it was just for Y/N.
“Yeah,” Y/N answered, leaning her head onto Ona’s shoulder without a second thought.
It wasn’t unusual. In fact, it was normal for them. Ona was the first person Y/N gravitated to after training, after games, after long bus rides. Their bodies just…fit. Whether it was leaning into each other on the bench or sprawling out side by side on the grass, closeness was their language.
The rest of the team noticed, of course.
“Look at them,” Mariona whispered loudly to Alexia, nodding at Y/N’s head resting comfortably against Ona.
Y/N heard them but refused to lift her head. If she did, she’d give them the satisfaction of seeing her blush. Instead, she stayed put, and Ona made it worse by adjusting slightly, tucking her arm around Y/N’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re spoiling her,” Mariona teased.
“Jealous?” Ona shot back smoothly.
The locker room erupted in laughter.
Later that evening, the team headed to a casual dinner at one of their usual spots. A long wooden table stretched across the restaurant’s back corner, already filled with plates of tapas and pitchers of sangria. Y/N slid into a chair, and before she could even set her bag down, Ona dropped into the seat beside her.
“Of course,” Mapi muttered under her breath, earning a snort from Patri.
Y/N pretended not to hear, but she was hyperaware of how Ona’s leg brushed against hers under the table, or how Ona leaned in close whenever she wanted to make a comment only Y/N would hear.
Halfway through the meal, when the laughter reached its peak, Y/N felt something tug at the hem of her sweater. She glanced down, Ona’s hand was there, curling into the fabric absentmindedly while she talked to Alexia. It was such a tiny, unconscious gesture, but it made Y/N’s chest flutter uncomfortably.
Mapi noticed. Of course she did.
“Unbelievable,” Mapi said loudly, pointing at their linked sides. “You two are glued together. It’s like Velcro.”
“Better than being alone, no?” Ona shot back without hesitation, still tugging lightly at Y/N’s sweater.
That shut Mapi up for a few seconds, replaced by laughter from the rest of the table.
Y/N buried her face in her drink, wishing the sangria were strong enough to erase the heat creeping up her neck.
After an evening at an away match, the bus ride back to the training ground was quieter, players yawning or scrolling through their phones. Y/N had a window seat, forehead pressed against the cool glass. She felt movement beside her, Ona settling in, blanket in hand.
Without asking, Ona draped half of it over Y/N and leaned into her side.
“You’ll get sick,” Ona murmured, tugging the fabric higher.
Y/N smiled faintly. “You’re bossy.”
“Someone has to take care of you,” Ona said, not missing a beat.
Y/N’s heart stuttered. She told herself it was nothing, it was just Ona being Ona. That’s what friends did. Friends shared blankets. Friends leaned on each other. Friends brushed each other’s hair out of their faces when they were falling asleep on the bus.
Still, when Y/N let her eyes flutter shut, she thought maybe the others weren’t entirely wrong.
And when Patri snapped a photo of them slumped together under the blanket, sending it to the team group chat with the caption just date already, Y/N knew the teasing wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.
By midweek, it had become relentless. No matter what Y/N did, no matter how innocent, the team found a way to twist it into something about Ona.
When Ona tied Y/N’s shoelaces before training because Y/N was running late?
“Ohhh, married life.”
When Y/N shared her water bottle with Ona?
“Wow, so romantic.”
When Ona offered Y/N her jacket after practice?
“If you two don’t kiss, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Y/N was over it. Or at least, she told herself she was. The team had other ideas.
The Barcelona training ground lounge was always noisy after practice; protein shakes blending, shoes squeaking on the floor, laughter bouncing off the walls. Normally, Y/N found it comforting background noise. Today, though, the sound carried a dangerous undercurrent.
She could feel the glances being thrown her way, the barely muffled giggles. Something was brewing.
Mariona finally broke the suspense. She dropped into the armchair opposite Y/N with a grin far too wide to be innocent. “Alright, Y/N. Time to face facts.”
Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “What now?”
“That you’re in love with Ona,” Mariona said sweetly.
Y/N’s head snapped up. “What?!”
“You heard her,” Patri said, sliding onto the couch next to Mariona. “And we can prove it.”
“I don’t need proving because it’s not true!” Y/N shot back, though her voice was too high-pitched, too defensive.
Across the room, Alexia set her phone down, folding her arms with the calm authority of a judge about to deliver a verdict. “Then you won’t mind taking the test.”
“The test?” Y/N repeated, suspicious.
Mapi, lounging on the floor, grinned like a Cheshire Cat. “The crush test. Easy. We show you a picture of Ona. You tell us something about it. If you really only see her as a friend, you’ll notice all the normal stuff.”
“Normal stuff?” Y/N echoed.
“You know, boring details,” Patri supplied. “Shoes, earrings, background. Not, like…the way her collarbones look.”
Y/N sputtered. “I do not stare at her collarbones!”
“Mhmm,” Mapi drawled. “We’ll see.”
Mariona was the first executioner. She pulled out her phone, swiping until she found what she wanted. “Okay, ready? Three seconds.”
Y/N sat up straighter, determined. I will nail this. I’ll show them I don’t…
Mariona flipped her phone around.
The image hit Y/N like a truck. It was a photo from Ona’s Instagram: a charity gala last year. Ona wore a navy dress that clung in just the right places, her hair swept back elegantly, makeup soft and glowing. Jewelry sparkled at her ears and wrists.
Y/N blinked once. Twice. Her stomach did a weird flip.
The phone snapped back out of view.
Mariona leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “What colour were her earrings?”
Y/N froze. Her brain was mush. She’d noticed her hair, her smile, the shape of her shoulders, but earrings? Earrings?!
“They were…” Y/N swallowed. “…silver?”
Mariona cackled. “Wrong. Gold.” She shoved the phone back in Y/N’s face, zooming dramatically on the dainty golden hoops.
The lounge erupted.
“She didn’t even blink at the earrings!” Patri laughed. “She was too busy drooling!”
Y/N buried her face in her hands. “This isn’t fair.”
“Oh, don’t worry, cariño,” Mapi said, already pulling out her phone. “We’ve got more.”
Patri’s turn. She flashed a candid shot from a matchday: Ona arriving at the stadium in casual jeans, a crisp white t-shirt, trainers, and sunglasses balanced on her head.
“Alright,” Patri said after a brief three-second glimpse. “What colour were her shoelaces?”
Y/N’s heart sank. “Her shoelaces? Who looks at shoelaces?!”
“Answer the question,” Patri said smugly.
Y/N hesitated. “Uh…white?”
Patri spun the phone back. “Red. Bright red.”
The entire room howled. Mapi rolled over dramatically, clutching her stomach. Even Alexia chuckled, shaking her head.
“This is scientific proof,” Mariona declared. “She doesn’t care about accessories. She only cares about-”
“My God, do not say collarbones again,” Y/N groaned, pulling a pillow over her face.
“Fine. Her smile,” Mariona corrected, grinning. “But still!”
Mapi decided to up the stakes. She scrolled furiously, then held her phone just out of Y/N’s reach. “Okay, okay. Here’s a tough one.”
The photo: Ona at the beach, hair damp from the sea, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, a small bikini top showing just enough exposed skin to make Y/N’s chest tighten.
The phone disappeared too quickly.
Mapi leaned in. “What colour were her sunglasses?”
Y/N’s brain screamed. She’d been too busy staring at Ona’s figure, at the way her shoulders glowed in the sunlight.
“Uh… white?” she stammered.
Mapi smirked, flipping the phone again. “Brown. Amateur mistake.”
The room exploded into chaos.
“You’re hopeless!” Patri cried.
“She’s gone,” Mariona added, wiping tears of laughter.
“Pathetic,” Mapi declared, puffing out her chest. “Utterly, completely whipped.”
“I am not- ” Y/N tried, but her voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through.
“Yes, you are,” Mariona said cheerfully.
Alexia, calm as ever, finally spoke again. “Face it, Y/N. You don’t know earrings, shoelaces, or sunglasses. But if I asked what shade of lipstick Ona was wearing in that first photo…”
“I didn’t notice her lipstick!” Y/N insisted.
“Really?” Alexia raised an eyebrow.
Y/N squirmed. “It was…like…pinkish?”
Dead silence. Then the loudest explosion of laughter yet.
Patri rolled onto the floor, kicking her legs. Mapi clutched at Mariona for support. Even Alexia cracked a rare grin, shaking her head.
Y/N wanted the couch cushions to swallow her whole.
After the sunglasses disaster, Mariona decided to push the limits. She pulled up a photo of Ona celebrating a goal, arms wide, jersey slightly tugged, hair sticking to her forehead with sweat.
The phone disappeared after three seconds.
“Okay,” Mariona said. “What colour was her captain’s armband?”
Y/N sputtered. “She… she was… she wasn’t captain that game!”
“Correct,” Mariona said with glee. “But you hesitated because you were too busy staring at her abs.”
The room lost it.
“This is rigged!” Y/N tried to shout, but her voice was drowned out by laughter.
And then, Ona’s voice. Calm. Smooth. Amused.
“You know, you could just say I looked good.”
The entire room fell silent. Heads whipped towards her.
Ona was leaning casually against the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, eyes locked on Y/N. There was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, the kind that said she’d been listening the whole time.
Y/N’s soul left her body. “I- I- I didn’t…”
“You don’t need to explain,” Ona cut in gently, walking closer. “I don’t mind.”
The team collectively gasped. Then chaos broke out again.
“Couple of the year,” Mapi declared, raising her water bottle in a toast.
Y/N covered her burning face with both hands, praying for divine intervention. Ona, meanwhile, just dropped onto the couch beside her, settling in like nothing had happened.
And the worst part? Ona’s hand brushed Y/N’s thigh, lingering there with the lightest squeeze.
Y/N’s heart raced so hard she thought everyone in the room could hear it.
The lounge was still vibrating with laughter long after Ona sat down beside Y/N. The others were relentless; snickering, whispering, sending not-so-subtle glances their way.
Y/N, face still burning, tugged a nearby blanket over her head. “I’m never showing my face here again.”
“You’re a little dramatic,” Ona murmured beside her, voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.
“Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one interrogated like a criminal.”
“I heard enough.” Ona leaned back casually, crossing one leg over the other. “They’re not wrong.”
Y/N peeked out from under the blanket. “What do you mean ‘not wrong’?”
Ona smirked, letting the silence stretch until Y/N squirmed. Then she leaned close, lips brushing against Y/N’s ear. “You do stare.”
Y/N jolted, yanking the blanket back over her head with a groan. The team roared with laughter again, even though they had no idea what Ona had just whispered.
A few minutes later, Alexia finally clapped her hands. “Alright, enough. Leave them alone before Y/N combusts.”
The others, reluctantly, dispersed; some to the showers, others to grab food. Soon, the lounge emptied until it was just the two of them.
Y/N dared to peek out. “They’re gone?”
“Mostly.” Ona tilted her head, watching her. “You can come out now.”
Y/N sat up, hugging the pillow like a shield. Her heart was still pounding.
“I really hate them sometimes,” she muttered.
“No, you don’t,” Ona said softly. “They’re just…loud.”
“Loud?” Y/N laughed weakly. “They were practically staging my confession for me.”
Ona studied her, eyes warm, thoughtful. “Would that be so bad?”
Y/N froze. “What?”
“Confessing.” Ona said it so calmly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
Y/N’s throat went dry. “I- I don’t…”
“You don’t what?”
The words tangled in Y/N’s mouth. She wanted to deny it, laugh it off, but the way Ona was looking at her, steady, unflinching, it made lying impossible.
Finally, she whispered, “I don’t…want to ruin us.”
Ona’s expression softened instantly. She shifted closer, prying the pillow from Y/N’s arms. “Hey.” Her hand slid into Y/N’s, fingers warm and steady. “You couldn’t ruin us if you tried.”
Y/N blinked, heart hammering. “You… you mean…”
“Yes,” Ona said simply. “I like you too.”
The world seemed to stop. Y/N’s ears rang.
“You do?” she whispered.
Ona smiled faintly, thumb brushing over Y/N’s knuckles. “Of course I do. Why do you think I always sit next to you? Or hold your hand? Or…steal your hoodies?”
Y/N’s jaw dropped. “Wait, you took my hoodie?!”
Ona laughed, leaning back smugly. “You really thought it just disappeared?”
Y/N buried her face in her hands, half mortified, half giddy. “Oh my God.”
“Relax,” Ona teased. “I like smelling like you.”
“ONA!” Y/N cried, voice cracking.
“See?” Ona grinned, eyes sparkling. “This is why I like you. You’re too easy to tease.”
Y/N lowered her hands slowly, heart still racing. “So…what now?”
Ona tilted her head, studying her carefully. Then, without hesitation, she leaned in until their foreheads touched. “Now,” she whispered, “we take it one step at a time. No rush. Just us.”
Y/N swallowed, her eyes fluttering shut. “Okay.”
For a long moment, they stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, hands entwined, the world outside the lounge fading away.
And then, predictably, the door swung open.
“OH MY GOD!” Mapi’s voice rang out.
Y/N practically leapt a foot away, face scarlet. Ona, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch. She just leaned back calmly, still holding Y/N’s hand.
“Finally,” Mapi cackled, stomping back down the hall. “They admitted it!”
Groans and cheers erupted from the corridor, proving everyone had been eavesdropping.
Y/N buried her face in Ona’s shoulder, mortified. “We’re never living this down.”
Ona just laughed softly, kissing the top of her head before she could overthink it. “Good. I don’t want to hide it anyway.”
The girl behind the counter | Kyra Cooney-Cross x Barista!Reader
5k celebration prompt: "Is it broken?"
Woso masterlist | Words: 1.8k
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Triblend Cafe was bustling. The cozy space you had created with your sisters, was filled with soft chatter from customers enjoying their morning coffee. Over the years your small shop had grown a lot, now you looked over the space proudly, watching a mix of regulars and new customers enjoy the place.
Your mind got pulled away by the soft ringing of the bell, signaling that a new customer entered the store. The second you saw who it was, your smile grew even wider. “Edward! It’s been too long!” You quickly get out from behind the corner to give him a hug.
Edward was the first regular your shop had known. He used to live in the small apartment above the cafe, and would come down every day for a cup of coffee. No matter how many times you and your sister’s offered to give him a coffee on the house, he refused every single time, always saying something along the lines of wanting to help your business grow.
He was the sweetest man you had ever met. Recently he had to move out of the space above the cafe and move to an elderly home in the neighbourhood. It wasn’t every day anymore that he came in, but he tried to stop by at least once a week. Though, it had been closer to three weeks since you had last seen him.
“It has been, darling.” He said fondly as you stepped away from hugging him again. “Now if my old brain isn’t tricking me, today should be Jess her day, right? Not that I don’t love seeing your face, of course.” You chuckle lightly at his words, you would never think he would mean anything badly, he didn’t have a negative bone in his body. “Old brain? You don’t have one of those. Aren’t you in your early fifties?” You joke back at him. “Very kind darling, but nearing eighties means I definitely have an old brain.”
You loved talking with Edward, at this point he was like family to the three of you. “Well, Edward, you could’ve fooled me. It’s her day indeed, but one of her kids had to stay home with the flu, so I stepped in.”
From behind you, the bell dinged again. You turned its way to welcome the newest customers and smiled when you saw another pair of familiar faces. “Hi girls, I’ll be right with you.” You say to Katie and Caitlin entering.
“Go help them dear, I'll go take a seat and catch up with you in a bit.” Edward put his hand on your arm for a second, giving it a light squeeze, before heading over to his favourite seat. The one where he could look out over the whole store.
“Hi girls, how are you? Back in your kits I see.” You knew they had a break from football, but seeing as they were now back in their training gear, the season must be starting again soon. “Yeah, we’re good. First training back today.” Caitlin answers. “And Kyra here is our newest signing, so we had to introduce her to your coffee, of course.” Katie added.
You look behind them and see a third person in Arsenal colours. She smiles at you, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. Have they talked you into their favourite drinks yet, or would you like to go for something else?”
Kyra stepped forward, taking a closer look at the menu while you continued chatting with the girls. “Can I please have the triblend? It seems like that’s the main one with the name being on the building and all.” You recognise her accent instantly. “Very good choice, also did Caitlin kidnap you from Australia or did you come willingly?” She instantly laughs at your joke and you feel your cheeks flushing a little at how nice you found the sound of her laughter.
After making the three of them their coffee’s to go, you make Edward’s and take it to him. “How have you been? What’s been keeping you away?” You ask, hopeful that nothing is wrong with his health. His growing smile quickly reassured you. “I’ve met a beautiful woman.” You sat down at his table instantly, “That’s amazing, tell me everything.”
You caught up with all the new updates in Edwards life between helping customers, patching the whole update together piece by piece. Ending the conversation by telling him he should bring her with him next time and that you would love to meet her.
—
Kyra walked into your shop again. Over the past few months she had often come in for a coffee with Katie and Caitlin on the way to practice or a game, but today she was on her own. “Good morning.” You say with a bright smile as she enters the cafe.
She looks around her and sees the place is completely empty besides the two of you. “Hi, I really should’ve checked at what time you opened.” She chuckles lightly. “I hope I’m not too early.”
“I was just starting up, but you’re free to order anything you’d like.” You say, making your way behind the counter to start up the machine. “Oh, I’ll have whatever is easiest to make for you right now. I don’t mind, I just need some coffee to survive the day.” You chuckle at how dramatic she sounded.
Kyra puts down her suitcase next to a table and takes a seat near the counter. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you off to?” You ask while walking over to the rack to grab a mug. The rack is filled with all different kinds of mugs, a collection you had put together over the years.
“We have a pre-season camp in the US, and Caitlin is going to be picking me up soon.” She seemed excited to go, yet also sleepy since it was still so early. Despite her tiredness, she followed your every move with her eyes, following you while you got to work behind the counter.
The two of you continued chatting while you were making her coffee, actually you opted for two and made the second for yourself. You placed Kyra’s in front of her, “I know you had the triblend last time, but I wanted to make you one of my favourites. I hope you like this one. Let me know if you don’t, I can make you something else.”
Kyra took a small sip and her eyes instantly met yours. “This is so good!” You blushed a little at the compliment before moving back to the counter. “Have you had breakfast?” She shook her head in response. “My sister baked some fresh croissants if you want some?” Kyra couldn’t say no, so there she was eating a delicious croissant and slowly sipping her new favourite coffee.
You continued getting the cafe ready, while you were chatting with Kyra about her stay in London so far, and occasionally taking a sip of your own drink. It was actually quite nice having someone around to talk to while you set up for the day. You loved talking with your customers, always seeing them as either acquaintances or friends depending on how long you had known then.
“Can I ask who the man was you were talking with the first time I came here?” She asked you, her voice sounding full of interest. “Yeah, of course, his name is Edward. He used to live in the apartment above the shop, and was our first customer. He used to come in every morning to get a coffee, never letting us give him one for free. Over the years he became like family to me and my sisters.”
“That’s really sweet. I could tell you had a good bond with him. With others as well, it’s really nice to see how much you care about the people that come here and how you’re always up for a chat with everyone.” You blushed at her compliments. “Thank you, that means a lot.”
Talking to Kyra was easy, and you enjoyed the conversations you were having with her. You liked getting to know your second Australian customer, maybe a little more that you liked getting to know any of your other customers, but you wouldn’t say that out loud to anyone.
Her phone rang, and she quickly picked up when she saw the caller ID. You didn’t follow the conversation, but the moment she hung up, she quickly gathered her stuff and got up. Taking the coffee mug with her in her haste. You watched as she closed her eyes the moment she realised what was happening.
The mug fell onto the floor in a handful of pieces, along with the last bits of coffee spilling onto the floor. “Is it broken?” Kyra asked with her eyes still closed, too scared to look if she ruined a part of the store.
“It sure is, but that’s okay. It’s only a mug.” You say, already getting a rag ready, along with a dustpan. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to break it. Please let me pay for a replacement.” You’re quick to shake your head, “Don’t worry about it, it’s part of the job at this point. Plus I was looking forward to going thrift shopping for new additions to our shelf anyways.”
This sparked an idea in Kyra’s mind. “Can I maybe take you thrift shopping after I get back? I would love to pay for your replacement even if you say you don’t want me to.” You smiled, “That sounds like fun.”
Kyra’s phone rang again. “Ehm it’s Caitlin again, I’m so sorry.” You shake your head with a laugh. “Go, your taxi is waiting. Come by when you get back and we can plan our thrift shop date.” Now Kyra was the one blushing. “Yeah, I’d like that. Sorry again, next time I’ll clean up myself, I promise.”
“Oh you’re good, don’t worry about it.” You tell her, “Have fun in the US, and I can’t wait to hear about your time there when you get back. Say hello to Caitlin and Katie for me, will you?”
“I will, thank you again.” Kyra said before rushing to the door. You chuckle watching her clumsily pull her luggage around in her haste, not wanting to be any later to meet Caitlin in the car. Knowing she would probably never hear the end of it.
You got back to work, customers started to flow in more and more, but all you could keep thinking back to was your morning with Kyra and how you’d go on a date with her once she came back.
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When Izzy woke, it wasn't the sight that greeted her first, it was warmth. Alessia’s warmth.
Her arm was draped around Izzy’s waist like it had been put there on instinct, her palm resting lightly against the curve of Izzy’s stomach. Izzy’s head was pillowed against Alessia’s chest, close enough that she could hear the steady thrum of her heartbeat under the slow rise and fall of her breathing. One of Izzy’s legs had somehow gotten tangled between Alessia’s in the night. She had no memory of how they’d ended up in this knot of limbs, but she wasn’t complaining.
Her eyes blinked open, and there she was. Alessia, in all her unguarded, morning glory. Still asleep, lips parted just slightly, hair a golden halo fanned across the pillow in a delightful mess. The kind of sight that could ruin a person for anyone else.
Without thinking, Izzy’s fingers drifted up, slow and careful, tracing the little dip between Alessia’s brows. She lingered there, drinking her in, committing every freckle and shadow to memory.
Alessia stirred at the touch, her brow twitching into a faint frown before her eyes cracked open. The moment she registered what was happening, her face softened, the corners of her mouth curling into a lazy, radiant smile.
“Morning,” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep, and somehow even more intimate for it.
Izzy hummed, shifting her chin to rest on her arm so she could keep looking at her.
After a beat, she smirked. “It’s kind of stereotypical lesbian dating, isn’t it? First date turns into a two-week endless date,” she teased, earning a quiet laugh from Alessia.
“Could be worse stereotypes,” Alessia said with a shrug, eyes still heavy but fixed on Izzy like she was the only thing worth looking at. “We could have our first real date tonight… if you want.”
Izzy grinned, warmth blooming in her chest. “I’d like that.”
They eventually disentangled themselves, padding into the bathroom in the kind of comfortable silence that felt like it had been earned over years, not days. They brushed their teeth side by side, Alessia pulling faces in the mirror just to make Izzy snort through the foam. When they dressed, it was separate rooms, but Izzy still felt the weight of anticipation in the air, like a taut string waiting to be plucked.
She stepped out in a light blue bikini, loosely covered by an oversized white shirt and soft shorts. Practical. Effortless. The kind of outfit that didn’t scream “look at me” but somehow invited it anyway. Alessia emerged moments later in an orange halter-neck beach dress that tied behind her neck and skimmed the tops of her thighs. Sunlight from the window lit her up like she was the only colour in the room.
Izzy tried not to stare. Failed. Alessia noticed. And smirked.
Breakfast was with the whole family, conversation skipping easily between them, some of the Russo’s jumping between English and Italian. They asked how she’d slept; Izzy hid her smile in her coffee cup, because if she told the truth, that she’d had the best sleep of her life thanks to the blonde sitting across from her, they’d never let her live it down.
Before they headed to the beach, Izzy packed a bag methodically, snacks, insulin, a bottle of water, sunscreen, two towels, and her sunglasses perched on her head. Alessia watched her fuss over the bag with an expression that was somewhere between amused and endeared.
The sand was already warm when they arrived. Izzy shook out the towels, laying them side by side while Alessia greeted her extended family. Kids darted around with footballs, their squeals carrying on the breeze. A couple of them spotted Izzy and ran over with wide grins, some asking for a photo, others just eager to tell her about their own matches.
An older aunt murmured something about the Euros loss, and Alessia shot her a look, but Izzy just laughed it off. “We’ll call it even next time,” she joked, and the woman cracked a reluctant smile.
“You coming in the water?” Alessia called, already tugging the hem of her dress up enough to wade in. The sunlight caught her hair, making it impossible for Izzy to look away.
“Maybe later,” Izzy replied, lifting the paperback she’d pulled from her bag. “Was going to read for a bit.”
Alessia gave her a slow, fond smile, like she knew exactly how long “a bit” would last before Izzy joined her anyway.
Izzy stretched out on her towel, digging her book from her bag. A slightly spicy lesbian novel she’d started before the Euros but never had the headspace to finish, too busy juggling training, the pressure of matches, and media commitments. She thumbed open the page, but the second she looked up, the air caught in her throat.
Alessia, smiling to herself, slipped her dress over her head in one smooth motion. The orange bikini underneath clung to her in a way that had Izzy’s pulse stuttering. The sunlight turned her skin to warm gold, highlighting the lines of her toned stomach and the curve of her hips. Izzy tried to play it off, but Alessia caught her, eyes flicking to hers with an unmistakable smirk before turning toward the water. She knew. She definitely knew.
Two hours passed, though Izzy barely made it through three pages. Every time she glanced up from her book, there was Alessia, laughing as she splashed her younger cousins, hair wet and sticking to her shoulders, chasing a football through the shallows. It was torture in the most perfect way. Izzy kept her sunglasses on to hide her eyes, careful not to let Alessia’s family notice the way she couldn’t look anywhere else for long.
At one point, she wandered off to grab bottles of ice-cold water, convincing herself it was purely practical. When Alessia emerged from the sea, she flopped face-down on the towel beside Izzy with a content sigh. Her skin glistened with droplets that slid slowly down her back, catching the light. Izzy swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.
“Have fun?” she asked, clearing her throat to disguise the way her voice nearly cracked.
Alessia hummed, her smirk deepening into something almost knowing. “Mhm.” She didn’t elaborate.
The sun grew hotter overhead, the smell of salt and sunscreen heavy in the air. Izzy had already lathered herself earlier, burning was a lesson she’d learned the hard way, but Alessia’s skin was already deepening into a golden tan.
“Would you mind getting my back?” Alessia asked suddenly, tilting her head toward the bottle of sunscreen. Her grin was pure mischief.
“Uh- yeah, sure.” Izzy’s voice wobbled despite her best efforts.
She squeezed the lotion into her palms, the cool cream quickly warming against her skin. Her hands glided over Alessia’s shoulders, spreading it down her back in slow, deliberate motions. The muscles beneath her fingers flexed and relaxed as Alessia let out a low hum of appreciation, half thanks, half indulgence. Izzy’s cheeks burned hotter than the sun above them. She told herself it was just sunscreen. She knew it wasn’t.
When she was done, she pulled off her own shirt, suddenly too warm to keep it on. The move was practical, at least, that’s what she told herself, but she caught Alessia’s eyes on her before the blonde looked away, her lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.
Soon enough, the inevitable happened: they got roped into a casual football game with the kids. The two of them ran barefoot in the sand, giggling when either pulled off cheeky, completely illegal tackles. At one point, Izzy stumbled and landed on top of Alessia, both breaking into breathless laughter before brushing the sand from their skin.
When the kids demanded a penalty shootout, they made Izzy the goalkeeper, two T-shirts marking the posts. She let the younger ones score easily, basking in their cheers, but when Alessia’s brothers stepped up, she saved both shots with surprising sharpness.
Alessia stepped forward for her turn, water still dripping from the ends of her hair. Izzy crouched slightly, eyes locked on her, a smirk curving her lips. Alessia fired her shot, and Izzy saved it clean, falling into the sand with a triumphant laugh as the kids swarmed her.
“I thought you were a striker, not a goalkeeper,” Alessia teased, curiosity threading through her amusement.
Izzy shrugged, brushing sand from her stomach. “Originally, when I got scouted for QPR’s youth team, it was as a goalkeeper. Only moved to forward after a match where I got bored, pushed upfield, and scored five goals, with my gloves still on.” She grinned at the memory.
“Besides,” Izzy added, “my best friend’s a keeper, and sometimes she wants to score in training. Guess who gets shoved in the goal for her?”
Alessia chuckled, shaking her head. She’d thought she already knew what Izzy was capable of. Turns out, she’d only scratched the surface.
The kids and their families had slowly drifted away, calling their goodbyes over the sand until the beach felt almost empty. The sky was still bright, but the sun had begun its slow descent, casting the water in warm gold. Izzy and Alessia waded out until the sea lapped at their waists, the saltwater cool against their sun-warmed skin.
“Did you prefer being a keeper?” Alessia asked, her voice curious but soft over the gentle rush of waves. “Or was being a striker always for you?”
Izzy tipped her head, thinking. “I did like being in goal, being the wall, stopping the shots. But…” She smiled faintly. “I like scoring goals more. I don’t have the patience to just… sit back and wait.”
Alessia’s lips curled into something fond, her gaze lingering on her. “Me too.”
Silence settled between them for a few moments, not awkward, but heavy in the way that made Izzy’s skin prickle. She broke it with a sudden splash of water that hit Alessia’s ribs.
They fought in the water like kids, splashing wildly, squealing when a particularly cold wave smacked into them. Alessia lunged and tackled her, sending them both stumbling under for a moment before resurfacing in a tangled mess, their laughter echoing over the empty beach.
When Alessia finally stood, she glanced toward the shore. Her family was still chatting near the umbrellas, not looking their way. She stepped closer, her wet hair dripping down her shoulders, and reached for Izzy’s sunglasses. She slid them off and placed them lightly on top of Izzy’s head.
“I want to see your eyes,” she murmured.
The words lingered between them, heavier than they should’ve been. Izzy’s pulse thudded in her ears as they stood there, water swirling around them. One leaned in, she couldn’t tell who moved first, and their lips brushed in a sweet, unhurried kiss that tasted faintly of salt and sunshine.
-
Later, when the sun had nearly set, the two of them had showered and changed, their hair still damp. Alessia excused them from the family dinner, insisting Izzy had never been to Italy before and it was practically criminal not to show her around properly.
They walked hand in hand through narrow streets lined with warm lights, the cobblestones uneven underfoot. Izzy caught herself smiling for no reason, her thumb brushing the back of Alessia’s hand as they swapped small stories, about football, childhood, little confessions about their worst matches or funniest team moments.
They passed a tiny stall, strings of handmade jewellery hanging in the glow of a single bulb. Alessia’s eyes caught on a delicate woven bracelet, blue and red threads twisted together. Without hesitation, she strode up and spoke in fluent Italian to the older woman behind the counter. Izzy watched her hand over a few coins, her easy confidence making her chest feel warm.
When she turned back, Alessia took Izzy’s hand and tied the bracelet carefully around her wrist.
“Blue for Man City, red for Arsenal,” she said with mock seriousness. Then, softer, “So you’ll think of me when you’re scoring goals for City.”
She pressed a kiss to Izzy’s wrist, holding her gaze as she pulled back. Heat curled low in Izzy’s stomach, and she had to glance away before her expression gave her away completely.
They found a small family-run restaurant tucked into a quiet corner. The owner led them to a table outside, the air still warm, the scent of herbs and garlic drifting from the kitchen. They barely looked at the menus, too caught up in the flow of conversation.
“Khiara once insisted we go out after the season ended,” Izzy began, grinning at the memory. “We were eighteen, she’d just turned legal. I’d been in Manchester for a couple of years, had a few nights out with the squad, but Khiara wanted everything. We hit three clubs in one night. I somehow ended up with some guy’s leather jacket. I think he wanted to get in my pants, but I just wanted the jacket.”
Alessia’s laugh lit up her face, and Izzy found herself telling the rest just to hear it again.
“We were outside one club, and this random football rolled past. I was definitely too drunk to play, but we did anyway. Some guys from the queue joined in, we beat them easily, and they got so salty about it.” She pulled out her phone and showed Alessia grainy, chaotic videos. Alessia leaned closer, her arm brushing Izzy’s, eyes bright with amusement.
“Khiara had my keys. I ended up sleeping in the corridor outside my flat. Woke up to my neighbour’s cat sniffing my face at 7 a.m.”
Alessia threw her head back laughing, and Izzy couldn’t help but watch her, thinking she’d never seen anything more beautiful.
As the food arrived, conversation slowed, shifting into a quieter rhythm. Alessia smiled every time Izzy groaned happily over each bite, and Izzy noticed the way Alessia’s gaze lingered on her like she was committing something to memory.
The topic of relationships had come up somewhere between the wine arriving and their second shared plate of bread.
“I had one girlfriend, back in the youth academy,” Izzy admitted, her voice low but steady. “I was so serious about her. I’d just moved to Manchester, just lost my dad. I wasn’t in the right mental state for a relationship, but I didn’t care, she made me happy in a world that felt… blacked out.” She swallowed, her fingers tracing the edge of her napkin. “But I threw myself into training. It became everything. Meanwhile, she was talking about quitting football and it made me so angry. She didn’t understand that football wasn’t just part of my life, it was my life. And… it didn’t work out.”
There was a weight to the words, a shadow in her tone. Alessia reached across the table and laid her hand over Izzy’s, her thumb brushing gently across her knuckles, a silent comfort that said more than words could.
“I’ve had a couple of long-term relationships,” Alessia offered after a moment, her fork idle on her plate. “A boyfriend while I was in America, another when I was at United. Then a brief girlfriend a couple of years ago.” She took a small bite before continuing. “None of them were in football. They never really got the schedule, the travelling, the commitments. When things ended, I’d just tell myself they weren’t the right ones… because it was easier than admitting I wasn’t willing to compromise.”
Izzy’s eyes softened. “I’d never expect you to compromise,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know how it feels. I get it.”
Alessia’s thumb kept stroking the back of her hand, slower now. “Being with you… makes me want to compromise,” she admitted. The confession seemed to hang between them, warm and fragile.
Izzy hesitated, then asked, “Does it bother you? The age gap, I mean. Me being twenty-one and you being twenty-six. It’s not nothing.”
Alessia tilted her head slightly, studying her. “Does it bother you?”
“No. I mean, sometimes it feels like you’ve got everything figured out, and I’m just… trying to work out how to not shrink my hoodie in the wash,” Izzy said, deadpan. Alessia’s laugh broke the tension, bright and unrestrained.
“First of all,” Alessia said with a mock sternness that couldn’t hide her smile, “you’re more mature than most people I know. Living on your own at sixteen, dealing with diabetes since you were a kid, losing your dad… I couldn’t imagine.” She leaned in a little closer. “But Iz, you’re allowed to make mistakes. I’ve just had more time to make mine. You’ll catch up.”
Izzy felt the gentle graze of Alessia’s fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The touch lingered, their eyes meeting and holding.
“I get called immature every day,” Izzy said quietly. “Fighting on the pitch, arguing with the ref…”
“That doesn’t come from immaturity,” Alessia interrupted softly. “That comes from pure passion. No one wants to win more than you. You just… have a dramatic way of showing it.” Her lips curved. “Besides, not one fight during the Euros.”
Izzy’s smile faltered just slightly. “I just don’t want you to think I’m too young for you. That I can’t keep up.” The vulnerability in her voice made Alessia’s chest ache.
Leaning across the table, Alessia pressed a gentle kiss to Izzy’s forehead. “You’re exactly what I want, Izzy. You. Not some polished, perfect version. I want the one who makes mistakes, who loves so fiercely it scares her. The one who’s careful with her heart, but when she finally lets someone in… she gives them all of it.”
Izzy swallowed hard, her chest warm, the words sinking deep.
They walked back to the hotel with their fingers laced, the quiet between them full of unspoken things. Every so often Alessia’s thumb would sweep across Izzy’s hand, like she needed to keep confirming she was still there.
That night, Izzy curled against her in the dark, her hand absently playing with the bracelet Alessia had given her. She felt Alessia’s steady breathing, the quiet weight of her arm around her, and for the first time in a long time, the hollow spaces in her chest didn’t feel quite so empty.
She let herself hope, really hope, that this could be her something good. That maybe she was allowed to have a family in this life. That she didn’t have to be alone anymore.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
𓆩♡𓆪 pairing: alessia russo x barista!reader
𓆩♡𓆪 blurb: alessia finally works up the courage to ask out the pretty barista at her local coffee shop, but a last minute arsenal pr event threatens to ruin their relationship before it can even begin. (based on this req.)
𓆩♡𓆪 word count: 6k
𓆩♡𓆪 genre: fluff + angst
The inside of the cafe smells like espresso and freshly baked banana bread, a familiar air of warmth that you’ve become used to. Outside, the sky is still deciding what kind of mood it’s in, a half-hearted drizzle falling onto the windows whilst the sun tries to break through in patches. At this time of day, the cafe is quiet, most customers having taken their drinks to go, or sitting quietly on their own with a book or laptop for company. There’s only the hum of the grinder, the occasional hiss of steamed milk, and Oscar humming under his breath as he restocks the pastry case from the morning rush.
You’re mid-wipe on the countertop when the bell above the door chimes.
You don’t have to look up to know it’s her, but you do anyway.
Alessia Russo steps into the shop like she always does: hood up, cheeks a tad pink from the early morning chill and a smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’s trying not to grin too early. She pushes her hood down as she approaches the counter, hair slightly windswept, a few strands having escaped her neatly braided ponytail thanks to the January winds. Her eyes lock with yours like there’s nowhere else she could possibly look.
“Morning” she says, a little breathless, like she’s jogged here.
You glance at the clock. 9:16. Later than usual, maybe that explains the winded appearance.
“You’re late” you tease, picking up a clean cup.
Alessia pretends to be offended, clutching her chest, but there’s a smile on her face regardless. She leans against the counter, eyes fixed on the pastry cabinet even though you both know she won’t buy one. It’s a ritual by now. “Had to run by the shop to grab some lunch as I forgot to shop last night. At some point I accepted I’d be late for training and gave up.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re running late, huh? Should I be honoured you still made time for your daily coffee run?”
“You should, actually,” she says with a grin, leaning her elbow on the counter now. “Could’ve let the club feed me that filter machine crap, but here I am. Supporting small businesses.”
“Oh, is that what this is?” you say with a wide smile, writing down her usual on the paper cup. Oat vanilla latte, four pumps of syrup instead of the usual one (a nutritionist's worst nightmare, but you wouldn’t tattle on her). You’ve known her order by heart for weeks now, but the ritual of writing it never quite dissipates. .
She shrugs. “Also, you make it better.”
You don’t answer right away, just turning to the machine to hide your smile as the steam wand screams to life. It’s always like this with Alessia. You see her almost every weekday, like clockwork; pre-training, post-training, post-gym, post-whatever she’s had to do that morning for club or country, and she always stays for longer at the counter than a regular customer would. It’s never quite long enough to call it flirting, but well enough to make your stomach twist.
Behind you, Oscar is humming the Friends theme song. You resist the urge to throw a spoon at him.
“So,” Alessia says as you’re placing the lid onto her cup, “do I get the loyalty stamp today, or am I still banned after that time I judged your specials board?”
“You’re lucky I didn’t ban you permanently for that,” you reply, still offended as you remember how long you had taken drawing the swirly letters on the board (art wasn’t your forte), but you do reach for the stamper tucked in the drawer beneath the till. “One more and you get a free one. Might even draw you a star on it.”
She raises a brow. “A gold one?”
“Don’t push your luck, Russo.”
Alessia laughs, a light and easy sound that makes your chest ache just a little. Then she leans closer over the counter, her voice lower now as you hand over the coffee.
“Thanks,” she says, fingers brushing yours for a second too long as she takes the cup.
You nod, trying to ignore the way your skin warms under her touch. If you focused your attention back on a small stain on the counter to hide the blush on your cheeks, who could blame you? “Enjoy your day. Hope they make you do something painfully awkward for content.”
“They will,” she sighs, backing away toward the door, “and I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.”
Your heart stutters, but she’s gone before you can fully process the meaning behind her words. You stare at the door a second too long, watching the pathetic attempt at rain drip down the glass panel as the blush burns through your skin.
There’s a clatter behind you as Oscar drops a muffin tray on the counter and clears his throat dramatically. “You know she only comes in on days you’re working, right?”
You blink. “What?”
Oscar gestures at the door like Alessia might reappear and confirm it herself. “She checks the rota. She literally asked me once when your next shift was. Tried to be casual about it, but she used your name like it was an MI6 briefing.”
You roll your eyes, finally facing him. “She likes the coffee I make.”
“She likes you.”
“She’s just being nice.”
Oscar snorts. “Hon, please. She flirts with you like she’s training for the Olympics. The hand brushes? The ‘you make it better’ lines? The lingering looks? I’ve seen less sexual tension in a romance novel.”
You busy yourself wiping the same part of the counter again. “It’s just a little banter.”
Oscar levels you with a look. You don’t turn around to see it, but you can feel it boring a hole into your back “And yet you blush every time she walks in.”
“I do not.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
You don’t dignify that with an answer, but that’s mostly because it’s true. Your cheeks are warm, your hands are still tingling, and your mind’s already racing ahead to tomorrow morning. You do that a lot, think about when you’ll next see Alessia. Every time someone vaguely blonde walks through the door for the rest of your shifts it makes your heart beat a little louder.
Oscar grins, smug. “Why don’t you just ask her out?”
Now that draws a squeak from you as you move to grab a croissant from the case. You’ll drop a pound in the donations box for it later. Instead of answering, you shove the pastry into your mouth, making a helpless motion to Oscar that you can’t give him a response as you’re busy eating.
He throws a cleaning cloth at you.
–
Evening shifts always make the café feel different. They’re usually slower, warmer, and a little softer around the edges. The rush of commuters is long gone, the after-school crowd has disappeared, and now it's just a few loyal regulars nursing drinks under low lighting, or students who are revelling in the miracle of a coffee shop that opens late. You’ve always liked it this way, when the espresso machine hums like a lullaby and everything feels slightly quieter.
Oscar is perched at the counter, legs swinging under the bar like a child as he scrolls through his phone. You’re restocking the pastry case, a literally neverending task. The dull clink of ceramic cups is the loudest sound in the room.
And then ding, the bell above the door rings.
“Hi,” you call without turning, wiping your hands on your apron. “Same as usual?”
You can practically feel her smile, “Bit presumptive, don’t you think?”
When you look up, Alessia is standing there in her training gear, cheeks tinted pink from the cold. This time her hair is down as if she’s recently showered, tucked behind one ear, and she’s smiling at you in that slow, easy way that always makes you forget your own name for a second.
You shrug, trying to hide how fast your pulse jumps. “Call it a hunch.”
She walks up to the counter and leans her arms on it, like always. “Yeah, well, I missed your ‘hunch’ the other night.”
You blink, a small frown forming on your face as you think back to Monday. “What do you mean?”
“I came in. Monday, like usual,” she says. “But you weren’t here.”
You pause halfway through reaching for a cup, it suddenly clicking. You’d taken the early shift instead to save your friend’s social life. “Oh. Yeah. Oscar needed the evening off - had a date with this magician guy–”
“Magician?” she echoes, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” you say, grinning like . “He’s going through something, I don’t ask questions.”
Alessia huffs a laugh, and then goes quiet again contemplating something. “I didn’t stay long,” she says, more softly this time. “Place didn’t feel the same.”
Your hand stills on the portafilter. It’s a small sentence, but it lands like a pebble in your chest. Tiny, sudden ripples that make you look up. That’s when you finally see it.
The shift.
The way she’s looking at you like she didn’t mean to say that part out loud, like she’s already bracing for the silence that might follow. And suddenly Oscar’s teasing words float back to you, the knowing grin as he smugly announced “you know she only comes in when you’re working, right?”
You thought he was joking, but now you’re not so sure.
You clear your throat, try to keep it light but you stumble over your own words, not quite knowing how the hell to respond.. “Guess I should tell you my rota, then. Save you the wasted trip.” You rush out and turn quickly, pretending to focus on steaming the milk so she doesn’t see the way you blush. The cup rattles slightly as you set it down, your heart thudding embarrassingly loud.
It’s nothing. It could be nothing. You like talking to Alessia. She’s funny, she’s easy to be around, and she always looks at you like she’s thinking too hardl. But now it feels like maybe she likes talking to you too, as more than just the source of her caffeine addiction, and the realisation is dizzying.
You pass the coffee across the counter, fighting the urge to clear her throat. “Here. Try not to be too devastated next time I take a night off.”
Alessia takes it, hands wrapping around the warmth like it’s winter outside. (It is.) “Not making any promises.”
She lingers for a second. You expect her to say something else, but she doesn’t.
Oscar, ever the tactful observer, coughs pointedly from behind you.
Alessia jolts slightly. “Right. I should go. Long day.”
You nod, ignoring Oscar’s obvious smirk behind your shoulder. “See you soon.”
“Yeah,” she says, turning to leave, one hand already on the door. “See you–”
She stops, just before the door. Doesn’t turn, not for a loaded moment that your English teacher would have once described as a pregnant pause.
Then she turns back.
“Do you want to go out sometime?”
The café falls quiet again. Or maybe the blood rushing in your ears is so loud that you simply can’t hear anything other than your own heartbeat
You stare at her, not risking even a blink for fear she might disappear. “Out?”
“Yeah,” she says quickly, nervously. “Like… on a date. With me. If you want. No pressure if you don’t, just– I’ve been meaning to ask, and I keep chickening out. And then on Monday you weren’t here and it felt weird and that was when I realised maybe I should just… do it.”
You finally blink. She’s still there; Alessia Russo, Queen of Cool, looking like she’s barely keeping it together. There’s a flush across her cheeks now that has nothing to do with the cold and she’s holding the coffee like it might anchor her to the floor.
After what feels like a lifetime, you swallow out a “yeah.”
Her eyes widen. “Yeah?”
“I’d like that,” you say, smiling now “a lot.”
Alessia exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a week. “Cool,” she says, lips quirking into a bashful grin. “Okay. Great. Um. Are you free next Tuesday?”
There’s some faff, some negotiation as you both scramble to check your calendars, but then Alessia is walking out with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen on her.
You turn back around and Oscar is literally clapping.
You throw a napkin at him.
–
Oscar is sprawled across your bed like a bored Victorian housewife, flicking through TikTok and occasionally glancing up to deliver commentary that’s entirely unhelpful but very on-brand.
“Okay, but what if she shows up looking like absolute garbage?” he offers, chewing gum like it’s his life’s purpose. “Like full post-training gremlin mode. Would you still kiss her?”
You groan, slipping an earring in. “I’m not answering that.”
“She’s hot either way, just saying.” He flops onto his front dramatically, chin in his hands. “Please do remember to actually kiss her. I can’t deal with you doing this awkward dance for another month of my life.”
You ignore him and choose to smooth your hands down your sides, gaze flicking over your reflection one last time. The outfit took three tries. It’s cute, confident and casual enough not to look desperate, but still date-worthy. Your hair’s doing that thing you always hope for but rarely achieve, as if even it knows the gravity of this moment. There’s a nervous buzz dancing under your skin, low and thrumming, but not bad. It’s hopeful.
“It’ll be fine,” you murmur to yourself more than to Oscar.
He hums, already texting something, probably live-updating your outfit to his new magician boyfriend. “If she breaks your heart, I’m posting her order history on Twitter.”
“Please don’t.”
“She gets three extra pumps of vanilla,” he stage-whispers like he’s been personally scorned. “That’s not a person you can trust.”
–
The restaurant is small and tucked away, candlelit and warm despite the breeze curling in every time the door opens. You give your name to the host, first name only, because that’s all Alessia knows. That’s all either of you really had time for, just a casual warmth of familiarity built on coffee cups and eye contact and her shy little smirks at the till.
You’re seated near the window in a space that’s quiet enough to feel intimate. A candle flickers in the middle of the table. You let yourself breathe in deep, stomach fluttering.
She’s not here yet. That’s fine. You’re early anyway.
You order water and fold your hands in your lap to stop fidgeting. The cutlery glints in the soft light. Everything about the table feels ready, like it expects romance.
7:05.
You scroll through your phone without really seeing anything. A couple texts from Oscar. A meme from your sister. No Alessia, obviously - you don’t have her number. You never thought to ask. It felt like something that would… just happen.
7:11.
You pretend to read the drinks menu, even though you’ve looked at it three times now. You try not to glance at the door every time it opens, but you fail spectacularly in that. Any glimpse of a person makes you nervous, even if they’re six foot five, male and balding. .
7:17.
Your water glass is half-empty and you haven’t touched the bread basket.
7:21.
You tell yourself training might’ve run over. You picture her apologising already, all breathless and flustered with cheeks dutifully pink from the rush, hair still a little damp from the shower. You imagine her slipping into the chair across from you, laughing softly, saying “God, I’m so sorry, have you been waiting long?”
You’d say, “Not at all.” And you’d mean it.
7:26.
Maybe she’s just shy. Maybe she’s circling the block, building up the courage to come in. You keep one eye on the door, keep rehearsing what you’ll say when she walks through it.
Maybe you should order something to make it feel less awkward. Or maybe you shouldn’t - maybe she’ll feel guilty if she sees you already eating.
7:33.
You consider messaging her. Just something light likr you’re not lost, are you? But then that little predicament comes back: you don’t have her number. You could DM her on Instagram, but she doesn’t follow you and you’re sure it would simply get lost in the thousands of adoring fans that flood her inbox. Fans who call her Lessi and cheer for her on Sundays and leave hearts under every photo.
The table feels colder suddenly, the candle’s burned an inch lower. It’s all still charming and romantic, but now it’s mocking you, too.
7:40.
You check your phone again. Like something might’ve changed. Like she might’ve miraculously appeared in your missed notifications.
She isn’t coming.
You don’t want to admit it, but the realisation unfurls slowly in your chest, heavy, thick and sour.
You’ve been stood up.
And not in a movie-style dramatic way. Not with a text or an excuse or even an awkward cancellation. Just… nothing.
Your reflection in the window is a bit pathetic, honestly. A bit too hopeful, even now. You’d done your hair, you’d worn perfume and you’d let your guard down. You’d cracked the door open and let her step through, and this is what you got for it. Here you are, alone with a sweating water glass and a half-hearted bread basket.
The waiter hovers nearby with that polite, pitying expression people wear around abandoned tables. You can't quite stand it so you get up abruptly and pull your coat tighter around yourself. Your face burns with something between embarrassment and disappointment and something you’re not quite ready to name.
You wave the waiter off before he can offer anything else.
Outside, the city feels bigger than usual. Loud. The wrong kind of alive.
You walk quickly, not because you’re in a rush, but because standing still feels dangerously ike the weight of it all might finally catch up and settle in your bones.
You don’t cry.
You just walk.
And try to uselessly forget the way her eyes crinkled when she smiles.
–
You’re late to work the next day. Not by much, seven minutes, give or take, but you’re never late. Not even when you’ve had two hours sleep, or missed the bus, or stayed up too long scrolling through videos that made your head ache. But this morning, your alarm had gone off, and you’d just… stayed there staring at the ceiling, covers pulled to your chin like they might keep the disappointment from seeping in through your skin.
By the time you drag yourself into the cafe, the sky is grey and heavy. The door clatters behind you in a way that makes your head throb. Oscar looks up from behind the counter, coffee cup in hand. One glance at your face, and he blinks. His expression shifts from casual to concerned in under a second.
“Well,” he says, carefully. “You look like death personified.”
You don’t answer. You drop your bag behind the counter and start tying your apron around your waist with fingers that feel clumsy and slow.
Oscar tries again. “I’m pretty sure those are yesterday’s jeans.”
You still don’t look up. Somehow you find the energy to murmur a pleading “please don’t start.”
He watches you and you can feel the way he’s turning something over in his head. Maybe a joke or a tease he’s too kind to let loose just yet. Then his voice softens. “Hey. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Y/N—”
“Seriously. Don’t.”
It comes out sharper than you mean it to. The tension snaps in the space between you like a rubber band stretched too tight. You suck in a breath, and Oscar immediately raises his hands in surrender.
“Okay. No pressure. My bad.” He backs off, bless him. “Do you want coffee? Do you want me to do all the front-of-house stuff? Do you want me to ban every man who calls you ‘darlin’ like it’s a tip?”
You finally glance at him. The concern is still there, but it’s wrapped in something gentler now, that warm, easy care that Oscar is best at. The kind of care that doesn’t demand explanations.
You nod, once.
“I’ll do the orders,” he says. “You take a minute.”
You head into the back, breathing in the scent of stale cinnamon buns and overused mop water, and try not to think too hard.
–
The morning moves at a glacial pace, but you find a rhythm that doesn’t make you want to burst into tears.
You make coffee. You wipe down counters. You pretend not to flinch every time someone says the word “date” into their phone.
It’s stupid. You know that. You know it’s stupid to still be this wounded. But it’s not just that she didn’t show. It’s the hope that did. The way you’d sat inside the restaurant for all that time, peeking through the window every few minutes like she might materialise if you just believed hard enough. The way you'd checked your phone even despite not having her number, just to pretend you had some kind of way of reaching her.
You’d thought about messaging her on Instagram, still are really, but you’d blocked her. It didn’t mean anything, for she’d have no idea that a random barista had blocked her page, but you had to. When you got home and opened the app to see you still had her page loaded, it was the only thing you could do to stop the ache.
Even if you hadn’t, what would you even say? Hey, remember that date you asked me on and then didn’t show up for? No big deal, just rewiring my expectations of human connection now, cheers. You nearly knock over a tray of clean mugs just thinking about it.
The bell above the door rings, sharp and bright.
You don’t look up. You’re too busy restocking syrup pumps. You don’t even glance at the clock, which might have told you it was the usual time for a certain someone to come in.
“Hi - sorry, I’m just– is Y/N working today?”
You freeze. Your spine goes rigid. Your hand pauses mid-motion, caramel bottle halfway to the shelf, and for a moment it’s like time folds in on itself.
You shouldn’t be surprised. It’s Monday. She always comes in after morning training on Mondays - it’s routine. But something in you hadn’t even considered she’d show up. Not after last night. Not after leaving you alone at a table for two, pretending you weren’t waiting for someone while the waitstaff looked at you with varying degrees of pity.
You duck fast.
One second you’re upright, the next you’re crouched behind the espresso machine like a soldier in a rom-com war zone. You keep your head down, heart hammering, breath caught high in your throat.
Oscar glances at you, confused.
You hiss, “I’m not here.”
“What–?”
“I’m not here!”
“Are you–?”
“I am not here, Oscar!”
He frowns for a millisecond, then shrugs. “Okay.”
You scramble through the door, narrowly avoiding knocking over the mop bucket, and wedge yourself between two towers of stock crates. The air smells like cardboard and pine-scented floor cleaner, and your knees are pressed against your chest so hard it hurts. You rest your forehead against them anyway, trying to slow your breathing.
From the front room, you can hear everything.
Oscar recovers smoothly: “Oh hey. Uh, no, she’s not in today.”
A pause. You can imagine her, frowning. Tucking her hair behind her ear. Doing that thing where her voice dips lower when she’s unsure.
“Really? I thought she usually– I mean–”
“Yeah. Shift swap.” Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s not in till next week.”
Another pause.
“Okay. Thanks.”
The door chimes as she leaves.
You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty just to be sure. The silence settles in thick around you.
Then the door creaks again and Oscar pokes his head through.
He spots you immediately with your knees hugged to your chest, eyes red and watery with a blotchy face in that way that only crying can do. You’re not sobbing, not really. Just letting the weight of it catch up to you.
Oscar doesn't say anything at first. Then he crosses the space, lowers himself down beside you, and wraps his arms around your shoulders.
That’s the opening of the dam.
You fall into him, not bothering to stop the tears this time. They fall quiet and slow, soaking into his shirt. Your body sinks with each shaky breath, like now that someone else is holding you, you don’t have to pretend to hold yourself together anymore.
“I really liked her,” you whisper.
Oscar rubs your arm. He doesn’t know what happened, not yet, but he doesn’t even question it, just holds you and says “She’s a dumbass.”
“She asked me out. She picked the day.” You sob quietly until you can’t anymore. It’s only when your eyes dry out that you let out a shaky breath, one that turns into a wet laugh. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You’re not. You liked someone and you let yourself hope. That’s brave, not stupid.”
You rest your head against his shoulder again, and Oscar squeezes you tighter. You’ll tell him what happened later, over cheap wine and terrible horror movies, and he’ll frown and call Alessia names he’s too kind to really mean, but for now you’ll be content with this moment here.
Neither of you move from the floor when the bell chimes again.
–
Alessia had planned it all out in that low-simmering way she does, with a quiet confidence like she already knew exactly how Y/N would smile when she walked into the restaurant. How the soft glow from the candlelight would bounce off her cheekbones. How they’d laugh. How it would just feel… easy. Like all the flirting over lattes had always been leading here.
But instead, she’s sat in the back of a car on the way to a last-minute Arsenal PR event, stomach churning as the minutes tick past. She checks her phone again. Not that she’s expecting a text, she literally can’t. They never exchanged numbers, and she never asked. She thought it was cute, actually - made the date feel a bit more cinematic, that kind of “See you then” with no way of confirming, like something out of a Nora Ephron film. She’d show up, Y/N would be there, and it would all just fall into place.
Instead the clock ticked steadily towards the arranged time, and Alessia? Still here. Still shaking hands and smiling for sponsor photos and answering the same recycled questions she’s heard a hundred times about form, fitness, fixtures.
She pulls her phone out between camera flashes, frantically opening Instagram. She doesn’t even follow the cafe, but she remembers seeing a big ‘FOLLOW US ON INSTAGRAM’ plastered on a board once, so she knows there must be one.
It takes her five minutes of digging to find the account. Then three more to find the right photo. And then finally– there. Y/N. Grinning behind the counter, name tagged in the caption.
Alessia’s thumb hovers over the profile for a moment before she finally clicks. It loads slowly. Painfully. Then she taps the message icon, heart in her mouth–
Her phone goes black. Dead.
“No, no, no,” she mutters, smacking the side of the phone like that’ll help. “Come on.”
The car jolts as it turns a corner, and her head falls back against the headrest in quiet defeat.
When she gets home hours later, soaked from the downpour that had started the second the event ended, shivering in damp trainers and an Arsenal hoodie she longed to change out forever ago, she races to plug her phone in. It powers back on and notifications flood in. A few from the PR team. A couple from teammates.
Alessia ignores them all in favour of opening Instagram again, her hands damp and clumsy as she fumbles through the same search.
Only this time, when she finds Y/N’s profile, it won’t load. The icon spins, refreshes, and then vanishes.
She’s been blocked.
Her chest caves in on itself, like someone’s physically pressed a thumb into her ribs and twisted.
Blocked.
She drops her phone on the bed and sinks down next to it, staring blankly at the ceiling. The date - the stupid, cursed, almost-date - was supposed to be the start of something. The real beginning. And now it’s… just a memory she doesn’t even get to share.
The worst part is, she gets it. She’d do the same thing in Y/N’s shoes; assume the silence meant disinterest, rejection.
It doesn’t matter that Alessia had rehearsed five different compliments. It doesn’t matter that she’d spent half an hour choosing between two jackets like it’d make or break the night. It doesn’t matter that she liked Y/N so, so much.
All that matters now is that she’d hurt her, and she might not get the chance to undo it.
–
Time doesn’t heal so much as it blurs.
It dulls the edges of things like the sharp snap of disappointment, the sting of being let down. But it doesn’t erase entirely. Not when the memory of Alessia is stitched into your mornings, folded between the seams of your days like a receipt you can’t quite bring yourself to throw away.
You go about your routines at the cafe like nothing’s changed. You clean milk steamers. You restock cups. You press your fingers to the window’s condensation as the weather turns. But Alessia Russo has become a name that sits heavy on your tongue, even when you don’t speak it.
You swap shifts. Oscar doesn’t even question you anymore. He just nods, slips his playlist on shuffle when he can see you’re trying not to think, and leaves you one of the nice pastries on the side whenever he restocks. Still, every time the bell over the door rings, your heart trips like it’s bracing for impact.
She doesn’t come in.
Not after that day.
But hope is sticky. And dumb. And doesn’t really care how hard you try to scrape it off your ribs.
And so, when you’re locking up the cafe one late Thursday, coat zipped to your chin, keyring between your teeth as you mutter to yourself about needing better gloves, you aren’t prepared for the shape that collides into you the second you turn from the door.
You drop your phone and stumble but hands grab your arms before you can fall. That’s when you find yourself nose-to-nose with the ghost that’s been haunting your afternoons.
Alessia is breathless. The rain is starting to soak through her hair, but she’s not got the hood of her jacket up. Her eyes dart across your face like she’s cataloguing you, maybe not believing that you’re here, real, right in front of her. Her lips part to say something, then close again, her throat working around the words like they’re too big to swallow.
You’re the first to speak. Sort of. It’s not really a complete thought, but it’s all you can process at that moment.
“What–” you breathe, cold air catching in your throat and drawing a cough. “What are you–?”
“I’m sorry,” she blurts, as if she’s been holding it in for weeks (she has). “I’m so–god, I didn’t know how else to find you. I’ve been checking the cafe’s Instagram. They posted earlier, and I saw you were still working tonight–”
“Wait, what?”
She shrinks slightly at your tone, but forges on. “I didn’t stand you up. I swear, Y/N. There was this last-minute PR event. I didn’t know about it until the day. I tried to find a way to reach you but–” she exhales, visibly cringing “when I went to DM you, my phone died.”
You don’t move, too scared to interrupt her speech. Rain drips into your collar uncomfortably but you remain, listening as Alessia keeps talking.
“By the time I got home and charged it, I went on the cafe’s Instagram to try again, but–”
“I’d blocked you,” you finish, quiet.
She nods, shame crawling across her face like a flush. “Yeah. Which - again - fair. I deserved that. I just… I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care. I do care.”
You laugh, sharp and humourless, a sound scraped from the bottom of your lungs. “Kind of hard not to think that when I sat there for over an hour, Less.”
The nickname slips out before you can stop it. It lands between you like a live wire that makes Alessia flinch.
“I know,” she says. “I know. I was late, and then the event ran long, and then I couldn’t leave without looking like an asshole to my whole team, and by the time I got home–”
“You could’ve messaged me. Before. At any point in the weeks leading up to that date.”
“I wanted to,” she says, voice cracking. “But I didn’t want to seem like I was pushing. You never asked for my number either, you know.”
“Oh, so this is my fault now?”
“No!” she says quickly, eyes wide. “God, no. I just… I’m so shit at this. At like… knowing when it’s okay to want something. I didn’t think you’d say yes to me. I didn’t think I deserved you saying yes.”
Silence.
The rain falls harder. Alessia doesn’t step back.
You hate how your chest aches. How her words are so messy and human and honest it hurts.
“I thought you were different,” you murmur. “Not just another person who’d say sweet things and then vanish when it mattered.”
Alessia's face softens, lips parted in horror. “I am different,” she says. “I didn’t vanish. I ran back here the second I could. The day after I came into the cafe but you weren’t there.”
A flicker of shame crawls up your throat. She sounds so genuinely devastated that you almost feel bad for hiding in the back room. Almost. “I was humiliated.”
“I know.”
“I liked you.”
She looks like she might cry. “I liked you too.”
You sigh and shake your head. You’re cold. Wet. Stupidly still in love with a girl who apparently stares at your Instagram stories like they’re prayer candles.
“You made me feel like an idiot.”
“I made you feel like I didn’t care. And that’s worse.”
You glance at her. She’s still standing there, soaked and shivering and letting you yell at her without once looking away. You can’t decide if you want to hug her or throw your keys into the nearest drain.
“Why now?” you whisper, quieter than before. “Why come tonight?”
Alessia smiles faintly, sad at the edges. “Because it’s been seven days, and every day I didn’t try felt worse than the last.”
You want to kiss her. You want to yell at her. You want to go back in time and force her to buy a portable charger and a pack of courage and ask for your damn number like a normal person.
Instead, you both stand there as the rain pools at your feet. The street is empty, the cafe dark behind you, and you vaguely remember that you forgot to sign out.
“I just…” Alessia says, voice quieter now, less frantic. “I just needed to wait for the perfect moment to make it right.”
You glance up at the streetlight above. At the water trickling down her hair, the moon caught in a puddle between your shoes. And despite everything, you laugh. Because how could you not?
You gesture around yourself at the rain that pours from the sky, eyebrows raised. “What? Were you waiting for your romcom sign? Because I think you got it.”
Alessia smiles, really smiles this time. Then, like gravity decided for you, you both move at the same time.
The kiss is soft at first, surprised almost, like neither of you expected it to actually happen. But it grows and deepens, her hands coming up to cup your jaw as yours fist in the hem of her jacket.
It’s everything you wanted it to be: messy and wet, rain-kissed and desperate. Alessia tastes like breath mints and cheap coffee, probably that filtered stuff she always complained about. You kiss her like you’re trying to rewrite the week you spent avoiding her shadow.
When you finally break apart, she’s beaming. Ridiculous. Gorgeous. Her cheeks are pink and she’s got rain on her eyelashes.
“So…” she says, a little breathless. “Am I allowed another chance?”
You grin. “Only if you charge your phone first.”
She salutes. “Scout’s honour.”
“Were you even a scout?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, trying helplessly to fight the grin from taking over your face.
“You’ll just have to go on a date with me to find out.”
a/n: in my head oscar is oscar piastri. don't ask why. anyways. ANONNN I LOVE UUUUU. If u could not tell by my user name alessia is my GIRL and i had the most fun writing this. i am unfortunately working all weekend (boo) so my turnaround time on req. and new dribbles will slow down significantly (how have i written 5 in like 3 days and yet it takes me a week to respond to my emails?????). anyways if ur reading this i love u
The atmosphere shifted after the France game. The first-match jitters were gone, replaced with an energy that buzzed through the squad. Training sessions felt lighter. There was more laughter, more teasing, more little moments that made them feel like a family. Izzy found herself joining in, giggling mid-drill, or slipping into harmless pranks with her teammates.
One night, she, Khiara, Lauren James, and Grace Clinton decided to target Beth Mead and her roommate, Alex Greenwood. The plan was simple, childish, and perfect: dozens of paper cups, each filled to the brim with water, lined up outside the hotel room door so tightly there’d be no way to step out without kicking one over, or painstakingly removing them one by one.
The girls tiptoed down the corridor like secret agents, biting back their laughter as they arranged the cups in perfect formation. Khiara nearly gave them away with a loud snort, which set off another round of muffled giggles. By the time they slipped back into their rooms, their stomachs hurt from trying not to laugh.
The payoff came early the next morning. Izzy was half-asleep when she heard it…
“Oh my fucking god.” Alex’s voice, sharp and loud, echoed down the hall.
Izzy rolled over, burying her face in her pillow to hide the grin stretching across her face.
At breakfast, Beth and Alex sat side by side, glaring suspiciously at everyone. The four culprits avoided eye contact but exchanged subtle smirks whenever they caught each other’s gaze. No one confessed.
-
The Netherlands match was electric. By the 84th minute, England were already cruising at 4–0, but Izzy’s heart still pounded as Sarina called her name. She was subbed in for Alessia, the striker pulling her into a quick hug before jogging off the pitch.
Even with only a few minutes left, Izzy wanted a goal. She chased loose balls, pressed defenders, and darted into space whenever her teammates had the ball. It didn’t come this time, but when the whistle blew, she was still grinning.
In the changing room, Freed from Desire blasted from the speakers. Players were dancing, singing, jumping around. Three points and a clean sheet made everything taste sweeter. Alessia made her way over, nudging Izzy’s shoulder with a knowing smile.
“Both me and you are gonna score the next game,” she said with quiet certainty.
That warmth in Izzy’s chest lingered for the rest of the night.
-
Recovery day brought the whole team together in the lounge for a movie night. By the time Izzy got there, every seat was taken, so she claimed a spot on the carpet, leaning against the base of the sofa. Alessia was perched above her, legs curled on the cushion. Halfway through Wicked, a warm hand appeared over her shoulder, holding a tub of popcorn.
“Want some?” Alessia asked.
Izzy took a handful, smiling her thanks.
A little later, Alessia shifted forward and held out a pillow.
“For your back,” she said softly. “Don’t want you ruined before the tournament’s over.”
Izzy accepted, though the adjustment meant Alessia’s knee now rested lightly against her shoulder. The touch was small, barely there, but it made heat curl in her stomach. She kept her eyes on the TV, pretending it didn’t matter, until she felt Alessia’s fingers gently gathering her hair.
The striker began braiding it, slow and careful, as though she had all the time in the world. Each brush of her fingers down Izzy’s neck sent sparks firing under her skin. She wondered if Alessia knew what she was doing to her, or if this was just something Alessia did without thinking.
By the time the credits rolled, Izzy couldn’t recall a single plot point. Her mind had been elsewhere entirely.
“I think I’m gonna head to bed,” she mumbled to the group, stifling a yawn. “Bit tired.”
Back in her room, the heat in her face refused to fade. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, her heart drumming. Somewhere between the pranks, the smiles, and the gentle touches, she had begun falling for Alessia Russo.
And that terrified her more than any game ever could.
-
The next day, training was brutal, drills that seemed to go on forever, sprints that left her lungs burning. Even after Sarina blew the final whistle, Izzy stayed on for an extra hour, pushing herself through more passing sequences and finishing drills before heading to the gym for a weights session. By the time she finally collapsed onto one of the lounge sofas that evening, her legs felt like lead.
She flicked aimlessly through the channels, half-watching a cooking show without registering a single recipe. That was when Ella appeared, bouncing down beside her like she’d been there all along.
“Hey,” Ella greeted, her usual smile in place.
“Hey,” Izzy replied, her voice a low grumble, still catching her breath from the day.
Before Izzy could protest, Ella plucked the remote from her hand and switched the channel.
Homes Under the Hammer flickered onto the screen.
“Ugh, my nan used to make me watch this all the time,” Izzy groaned.
“Mine too,” Ella said with a little chuckle, though her gaze softened at the memory.
For a moment, they just watched in silence. The comfortable quiet between them felt different somehow, heavier, but not unwelcome. Izzy cleared her throat, her voice quieter now.
“I, um… I heard about your dad. I’m sorry.”
Ella’s head turned slightly, her eyes glassing over in an instant. She swallowed hard before replying.
“I’m sure you know a little about that,” she said, her tone holding a weight that made Izzy’s chest tighten.
Izzy just nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen, but the understanding between them didn’t need words. There was something unspoken there, two people who’d lost something too soon, who knew that kind of hollow ache all too well.
Ella started talking about her dad, sharing little memories, the way he’d cheered for her from the sidelines, his stubborn loyalty to their local club, how Alessia had been a rock for her afterward. Izzy found herself sharing pieces of her own story, dusty memories she hadn’t touched in years. Talking about it felt strange, but not wrong.
The conversation slowly shifted to lighter ground. They discovered they liked the same flavour crisps, had both logged far too many hours on FIFA, and shared the kind of competitiveness that could turn even the smallest game into a grudge match.
“This one time, I think I was twelve,” Izzy grinned, leaning back as she remembered. “I was out on my own, just kicking the ball around, practicing ways to show off… I kicked it and it went straight through the neighbour’s window.” She laughed, wiping away tears from her eyes. “I spent weeks doing chores for my parents to pay for the damage.”
Ella barked a laugh. “It’s alright, I was playing with the boys at school during break. The ball went over the fence and I was the smallest, so naturally they sent me. I got stuck in the fence and they had to get the fire brigade to get me out. I was the laughing stock for months.” She told the story with the exaggerated flair only Ella Toone could manage, and soon both girls were doubled over, clutching their stomachs from laughing so hard.
Halfway through another story, the sound of footsteps made Izzy glance up. Alessia walked in, water bottle in hand, headphones slung around her neck. Her hair clung damply to her forehead, her Arsenal hoodie slightly darkened from sweat—clearly fresh from a workout.
Izzy’s smile softened without her even realising it. Something about the casual way Alessia moved, the easy strength in her stride, made her heart stutter.
Ella caught the look and, though her own smile didn’t falter, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly in quiet realisation. She didn’t comment, but she mentally filed it away for later.
“So,” Ella said, breaking the moment, “you wanna play some Mario Kart?”
Izzy turned back to her instantly, her grin returning. “Yeah,” she said, already picturing herself smashing Ella on Rainbow Road.
The laughter picked up again, and for a little while, the heaviness of the earlier conversation faded into something warmer, two teammates who’d just found they had more in common than they thought.
-
The England–Wales match carried a different kind of energy, tense, proud, and fierce. The natural rivalry between the neighbouring nations hung in the air like static, both sets of fans roaring as if sheer volume could tilt the game in their favour. This was Wales’ first-ever appearance in the Euros, and they weren’t here to roll over.
Izzy sat on the bench at kick-off, legs bouncing with a mix of nerves and excitement. Every time the ball hit the back of the net for England, she shot up to cheer, her voice blending into the crowd’s deafening roar. But when Alessia scored, just as she’d promised, Izzy’s cheer was louder, brighter. The blonde turned toward the bench during her celebration, a smile splitting her face. Izzy felt a swell of pride for her teammate, knowing how badly she’d wanted that first goal of the tournament.
By the 57th minute, England were firmly in control, but Sarina made the call to rest Alessia for the quarter-finals.
Izzy’s number came up.
The swap was brief but charged. “Go on, get one for me,” Alessia grinned, patting her back as they crossed paths. The wink that followed had Izzy’s heart skipping, even as she jogged onto the pitch.
Determination kicked in instantly. She wanted to make the team proud, prove her extra hours of training meant something, but more than that, she wanted to make herself proud. From the moment she stepped onto the field, she was relentless. Pressing high. Chasing every loose ball. Forcing the Welsh defence to rush their passes.
Her first attempt came twenty minutes later, a quick one-two with Lauren James that ended in a sharp strike just over the bar. She tried to shake it off, but her frustration was visible.
During a pause for a Welsh injury, Beth Mead sidled over, giving her a firm pat on the back. “You’re all over them,” Beth said with quiet certainty. “They’ll slip up soon, and you’ll be there to finish it.”
Beth was right.
The clock hit 89 minutes when Hannah Hampton launched a perfect long ball straight down the middle. Izzy was off in a heartbeat, cutting through the defence with two Welsh players in hot pursuit. She reached the box, heart thundering, and struck low and hard. The ball rattled the back of the net.
For a moment, it was just noise, pure, unstoppable noise. Her arms shot up in triumph before her teammates swarmed her, laughing and shouting, dragging her into the huddle. Their sixth and final goal, the nail in the coffin.
From the sidelines, Alessia was on her feet, cheering so hard her training bib almost slipped from her shoulders. Her smile was blinding. And for a split second, as Izzy looked at her, the rest of the world dimmed. It felt like she’d just scored the winner in the final. It felt like this was the reason she’d fought so hard to be here.
Back in the locker room, the celebrations were chaotic, singing, dancing, music blaring off the walls. Khiara hauled Izzy into a ridiculous dance, making her laugh so hard she almost dropped her water bottle.
Then Alessia appeared behind her, that fond, knowing smile on her face. “Told you we’d both score,” she said, like it had been inevitable all along.
Izzy’s grin softened. “Next time,” she said, “I want us both on the pitch when we do it.”
-
There were only four days between the win over Wales and the quarter-final against Sweden, four days to sharpen every drill, study every tactic, and make sure they secured their place in the semis. Training was intense but focused, every player locked in on the same goal.
That night, the team had mostly drifted back to their rooms early, leaving the lounge unusually quiet. Izzy and Khiara had claimed one of the big sofas, their legs stretched out, the TV murmuring low in the background. Izzy had a bottle of water in her hand, her head tipped back against the cushions as she let out a long, tired sigh.
“You were on fire out there, Iz. That goal was gold,” Khiara said, grinning at her.
Izzy’s lips curved into a small smile. “Yeah… it felt good. Being able to do something.” Her eyes shone faintly, not just from pride, but from the feeling that she was finally proving herself here.
Silence settled between them, the easy kind that only comes with years of friendship, until Izzy broke it with a quieter sigh. “Can I tell you something, and you promise not to tell anyone?”
Khiara didn’t hesitate. “I’m your best friend, you can tell me anything.”
Izzy turned her head, meeting her gaze. Her voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “I don’t know… I think I might… feel something for Russo? It’s stupid. It started when she was… well, supporting me when I did my knee in. And since being in camp, I’ve just… been feeling good. Like, my heart beats faster when she’s around and- I want to be better… for her. I just feel so stupid, like… we’re mid-tournament and, like you said… she’s straight and… yeah.” The words tumbled out in a ramble, her eyes darting away as if looking at Khiara might make her too vulnerable.
“You’re my best friend, Izzy, it’s not stupid,” Khiara said, her tone warm and steady. “If you like her, that’s okay. More than okay. But like you said, we’re mid-competition, and I don’t want it messing with your head in a big game. If she doesn’t feel the same way, it’s the last thing you need right now.” She reached over and gave Izzy’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“So what? Do I just pretend I don’t feel anything?” Izzy asked, her chest tightening with the ache of it.
“Don’t pretend, just keep it friendly for now. You’ve worked way too hard to get here, and we’ve got more matches to get through. If whatever you two have going is real, it’ll keep after the tournament,” Khiara said with quiet certainty.
Izzy let out a reluctant little laugh. “You’re right… it just might not be easy. I mean, have you seen her doing those pull-ups, I-” She broke off, blushing and shaking her head as she laughed again.
“Nothing worth having is easy, Iz. Besides, I’ll be here to distract you when you’re looking at her like she’s the last Jaffa Cake in the box,” Khiara teased, earning a louder laugh from Izzy.
“You’re an idiot,” Izzy said, rolling her eyes.
“You love it,” Khiara shot back.
-
Later that night, Izzy was curled up in bed, the dorm quiet except for Leah’s soft breathing. The captain had been out late with Sarina and the coaches, deep in tactical meetings for the quarter-finals, and was already fast asleep.
Izzy’s phone buzzed, the sudden glow of the screen catching her attention. She frowned, midnight was a strange time for a message from Alessia.
It was just a TikTok link, and beneath it, a simple message: they love you.
Curious, Izzy tapped the link. A video started playing: clips from the Wales match, set to Usher’s Yeah! Each cut was of her, fast sprints, close-ups, a slow-motion shot of her lifting her shirt to wipe sweat from her forehead, revealing her abs. The comments were a chaotic mix of admiration and thirst.
By the time it ended, Izzy’s cheeks were burning. She set her phone down, her mind spinning with the fact that Alessia had not only seen the video… but had sent it to her. Which meant she’d been watching TikTok thirst edits of her.
Sleep suddenly felt very far away.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The morning of the France game was tense, to say the least.
The girls made an effort to keep things light, small jokes tossed across the table, exaggerated yawns, quiet chuckles at nothing in particular, but the looming tension of what was ahead hung over the breakfast room like a storm cloud. Even the clink of cutlery against plates seemed sharper than usual.
Izzy sat tucked away in the corner, a yoghurt in one hand, spoon in the other. She wasn’t really eating, just swirling the spoon slowly through the thick white swirl, watching it fold and ripple without focus. Her eyes were fixed somewhere past the far wall, but her mind was far from the room. A million thoughts darted and collided inside her head, each one adding to the pressure pressing down on her chest.
She knew she wouldn’t be starting. Realistically, she probably wouldn’t be starting any match this tournament, Sarina’s preferred starting lineup was set, and Izzy wasn’t in it. That truth sat in her gut like a weight. It frustrated her more than she wanted to admit, especially after the season she’d just had, one she knew had proved she could be a game-changer from the first whistle. But she also knew her role. She had to trust her teammates, stay ready, and be the spark they needed later in the game.
After breakfast, the squad began gathering their things for the trip to the stadium. Boots, shin pads, headphones, lucky trinkets, the usual pre-match shuffle. Izzy double-checked her own gear bag, making sure her fresh glucose sensor was secure against her skin. She’d already taken her long-acting insulin, ticking off another mental step in her carefully managed routine. As always, she had her meeting with the medical staff, going over their plan for her blood sugars: what numbers they wanted to see, what warning signs to watch for, and how they’d be keeping an eye on her from the sidelines if she went on. She nodded along, absorbing it all like she always did, but her mind was already wandering ahead to the game.
The bus ride was a quiet one. A few players had their headphones in, lost in their playlists; others sat with eyes closed, conserving energy. When they arrived at the stadium, they moved into their matchday routines.
The pitch walk was slow and steady, boots clicking faintly against the concrete before meeting the springy grass. Light chatter hummed between the girls, punctuated by short bursts of laughter. The sky above was a washed-out blue, the air carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass.
They gathered briefly for the officials’ meeting, where the rules and regulations were discussed, the same script every player already knew by heart, but one they had to sit through regardless. Izzy stood near the back, her mind drifting, until she caught sight of Grace looking like she might nod off mid-sentence. It was enough to make her hide a small smirk.
As kickoff edged closer, the knot in Izzy’s stomach tightened. This wasn’t just any group game, this was the group of death. France were one of the best teams in the world, and the England squad was different now, changed from the one that had lifted the Euros trophy. New faces, new combinations, less time together on the pitch. The doubt tried to settle in, but she forced herself to push it away.
Pre-match warm-ups were light. In their training kits, they moved through passing and shooting drills as the stands began to fill with fans. The rumble of voices swelled in the background, flags waving in the corners of her vision. At one point, Izzy crossed paths with Alessia, who brushed her fingers lightly against Izzy’s arm as she passed. It was brief, almost nothing, but it was comforting. Assuring. And it only made the pounding in Izzy’s chest worse.
Back in the changing rooms, Izzy pulled on her kit. The number 7 sat boldly on her back, the England badge over her heart feeling heavier than it ever had before. She dropped to the bench and began adjusting her socks, pulling one taut before writing the familiar word on it with a marker, the same word she always wrote before every game. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Leah watching her, eyebrows pulling together in mild confusion. But Leah didn’t comment; she had her own strange superstitions.
The tunnel was narrow and dimly lit, the sound of footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. Glances darted toward the French lineup, tall, composed, radiating confidence. Izzy’s pulse ticked faster.
The national anthems began, low and steady at first, then swelling until they bounced off the rafters. She sang quietly, feeling the thrum of the music in her chest, and then, almost too soon, the whistle blew.
Izzy sank into her place on the bench, the training bib pulled over her kit.
From the sidelines, the tension was almost worse. France came out sharp and aggressive, winning every duel, blocking every attempt England made. It was relentless. Every time the ball was cleared, it came right back. Izzy felt the pit in her stomach twist tighter, watching the patterns unfold helplessly. Around her, the other subs murmured encouragement, “Keep going, press them,” “Next one’s yours,” but even those words felt quieter than usual.
Then devastation struck.
France found the back of the net in the 36th minute, a moment born from the smallest defensive lapse. The ball slipped through like water, and before anyone could recover, it was buried in the goal. The sound of French cheers and a sharp blast of the referee’s whistle seemed to echo twice as loud in Izzy’s ears.
She closed her eyes, pressing her palms against them as if blocking the scene might undo it. Heat prickled behind her eyelids, not anger exactly, but frustration, helplessness, and something that stung far deeper.
Sarina’s voice cut through the heavy silence on the bench. “Alright, up. Warm up.”
The subs rose together, jogging the touchline in their bibs, stretching, passing the ball between them in quick bursts. They all knew the truth, no one was coming on before halftime. This was just to keep their legs ready. But the movement didn’t shake the feeling in Izzy’s stomach.
Three minutes later, it worsened.
France struck again in the 39th, capitalising on another defensive slip. The ball rattled into the net with clinical precision, and the French players celebrated like sharks smelling blood. The worry among the bench thickened, settling heavy in the pit of every stomach.
When the halftime whistle finally blew, the squad filed into the tunnel, heads bowed, boots clattering against the concrete. Inside the changing room, the air felt thick, not silent, but filled with a restless, unspoken tension. Players sank into their cubbies, leaning forward with forearms braced on knees.
Sarina stepped into the centre of the room, her voice sharp but steady. “The energy isn’t there. I want to see that passion. I want to see that you want to win.”
Izzy lifted her gaze. Across the room, Alessia sat with her elbows on her thighs, eyes fixed on her boots, lips pressed together in thought. Something in the sight pulled at Izzy’s chest. She wanted to cross the room, crouch in front of her, tell her it wasn’t her fault… Strange, because Izzy was used to being the one who needed pulling back up, not the other way around.
Sarina’s voice rose with more conviction, her words building into something that stirred everyone in the room. When she stepped back, Leah took over by blasting a fast-beat song from her phone, the type that thumped straight through the floor. Heads started to lift. Feet began tapping. By the time they headed out again, there was fire in their eyes.
The second-half whistle blew.
Izzy stayed moving along the sidelines, jogging in intervals, working through dynamic stretches. At the 60th minute, the score still unchanged, Sarina turned toward her. “Izzy, time.”
A small burst of adrenaline shot through her veins. She grabbed a caffeine gel, squeezing it into her mouth before double-checking her glucose sensor’s reading. Niamh Charles and Ella Toone were called up too. Bibs came off. Boots tightened.
Beth Mead jogged off, giving Izzy a quick pat on the back in passing. Then Izzy was on, breaking into a run toward her position. She slotted in beside Alessia, the striker glancing at her briefly, just enough to make her pulse quicken.
By the 68th minute, her chance came. She found herself perfectly placed in the box, Alessia wide on the flank with the ball at her feet. The cross was perfect, curling in just above the ground toward Izzy’s right boot. She caught it clean, but almost instantly found herself boxed in by defenders.
No angle. No space.
She pulled the ball back, retreating just outside the box. One more touch, she thought, and I can hit this clean. But as she wound up, she felt a sudden, sharp tug on her shirt. Her momentum broke; she stumbled forward, hitting the ground hard.
Bacha stood above her, smirking.
The whistle went, but it was too late, Izzy was already on her feet again, stepping forward, anger burning hot in her chest. Before she could say anything, a hand caught her arm, firm but not rough. She turned and found herself face-to-face with Alessia.
“Head in the game, Fielding,” Alessia said, her hands steadying Izzy by the shoulders. Her voice was low, calm, cutting through the noise. “You won the foul. Free kick from just outside the box. You’ve got this.” She gave Izzy’s cheek a soft pat, the corner of her mouth twitching in something between reassurance and command.
And just like that, the fire in Izzy’s chest cooled. She locked onto those blue eyes for a beat too long, and the anger was gone. Determination filled the space instead.
The free kick didn’t go in. No goal.
But something had shifted.
Izzy threw herself into every run, every press, sprinting up and down the pitch until her lungs burned. England were alive again. The passes were sharper, the tackles stronger. Every time they pushed forward, the French defence faltered just slightly, enough for hope to take root. And for the first time all night, Izzy could feel the crowd believing again.
Izzy’s pulse was pounding in her ears as she chased down another ball. The roar of the crowd was a wall of sound around her, but in her head, everything narrowed to the grass at her feet and the goal ahead. She wanted, no, needed, to bring this back for them. Every fibre of her body screamed to make it count. She struck, putting every ounce of focus into the shot.
Denied. Again.
She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself not to curse under her breath. Keep going. Keep pushing.
And then, in the 87th minute, the moment came. Izzy darted down the right flank, the ball under perfect control as her boots skimmed the grass. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Keira in space, just outside the box. In one smooth motion, she swung her foot, sending a crisp cross arcing toward her teammate.
One touch.
Back of the net.
The stadium erupted, England fans on their feet, and Izzy’s chest filled with something that felt like oxygen and fire all at once. She sprinted toward Keira, leaping onto the midfielder in sheer elation. They were still in this. They were proving they belonged in this tournament, no matter the score.
But the clock was cruel. France closed the game down tight, and when the final whistle blew, the hope in Izzy’s chest dissolved into a heavy drop. Her head fell forward. She felt hands patting her back, her teammates’ quiet acknowledgements, but the noise of the French celebrations on the other side of the pitch was louder.
She lifted her head, scanning the stands where disappointed England fans stood in white shirts, still clapping but with sombre faces. That sight stung more than the loss.
A tap on her shoulder pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to find Bacha, the French winger, holding out her own jersey. Izzy exhaled slowly, peeling her shirt off while subtly making sure her glucose sensor stayed hidden.
“I am sorry about the foul,” Bacha said, her accent thick but her tone earnest.
Izzy nodded, handing her own shirt over. “Sorry for getting in your face. I’m working on my anger,” she admitted quietly.
The French player gave her a small, almost sisterly pat on the shoulder before moving away, and in the next breath, Izzy was ushered toward the England huddle.
“It was a tough game, but we proved ourselves at the end,” Sarina began, her voice steady but firm. “Two more to show the world what we’re made of. Recovery tomorrow, I want to see none of you in the gym. Ice baths, cryo, swimming. We’ll be back to training after. You did well, and we all know you can do better. Go get dressed, and pizza will be waiting.”
There was no applause, no whooping, just quiet nods and a shared understanding. The squad headed back to the changing rooms, peeling off their sweat-soaked kits, steam filling the air from the showers. Izzy moved through the motions silently, but the others could see it in her face, she was already replaying the match in her mind, picking apart every moment. They trusted their captain to speak to her later.
Post-match obligations meant they wouldn’t be leaving for hours, so while many of the girls found their families in the stands, Izzy lingered on the pitch. One of the coaches passed her an iPad, and she sank onto a bench, scrolling through playbacks, slowing down key moments, looking for mistakes, hers, theirs, any edge she could find for next time.
She didn’t notice the reporter approach until a microphone appeared in front of her.
“Isabelle, what an amazing assist,” the woman said, smiling brightly. “How did it feel to make such an impact on the game when you were two goals down?”
Izzy let out a quiet sigh before answering. “We all did our best out there, but France was strong, just like we expected them to be. We knew this would be a tough match, but we’re not done yet. There are so many more matches to come.” Her voice was even, but she could feel her frustration pressing at the edges.
“As a latecomer to the senior squad, how has that been with the team dynamics? Have you been fitting in well?”
Izzy took a measured breath and nodded. “It’s been going well. Some of these girls are my teammates: Hempo, Alex, Khiara. All of them have supported me since I got here. Some are club rivals, but honestly, they’re the nicest, most supportive girls you could meet. I know that being here, I’ve made friends for life.”
“Will we see more of you in the upcoming matches?”
“I hope so,” Izzy laughed lightly. “I’m here for impact play, to make the difference when the ones who have worked the whole game need someone with fresh legs, fresh thoughts on the pitch. This team isn’t two-dimensional. Every single one of us can make a difference given the chance. Today that was me, but the ones to watch out for are Michelle Agyemang and Chloe Kelly.”
“And finally before we go,” the reporter continued, “we noticed some tensions between you and Bacha on the pitch.”
Izzy’s smile faded, her tone turning serious. “Tensions were high between everyone. The foul did throw me off because I felt it was a game-changing moment, and my reaction was unprofessional. That’s something I’m working on, with the support of the team and staff here. I’m glad to have someone like Russo on the team who can help me keep my head down when it matters.”
With a few polite thank-yous exchanged, the microphone was lowered, and Izzy was released back into the post-match chaos. The cameras turned elsewhere, but the determination burning in her chest stayed put. The next match couldn’t come soon enough.
The next morning dawned quiet, a stillness hanging over the training camp that only came after a match. Recovery day.
-
Izzy had only played forty minutes the night before, so she wasn’t nearly as sore as some of the others, no tight hamstrings screaming at her, no calves threatening to cramp at the slightest move, but she still joined the rest of the squad in their routine.
The cryo chamber was first. A blast of freezing air clawed at her skin, her breath coming in visible puffs as she stood inside, teeth clenching against the chill. It was always the longest three minutes of her life. After that came the ice bath, she slid in with a hiss, the cold biting at her legs until they went numb. A few of the girls yelped dramatically, earning laughter from the physios hovering nearby.
Later, they drifted into the pool, the water warm and weightless around them. Small clusters of teammates floated or waded, trading jokes and light banter, the echoes bouncing softly off the tiled walls. For a while, they let themselves forget about France.
One by one, the players headed to their physio checks. Izzy hopped up onto the padded bed, swinging her legs slightly as the physio tested the range of motion in her hips and knees, pressing into the muscle to feel for any strain. Leah sat beside her on the next table, mirroring the same movements.
“I know you’re beating yourself up about the game,” Leah said suddenly, her voice calm but carrying the authority of someone who’d been here before. “But all I can say is… Don’t. One game doesn’t define the tournament. We’ll have more chances to prove our worth, to prove we deserve to be here.”
Izzy stared at her lap, listening.
“Go for walks, clear your head,” Leah continued, giving her a look that made it clear she wasn’t joking. “And I better not see you in the gym later.”
That evening, the camp was quiet again. Some of the girls were in their rooms, others in the games room watching TV. Izzy was curled into one of the big lounge chairs, her legs tucked up, scrolling aimlessly through her phone when a shadow crossed her vision. She looked up to see a pair of long legs in track bottoms.
“I was about to go for a walk,” Alessia said, her voice soft but warm. “You coming?”
Izzy hesitated only a second before nodding. She pulled on her hoodie and followed the striker outside, the cool evening air wrapping around them as they stepped onto the winding path that cut through the camp grounds.
The sun was sinking, spilling gold and soft pink across the sky, casting their shadows long on the pavement. They walked without hurry, the crunch of gravel underfoot and the occasional distant bird the only sounds.
“You did well out there,” Alessia said eventually, glancing at her with a small smile. When their hands brushed for the first time, neither of them mentioned it.
“Thank you,” Izzy murmured, “for keeping my head there. I don’t know what came over me, I just-” She trailed off, the words stuck somewhere between her chest and throat.
“I know how you feel,” Alessia replied, her tone gentler now. “Two years ago, we were on the biggest high. We’d just won the Euros, and we went into the World Cup as champions. When we lost, it was the biggest heartbreak I’ve ever felt. And every part of me wanted to scream, to hit something, anything. But doing that? It ruins us as a team. Makes it seem like the only way we can win is by brute forcing it. That’s not who we are. We’re a team. We’re friends. And we’re here for the wins and the losses.”
Izzy kept her gaze on the path ahead, listening to every word.
“I’ll be there for you,” Alessia added, her voice steady. “When the anger’s simmering over, when you just want to hit something, I’ll calm you down. But I need you to promise me you’re gonna work on your control. That you’ll think before you act. Because we can’t afford to lose you to a red.”
A small laugh escaped Izzy before she could stop it. Alessia frowned slightly, the tips of her ears pink.
“Sorry,” Izzy said quickly, shaking her head with a smile. “It’s just- the thought of you angry enough to hit something… it makes me laugh. You’re the nicest person I know, Lessi.”
That earned a blush that Alessia didn’t bother hiding.
“In all seriousness,” Izzy continued, her voice softening, “thank you. For being there for me out there. I needed it. If we win this, I’ll know it’s because of you. I promise I won’t put myself in a position to get a red.”
The rest of the walk unfolded in comfortable silence, the kind where words weren’t needed. Every so often their hands brushed again, and each time, Izzy felt the flutter of butterflies deep in her stomach.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 4 - can’t put the chapter name because apparently that flags (All In Her HD)
Alessia Russo x OFC
They landed in Switzerland a few days before their opening match against France in the group stages. The air in camp was a mix of excitement and tension, a low, thrumming pressure everyone could feel but no one wanted to voice outright.
The coaching staff kept the atmosphere light with jokes and casual banter, but Izzy could see through it. The evening walks some of the players took, disappearing in pairs or small groups around the quiet streets, were as much about calming nerves as they were about enjoying the view.
Sarina stood in front of them in the hotel lobby, clipboard in hand, her stance crisp as ever. Izzy stood among the group with her backpack still on her shoulders and her suitcase by her feet. A pair of oversized sunglasses hid her tired eyes, the early flight still lingering in her bones.
“As you may be aware,” Sarina began, her Dutch accent sharper than usual, “we pair you up for sleeping arrangements to promote team bonding off the pitch and to strengthen connections on it. We try to match personalities that balance each other out.”
The group shifted, a ripple of curiosity running through them. Izzy felt her own shoulders sink slightly. She already knew she wouldn’t be with Khiara, her closest friend in the squad, but still, she couldn’t help the flicker of hope.
“So, starting with… Hannah and Khiara,” Sarina read aloud. Izzy pressed her lips together, trying not to show her disappointment.
Her gaze drifted across the room, scanning faces. When her eyes met Alessia’s for the briefest moment, something skipped in her chest. She turned away quickly, pretending to be interested in the carpet pattern.
“Ella and Alessia,” Sarina continued. Ella gave a little cheer, throwing her arm around her best friend’s shoulder. The announcement carried on, name after name, until…
“Izzy and Leah.”
That made sense. Leah Williamson, England captain. Calm, composed, respected. Izzy was the wildcard, no one quite knew how she’d handle her first major tournament. Pairing her with the captain wasn’t just practical; it was strategic. Leah could keep her steady, talk her down when the fire got too hot.
They headed upstairs, the sound of zipping suitcases and chatter filling the corridor. In their shared room, Izzy dropped her bag on the bed nearest the window and pulled off her sunglasses. Switzerland stretched out beyond the glass, mountains, rooftops, and sky so clean it made her chest ache.
Her mind, unhelpfully, drifted back to why she had the “wildcard” label in the first place.
She’d been 16, thrown into a match just twenty minutes in after a teammate’s injury. They were already losing, and a Manchester United player, older, stronger, had spent the game goading her. Little fouls. Cheap shoves. Quiet digs only Izzy could hear. Then came the 88th minute: a reckless, poorly timed pass that could have left her badly injured. Something in her snapped. She shoved the girl to the ground, hard, and before she could think better of it, her fist connected with the player’s cheek. Red card. Silence from her teammates for weeks afterward.
A voice cleared in the present, pulling her out of the memory. Leah stood on the other side of the room, arms crossed but expression more thoughtful than stern.
“I know you love the fire,” the captain said evenly. “The competitiveness. We all do. But that’s not how we, as a team, do things. We work together. We communicate. If something doesn’t feel right on the pitch, I want you to talk to us, not them. And I need you to trust that I’ll have your back. If something’s wrong, I’ll take it to the ref.”
Izzy held her gaze, weighing the words. Leah wasn’t lecturing, she was laying out a deal. A promise, if Izzy could meet her halfway.
“Got it,” she said simply. And she meant it.
-
An hour later, the squad was out on the training grounds, facing down an obstacle course spread across the grass. Cones, balance beams, low hurdles, rope ladders, the works. The air smelled faintly of cut grass, and the sun sat low enough to cast long shadows across the field.
They were split into pairs. Izzy glanced at the paper in Sarina’s hand and tried to keep her face neutral when she heard her name followed by Alessia’s.
“One of you will be blindfolded,” Sarina explained, her voice carrying across the pitch, “and the other will guide you around the course using only your voice. This is about trust. Trust your teammate to give the right instruction… the right pass.”
Izzy turned to Alessia, holding the strip of fabric they’d been handed. “So, which one of us is-”
Before she could finish, Alessia plucked the blindfold from her hands and stepped closer. The blonde’s movements were unhurried, almost careful, as she tied the fabric around Izzy’s head. Darkness settled over her vision.
“Do you trust me?” Alessia’s voice came low, close enough that Izzy could feel the faint warmth of her breath.
Izzy swallowed hard and gave a short nod, not trusting her voice to come out steady. Alessia’s hands brushed her shoulders, guiding her gently to the start line before stepping back.
“Alright,” Izzy said, trying to sound casual. “Where do I go?”
“There are two cones about thirty degrees to your right,” Alessia began, her tone even and precise. “If you angle slightly left, you’ll miss them. Take two normal steps.”
Izzy followed, relying entirely on Alessia’s calm, steady stream of directions. They moved like that, voice and motion, until they reached a point where Alessia hesitated.
“There’s a jump ahead,” she said finally.
Izzy froze. “Are you sure about this? I’m not keen on falling, Lessi.” The nickname slipped out before she realised.
“I’m certain,” Alessia replied, the confidence in her voice cutting through Izzy’s nerves. “If you give a little jump forward, you’ll land on a beam you can walk across.”
Izzy took a breath, felt her legs coil, and leapt. Her feet found solid wood. She exhaled, grinning. Step by step, she crossed to the end, and suddenly, strong arms caught her.
She yanked off the blindfold, blinking against the light. “We won!” she laughed, spotting the other pairs still two obstacles behind. Her smile faltered just slightly when she realised she was still in Alessia’s arms. She cleared her throat, stepping back quickly.
After a few more team exercises, Sarina called it a day, reminding them of the importance of rest. Dinner was hearty, pasta, chicken, and vegetables, but when night came, Izzy’s body was tired while her mind spun restlessly.
-
By midnight, she was in the hotel gym, hands wrapped around a set of weights, working through reps with a single-minded focus. The clink of metal and the soft hum of the air conditioning were the only sounds, until the door opened.
“You gonna train yourself to death?”
Izzy lowered the weights and turned to see Lucy Bronze, her face flushed from her own workout. “Couldn’t sleep,” Izzy said, towelling off her forehead.
“If you don’t find a way to relax, you’ll end up injured before the first match,” Lucy warned, her voice softening. She studied Izzy for a moment. “You remind me of… well, me. But winners don’t win if they burn out before they even start.”
Izzy didn’t speak, so Lucy stepped closer. “Wanna know a secret?”
Izzy nodded.
“The girls know, the coaches know, but no one else. I’m still recovering from a fractured tibia. I’m determined to redeem myself after losing the World Cup final to Spain. But I can only do that by earning the respect of the team and Sarina. Took me years, but I got there. You can too. Just…” she gestured lightly “ease up. Fight to win, yes. But don’t forget to have fun. At the end of it all, you won’t be counting trophies. You’ll be remembering the people you met, the friends you made. Forget that, and you’ll start to hate the thing you love most.”
Izzy blinked hard, willing away the sting of tears. She didn’t answer, but Lucy seemed to understand. With a light pat on her back, the defender left, leaving Izzy alone once more with the quiet hum of the gym.
-
The next morning, Izzy sat at the breakfast table, halfway through her scrambled eggs, when she caught Alessia frowning at her plate.
“What’s up?” Izzy asked, hating the small pout on the blonde’s face.
“Someone ate the last fruit cup,” Alessia sighed, shoulders slumping. “I was looking forward to that.”
Izzy scanned the buffet table, hoping to spot a forgotten one tucked behind the cereal boxes, but no luck. She hummed thoughtfully and looked back at her.
“I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry.”
-
On the training pitch later, Izzy was relentless. Every drill, every sprint, she went all out. When Sarina had them run their 5K, Izzy beat her previous time by a whole minute. Shooting drills became a rhythm, ball, strike, net, over and over. And when Alessia, standing at the sideline, called out a simple, “Nice one,” it was like a shot of adrenaline. Izzy pushed herself even harder.
During a water break, Alessia handed over her bottle. “You’re really going for it out there,” she said with a teasing smile. “Trying to win training player of the week?”
Izzy laughed breathlessly, taking a sip. Lucy’s voice echoed in the back of her mind, have fun, gain their trust, and as she turned, she spotted Esme Morgan juggling a ball nearby. Without thinking, Izzy gave the water bottle a quick squeeze, sending a spray of cold water over the defender.
Gasps and laughter erupted from the team. Esme’s eyes widened, then she charged after Izzy, who darted away, laughing harder than she had in months. Maybe, just maybe, this team really could feel like family.
-
When Sarina announced there’d be no training the day before the France match, Izzy’s stomach dropped. No training? The idea made her skin itch. She tried to argue but was met with a firm lecture about the importance of rest. Reluctantly, she nodded, but the restlessness was already building.
The next morning, she was up before most of the team. She made her way to breakfast early and snagged two fruit cups before anyone else had the chance. When Alessia and Ella sat down, Izzy plopped herself beside them and slid the cups toward the blonde striker.
“Told you I’d make it up to you,” she said with a triumphant grin.
Alessia gave her a fond smile, and Tooney smirked knowingly over her coffee.
But despite the no-training rule, Izzy couldn’t keep still. That afternoon, she slipped into the gym, cranking up the treadmill and pushing through heavy reps on the weights. In her head, she replayed tomorrow’s match over and over, imagining every pass, every possible goal, every way she could make a difference, even from the bench.
By the time evening fell, she was walking back to her room, sweat cooling on her skin, when she nearly collided with Alessia in the hallway. The striker was dressed down in an oversized Arsenal hoodie, shorts, and slippers, her hair damp from a shower.
“Hey,” Alessia greeted.
“Hey,” Izzy echoed.
“Were you just in the gym?” Alessia’s voice was curious, not accusing.
Izzy dropped her gaze and nodded. “I needed to clear my head. I’m nervous for tomorrow… I don’t want to let you guys down.” Her voice came out smaller than she’d intended.
“You won’t let anyone down, Iz,” Alessia said, her tone steady and warm. “You’re part of the team, and we’re all here for each other, no matter what. Don’t burn all your energy on your thoughts. Find a way to clear your head… and save something for France, okay?”
Her hand landed gently on Izzy’s shoulder, a quiet reassurance. Izzy nodded, feeling the weight of the nerves loosen, just a little, under the touch.
After their showers, the team gathered in the conference room, the low hum of conversation fading as Sarina stepped to the front. A slideshow flickered to life behind her, each frame breaking down tactics, key players, and the plan for France.
“I want everyone to get the best sleep possible tonight,” Sarina said, her voice firm but calm. “Sharp minds, sharp decisions. That’s how we win.”
Izzy sat near the back, half-listening, half-battling the knot tightening in her stomach. The talk of mental sharpness only made her more aware of the pounding in her chest. She kept her face neutral, but inside, her nerves were clawing at her.
Back in her room, she laid her kit out with military precision, shirt, shorts, socks, boots, everything lined up perfectly. She ran through her pre-match ritual step by step, making sure nothing was out of place. If she could control the small things, maybe the big ones wouldn’t spiral.
“I can hear your thoughts from here,” Leah’s voice came from the doorway.
Izzy glanced over, caught between embarrassment and relief. “Sorry… I just- I couldn’t do enough for City this season. And I’m worried I won’t be able to do anything tomorrow either.”
Leah pushed off the wall and walked over, her expression steady. She set her hands on Izzy’s shoulders, grounding her.
“Whatever happens out there, it’s not on you alone. We win together, we lose together. We’re a team. That’s the only way this works.”
Izzy nodded slowly, the words sinking in.
Leah’s lips quirked into a small grin. “Now… are you coming down to watch Love Island with us, or am I going to have to drag you?”
That earned a small laugh from Izzy. “Alright, fine.”
They joined the others in the lounge, Izzy curled up next to Khiara on the sofa as the team’s laughter rolled through the room. They watched the show, then a movie after, the easy camaraderie a quiet reminder that she wasn’t alone in any of this.
Before it got too late, Leah clapped her hands. “Bedtime. We’ve got a game to win.”
Izzy returned to her room, slipping under the covers, but her eyes stayed fixed on the dark ceiling. Her mind wouldn’t stop racing, plays, passes, what-ifs, the weight of tomorrow.
Then her phone lit up on the nightstand.
A message from Alessia:
Sleep. Tomorrow’s big.
Something about those two short sentences settled her. The chaos in her head quieted, and for the first time in days, she let herself relax.
By the time her eyes closed, she was already dreaming of France.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By March, Izzy felt like she was on fire. Three more wins under her belt, two more goals to her name, and training sessions that left her legs humming with that satisfying ache only hard work could bring. Her nutritionist was finally smiling at her progress instead of lecturing her, and her body felt lean, sharp, ready.
The semi-final of the FA Cup was on the horizon, the Champions League quarter-final loomed just a few days away, and tomorrow… Tomorrow was the League Cup final against Chelsea.
The stakes had never been higher.
That afternoon, she was out on the training pitch with Khiara, who was in goal while Izzy sent shot after shot at her, each strike echoing across the empty ground. Khiara was quick, but Izzy was relentless, testing every angle, every distance.
“I’m tired, girl. Can we go and shower? We’ve been going for an hour after training finished,” Khiara groaned, her voice muffled by the gloves she was peeling off.
Izzy laughed softly, sweat dripping down her temple. “Go ahead, I’ll follow up soon,” she promised, waving her off. Khiara patted her on the back before trudging toward the building, muttering something about strikers being maniacs.
When the goalkeeper was gone, Izzy stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle. The sun was dipping lower, casting a golden haze across the grass. She slowly lowered herself to the ground, legs curling up against her chest, and just… breathed.
It was all overwhelming. The competitions, the expectations, the pressure. Four trophies on the line, League Cup, FA Cup, WSL, Champions League. Every single one felt like a weight strapped to her shoulders. Yes, there were breaks, but they were strategic, calculated. Mandatory rests to stop players burning out. Still, the reality was brutal: a game every three days, tournament-style, for months was not sustainable.
Izzy stared out over the empty goalposts. This was everything she’d ever wanted, and yet it was exhausting.
She stayed like that until the sky shifted into deeper shades of orange and purple, and she noticed staff members clearing up cones and packing away equipment. With a sigh, she got to her feet, brushing grass off her legs, and headed for the changing rooms.
As she reached for her shower bag, she spotted her phone buzzing on top of her kit, three missed calls from Emily, her agent.
Frowning, she dialed back. “Emily? What’s going on?” she asked, grabbing her towel and wash bag.
“Where are you? I’m going to pick you up. We need to talk,” Emily’s voice came through fast, clipped.
“Uh… I’m at the training grounds? What’s going on?” Izzy asked again, her stomach tightening.
Emily didn’t answer, just ended the call. Izzy groaned, knowing there’d be no point calling back. She showered quickly, tugging her hair into a messy bun, and stepped outside into the cool evening air to wait on the stone steps.
Minutes later, Emily’s blue Ford swung into the car park, the engine humming impatiently. Izzy tossed her training bag into the back and climbed in.
“Is this going to take long? Kind of have a big match tomorrow,” she muttered, still slightly damp from her rushed shower.
“I swear I haven’t said anything online,” she added quickly, nerves bubbling up. “I’ve only been focused on football… I’ve been sticking to your media training.”
Emily didn’t answer, just tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as they drove, which only made Izzy more restless.
They eventually pulled up outside a small coffee shop tucked away on a quiet street. Inside, the warm smell of roasted beans filled the air, and a few customers sat hunched over laptops or chatting quietly. Emily offered to get her a drink, but Izzy shook her head, too curious, and slightly worried, to settle.
Emily sat down opposite her, leaning forward.
“Sarina Wiegman called,” she said plainly.
Izzy’s brain stumbled over the name, her emotions tripping from confusion to shock to something dangerously close to joy.
“She wants you training as soon as the season’s over,” Emily continued, eyes bright. “She wants you in Switzerland in July.”
Izzy’s hands were trembling under the table. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” she whispered, mindful of the café’s hushed atmosphere.
Emily shook her head, smiling like she’d been dying to share the news.
“I’m gonna be a Lioness?” Izzy breathed, almost afraid to say it out loud.
Another smile from Emily. No words needed.
Izzy leaned back in her chair, heart pounding, as it hit her, all the pain, the recovery, the frustration… it might actually be leading somewhere bigger than she’d dared to imagine.
-
Izzy went into the match the next day riding a high. News of her England call-up still buzzed in her chest, making her feel lighter on her feet, sharper in her movements. But football had a cruel way of reminding you that joy was temporary. When you were at the top, it was only a matter of time before the ground shifted beneath you.
They lost the League Cup final to Chelsea by one goal.
The sting was worse because she’d been part of the problem, a reckless, unnecessary tackle in the tenth minute that earned her a blinding yellow card and set up Chelsea’s opening goal. From there, the game seemed to slide away from them.
By half-time, the team’s focus had cracked. Passes went astray, the pressing was half-hearted. They found a moment of hope with an equaliser, but in the 77th minute disaster struck, an own goal that silenced their supporters and sealed their fate.
When she finally got to her hotel room, Izzy didn’t bother taking off her coat before collapsing face-first onto the bed. Her first competition final… gone in a puff of smoke.
Worse still, the heartbreak didn’t stop there. Just over a week later, Chelsea knocked them out of the Champions League in the second leg of the quarterfinal. They’d lost on goal difference from the first game, a margin that made the defeat even harder to swallow.
And April? April was brutal.
Manchester United sent them out of the FA Cup in the semi-final. In the league, their points total made it clear: no trophies this year. Manchester City would end the season in fourth place.
But even in the wreckage of the season, Izzy had something to hold on to. The Euros 2025. She clung to it like a lifeline. If she could make the England squad win, she’d do it, even if it meant bleeding for every minute on the pitch.
The final whistle of the season came with bittersweet smiles. The girls had a night out together, toasting not to the season that was, but to the one that could be. Promises were made over cocktails and laughter: next season would be better.
-
Accommodation was already sorted for Izzy in Staffordshire, at St George’s Park, England’s training ground. She arrived early, wanting to settle in. This place would be her home for over a month before the squad travelled to Switzerland.
One evening, she sat alone in her hotel room, watching the Champions League final on the TV. Arsenal lifted the trophy, and to her surprise, tears pricked her eyes, happy ones. Alessia stood centre-stage in the celebrations, her smile wide, her voice wavering with emotion in post-match interviews despite the attempts at remaining calm.
Izzy picked up her phone.
Congratulations, you deserved that more than anyone x
She didn’t expect an instant reply, Alessia would be busy celebrating, but that didn’t matter. Izzy just wanted her to know she was proud.
The next morning brought her first official meeting with Sarina. The conference room felt colder than it should have been, its walls lined with framed jerseys and photos from past England campaigns. Izzy sat with Emily, her agent, across from Sarina and two other coaches. Papers were spread out on the table, contracts, schedules, travel plans, but Izzy’s curiosity eventually got the better of her.
“Forgive me for my forwardness,” she began carefully, “but can I ask? Why now? I’ve never been in the England squad, not the under-15s, 17s, 19s, 20s, or 21s. I’ve never even been to an England camp. And now, suddenly, I get called up for the Euros?”
Sarina folded her hands, meeting Izzy’s gaze.
“Honestly? You’ve been on the list since you were fifteen, Isabelle. Do you remember your first match for the under-17s with Man City? You got into a physical fight with a player from Man United. It’s why you never got called for the under-17s or 19s. After your father died, you weren’t the same player. We needed to make sure you were okay, mentally, before calling you up.
“This season, you’ve overcome so much: your first time starting, your injury, loss after loss. We think you’ll be an asset to this team… but only if you choose to be.”
The words hit her somewhere deep. She looked down at her hands, swallowing hard. They were right, she hadn’t been the same since her dad died. She’d been a kid who lost her anchor, trying to play through the grief without understanding it.
Sarina’s voice cut through her thoughts. “I know you play 23, but that number goes to Russo. With Aggie Beever-Jones out injured, 19 is free, however, Lauren James wants that number. So you’ll be playing as number 7. You won’t start, but I want you alongside Chloe Kelly and Michelle Agyemang as super-subs. Your role is to come on and make a difference.”
Izzy stood, shaking Sarina’s hand firmly. “I won’t let you down.”
-
A week passed in a blur of quiet preparation before the rest of the squad began to arrive in town.
By 6:00 a.m., Izzy was already awake, her morning coffee long gone and her training bag slung over her shoulder. She got to St George’s Park just after 8:00, the place still silent, dew clinging to the grass under a pale morning sun. The air was cool, the kind of air that wakes you up better than caffeine.
No one else was there yet, but she didn’t mind. Being early meant she could have the pitch to herself, could get her feet moving and her mind sharpened before the noise of the day began. She set up a row of cones and started running dribbling drills, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the ball keeping time with her breathing.
Her focus broke when a high-pitched scream cut through the stillness.
Before she could react, Khiara Keating barreled into her from the side, arms wrapping her in a bone-crushing hug.
“Why didn’t you tell me you got the call?!” Khiara practically shouted in her ear.
Izzy laughed, trying not to fall over. “I haven’t known for long. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Well, it’s a nice surprise,” Khiara grinned, pulling back just as Hempo arrived to join in the hugs.
Lauren James sauntered over, smirking. “We need some more frontline talent, some of these lot are getting old.”
Beth Mead’s hand smacked Lauren’s back with a sharp thwack, earning a yelp and a round of laughter.
As more players filtered in, the pitch began to hum with chatter and energy. Izzy wandered over to the bench, grabbing her water bottle and frowning at her phone.
“Hey,” came a voice beside her.
She looked up and felt her eyes widen slightly, Alessia Russo was standing there, sunlight catching on her blonde hair.
Before Izzy could even respond, Alessia stepped forward and wrapped her in a warm, effortless hug.
“It’s nice being on the same team for once,” Alessia said, pulling back with an easy smile. “Congrats on the call-up.”
“Thank you. It was… a little unexpected but not unwelcome,” Izzy replied, glancing down at her phone again, the same frustration creeping back into her face.
“Everything okay?” Alessia asked, brows knitting in mild concern.
“Yeah, my sensor’s being stupid. I’m gonna have to go change it,” Izzy muttered.
“Oh! I can come with you if you want,” the blonde offered.
Izzy hesitated, usually she’d say no, but there was something disarming about Alessia’s openness. She nodded instead.
They walked into the changing room together, the muffled sounds of the rest of the team carrying in from the pitch. Izzy rummaged through her bag until she found a replacement sensor, then sat on the bench and lifted her sleeve, peeling the old one away.
“Does it hurt?” Alessia asked, watching with open curiosity.
“A little,” Izzy admitted, “but it’s been my life since I was a kid, so I’m used to it. The worst is when it gets ripped off during a game. Happened a few times.” She laughed lightly, cleaning the area with a sterile wipe.
“During games, they have my live blood sugars on an iPad with a coach constantly watching. They always find a way to pause the game discreetly so I can get some sugar and carbs,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips.
Alessia’s expression softened, her gaze warm.
“Oh, and congrats on your Champions League win,” Izzy added as she pressed the new sensor into place. “An intense game, but very deserved. I could tell it meant a lot to you.”
“Thanks,” Alessia said, her voice dipping slightly. “It’s… it has been my dream since I was a kid. The thing I was most passionate about.” She tilted her head. “Why don’t you tell people about your diabetes? I feel like you could inspire a lot of kids to get into football.”
Izzy paused, the smile fading into something more thoughtful. “When I was a kid, I was told constantly I’d never make it anywhere in football, the risk of a hypo on the pitch was too high, the fact I’d need insulin if my sugar spiked… all of it. Even now, some coaches comment on it, confused about how I even got here.
“If I tell the fans, they’ll just use it to explain my weaknesses. I don’t want diabetes to be an excuse. I want to be strong. Prove that diabetes isn’t the only thing about me.”
Her voice had gained an edge of fire by the end, her eyes locking on Alessia’s.
“Perhaps that’s why you should tell them,” Alessia said quietly. “To prove you’re strong despite the fact you have diabetes.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” Izzy said after a moment, a small smile returning as she stood. “We should get back out there.”
Alessia nodded, following her back onto the pitch. The rest of the morning was a grind, gruelling drills, sharp passes, and a relentless 5K run for all the forwards. Sarina’s reasoning was simple: they’d be the ones covering the most ground in matches, so they’d better be ready for it.
-
That evening, the hotel’s quiet hum was broken by a sharp knock at Izzy’s door. She’d just been lying on her bed scrolling aimlessly through her phone, hair still damp from her shower.
When she opened the door, Hempo stood there with a knowing grin, one hand already on Izzy’s arm.
“Come on,” Hempo said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The girls are downstairs in the bar. Call it team building, you get to know everyone.”
Before Izzy could protest, she was already being shepherded down the carpeted hallway.
The bar had a low, warm glow to it, voices carrying in overlapping bursts of laughter and chatter. Players clustered in small groups, some leaning against the counter with pints, others sunk into deep leather armchairs. The faint scent of beer and perfume mingled in the air.
Izzy ended up on a small couch squeezed against one wall, next to Hannah Hampton. The blonde goalkeeper had her hair up, a half-finished drink in hand.
“I was wondering if you’d be interested in some extra practice with me in the future,” Izzy said, leaning in slightly so her voice carried over the room’s background noise. “I do it with the goalkeepers at Man City. Just shooting drills, nothing crazy. They say it helps them with the saving part too.”
Hannah hummed thoughtfully, taking a slow sip from her glass. “Yeah. I’d like that,” she said with an easy nod. “First time being number one, I’m terrified.” A small smile played on her lips as she said it, as though admitting it out loud made it feel lighter.
Khiara slid into the space between them a moment later, her arm pressing against Izzy’s side as she cuddled in without hesitation. Izzy grinned, it was a familiar, comforting weight.
The three chatted idly about training schedules and travel plans, the conversation broken now and then by shouts and laughter from across the room.
A particularly loud burst made Izzy’s eyes drift in that direction. Alessia Russo and Ella Toone were doubled over in laughter, Alessia holding out her phone so Tooney could see something on the screen. The blonde’s laugh was unrestrained, bright in a way that lit up her whole face.
Izzy found herself watching a little too long.
Khiara noticed, her gaze following Izzy’s before she leaned in just enough to speak quietly. “I’m pretty sure she’s straight.”
Izzy blinked, tearing her eyes away and clearing her throat. “Oh, uh- no. She was just there when I had my injury. She’s really kind, that’s all.”
Khiara raised an eyebrow, her look saying more than words. Izzy shifted uncomfortably, wishing the heat in her face would fade faster.
Before Khiara could reply, Grace Clinton appeared out of nowhere, practically tripping over her own feet as she grabbed Izzy’s hand. “Come on! Newbie’s doing a TikTok with me,” she declared, already dragging her toward the open space by the bar.
“What?!” Izzy laughed, stumbling after her.
The two of them giggled through the filming of some ridiculous trend, Grace holding the phone at arm’s length while they pulled exaggerated faces and danced in barely coordinated moves.
What Izzy didn’t notice, what she couldn’t see over the music and laughter, was that, across the room, Alessia Russo had looked up from her phone. Her eyes found Izzy, watching her laugh freely for the first time all night. And for just a moment, Alessia’s smile softened into something softer.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A cracking 4–0 win against Tottenham Hotspur, and Izzy had bagged two goals , bringing her total to six this season. The adrenaline was still buzzing in her veins. Six wins in a row, starting every game, and whispers starting to float around the stadium, “the star girl” . Maybe they were right. Maybe she would be the difference that pushed Man City to glory this year. She’d waited so long for her break, and now she was finally taking it.
Right until the last minute.
A poorly timed tackle. A tangle of legs. The ground rushed up at her.
She hit the pitch hard and stayed down. She always got up… Always, but this time… she couldn’t.
-
Tears streamed down her face in the treatment room, her kit damp with sweat and grass stains. The words MCL tear were being tossed around in serious, clipped voices. Surgery was mentioned once, like a threat hanging in the air. Her heart sank. This could be it. Her season, gone in a single moment.
Khiara drove her home, hovering like only a best friend could. She sat with her for a couple of hours, filling the silence with gentle reassurance, until Izzy finally convinced her to go home.
-
That night, Izzy curled up on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a tub of ice cream in one hand and a spoon in the other. The TV flickered with the bright, empty drama of Love Island reruns. She was barely watching, tears prickling again.
Her phone buzzed.
She groaned. Another glucose alert, probably. But when she glanced at the screen, her frown deepened. It wasn’t her CGM, it was Instagram.
Message request from Alessia Russo.
Her eyebrows shot up. They’d only met briefly at that Arsenal game. Why was Alessia Russo messaging her?
Hey, I saw what happened at the Tottenham game. Hope you’re okay.
It was short. Polite. Izzy stared at it for a second before typing back, keeping it neutral.
MCL tear, don’t know how severe but hurts like a bitch. Thanks for your concern.
The reply came almost instantly.
I’m so sorry. I know how it feels, tore my hamstring in my first season with Man U, took me out the rest of the season, I was distraught. Hopefully your tear is only mild and you can be back after Christmas.
Izzy read the message with the spoon still in her mouth, her brow furrowed.
That must’ve sucked.
It did.
Three dots popped up again.
If you want to talk, I’m always here.
Izzy hesitated. Part of her warmed at the thoughtfulness. The other part wondered, was this genuine, or some weird mind game? Was someone putting her up to this?
In the end, she typed a simple:
Thank you.
The conversation ended there… or so she thought.
One last ping.
Alessia Russo is following you.
Izzy followed back, still confused, and tossed her phone aside. She laid down right there on the sofa, unwilling to hobble to her bed.
-
The next morning, loud banging rattled her door.
She groaned and forced herself upright, pain spiking through her knee as she limped over.
When she opened it, she was met with Khiara’s unimpressed face.
“Khiara? What are you doing here?” Izzy grumbled.
“Team doctors wanna see you,” Khiara said matter-of-factly. “Gareth put me up to the task of getting you there.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are those yesterday’s clothes?”
“Yes they are, I’m miserable,” Izzy groaned, limping away from the door without even trying to hide her sulk. Her knee throbbed with every uneven step. Khiara followed her inside, letting the door swing shut behind them.
“Come on, get changed, we’ve gotta go,” the goalkeeper ordered, brushing past her and heading straight for Izzy’s room like she owned the place. She rummaged through the wardrobe with purpose.
“I don’t want to,” Izzy shot back, voice flat, like a teenager being told to clean her room.
That earned her a sharp, narrowed-eyed look from Khiara — the kind that made it very clear she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
-
Forty-five minutes later, Izzy found herself back in the treatment room, lying on the familiar padded bed. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and sports tape, the steady hum of the MRI machine in the background as they put her through test after test . Her knee was twisted, prodded, flexed; she bit back more than one hiss of pain.
Finally, the doctor straightened, removing his gloves with a snap.
“Okay, good news,” he said, and Izzy’s chest tightened in anticipation. “You have a grade two tear. Recovery time is about four to six weeks. You’ll wear a brace for four weeks, and I’m prescribing you these pain medications. Ice it every hour except when sleeping, plenty of rest, keep to your nutritionist plan, and maintain upper body work. We’ll review in four weeks and start physio. You should be back on the pitch after Christmas.”
The words washed over her like warm water. Back after Christmas. Relief loosened the knot in her stomach. Her season wasn’t over. Not yet.
-
That night, Izzy sat on the sofa, her leg propped up on a pile of cushions, the bulky black brace like a constant reminder of what she’d lost. The TV murmured in the background, forgotten. Her phone was in her hand, thumb hovering over Alessia’s name in her DMs.
She hesitated, it felt strange to reach out first, but eventually she sighed and typed:
Grade 2 tear. Should be back after Christmas.
Then came the waiting. She told herself she wasn’t going to stare at her phone, but somehow she still checked it every five minutes, half-annoyed at herself for caring so much.
The reply, when it came, was simple, but it still made her smile.
You’ll be back to being their star girl soon enough.
-
The next match gutted her.
Against Chelsea, she could only watch from home, buried under a blanket that was pulled up to her chin. She kept shifting on the sofa like maybe, if she sat differently, it wouldn’t hurt so much to be on the sidelines. They lost 2–0. First loss of the season. And she hadn’t been there to fight for them.
That night, she FaceTimed Khiara. The goalkeeper’s face filled the screen, hair damp from a post-match shower, eyes heavy.
“How’s your leg?” Khiara asked.
“It’s alright. A bit sore,” Izzy hummed, trying to keep her voice neutral. “How’re you holding up after today?”
“The team’s down. With you and Lauren out, they’re struggling,” Khiara admitted.
“This sucks. So much,” Izzy muttered, letting out a long sigh.
“You’ll be back soon, scoring goals for us soon enough. And you’ll be coming out with me,” Khiara grinned suddenly.
“You know I don’t drink during the season,” Izzy said, deadpan.
“You’re gonna give that up soon enough. What happens if you get called for the Lionesses for the Euros this year? You’re not gonna drink at all this year?” Khiara challenged.
“I’m not getting called up, Khiara. I’ve never played for them in their Euros campaign or been to any England camps,” Izzy scoffed, the words heavier than she meant them to be.
Khiara only hummed in response, like she knew something Izzy didn’t. They said their goodnights, and Izzy lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a while before finally sleeping.
-
December dragged like a weighted blanket.
She missed a league win, then another league loss. Worse, she missed four Champions League matches. Watching from the sidelines was torture.
Izzy had two dreams: wear the Lionesses shirt, and lift the Champions League trophy. This injury had put both in jeopardy, and the frustration boiled under her skin daily.
Still, there was a silver lining. The team scraped through the Champions League group stage without her. If her rehab went perfectly, she could be back in March for the quarter-finals. That thought, that tiny, bright possibility, was the thing she clung to.
When Christmas came around, Izzy once again found herself alone in her flat, fifth year in a row. She’d told her teammates the same line she always did: her family didn’t celebrate Christmas, so she didn’t mind being on her own. It was easier than admitting the truth. She didn’t want to intrude on anyone’s family traditions, didn’t want to be the awkward guest hovering on the edges of someone else’s joy.
So, like every other year, she settled in with the usual plan, pyjamas all day, a rotation of trashy holiday movies, and takeaway she’d eat straight from the carton. But this Christmas, she let herself do one thing differently.
She picked up her phone and opened Alessia’s DMs. Staring at the blank message box for longer than she’d like to admit, she finally typed two words:
Merry Christmas.
The reply came quickly, warm in its simplicity.
-
After weeks of gruelling, sometimes frustrating, physio sessions, Izzy finally convinced the coaching staff she was ready to step back onto the pitch.
Her first match back was on January 12th, FA Cup against Ipswich. No starting position, they weren’t willing to risk a full ninety minutes just yet, but when her name was called in the 70th minute, the roar from the crowd was deafening.
Six minutes later, she found the back of the net. Miedema’s assist had been perfect, but the rush of scoring, the way it spread heat through her chest and pushed away all the doubts, that was all her.
When she got home, still riding the high, she saw a message from Alessia waiting.
She’s back.
Izzy sent back a heart emoji. She didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.
-
January 19th brought Manchester United. Izzy was subbed on in the 80th minute, deployed as a late “super sub,” but the score was already 2–4. She ran hard, pressed harder, but couldn’t claw them back into the match.
Her first start came on February 6th… against Arsenal.
She woke to the soft light creeping in through her blinds and a message waiting on her phone.
Good luck today.
She sent back a quick You too , then set her phone down. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not today. This was the semi-final of the League Cup, the kind of match careers were made in, and she was determined to prove she was back for good.
The lineup had her at left wing instead of her usual striker role. She didn’t mind. Mary Fowler was an excellent, more experienced forward, it made sense she’d take the central spot. And honestly, Izzy was relieved not to be facing McCabe directly again. Her body still remembered that last collision all too well.
Lauren was still sidelined, her knee injury worse than Izzy’s. It stung not to have her there. They worked so well together on the pitch.
She went through her usual pre-match routine, the rhythm of it settling her nerves. Then came the walk out, the smell of freshly cut grass and cold February air filling her lungs. She did her two side jumps for luck.
Looking across the pitch, her eyes found Alessia’s. The grin they exchanged said everything, friendly rivalry, quiet challenge.
May the best 23 win.
-
The whistle blew. Arsenal wasted no time going on the attack, but Izzy was flying, covering ground like she’d never been injured. She tracked back, sprinted forward, and when Alessia had the ball near the sideline, Izzy pounced.
She closed the gap fast, shoulder to shoulder with the striker, feeling the resistance in Alessia’s stance as she tried to shield the ball.
“You’re gonna lose the ball,” Izzy teased, breath warm in the cold air.
With her back to Izzy, Alessia tried to muscle her out of the way, but the ball rolled a fraction too far. A clumsy touch, and it was over the line.
Izzy snatched it for the throw-in, a small, satisfied smirk playing on her lips.
Izzy and Alessia had fallen into a rhythm, a fast-paced, almost playful game of cat and mouse. One would win the ball, the other would snatch it back, and so it went, over and over. The rivalry was real, but the smiles were too. Every time they tangled for possession, there was a flash of amusement in both of their eyes.
Then, midway through a run, Alessia clipped Izzy’s ankle. The contact wasn’t malicious, more clumsy than anything, but it was enough to send Izzy tumbling to the turf.
“Are you okay?” Alessia asked immediately, already leaning down to haul her back to her feet.
“Yeah, I’m good, promise,” Izzy replied with a quick smile, brushing herself off. “I would’ve done the same.”
Alessia’s grin was quick, almost relieved, before the whistle pulled them back into the game.
At twenty-six minutes, Izzy saw her opening. She sprinted into the box, ball at her feet, but a defender stuck to her like glue, blocking every path to goal. Thinking fast, she flicked the ball back into space. Mary Fowler didn’t hesitate, her strike was clean and true, curling into the top right corner. The stadium roared as their team took the lead. Izzy allowed herself a moment to savour it, an assist wasn’t a goal, but it was just as satisfying.
Half-time came with a blur of shouted instructions, stat sheets shoved into hands, and sharp, clipped pep talks. Izzy soaked it all in, her focus narrowing to a single thought, they could win this.
When the second half began, her chance came early. A perfect through ball, the keeper charging, she hit it well, but the save was better.
“Next time,” she muttered under her breath, jogging back to position, forcing herself not to dwell on it.
Fifty-eight minutes in, disaster struck. A defensive error in their own box gifted Arsenal a penalty. Caldentey converted with ease. 1–1.
Izzy felt the air go heavy in her lungs. Winning the League Cup at 21 would be huge for her career. Lose here, and it is over. She kept pushing, but frustration crept in with every blocked shot and intercepted pass. When McCabe was subbed on, the tension doubled. Without Alex there to calm her, Izzy could feel the edges of her composure fraying.
As a long ball was set to be launched, McCabe nudged into her back.
“Don’t fall this time,” Katie taunted.
Izzy rolled her eyes, leaping for the ball anyway. She brought it down cleanly and took off, leaving McCabe chasing shadows. But still, no breakthrough, every attack snuffed out before it could turn into something more.
Play stopped when an Arsenal player went down with a cramp. Both sides jogged to their benches for water and quick fixes. Izzy grabbed a caffeine gel, noting with mild relief that it had sugar, her monitor had been telling her she was dipping slightly.
Mary slid in beside her. “I need you to foul Russo.”
Izzy blinked. “What? No.”
“She’s on my ass every time. If you want to win, foul her. She’ll expect a long ball — I’ll be there for the return.”
Izzy thought about it. On the pitch minutes later, the perfect moment came. Alessia had the ball, Izzy in range for a clean slide tackle that would stop her dead. But her instincts screamed no, fouling her felt wrong. She let her go. Alessia nearly scored.
Izzy knew she’d hear about that later.
Five minutes into injury time, her chance came. Winning a duel for the ball, she exploded down the left wing, wind biting at her cheeks. No one could catch her. In her peripheral vision, she saw someone closing in, fast. She whipped a cross into the box just before they collided, bodies hitting the ground with a dull thud.
The crowd erupted.
Mary had scored.
Izzy sat up, throwing her arms skyward, before noticing McCabe sprawled beside her, groaning. The whistle blew for full-time. They’d done it.
Alessia appeared, offering her hand to pull Izzy upright. Izzy took it, and then froze when the blonde began peeling off her shirt. Her face heated instantly, and she looked away quickly, praying no one caught the blush.
“23 for 23,” Alessia said softly, holding out her shirt.
“Uh, I’ve got my sensor on my arm. Can you just… stand in the way so they don’t see it?” Izzy murmured.
Alessia nodded, her expression unreadable, as Izzy slipped off her own shirt and made the swap.
“Red looks good on you,” Alessia smirked.
Izzy’s gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary before Mary came barreling over, draping an arm around her shoulders.
“Oi, Russo, stop trying to poach our star girl!” the Australian shouted, dragging Izzy away with a grin.
From behind them came Alessia’s voice, carrying over the noise.
“Good luck in the final!”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Isabelle Fielding, Man City’s number 23, is a star on the rise. But with a tragic past and a secret battle off the pitch, will chasing glory lead to triumph, or heartbreak?
An Alessia Russo x Original Female Character love story
Chapter 1: Bruises and Breakthroughs
“Over here!” Lauren Hemp shouted across the pitch to Isabelle ‘Izzy’ Fielding as the 21-year-old sprinted down the left side with the ball. Izzy glanced up just long enough to see Hemp’s signal and crossed perfectly into the centre of the box, where Hempo was waiting. The striker didn’t hesitate, she kicked the ball hard and fast straight into the back of the net. Izzy smiled, wiping sweat from her brow, feeling that rush of satisfaction.
Izzy’s journey to the WSL hadn’t been straightforward. She started playing football at age four alongside her two older brothers for the Winchester City Flyers. She tried every position on the pitch until she was twelve when Queens Park Rangers scouted her as a goalkeeper. But at fifteen, during a training match, she showed her knack for scoring goals, the coaches took notice. After one season playing forward, Man City women’s academy picked her up. With plenty of hard work, goals, and practice, she made it to the team. Still young, still hungry, currently a super sub, but determined to become the star. Number 23 on her back.
But none of it came easy.
At 16, after moving to Manchester and living in a cramped, barely affordable flat, Izzy found out her dad had died. Worse, she didn’t go to the funeral. Her family never spoke to her again. Suddenly, she was alone in a new city. Sure, she had people, Lauren Hemp was like an older sister. Alex Greenwood kept her grounded. Khiara Keating was the party best friend. But during holidays like Christmas, loneliness hits hardest. Everyone else went home. Izzy stayed.
It’s a hole I can’t fill. No matter how hard I try, she thought, the ache was always there beneath the surface.
“Fielding! Can we have a word?” Gareth Taylor’s voice cut through her thoughts. The team groaned and teased, but Izzy rolled her eyes and jogged over to the edge of the pitch, grabbing her water bottle.
“How can I help you, boss?” she grinned, though her heart was already racing.
“Do you think you’re ready to start on Sunday against Arsenal?” Gareth asked, arms crossed, his eyes serious.
“Are you serious?” Izzy blinked in shock.
He just nodded.
Starting? Right from the whistle? Her heart pounded, equal parts excited and terrified.
“Holy shit, I won’t let you down!” she said, throwing her water bottle aside and pulling the man into a quick hug. He looked uncomfortable, but she didn’t care.
-
The team headed to London by coach for their first game of the season, buzzing with energy and determination after finishing second last year. This season, they wanted the top spot.
Izzy had a strict pre-match routine. She woke early, did yoga while the news played quietly on the TV, then hit the gym for a light workout — enough to stay loose but not tire herself out. Breakfast was always Weetabix with fruit. Then came the stadium walk: a moment to mentally prepare, soaking in the atmosphere before the game.
Meetings followed, then the changing rooms. Music blasted as she slipped into the bright yellow away kit. Her signature move? Writing “power” in tiny letters on her right sock with a Sharpie, a small reminder she carried onto the pitch.
She settled into her cubby, eyes closed, blocking everything out until the warm-up began.
Usually, she’d sit on the bench, waiting to be subbed on. Not this time. This time, she was starting.
Standing on the pitch before kickoff felt strange, almost surreal. But Izzy wore a calm smile. The team shook hands, and she did her two side jumps for luck, a little ritual before every game.
The whistle blew.
Game on.
In the first three minutes, Izzy had her chance. Charging down the wing, she leapt over Wubben-Moy’s tackle attempt, but as she swung her foot to shoot, it slipped and the ball flew into the crowd.
Shake it off, she told herself, backing up for the goal kick.
Then, five minutes later, Maanum scored. Arsenal took the lead 1-0. Frustration bubbled inside Izzy, but she pushed it down. She had to keep going.
Man City fought back, but Arsenal’s defense held strong. When a minor injury paused the game, Izzy scanned the field, analyzing the opposition. She knew McCabe’s temper and planned accordingly.
When play resumed, Izzy rushed down the right flank again. Facing McCabe, she smirked, teasing her left then right, making the defender chase shadows for almost twenty seconds. Finally, McCabe shoved her, giving Izzy a foul.
“Thanks for that,” Izzy said with a grin.
McCabe turned, but a teammate held her back.
Izzy stepped up for the free kick, sending a precise cross into the box. Miedema met it with a powerful header, goal. 1-1.
At halftime, the team congratulated her. A pat on the back here, a nod there. Jess Park caught her eye.
Izzy sat beside her. “Arsenal will come out attacking hard. Alex’s on Blackstenius. You run down the side and cross it to me when I give the signal, just like in practice.”
Jess nodded.
And it worked.
Jess’s pass found Izzy, who faced Codina. A voice shouted, “Get Fielding!” but it was too late. Izzy curled the ball into the top corner, her first goal of the season.
She slid on her knees, grinning as the team piled on.
1-2.
Arsenal responded quickly, subbing in Alessia Russo and Beth Mead at 63 minutes. Both made Izzy nervous, both talented and dangerous.
City shifted to defense, aiming to protect the lead.
Russo broke through once, but Izzy timed a tackle perfectly, knocking the ball loose and tripping the striker. The crowd called for a penalty, but the ref waved play on.
“Sorry bout’ that,” Izzy said, helping Russo to her feet.
“Nice tackle,” Russo replied before running to take her position for the corner.
Both teams fought hard, but at 81 minutes, Beth Mead slipped free and scored a stunning goal.
Izzy’s heart thudded. Hands on her head, she tried to stay composed.
Yellow cards flew around City like confetti. Izzy couldn’t risk one, not in her first start.
So she played it safe.
Then, in the 90th minute, an opening.
She took it.
And then… a shove.
A sharp pain flared in her leg.
Izzy turned, furious, face-to-face with Katie McCabe.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me? What was that?!” Izzy pushed forward, getting in McCabe’s face.
Just as McCabe opened her mouth to reply, Izzy felt a hand yank her shirt.
Expecting Alex, Izzy spun, but it was Alessia Russo.
“Don’t get a yellow on your first game,” Russo warned.
Alex rushed over, grabbing Izzy by the shoulders, holding her face.
“Calm down. We got a free kick,” Alex said firmly.
“Yeah, but she didn’t get a fucking yellow, did she?!” Izzy slammed her fists.
“Brush it off, Fielding. I mean it,” Alex warned again before pulling away.
The free kick went nowhere.
The match ended 2-2.
Izzy stormed into the changing rooms, angry.
She showered fast, changed, ready to leave.
“Fielding! The press want a conference about the match with Alex,” Gareth Taylor called out.
Izzy groaned but knew the job came with the territory.
At the press table, Alex rubbed Izzy’s shoulder, offering quiet support.
“Congrats on your first goal as a starting team member, Isabelle,” a reporter said, flashing cameras.
“Thanks,” Izzy replied smoothly, trying to hide her nerves.
“It was an impressive goal. What were you thinking?” another asked.
Izzy looked at the sponsor logos on the table, gathering herself.
“As you know, Arsenal are big rivals. We came second last season, so we wanted to prove we can win. We were drawing at halftime, and Jess and I made a plan. It worked. I saw my moment, and I took it,” Izzy explained.
Another reporter asked, “Towards the end, Katie McCabe fouled you hard. Can you talk about that?”
Izzy glanced at her agent who was shaking her head, media training kicking in.
She cleared her throat. “Sometimes referee decisions are questionable. It can frustrate any player who wants to win. I have no hard feelings towards Katie McCabe.”
A third reporter added, “Alessia Russo pulled you away from the situation, which is unusual from an opponent.”
Izzy nodded. “Alessia reminded me what was important, but Alex calmed me down. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. I have no hard feelings towards the Arsenal players.”
The rest of the questions were for Alex, who was, as always, professional.
“Final question: what are your thoughts for the season?” a reporter asked.
Izzy smiled, feeling her phone buzz in her pocket.
“This is my first time starting, and I intend to win. We’ll come out on top as a team,” she said firmly, pushing the mic away and standing.
Outside the conference room, she checked her phone.
Alert from her glucose monitor: levels high.
She sighed, running a hand through her hair.
First start, first goal, a draw against Arsenal... Izzy thought, Now, time to work harder.
Izzy sighed, the familiar ache of a headache creeping in, the unwelcome side effect of her high blood sugar. All she wanted now was to go home, to her quiet space where she could rest and recharge. But first, she had to deal with this.
She stepped into the empty changing room, the silence stark after the chaos of the match. Alex had already gone home, leaving Izzy alone with her thoughts. She reached into her bag, fingers fumbling until they found the small insulin pen. Carefully, she checked the dose, making sure it was just right before then injecting herself, wincing slightly as the needle did its work.
Just as she was packing everything away, the door creaked open.
“Oh, sorry. I thought everyone had gone,” came a familiar voice.
Izzy glanced up to see Alessia Russo standing in the doorway, eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. Instantly, Izzy tucked the insulin pen into her bag, forcing a neutral expression.
“I’m on my way out,” Izzy said quickly, grabbing her bag and moving towards the door.
Russo’s voice stopped her.
“I’d be careful… the WPLL are really strict on drugs,” she said casually, watching Izzy’s reaction.
Izzy froze, blinking in disbelief.
“You think I was just doing drugs in the changing rooms?” she snorted, a laugh escaping despite the exhaustion and frustration.
The taller blonde looked a little uncomfortable now.
“I mean, it was a needle and…” Russo started.
Izzy cut her off immediately, voice firm but calm. “I’m diabetic. It was my insulin. It’s not really public knowledge because it’s seen as a weakness in football. But… Thanks for your concern.”
She rolled her eyes and started to walk away.
Behind her, a quiet, almost hesitant, “Sorry,” floated through the air.
Izzy couldn’t help but laugh softly under her breath before heading out.
-
Later that night, back at the hotel, Izzy eased into the ice bath, the cold water a sharp contrast to the throbbing pain in her leg. She stared down at the large bruise shaped like boot studs, a mark left by Katie McCabe’s tackle during the game.
A low groan escaped her lips.
The ice stung her skin, but it was a small price to pay for recovery. Her mind drifted back to the match, replaying the moments where everything had felt so alive and charged. The adrenaline, the cheers, the frustration…it was addictive. But the bruise on her leg was a raw reminder of the physical cost.
One day, she thought with quiet determination. I’ll get her back.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
You were hyper aware of yourself as you walked through the parking lot. Most of the team had already flown in, but your mother had been insistent on driving you to your first day of camp on the senior team. They were coming off of a Euros win, and despite being such a well rounded team, they still seemed to want you. Admittedly, you had shown out in your last tournament, which your former teammates, friends, and family had insisted that had more than earned you this call up.
The reminder that despite your age, you had put the work in to get here was good for your mentality. You were still trying very hard to make a good impression on your new teammates. They were two time Euro champions after all, and you didn't want them to look at you like a giant baby. It was only recently that your parents had even agreed to let you attend a team academy, so it wasn't like you had actually been around any of them before in much capacity.
"(Y/n), you're early. I was just about to send a car for you," Sarina greeted you. She was the first one that you had met with, and after a lengthy conversation with your parents and a handful of other coaches, it had been decided that this would be your first camp. The matches were small friendlies, ones that Sarina thought you should be around to see up close. You wouldn't play for several camps, but she wanted you to practice as much as you could with the team.
"Thank you, Coach Wiegman." You bowed your head down towards your coach. You were a few inches shorter than her, but your doctors all believed that you had one more growth spurt in you. Out of the girls on your youth team, you were one of the tallest, but you knew that you'd feel much smaller once you got to playing with the professionals.
"Please, call me Sarina. Everyone else does in casual settings like this. I don't know how they ran things on your other team, but you can relax a little here. It does my players no good to be so wound up," Sarinatold you. You wanted to take her advice, but you genuinely weren't sure if it was actually possible for you to calm down. "The bellhop will take your bags, go mingle in the meeting room with the girls. You'll be seeing a lot of them this week, and find Keira, she'll be your roommate this time around."
"Yes ma'am," you said as you rushed off through the lobby. You handed your bags over to the man with the luggage cart, who seemed very amused with the way you zipped around. Sarina couldn't help but crack a smile as she watched you as well. You pushed on towards the meeting area without a second thought, only stopping once you opened the door. It was your first real record scratch moment. Your heart raced as you stood in front of your entire team, all of whom were staring at you. There was a quick pause before you had two women at your sides, guiding you into the room.
"Oh my god, they said you were coming from the youth teams, but you look so young. Come on, Kei is just this way. I'm Beth, by the way, and we are so excited to have you here," Beth rattled off her words just as quickly as your heart was pounding in your chest.
"Beth, calm down, you're scaring her!" You turned your head to see Leah on the other side of you. That made a bit more sense, even if it did shock you to have the captain of the Lionesses standing right next to you. "Breathe kid, there's nobody to impress here."
"'S just a lot," you mumbled. For a moment, your native accent slipped hard. You were proud of where you had come from, but your parents had paid a lot of money to give you the media-approved "general" British accent. They didn't want to sway any sort of opinions on you from interviews. The only reason you didn't brush it off as ridiculous was because of your father's decades long career as a pundit. Rugby fans weren't the same as soccer ones, but you knew they had hooligans all the same.
"Oh god, not another one," Beth groaned dramatically. Leah's face lit up at the closeness in your accents. "Don't you start or I'll call Elle right now."
"Not starting on anything. Hey, you ever need a little slice of home, you find me kid. Always good to hear another Mi-," Leah started, only to be cut off by Lucy sliding her arm around your shoulders and pulling you away. "Lucy!"
"It's quieter over here. You look stressed, relax. You're only gonna be shadowing the best of the best. Keira's excited to meet you," Lucy told you. She pulled a chair out for you across from Keira, who set her phone down to smile and wave at you. You returned the gesture, albeit quite a bit more awkward than you would have liked. "I'm Lucy Bronze."
"(Y/n) (Y/l/n), pleasure to meet you," you repeated the greeting that you had worked on all weekend with your mother. Lucy bit back a laugh at how obviously professional you were trying to sound, which earned her a kick under the table from Keira. "Big fan of both of you, really."
"Pretty big fan of you too, especially with what they've been whispering about you. You've only just signed any sort of contract? I heard you were doing all that in a kiddie club. That's brutal for the others," Lucy said. You blushed as you thought about all the disgruntled girls and boys you had played against growing up. It was a mix of natural talent and dedication, not thousands of pounds of private coaches like what everyone thought. Your parents hadn't even shelled out any money for a scout, despite knowing that you had more than earned one.
"Sarina isn't giving her to you," Keira cut in. Lucy pouted at that, but she didn't stop talking to you about the little things she thought were impressive about you. It was weird being praised like this by one of the reasons you wanted to play in the first place. You knew that it should have helped you feel more confident, but instead, it just instilled the feeling that you had to do your absolute best even deeper.
…
You walked calmly into an empty dining hall for breakfast. The hotel buffet was set out with a much better spread than what you were used to. It wasn't that the coaches skimped on the youth players, but you understood why there was never anything more than a couple of protein options and maybe a bit of cereal. Your teammates would have tore through this without a second thought, but you were mindful.
"It's been a long time since someone has beaten Lucy to breakfast." You looked up from your food to see a few of the Manchester girls standing around your table. They all joined you, with Maya and Jess sitting on either side of you. "You're gonna be done with school pretty soon, aren't you? Ever thought of moving away, maybe to Manchester?"
"Alex!" Millie hissed as she slapped at the older defender. Alex didn't even bother to look ashamed. You weren't just a good prospect player, you were THE prospect player, and you would be until someone poached you. Yes, you were signed with London City's youth academy, but that contract would be up when you turned 18, and then there was no telling where you'd go.
"Blue would look pretty good on you," Jess said as she nudged you. It felt a little weird to think about where you'd go. The realization that you could go anywhere you wanted hadn't quite settled yet. You still hoped that you proved yourself to be useful as you worked your way up to playing for your team. "City blue, I think it would really bring out your eyes."
"I like the academy a lot, so I might just stay with my club. Besides, Michelle thinks that with the way the team is growing, we'll be contenders for the championship by the time I'm out of school," you said excitedly. It was more than they expected from you, especially after a nearly completely silent dinner the night before. You were still new, but you couldn't even begin to contain your excitement about your team. The thought of being part of something so new was great, especially since it wasn't every day that a new professional club popped up.
"You're patient, way more than I was at your age. I don't know if I could wait that long if I had the chance to play it big now," Maya told you. "Just don't embarrass me too much when we're playing against each other out there."
"Oh don't worry, I'm not really the forward type. I can do it if I need to, but it's more fun to let them come to me," you said. You fell into an easy conversation about defensive play, and suddenly, Maya seemed a lot more certain that you'd make the whole lot of them look silly out there. She was glad to have figured out that you'd go on and on about things you were passionate about, and the more they got you talking about football, the more obvious it became to them that you were truly a generational talent.
…
"Not a forward player my ass," Millie grumbled as Maya helped her onto her feet. You had completely blown past everybody with ease. Your speed rivaled Lauren's, and Millie knew when she saw you rushing towards her that she had no chance. It was a last-ditch attempt to knock you off the ball, but somehow, you had seen it coming from the corner of your eye and spun around her.
"I mean, she didn't shoot the ball," Maya pointed out. Millie wasn't sure who to glare at when she heard Lucy start to laugh. "Come on, let's go congratulate the kid on the assist."
"So, um, London is a pretty great place. The north is probably the best part of it," Leah said as she slung her arm around your shoulder. You cocked an eyebrow at her very obvious attempt to poach you. Arsenal had once been a dream, but you were committed to the place you were now. Loyalty was everything, that was what your parents had taught you.
"I'm sure that it's beautiful, but I've got a club team. Arsenal's got a rich history, but I want to help make some for a new club," you told her. You had been shutting down attempts to convince you to move all camp, and it wasn't showing any signs of stopping. They were having a bit of fun with you and you knew it. Still, you weren't sure if you were annoyed or just thrown off by all the attention.
Everything you did seemed to garner attention from your teammates. They praised your work ethic for things like always being early and keeping your focus everywhere. You knew that not everyone your age was this put together, but nobody had ever really noticed before this. You were grateful for the recognition, even if it just felt like the way you had always been. Your old coaches had expected it of you, and you hoped that these ones would too.
"Next time, don't let up. If you've got a chance to shoot, do it. Show 'em what you've got, it's how you get your minutes," Keira said as she stole you away from Leah. The teams reset their positions, and you took Keira's advice next time the ball was at your feet. It was obvious that they were playing around you a little, so you made sure that they didn't waste their time on you.
You kept your head up as you carried the ball across the field. You passed the ball around a little, but it still ended up back at your feet by the time you neared the box. You could have tried to run inside their defensive line, but you noticed a clear opening for a shot instead. You watched a scramble as they realized what you were doing, but the ball soared above their heads and right into the back of the net.
"That's my rookie!" Beth cheered as she pulled you in for a hug. You were nearly knocked over by the force of it, but you stood steady. "Please tell me that someone got on tape. Viv has got to see that shot."
"Okay, for real, either join Arsenal or play somewhere far away where I don't have to try and defend against that. I've got a reputation, and you're gonna end up making me look silly," Leah said. You let out a small chuckle as you looked away from everyone. The praise was making you a bit flustered. You had made a shot like that a hundred times, there were just a few people in front of you now.
"No promises, but there a few foreign teams I'd like to play for. At least go on loan to," you told her. "That's how you get better, and I want to be one of the best someday."
"Just promise me that you'll win more Champion's League finals than Bronze, and I mean shatter her record."
"I'll try." You linked your pinky with Leah's as the two of you walked off the pitch to get water. Practice was nearly over, and you were grateful that they let you play defensively for the last bit of the scrimmage game.
to be, or not to be—that is the question: @kamotecue - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
