Hopeless | reader x Alexia Putellas | part 1
Summary: you’re alone, even though you were part of the Barça team, you were alone. You thought being part of it meant feeling supported, liked, maybe even part of a family, but that wasn’t the case.
Warnings: angst (and fluff in the end)
It's thanks to @muffinpink02 that this fic is seeing the light. When months ago I wrote the first part I was scared to send it to you because I thought it was boring or repetitive, but, from the beginning, you supported and hyped me during the writing process, suggesting ideas and correcting them every time I sent you even just three sentences. I'm so grateful you helped me so much 🫂
You had never really felt part of something.
It was as if the people around you found their people, their friendships, their relationships, but not in you.
You were motionless, with nothing and no one.
Football had been a good relief valve.
A tool useful to not think about it.
To not think about how lonely you felt.
About how everyone seemed to treat you as extra, as not necessary.
About how everyone seemed to exclude you when you were least needed or at the first opportunity.
It had been painful at first, you cried and wondered what was wrong.
Why did it always happen?
And it happened in football too, with every team you played for.
With the boys from the team when you were just a kid, who included the other girls but not you; with the first girls’ team and with the first youth teams.
You always seemed to be extra.
On the field you were good.
You were really good at football.
You had poured out every bad thought, anxiety, resentment, and self-hatred on the field, chasing those balls and perfection, trying to achieve the best possible performance and the best teams.
The possibility of changing cities, maybe countries, pushed you to play better and better. The hope of finding your place, the hope that that place was elsewhere but findable, had driven you to give your all.
And this had paid off when the Barça talent scout contacted you.
Your parents didn't care much, you were of age, you could do what you wanted. So shortly after, you boarded a plane to Barcelona, a suitcase of clothes with you and many hopes.
But it had been difficult.
Your young age had mainly put you in contact with the youngest of the team, but they seemed so carefree and spoke so little English that you felt out of place.
With the older ones, you were out of place because what did you have in common with them? With the great Alexia Putellas, with Fridolina Rolfo, what could you possibly have in common? They were so perfect, and talented.
So over time, you ended up isolating yourself, reveling in the same loneliness that had always accompanied you, in that awful but familiar feeling of not being in the right place.
You lived alone, so you could drown every tear in the pillow every time you came back from training. You could cry undisturbed at any time of the day, every time you saw your teammates' stories of them going out together and not being invited, having dinners and not being invited.
It was an endless whirlwind you had fallen into. You isolated yourself by refusing any contact, always feeling like too much, and people stopped trying.
In the end, you were good at football, your performances were excellent, and you behaved perfectly during training. What more could they want from you?
Maybe you had hoped that, seeing how they were all so closed off, they would include you, they would fight harder to help you and include you.
But it hadn't happened, or at least you hadn't experienced it that way.
You had spent Christmas alone in Barcelona and so was New Year's Eve. No one to celebrate within your hometown, no one to celebrate with in Barcelona; your parents traveling who knows where happy not to have to spend money on you anymore.
You had burst into tears, into a panic attack, a few days after training started.
Everyone talked about their holidays.
You avoided those questions, avoiding the conversations as soon as holidays were mentioned.
What were you supposed to say?
You would have just seemed pathetic, lonely, useless. You already felt that way, you didn't need them to know.
Then, the umpteenth time they tried, they managed to ask you what you had done during the holidays.
You said you had gone home and everything was quiet.
Then, as soon as lunch was over, you ran out of the room and took refuge in a small gym in an isolated spot in the sports center.
You put on your headphones and started punching the boxing bag.
The music in the headphones and the tears on your cheeks.
Why weren't you like them?
You were wasting so much time of your life because of loneliness that it almost felt like living the same days over and over again.
The same identical routine, the same cycle of actions, every day, all days.
You collapsed to the ground, your body flooded with sobs, your throat contracted by moans of pain.
You felt pathetic, there on that floor crying over a fate that seemed to be yours, crying over a plot already written.
Then the door of the room had opened and you had stared at it in fear.
Alexia and Mapi had entered, a sigh of relief escaping their mouths when they recognized you.
"You're here! Dios we looked for you everywhere! Do you know what- are you crying?"
You huddled against the wall.
Her angry tone, that angry captain's tone that you had only heard once in the locker room, terrified you.
If you were already insignificant to the team, what would happen now with her that is mad?
You tried to please her, to at least feel accepted by her.
You shake your head as you stand up, your hands immediately wiping your cheeks.
Mapi takes you by the shoulders.
“What happened? Are you injured?"
You shake your head again, you move in an attempt to free yourself from her grip.
The only thing that mattered to them about you was football. It was that you could play, that you made the right passes and the perfect assists.
What did they care about how you really are?
"Then why are you crying? - you try to leave, to get away - No, stop! I said stop!"
You freeze in place, eyes fixed on the floor.
That low, angry, warning tone, almost daring to challenge her.
"Now you tell us why you're crying."
Should you tell the truth?
Admit to the two of them what you really felt?
That storm of dissatisfaction and sadness?
That feeling of loneliness and apathy that hung over your life?
"Can you hug me?" You whispered looking at her, tears covering your eyes, in an attempt to receive, at least once, the love you were seeking so much.
Mapi's arms wrapped around your body without hesitation. Her strong arms held you close to her, your cheek against her shoulder, your hands gripping the edges of her shirt, tears wetting the fabric at shoulder height.
"I'm sorry" you whisper "I'm pathetic."
"Don't say that, it's not true. Do you want to tell me what's going on?"
You bite your lip, your eyes now fixed on the window.
"I didn't spend Christmas and New Year's Eve at home, but in Barcelona."
"Did your family come here? Why didn't you-"
"Alone, I don't know where my parents were and I had no one to celebrate with."
An embarrassing, humiliating, silence.
"What do you mean you had no one?"
"I don't have friends" you answer flatly.
"You could have asked us, we-"
"What? Would you have taken a burden like me to celebrate with at your home? - you laugh sarcastically - Don't lie, you're indifferent to me. Whether I'm there or not doesn't change anything for you, just like it doesn't change anything for anyone on the team."
"Don't even think about it" Alexia's voice is dangerously low "You matter to the team-"
"Oh yeah? I see it. You go out without me, you don't care about me, I'm useless if not on the field."
What could they say to deny what you said?
They have fun without you.
They party and celebrate games.
“Listen - you close your eyes to Alexia's voice - I'm sure the situation isn't-”
“Have you saved my number in your contacts? - she looks at you, her eyes widening - do you see it? We've been playing together for months, we're in at least three WhatsApp groups together, and you've never saved my number. Why should you? Like I said, I don't matter, why would you ever feel the need to contact me? And I'm not talking about social media, following me on Instagram or anything, but my phone number, and you're my captain, aren't you?”
You shake your head frustrated.
You know you could pay the consequences for this behavior in the future. You're yelling in the face of Alexia Putellas, your captain, in front of another person. Alexia has made your teammates run entire training sessions for far lesser things than this lack of respect.
Maybe you want her to make you run because it means that someone, somehow, noticed you.
You leave the gym, leaving the two women completely still, thinking.
After that discussion, you went to that room for another technical meeting. As always, you sat at the back, a notebook on the desk and a pen in hand, pretending to be attentive and the chance to keep your head down.
A part of you had hoped that by talking about it, by angrily spitting out how you felt against them, they would do something.
That they would take a step towards you.
That they would include you.
As usual, at the end of the first part of the technical session, you went to get a coffee from a coffee machine, in complete loneliness, and no one approached you.
You went back inside, and sat at your desk, headphones in your ears, until you resumed the meeting.
You usually put your phone on "Do Not Disturb,"
You usually put your phone on "Do Not Disturb," trying to convince yourself that the lack of notifications meant you were unreachable, but in truth, no one was looking for you.
You left it on without "Do Not Disturb" all day.
You obsessively checked your phone for any pretext.
The schedule of university classes.
Making sure that the next day was a day off.
Anything to try to find a notification.
Had you been wrong to shout how you felt, to open up for once?
You had been pathetic, you knew it, but you couldn't stand this feeling anymore.
This feeling that eats away at you from the inside.
Of this acid that was melting you from the inside.
You couldn't live it anymore.
So you had hoped that by opening up things would change, but, like that day, the next one there were no messages.
You had locked yourself in the house.
The fetal position on the bed, the nausea that closed your stomach.
How could you have been so stupid?
Why should they ever do anything?
You had remained curled up since you woke up until dinner time.
The only time your phone rang, you jumped up on the bed.
The hope that someone had contacted you, the hope of counting.
The hope that what you had done had made sense.
But it was the Barça staff warning you that there was no training the next day.
No sound filled that emptiness of the apartment, of your body.
Yet you couldn't stop looking at the phone.
Hoping to receive a message, a call, or a like on social media.
You fell asleep like that, motionless and in the same position as when you got up.
The emptiness inside that had engulfed you and the whole apartment in a black hole of sadness, resentment, nausea, and fatigue.
The next day you forced yourself to get out of bed, make coffee, and eat something.
Anything to feed that exhausted body.
You struggled to swallow the food, to chew it, to tolerate its taste.
Every taste made you want to vomit.
Every sound irritated you to the point of plugging your ears.
The emptiest, most useless, days of your life.
The bottom that you had finally reached. You had crashed into it, actually, with such an impact that it didn't allow you to move even a finger, not that you wanted to, move it.
The next day you forced yourself to get up, knowing that you had to reach the sports center to go to the airport to play the match.
You didn't want to go there, you didn't want to leave the house, you didn't want to see anyone, let alone play.
But you forced yourself to put on the usual Barça tracksuit that you once were excited to wear and to pick up the bag, the apartment keys in the other, and close the door's house behind you with a dry sound that echoed in the empty corridor.
Had it always been so empty?
You got on the bus with less strength than you had at the end of a strenuous match.
You sat in the same place, always alone and always near the window. The feeling that, as always, no one would sit next to you was strong, it exploded in your chest like your desire to cry, to scream that you were hurt, that you didn't want to continue to live in this way.
On the opposite side of the pair of your seats were, as always, Marta and Caroline. You avoided looking at them, because this would have meant contemplating their silent and shy love, their reserved way of showing love.
The barely hinted smiles.
That love so sweet, so reserved, was too much to observe from afar, from the outside.
It seemed so unrealistic for you, for your life, that seeing it come true for someone else burned inside, wore you out.
Then you had arrived at the airport, got on the plane and got off. Someone from the staff had sat next to you, but no one to whom you attached much importance.
"Okay, the rooms are doubles."
The thing you hated most was the double rooms.
You wanted to cry in the shower, groan as the water ran down your cheeks and along your chin, and lean your back and head against the wall in an attempt not to suffer too much from the sobs.
Double rooms prevented you from having that privacy, that vital space, during away matches.
Those matches that until the first week, you had so excited about, so wanted to play, but which now had turned out to be just your worst nightmare.
A mixture of anxiety, anger, and sadness.
“Lucia and Maria, Ingrid and Ona.. you two seem to be the last - Jona had said, the tone almost bored, as he gave the key to your room to Alexia - The rules for away games are the same, double rooms or not. Please.”
Alexia had clapped her hands telling everyone to go to the rooms.
You had followed her with your head down, the whole team in front of you and you behind her. She seemed relaxed, her pace calm and her shoulders relaxed, one hand holding the trolley handle, her hair tied up.
You entered the room, she first, and you followed.
“Which bed do you want? - you look at her silently hoping she expresses a preference - you usually sit facing the door, so I suppose this one is better because from here you can see it”
“So? - she chuckles - Is this okay?”
You nod cautiously, hesitantly, looking at the bed. A part of you thinks she'll sit on that one, telling you that she'll take it then, that she'll do it to punish you for what happened.
But she moves to the other one and puts her suitcase in it.
You look at her confused.
"Are you not taking off your backpack?"
You blink a couple of times, getting out of your thoughts and moving towards yours, turn your back to her, and lay it on the bed.
You don't know what to do.
You hear her opening and moving things around.
How many things did she bring with her?
Usually, when there are double rooms, they put you with someone from Barça B, what do people like her do during away games?
Does she go to bed early?
Does she eat in her room after dinner?
"Hey - you turn abruptly - it’s okay for you if we talk?" She asks, her voice cautious.
How she'll get you out of the team?
She sits on her bed slowly, legs crossed, hands on her feet.
You are standing, arms along your body, hands open on your thighs.
She looks at you, trying not to show it, but she's nervous, she's agitated.
You already want to leave.
Turn towards the door and exit from this room.
The claustrophobia explodes, and the air seems not to enter your lungs.
Months ago you would have jumped for joy knowing you would share the room with her, with Alexia Putellas, two Ballon d’Or and one of the best players in the world.
You wouldn't have been able to contain your excitement at the thought of spending time with her, even if spending time alone with her.
Now all you want to do is disappear, to escape as far away as possible from her.
"Where do you want me to sit?"
"Wherever you want, on your bed or mine - you look at her, not knowing what to do - Why don't you sit next to me?"
You nod hesitantly, even though you know it's a rhetorical question.
She moves towards the headboard of the bed, legs crossed.
You sit down facing her, legs crossed, hands on your thighs.
You feel her hesitate, sighs that seem to suggest several times that she tried to say something but stopped before making a sound.
"Have you ever been to the Canary Islands?" - you shake your head - "Perfect, what do you think about going out for something to eat together?"
You look at her, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Cap-Jona said that... the rules are the same and we can't go out," you respond hesitantly.
Does she want you to break the rules?
Does she want a reason to kick you out?
Does she want a reason to punish you, to get back at you for three days ago?
You clench the fingers of one hand into the other.
What does she want from you?
She shrugs. "Being captain has its advantages - she smiles a bit cocky, a bit hesitant - No one will find out, I promise," and she moves her pinky towards you.
You look at her confused.
You understand the reference to "Cross my heart," but you can't believe she's actually doing it.
It's also a bit comical, the great Alexia Putellas moving her pinky toward you, swearing that no one will find out if you break the rules.
Never in a million years did you think it was possible.
She withdraws her hand, palm against her thigh. "I know a good place that does street food, you know, fish and chips but also burgers, and they also do vegetarian food and I know you're vegetarian. If you feel like it, we can go."
Her voice is hesitant, and calm, her posture stiff.
Not that you have many options and you would do anything to get out of this room, out of this hole surrounded by four walls that you're forced to share with her.
And outdoors she can't do anything to you, right?
You nod hesitantly. "I'd like that."
Almost a whisper, a faint combination of timid and frightened words.
"Do you have casual clothes? Like a hoodie and pants - you nod - Great! Then put them on and let's go."
You watch her as she stands up.
Do you really want to eat with her?
How long has it been since you went out with someone?
You feel the tears in your eyes as you dress.
You put on a simple shirt and baggy jeans, an attempt to hide, to not be visible.
Are you really that alone?
Probably yes, you can't remember the last time you went out with someone.
That you did something other than going to training, games, or grocery shopping.
Why is your life so empty?
If you didn't work, would you have opportunities to leave the house?
You try to think about it, to think about the last time you went out because you wanted to, because you had to meet someone, but your mind is empty. Your thoughts run through the narrow paths of the labyrinth of your memories, but nothing refers to outings.
Not now that maybe you're going out with someone.
Not now that someone has invited you out, has asked you to do something together.
No matter the reason, you know she asked you to talk about what happened, but at least you'll do something together.
When was the last time you ate out with someone?
Has it ever happened on occasions other than team or class dinners?
You bite your lip and walk to the bathroom.
You wet your face with cold water, the vain attempt to freeze the sadness, the anger, the bitterness.
How can you stop these feelings?
You're wasting your life.
You dry your face, almost scraping it with the towel, almost wanting to scrape away that feeling, that self-hatred.
You leave the bathroom with your head down, still doubtful that Alexia really wants to go out with you breaking the rules.
"Ready? - you nod - Perfect, then let's go."
You put your phone in your pocket and follow her out the door, she closes it and then swipes the magnetic card on the lock.
Are you really going out together?
Is this really happening?
"Shall we take the elevator, is this okay for you?"
You nod, your voice seems to have disappeared, left in the room.
She hesitates, looking at you, then turns to the right side of the corridor and walks towards the end of it; you walk behind her, the blue of her jeans the only color in your field of vision besides the awful red of the carpet and white walls.
You hear a metallic noise and see her walking into the elevator box, you follow her and she presses the zero button.
"Do you do this often, go out during away games?" you ask, your voice little more than a whisper as you watch her adjust her hair in the mirror.
"Usually I leave this opportunity to Irene, when her family travels to the cities where we have games, so she can spend time with them. But sometimes it happens, also because Marta just cares to spend time with Caro, it doesn't matter where they are."
She finishes fixing her hair and inside you the question of 'who do you take with you' is inflamed with curiosity.
Who does she go out with?
How many times does she do it?
The image of that rock-solid captain, rigid with rules and obsessive with timings is suddenly softened by this cocky, rebellious version.
"When María got injured, I went out with Ingrid a couple of times, she was scared of leaving her alone at home and walking was helping her - she smiles when she sees we are almost there - And when Jenni used to play with us, we usually went out to dinner together, but that’s a long time ago now."
You open your mouth, your eyes wide.
So it’s true that they were-
"Come on, let's go before we get caught," she ends the conversation before you can actually speak, a smile on her face knowing she has finally drawn out a reaction from you other than fear, doubt, or anxiety.
She walks quickly to a back exit.
"Can you ride a bike? - you nod - Okay, then let's take these bikes to go to the place I told you about. You're a vegetarian, right? The local tourist guides say it’s the place with the best vegetarian burgers on the whole island."
You never told anyone, only the staff knows, but you rarely eat in the canteen with them and when you do it’s so rare that it doesn’t arouse suspicion that you eat vegetarian.
You nod while you struggle even to eat a fry.
But it really seemed good, and there were so many flavors and types of burgers, sandwiches, and condiments.
Did Alexia really think of you?
Did she really look it up to bring you here to eat?
You’re sitting on a pier, a somewhat hidden part of the beach, away from the road.
Alexia had placed your dinner on the cold, damp wood, had taken out the two packs of baked fries and Coca-Cola and then placed them on the paper bag.
You watched her as she did it, the embarrassment of noticing the time she took to do everything precisely.
Then she asked you to sit in front of her so you could eat facing each other.
You hesitated but complied.
Then, as soon as your eyes met hers, your appetite, the desire to taste this amazing hamburger, disappeared.
That smell that until a moment ago seemed like the aroma of a great dinner, now only made you nauseous.
You grab the Coca-Cola and try to swallow a few sips, hoping the nausea will go away.
Alexia paid for dinner, fifteen euros and seventy cents each, she didn’t even let you take out your wallet.
What will she think otherwise?
You try to eat another fry, your taste buds sending signals of disgust to your brain as soon as they come into contact with that flavor.
"How do you feel?" She asks.
Bad? Good? Sad? Angry? Hurt?
You don’t even know how you feel. That torment, that gurgling, in your stomach doesn’t stop, that flow of negative thoughts and anxieties doesn’t stop attacking you.
Maybe you should tell her you’re fine, that you’re nervous for the game but that everything is fine as always.
Even though nothing has been fine for as long as you can remember.
When has something ever gone well?
When was the last time you felt good?
Maybe when Barça signed you, when you got on that plane thinking another life would begin.
You close your eyes, you can’t cry.
But it’s true. Maybe that was the only happy moment after years of feeling nothing different than a constant state of apathy, of emptiness.
It was the only moment when you thought things would change, the last moment, the last time you let yourself hope.
So maybe that’s why you feel so bad now?
"Fine, you?" You answer mechanically.
The same response you always gave the medical staff, the training staff, those few journalists who found it interesting to interview you.
But you don’t look at her, you know she would realize it’s not true.
Empty eyes, rigid shoulders, clear signs of the effort it takes to lie again, for the umpteenth time.
"Can we skip the part where you pretend everything is okay?" She asks, the tone bored, irritated.
You clench your eyes as soon as your mind registers that the tone of voice is angry by your attempt to lie.
What should you say then?
What does she want you to say?
It’s a dead end, isn’t it?
You and her alone on a pier, at night, far from the hotel.
"Why do you ask?" You ask, your voice uncertain, a whisper.
You laugh sarcastically by instinct, unable to control yourself.
That’s what your parents always say when they call you after months of silence, telling you that you’re ungrateful and that they care about you.
Then they don’t call for weeks.
Is there anyone who really cares about how you are?
Who really cares about you?
In the end, you’ve lived in many cities, met many people of different ages, experienced things with them.
Did any of them ever really care about you?
Did anyone really want you in their life?
You were just a pastime of the moment, the lady-in-waiting, the entertainment.
Another excuse, the umpteenth.
Another lie, the thousandth.
You don’t look at her face, you know that if you did, you would cry.
You try to take a bite of the hamburger, but you have to chew it for a long time to find the strength to swallow.
"Why? You’ve been playing as a starter since the beginning of the season."
You know she doesn’t believe you.
Why is she playing along?
"I always feel this way before matches."
"Sorry," you whisper, scared.
Will she yell? You don’t want her to yell, to get even angrier.
She says nothing, you hear her drink the Coke.
"I get anxious playing with you because you’re the best in the world," you reply.
It’s a partial truth, you’re scared to play with them, not being up to par.
But the reality is you’re always anxious because you know you’re worth nothing to them, so you’re afraid that at the first mistake they will kick you out, bench you forever.
"You don’t have to, you’re really good."
You don’t answer, a compliment thrown to the wind.
She doesn’t really think that.
If she did, you would feel part of the team, right?
If you were that good, they would have included you, you would be part of the group, and not just a marginal ornament.
You eat in an awkward silence almost half of the food.
You don’t speak, she doesn’t speak.
You don’t look at her, she doesn’t seem to look at you.
What should you tell her?
You raise your head but avert your gaze into the void next to her head, pretending to see her without looking at her.
"My eyes are here," she reproaches you, the captain's voice, that gently authoritative tone.
"I would like to talk about what happened, but I know I can’t force you -"
"Yeah, exactly, maybe it’s better not to, forget it," you interrupt her.
You know she hates it when you interrupt her.
She hates being interrupted.
You see her put the sandwich down on the box.
"Okay, we can’t continue like this."
You don’t understand what she wants.
You don’t understand why you’re here.
You don’t understand anything.
"Why? Because we have to sleep in the same room? If you wanted to talk to me you would have done it sooner” you spit angrily.
You don't care about respect, the fact that she is the captain, that she is Alexia Putellas.
What might interest you if you have already hit rock bottom?
What depth can you still reach, that they stop talking to you?
Why, do they talk to you?
A silence so punishing, so tense, it makes you want to cry.
Do you want to go back to the hotel?
“Maybe we'd better go,” you continue, while placing your hands on the pier in an attempt to get up.
“Otherwise, what do you do? – you reply bitterly, in the end what do you have to lose? – will you put me on the bench? Will you hit me?”
Alexia is silent, so you continue in your attempt to get up.
“I took a few days to think about what happened, about what you said to me and María - she sighs - I asked her not to tell anyone about what happened, so only we and probably Ingrid know, given that María cried all night"
Does she really believe you believe her?
“I asked Jona to put us in the room together because I wanted to talk to you but I didn't want to make you uncomfortable and talked to you about two days ago in front of the others, but then I thought it would be embarrassing to do it in the room”
What does she want to tell you?
That you're out of the team?
You don't look at her, your eyes fixed on your mismatched socks visible due to your pin-hole shorts.
Anything to avoid looking at it.
“We should have figured it out, how you were doing, what was happening. Instead, we were focused on winning, on the matches, this year the only new player besides you was Ona, but she knew all of us, and we didn't think about the shock and difficulties that playing with us could bring, that moving to Barcelona would cause - look at her - We all made mistakes, me first, and I don't know what to do to improve the situation"
