I finally found some time to write the chef fic you voted for. I’ve actually had this one sex on the beach scene in my head for ages now and the rest kind of evolved around it. So now it’s basically a feel-good summer fic with a very flirty r, plenty of Kika, some of the others, and lots of sun, pool, beach and vacation vibes.
It’s told day by day, so I hope it kind of feels like you’re on holiday with them. The first week alone is already around 25k words, so I’m actually not sure how to post it. Would you rather have one post per day, or a few days combined into longer parts? It would probably end up being three or four parts.
Here is a little blurb and there might be a sneak peek soon ⬇️
Running your own restaurant in Sóller means you’re used to long days, demanding customers, and almost never taking a day off.
When some footballers ask you to spend two weeks as their private chef in a villa just outside Palma, saying yes seems like a welcome change. You expect it to be simple. Cook. Sleep. Repeat.
Turns out, nothing about them is simple.
Kika’s a shameless flirt who uses every opportunity she gets to make you blush. Jana nearly burns the kitchen down every time you let her near the stove. And Lia is living proof that only one person in the world can handle her. Luckily, that person is her girlfriend.
All in all they are a big happy chaos and adopt you into their little bubble soon. Between sunrise trips to the market, lazy afternoons by the pool, and very competitive board games, it’s easy to forget you’re technically working.
Alexia, though, drives you mad. She claims little pieces of your day, always finds a reason to be closer than necessary, and gets a little possessive whenever someone else has your attention.
You could shut it down. But then again, who doesn’t need a little summer fling every now and then?
tw:18+ flirting, smut, jealousy, swearing, alcohol, meeting the ex
ALSO VERY IMPORTANT TO REMEMBER that Borja Iglesias, who was the only man to join the strike against the Spanish National team after the Luis Rubiales sexual assault incident at the Women's World Cup in 2023, and who was clowned for it and told he would never play for Spain again, is now a world champion
Summary: Securing a massive contract to supply the flowers for FC Barcelona’s women’s football team was supposed to be strictly business. But as the football season unfolds, the quiet routine of your flower shop is entirely upended by the unexpected, frequent visits from some of the team’s top players, especially a certain regular named Alexia.
Word count: 15,4 k
(it's a slow burn)
The heavy summer heat of Barcelona hung thick and sticky over the avenues, but inside Floristeria Arrels, the air was a cool, damp sanctuary smelling faintly of crushed green stems and wet earth.
You stood behind the wide zinc counter, your hair pulled back with a simple green silk ribbon, your eyes scanning the terrifying financial spreadsheet on your screen. Your family’s shop was a neighborhood staple, a shaded haven of high ceilings and weathered stone walls, where zinc and wooden buckets overflowed with seasonal blooms. But over the last year, keeping the doors open had become a grueling uphill battle. The neighborhood was changing, rent was skyrocketing, and the independent budget your father had run for decades was stretched to its absolute limit.
“Y/N! The heavy lifting is for the youth, and you are wasting the prime of your twenties staring at a glowing rectangle!”
You turned around, an amused smile breaking across your face. Your father was leaning against a stack of ceramic pots, holding a pair of rusted pruning shears like a scepter. He was seventy-two, stubborn to a fault, and supposedly retired.
“Papa, I am twenty-seven, and I am technically the owner,” you reminded him gently, wiping a smudge of dirt from your cheek with your dark green apron. “And you aren’t supposed to be lifting anything either. Where are the boys?”
“Your brothers are married men with responsibilities, apparently,” your father scoffed, though there was a deep warmth in his eyes. “Which means they dropped off the kids and fled the manual labor.”
Right on cue, an eight-year-old boy burst through the back-room door, brandishing a plastic dinosaur. “Tia Y/N! Leo says that if I eat a marigold, I’ll turn into a dragon. Is that true?”
“No, Lucas, and please don’t eat the stock,” you laughed, catching him by the shoulders before he could collide with a massive vase of hydrangeas.
This shop was your entire life. When your mother passed away, your father had been ready to close the doors forever. Your older brothers, both established in their own careers, hadn't cared enough to step in. But you couldn’t let it go. You had spent your childhood doing homework on the overturned wooden crates in the back. You had a business degree now, sure, but your heart belonged to the flowers. You had a terrible habit of wanting to save everything: drooping ferns, stray cats, and your family’s heritage.
Which was exactly why the official letter sitting next to your keyboard felt like a literal lifeline. Floristeria Arrels had just been awarded an exclusive, year-long corporate contract with FC Barcelona to provide all floral styling for the VIP boxes, the presidential suites, and the official club events. Today was your very first task: delivering the massive centerpieces for the welcoming lunch for new signings at the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper training complex.
“Wish me luck,” you muttered, lifting a massive, intricately designed ceramic vase filled with vibrant tropical greenery and striking orange bursts.
“Don’t trip over your own feet,” your father called out. “You have your mother’s eyes, but you inherited my coordination. God help the football club.”
The media lounge at the sports complex was a chaotic blur of activity. Journalists were setting up heavy tripods, PR representatives were speaking rapidly into headsets, and caterers were bustling past with silver trays.
You felt entirely out of your depth. You were dressed in a simple linen dress, your hands slightly damp, carrying a floral arrangement that weighed nearly fifteen kilos.
“Right on the center glass table, please,” a stressed-looking woman in a club blazer directed, pointing toward the middle of the room.
You nodded, taking careful, deliberate steps. Do not trip. Do not drop the five-hundred-euro vase.
Naturally, just as you reached the table, your sandal caught on a thick, stray television camera cable.
You gasped, your balance tilting dangerously forward. The heavy ceramic vase slipped from your grip, tilting at an angle that promised a catastrophic, public shatter against the glass table. You braced yourself for the impact and the humiliation.
It didn’t come.
Instead, a pair of strong, athletic hands shot out from the side, catching the base of the heavy ceramic vase with incredible, lightning-fast reflexes. A firm shoulder brushed against yours, steadying your stance before you could go down with it.
“I’ve got it,” a calm voice said. “Steady.”
You blinked, exhaling a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. You looked up, and your breath caught all over again.
Standing right there, holding the weight of the vase effortlessly, was Alexia Putellas. The captain of FC Barcelona was wearing a crisp white club polo shirt, her hazel-brown eyes looking down at you with a mixture of amusement and concern. Away from the flashing stadium cameras, she possessed an effortless, commanding presence that made your stomach do a strange, fluttery flip.
“Are you okay?” Alexia asked, easily shifting the heavy vase onto the center of the table.
“I… yes. Yes, thank you,” you stammered, your cheeks burning a sudden, bright crimson as you smoothed down your apron. “I’m so sorry. I’m incredibly clumsy. It’s a family trait.”
Alexia let out a soft, warm laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Good reflexes are part of the job description around here.” She stepped back, her eyes drifting over the striking arrangement. “Wow. Did you make this? It’s beautiful.”
“I did,” you said, your voice growing steadier as you returned to a subject you actually understood. A quiet confidence took over your posture. “I’m Y/N. My shop is doing the arrangements for the club this season. I wanted to make sure the workspace felt right.”
“Well, Y/N,” Alexia said, extending a hand. You took it, noting how warm and firm her grip was, her skin slightly rough from training. Her hazel eyes locked onto yours with a sharp look of surprise, as if she hadn’t expected the florist behind the contract to possess such a calm, grounded energy. “The club’s flowers used to look like they were bought from a petrol station at the last minute. What are these orange ones?”
“They’re Alstroemeria,” you murmured, your voice dropping into a soft, knowledgeable register as you looked from the blooms back to her eyes. “Peruvian Lilies.”
“Do they have a meaning?” Alexia asked, leaning back against the edge of the table, crossing her arms. She looked genuinely interested, the guarded, professional mask she usually wore for the media completely dissolving.
“They do,” you said, a soft, passionate light entering your hazel eyes. “In the old language of flowers, they don't represent flashy, temporary success. They symbolise mutual support, devotion, and endurance. Because the petals grow in a tight, resilient cluster before opening up spectacularly, it represents a strong bond that can withstand trials. I thought... well, for a long, grueling season where you have to hold everything together under pressure, the team lounge needed something that represents standing firm. Not a standard rose that withers in a week.”
Alexia stared at the orange petals for a long moment, the playful look fading into a profound, quiet stillness. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely capturing you in the busy room.
“Mutual support and endurance,” Alexia repeated quietly, her voice carrying an unspoken weight that sent a sudden rush of heat straight down your spine. A genuine, incredibly soft smile broke across her face. “I think you’re exactly right. We could use a bit of that magic this year.”
A PR coordinator suddenly shouted from across the room. “Alexia! We need you for the photos with the new signings!”
“Coming!” Alexia called back. She turned back to you, her hazel-brown eyes lingering a little longer than necessary on your face. “It was nice to meet you, flower girl. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing a lot more of your work around here.”
“Nice to meet you too Alexia,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The August humidity in Barcelona was a different beast entirely. It turned the city into a slow-moving oven, forcing everyone to seek the mercy of blasting air conditioning or the dense shade of old stone alleys. Inside Floristeria Arrels, the fans hummed a steady rhythm, circulating the comforting scent of damp soil, fresh eucalyptus, and sweet jasmine.
You were standing behind the long zinc counter, carefully binding a bundle of vibrant, spear-like stalks together with twine. Your hair was pinned up haphazardly with a claw clip to keep it off your neck, a few stray strands framing your face as you focused.
“Tia! Tia, look! I made a fortress!”
You looked up to see your nephew, Lucas, sitting on an upturned wooden crate in the corner. He had successfully built a barricade around himself using empty terracotta pots and plastic plant markers.
“That’s a very impressive fortress, Lucas,” you said, offering a warm smile. “But if any of those pots break, your grandpa is going to make you sweep the entire sidewalk.”
“Grandpa is asleep in the back,” Lucas whispered conspiratorially, pointing a plastic dinosaur toward the break room door. “He won't know.”
“I hear everything, you little monster!” your father’s booming voice echoed from the back room, making Lucas giggle and dive behind his ceramic wall.
You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you. This was your daily reality, always chaotic, loud, but grounding. You had been running the shop full-time since your mother passed, balancing the books, managing deliveries, and dealing with a family that treated the retail space like an extended living room.
The brass bell above the front door chimed, cutting through the hum of the fans.
“Welcome to…” You started to look up, wiping your hands on your apron, but the words caught in your throat.
Two tall, athletic women walked into the shop. They were wearing casual athletic gear: shorts, slides, and training shirts that bore the unmistakable crest of FC Barcelona. You recognized them instantly from the sports pages your nephews always left lying around. It was Patri Guijarro and Kika Nazareth.
“Hola,” Patri said, offering a friendly, easygoing wave as she looked around the lush, green interior. “Wow, it really does smell amazing in here. Alexia mentioned your shop has a reputation for the good stuff.”
Your heart did a tiny, unexpected skip at the mention of the captain’s name. You hadn’t seen Alexia since that breathless encounter in July, though you had thought about her crisp white polo shirt and those warm, hazel eyes far more than a vendor should.
“Hola,” you replied, leaning against the counter and offering your best welcoming smile. “Welcome! What can I help you find today?”
Kika wandered over to a display of ferns, poking a frond curiously. “We need something for the locker room. The Joan Gamper Trophy match is coming up, the season is officially starting, and the old fake ivy we had in there looks like it died in 1998.”
“And it’s depressing,” Patri added, walking up to the counter. She looked at you, her eyes narrowing slightly in realization. “So... you’re the famous florist who almost crushed our captain with a ceramic vase last month.”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable pink. You instinctively tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Word travels fast, apparently. Yes, that was me. My clumsiness precedes me.”
Patri burst into a hearty laugh. “She told us the new florist looked like a classic Hollywood movie star but had the coordination of a newborn giraffe. I see she was right about both.”
Before you could process the movie star comment or the fact that Alexia Putellas had been describing your appearance to her teammates, Lucas popped his head out from behind his terracotta fortress.
“My tia is not a giraffe!” Lucas announced loudly, pointing his plastic T-Rex at Patri. “She just trips over things because she looks at flowers instead of her feet!”
Kika let out a delighted wheeze, immediately abandoning the ferns to walk over to Lucas's fort. “Who is this? The bodyguard?”
“I’m Lucas,” he said proudly. “And this is my fortress.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucas. I’m Kika,” she said, crouching down to be at eye level with him, completely charmed. “Do you think your fortress could survive a dinosaur attack?”
While Kika distracted your nephew, Patri turned back to you, an amused smirk on her face. “Anyway. We need something hardy. Something that can survive twenty-five footballers celebrating a win, or a lot of steam from the showers.”
You cleared your throat, grateful to focus on your craft rather than your burning face. You reached behind you, tapping one of the tall, striking stalks you had been binding earlier. They were lined with brilliant, trumpet-shaped blossoms that shot upward like spikes.
“For a locker room at the start of the season? You want Gladiolus,” you said, your voice growing confident and passionate as you spoke about the blooms.
Patri tilted her head, inspecting the tall stalks. “Gladiolus? Why those?”
“The name comes from the Latin word gladius, which means sword,” you explained, looking into Patri’s eyes. “Because of their shape, they historically symbolize strength, moral integrity, and preparedness. They’re a warrior’s flower. They don’t look delicate; they look like they’re ready for a challenge.”
Patri stared at the flowers, then looked back at you, thoroughly impressed. “A warrior’s flower. Damn. That’s actually perfect for us.” She turned her head. “Hey, Kika! We’re getting the sword flowers!”
“Get the sword flowers!” Kika called back, currently engrossed in a fierce dinosaur battle with Lucas on the floor.
“We’ll take a big arrangement of those for the lockers,” Patri said, pulling out her phone. “Oh, and before I forget…” She tapped her screen. “Our ex-teammate, Ingrid, texted me. She’s currently playing over in France for Lyon, so being long-distance with Mapi is tough. She wants to set up a regular ‘just because’ delivery to surprise Mapi here in Barcelona since she can’t exactly hand her a bouquet herself. Can I leave the details with you?”
“Of course,” you said, pulling out your order book and grabbing a pen. “I can take Mapi’s address down now, and Ingrid can just text the shop’s business line directly for any future updates. We handle a lot of our long-distance accounts that way.”
“Perfect. I’ll pass the shop’s number along to her,” Patri said, forwarding the contact information. “She wants to set up a steady routine so Mapi gets fresh flowers sent to her place every week.”
“I understand. It’s a hectic calendar for both of them,” you noted practically, jotting down Mapi's Barcelona delivery address in the logbook. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it on a strict schedule so the quality stays consistent every Monday morning.”
Patri smiled, watching your efficient handwriting. “Appreciate it. You run a tight ship here.” She capped her phone and leaned against the counter, casual again. “By the way, Alexia wanted to come today to see the shop, but she got stuck in a late tactical meeting with the coach.”
You tried to keep your hand steady as you shut the logbook, but a tiny flutter in your chest betrayed you. “Oh? Well, she's a very busy woman.”
“She is,” Patri murmured, a knowing, slightly mischievous glint in her eyes. “But she was pretty disappointed she missed the trip. She mentioned she wanted to see what the place looked like.”
You offered a polite, professional smile, though the warmth in your face gave you away. “Well, tell her she’s welcome anytime. Hopefully, I won’t drop anything on her next time.”
“I’ll tell her,” Patri winked.
Ten minutes later, after Kika officially declared a truce with Lucas and promised to bring him a Barça sticker next time, the two players left the shop, carrying a smaller starter plant Patri had insisted on buying for her own kitchen.
As the brass bell chimed shut, the shop fell quiet again. You looked over at the tall, proud stalks of the gladiolus sitting on your counter. A warrior's flower.
Your phone on the counter suddenly buzzed with a notification: a new message from a French country code, displaying a profile picture of Ingrid Engen and Mapi León laughing together in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Hi! Patri gave me your number. I’m Ingrid. Can we set up that weekly delivery for Mapi? I want her to have fresh flowers every Monday morning so her week starts right, even if I’m not there to make her coffee.
You smiled, typing back a swift, professional confirmation.
September brought the start of the UEFA Women’s Champions League group stages and the frantic pace of the Liga F kickoff. For the club, it was a high-stakes whirlwind. For your shop, it meant a steady, thrilling influx of business. You had spent the last two weeks coordinating with the club’s PR department for press room backdrops, but your favorite order of the week had quickly become Ingrid’s Monday morning delivery for Mapi.
She relied completely on you to be her hands and eyes in Barcelona. She would send quick, excited messages from France: Mapi had a really tough match, can we do something super bright today? or It’s our anniversary next week, let’s go all out! You took immense pride in nailing every detail, making sure the long-distance deliveries were flawless. It was a massive account for your shop, and you were determined to keep it perfect.
It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when the brass bell above the door chimed. You were sitting on a stool behind the counter, sketching a new layout for the autumn window display.
You looked up, expecting to see your father or one of your weekly dinner friends. Instead, your heart did a violent, sudden stutter against your ribs.
Alexia Putellas walked in.
She wasn’t in her training kit this time. She wore a casual, oversized black blazer over a simple white tee, dark jeans, and her hair was down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She looked effortlessly chic, but as she walked closer to the counter, you noticed the slight tension in her jaw and the faint dark circles under her hazel eyes. The weight of being the captain during a demanding triple-match week was clearly taking its toll.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low. A small, genuine smile broke through her tired expression as her eyes met yours.
“Hola, Alexia,” you replied, giving her a warm smile, though you secretly hoped she couldn’t hear the frantic pacing of your heart. You leaned on the counter, looking at her with all the soft, classic warmth of someone completely at home in her own space, even if you currently had a stray piece of green floral tape stuck to your wrist. “What brings you into my jungle today? I thought Patri and Kika were the designated team shoppers.”
Alexia let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning against the counter just a few inches away from you. “They wish. But this isn’t a club order. This one is personal.” She shifted her weight, a subtle shadow passing over her features. “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday tomorrow. I wanted to get her something... special. Something elegant, but bold.”
A sudden, sharp pang twisted in your chest. It was an annoying, unwelcome feeling, and it caught you entirely off guard. Of course she has a girlfriend, you scolded yourself internally. She’s Alexia Putellas.
Brushing the feeling aside, you instantly locked into your professional element. You wanted to make sure the club captain walked out with something spectacular that represented your shop well.
“I can absolutely help with that,” you said, stepping out from behind the counter and gesturing for her to follow you over to the refrigerated display of premium imports. “Tell me a bit more about her style. Is she minimalist, or does she like drama?”
“Drama,” Alexia said instantly, standing close behind you as you slid open the glass doors. The cool, flower-scented air rushed out. “She likes things that look striking. Memorable.”
Your eyes scanned the shelves, bypassing the soft pastel roses and the delicate lilies. Then, you spotted them. Tucked in a protected, chilled bucket were a few pristine, heavy stems with deep crimson and burgundy blooms, their paper-thin petals arranged in tight, heavy, perfectly symmetrical layers. They looked like velvet.
“Burgundy Ranunculus,” you murmured, reaching in to gently pull a stem out.
Alexia leaned in, looking over your shoulder. You could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume, something woody and expensive, and it made your breath catch. “They’re stunning,” Alexia whispered, her eyes tracking the rich, dark petals. “What do they mean? Patri told me you’re really a walking encyclopedia for flower language.”
You turned your head slightly, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia's face. Her hazel eyes were locked onto yours, waiting.
“They’re incredibly unique because of how they grow, they start as these tight, guarded little buds, and then they slowly unfold into these massive, complex masterpieces,” you explained quietly, your voice dropping a register in the quiet space. “In the traditional language of flowers, they don’t represent a loud, flashy confession. They symbolize radiant charm and complete captivation. Sending them to someone means: I am completely dazzled by your light. It’s a sophisticated kind of devotion. It says that even in the biggest crowd, they’re the most brilliant thing you see.”
For a long moment, Alexia didn’t say anything. She just stared at the burgundy ranunculus in your hand, her expression unreadable. There was a strange, distant look in her eyes that didn’t quite match the romantic nature of the bouquet she was buying.
“Radiant charm,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper. She looked up, her gaze lingering on your face, taking in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnestness in your hazel eyes. She cleared her throat, a polite smile stretching across her lips. “Yes. Let’s do those. A large bouquet of those, please.”
“You got it,” you said, giving her a reassuring nod.
You walked back to the workstation and began to craft the arrangement. You spent twenty minutes meticulously layering the ranunculus with textured sprigs of frosted eucalyptus and delicate, dark foliage to let the deep jewel tones pop. You used thick, luxurious black paper and tied it with a heavy silk ribbon, ensuring it looked flawless.
Alexia watched you the entire time, her chin resting in her hand as she leaned on the counter. She didn’t look at her phone once. She just watched your hands move with practiced grace.
“You’re very good at this, flower girl,” she said softly as you snipped the ends of the ribbon.
“I grew up doing it,” you smiled, looking up. “My mom taught me how to find the rhythm in the flowers. When she passed, it felt right to step in and keep the business going. It’s a lot of work, but I love it.”
Alexia’s expression softened completely, a look of profound respect crossing her face. “It shows. Your family must be very proud of what you’re doing here.”
“They mostly just like the free flower arrangements for Sunday dinners,” you joked, breaking the heavy emotional air with your usual self-deprecating humor.
You handed the massive, stunning bouquet over the counter. Alexia took it, her fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second. A jolt of warmth shot up your arm, and by the look in Alexia’s eyes, she felt it too.
“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia said, holding the bouquet carefully. She tapped her card to pay, giving you one last, lingering look before she headed to the door. “Wish me luck for the match on Thursday.”
“Good luck, Ale,” you called out. “Bring back a win.”
As the brass bell chimed her departure, you let out a long, shaky breath, sinking onto your stool. You looked at the empty space where the red camellias had been. You had just made the perfect, romantic bouquet for another woman to receive from Alexia Putellas.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. It was a message from Ingrid in Lyon.
Hey! Mapi loved the Monday bouquet, she literally cried. You’re an angel! Sending you a massive hug from France!
You smiled, typing back a professional, sweet reply. Your shop was successfully handling everything from long-distance love to the club captain’s relationships. But as you looked out the front window, watching Alexia’s tall figure disappear down the sunlit Barcelona street, you couldn’t help but wish, just a little bit, that someone would buy a bouquet of burgundy ranunculus for you.
October brought a welcomed break from the grueling summer heat, replacing the sticky air with crisp, golden autumn mornings. For the club, the schedule was tightening, packed with mid-week fixtures and high-profile sponsor events. For you, it meant adapting the shop’s palette to rich ochres, burnt oranges, and deep plums.
Your biggest project of the month was a massive corporate order for a major FC Barcelona sponsor gala hosted inside the luxury lounges at Spotify Camp Nou. The club’s PR department had requested twenty elegant, low-profile centerpieces that wouldn’t block the guests’ views across the tables. It was a high-earning contract, and you had spent the last two days meticulously prepping the vessels.
Naturally, because your family treated your workplace like a communal living room, the pristine prep area was currently shared with a hyperactive toddler.
“Tia! Look! I’m a bird!”
Your three-year-old niece, Sofia, was currently flapping her arms wildly, running circles around a stack of plastic crates. She was wearing a tiny Barça jersey, a gift from your older brothers, who were die-hard culés, and her pigtails were flying.
“You’re a very beautiful bird, Sofi,” you laughed, keeping one eye on her and the other on the delicate stems you were trimming. “But birds need to stay away from the glass vases, okay? Otherwise, the bird goes into the cage.”
“No cage!” she shrieked happily, veering sharply toward the front of the store just as the brass bell above the door chimed.
“Hola! Is anyo… oh, hello!”
Clara Serrajordi walked into the shop, only to be immediately ambushed at the knees by a small, flying toddler. Sofia had firmly wrapped her arms around Clara’s shin, looking up at the young midfielder with wide, innocent eyes.
Clara froze, her cheeks flushing pink as she looked down at the child, then up at you. She looked a bit shy and completely out of her depth, awkwardly holding a small gym bag. “Oh, um... hola.”
“Sofi, no! Let go!” you gasped, quickly coming out from behind the counter. “I am so sorry. She thinks everyone wearing athletic gear is a playground structure.”
“No, it’s okay,” Clara said quietly, a small, polite smile breaking through her shyness. She carefully squatted down, adjusting her bag so she didn’t drop it. “Hola, little one.”
“I’m a bird,” Sofia corrected solemnly.
“A bird? That’s cool,” Clara murmured, her voice soft and gentle.
You reached down to gently pry your niece away, offering Clara an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind her,” you smiled, straightening up. “I thought the PR team told me I was driving the delivery over to the stadium today?”
“Oh, you are!” Clara nodded, standing up and shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I had a break between training and media, and since I live right around the corner, they asked if I could just stop by to escort you through the stadium security gates. They’re doing a high-security sweep for the gala sponsors today, so it’s easier if a player is in the van with you to bypass the main checkpoints.”
She looked around the shop, her eyes wide as she took in the lush, autumnal atmosphere. “Wow. It really is beautiful in here. The captains told us about it, but... yeah.”
“Thank you,” you said warmly, gesturing to the rows of beautifully arranged wooden boxes on the side counter. “They’re all secured in the transport crates. Let’s get them loaded into the van.”
Before you could start lifting, Sofia decided she hadn’t had enough attention. She crept back over to the counter, reached her tiny hand up, and triumphantly swiped the heavy shop keyring with its bright green Floristeria Arrels lanyard right out from under Clara’s nose.
“Keys!” Sofia cheered, running off toward her fort of plastic crates.
“Sofia! No, bring those back!” you called out, about to chase after her, but Clara just let out a quiet, nervous giggle.
“It’s okay, really,” Clara said, rubbing the back of her neck. “We have a few minutes before we need to head out.” She walked over to the counter, watching you lift the first heavy crate. She pointed to the spectacular, multi-petaled blooms sitting in the display tray, showing off shades of dusty rose, deep plum, and metallic, earthy greens. “What are the moody-looking ones? They look like vintage roses, but sharper.”
You smiled, always happy to talk about the stock. “Those are Hellebores. They’re incredible for low-profile gala centerpieces because they sit so elegantly and look high-fashion under dim lighting.”
“Do they have a meaning?” Clara asked, tilting her head curiously.
“They do,” you nodded, securing a low glass trough with tissue paper. “Hellebores represent resilience, survival, and enduring power. In old traditions, they symbolize a strength that protects your peace. What makes them unique is that they actually thrive and bloom in the freezing mud of winter, when most other flowers are dying off. I chose them for the gala because they perfectly mirror the club’s long-standing resilience, no matter how harsh the environment gets, you still produce something beautiful.”
Clara stared at the flowers, nodding slowly. “Resilience and enduring power. Yeah... that definitely fits. Especially with the pressure right now.” She quieted for a second, looking down at the counter before speaking softly. “Alexia actually wanted to ride along with you to deliver these today. She was complaining in the locker room that her tactical meeting ran long and she couldn't make it.”
Your hands froze for a fraction of a second over the cardboard box. You kept your face down, trying to control the sudden warmth rushing to your cheeks, your eyes darting to the floor. “Oh? I’m sure the captain has much more important things to do than haul boxes of flowers in a delivery van.”
“No, she really wanted to,” Clara insisted, her voice quiet but honest. “She keeps telling everyone how knowledgeable you are. Patri and Kika tease her about it, but... I think she just really likes hearing about your work.”
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. Before you could respond, Clara’s phone vibrated loudly on the wooden counter. She picked it up, her eyes widening slightly when she saw the caller ID.
“It’s Alexia,” Clara whispered, looking a little nervous as she swiped to answer. “Hola, Ale?”
“Clara! Where are you?” Alexia’s smooth, commanding voice echoed clearly through the quiet shop, sounding a bit stressed. “The PR team is asking if the van has arrived at the stadium gates yet. Did you get lost?”
Clara looked at you, her cheeks turning pink again as she spoke into the phone. “I’m at the flower shop, Alexia. We’re just... loading the van now. But Y/N’s niece took the van keys hostage.”
There was a sudden, dead silence on the other end of the line. You held your breath, your face burning.
“Clara,” Alexia’s voice came back, noticeably lower and completely stripped of its previous irritation. “Stop bothering the florista and get on the road.”
“I’m not bothering her!” Clara said quickly, looking at you for help.
You finally stepped in, leaning closer to the phone. “The arrangements are fully loaded, Captain. Clara is doing a great job, we’re just handling a minor toddler situation.”
Another brief pause on the line. When Alexia spoke again, her tone was entirely soft, a quiet warmth bleeding through the speaker. “Hola, flower girl. Don’t let her break anything. I’ll see you at the stadium gates in twenty minutes, then. I’ll make sure security lets your van right through.”
“Looking forward to it,” you murmured quietly.
“Drive safely,” Alexia ordered, though there was a clear smile in her voice before she hung up.
Clara let out a breath, retrieving the van keys from a very cooperative Sofia in exchange for a piece of wrapped candy from your counter bowl. Together, you walked out to the alley where the shop’s delivery van was parked.
“Thanks for the explanation about the hellebores,” Clara said as she climbed into the passenger seat next to you. You adjusted the mirrors and started the engine, shifting the van into gear. As you pulled out into the Barcelona traffic, Clara turned to you with a shy, friendly smile. “I’ll tell Alexia about the resilience part.”
November brought a heavy, damp chill to Barcelona. The vibrant autumn colors of the previous month began to give way to grey skies and a persistent, biting wind that swept through the streets. For FC Barcelona, the honeymoon phase of the early season was officially over. The match schedule was grueling: midweek Champions League fixtures followed by intense away games in Liga F. You could see the toll it was taking on the team just by looking at the sports pages your father left on the counter.
For your shop, November was defined by a monumental contract: the grand opening of a brand-new, permanent exhibition pavilion at the FC Barcelona Museum, dedicated entirely to the history, trophies, and cultural impact of the women’s team. Because the museum was one of the most visited cultural spaces in Spain, the club’s design directors wanted sleek, high-end floral installations to anchor the entrance and the VIP preview lounge. It was a massive architectural project for Floristeria Arrels, requiring structural arrangements that would look flawless under museum spotlighting and hold up against the thousands of fans expected for the opening week.
Behind the large wooden workstation, you were deep in prep mode, snipping the sharpest thorns off a pile of dark, sturdy branches. With your hair piled into a quick, messy bun to keep it out of the way, your hands moved with practiced precision, weaving a spool of thin green wire into the base of a new display.
The brass bell above the door chimed, a sudden gust of cold November air rushing into the warm, earthy sanctuary of the shop.
You looked up, a welcoming smile already forming on your lips. It faltered slightly, your pulse kicking into a familiar, rapid rhythm.
Alexia walked in.
She was pulled tightly into a heavy, dark winter coat, the collar turned up against the wind. But as she stepped up to the counter and unbuttoned her coat, you saw how exhausted she looked. Her shoulders were tense, the usual bright spark in her hazel eyes muted by sheer physical and mental fatigue. The weight of captaining a team through a high-pressure mid-season slump was practically visible.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said. Her voice was lower than usual, a bit rough around the edges, but she still managed to give you a genuine, tired smile.
“Hola, Alexia,” you replied softly, your natural empathy instantly tuning into her heavy mood. You leaned against the counter, looking at her. “You look like you’ve been run over by a tractor. Rough week?”
Alexia let out a dry, breathy laugh, running a hand through her hair. “A tractor might have been gentler. We had a late flight back from Sweden, training at dawn, and now I have to spend the afternoon at the museum preparing for the grand opening of the pavilion.” She sighed, looking around the quiet, warm shop as if it were a life raft. “Your brother already has the main transport crates at the stadium, but I told the PR team I’d come swing by to check on the final VIP accent pieces. Mostly, I just wanted to escape the stadium noise for a minute.”
“You have fifteen minutes before you need to be there?” you asked, noticing the way her fingers were tightly laced together.
Alexia blinked, checking her watch. “Yeah. About that. Why?”
“Sit,” you said, gesturing to the heavy wooden stool on the customer side of the counter. “I just brewed a fresh pot of chamomile and honey tea in the back. You’re not leaving this shop looking that stressed. It’s bad for my brand.”
Alexia stared at you for a second, surprised by your quiet assertiveness. Then, the tension seemed to melt out of her shoulders all at once. “Okay,” she murmured, pulling herself up onto the stool. “Thank you.”
You disappeared into the back room for a moment, returning with a steaming ceramic mug. You slid it across the counter to her. Alexia wrapped her hands around the warm mug, inhaling the sweet, herbal steam. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the shop’s heaters and the rustle of the wind outside. You turned back to your workstation, giving her space to just breathe, your hands methodically wrapping floral wire around a thick stem.
“What are you working on?” Alexia asked quietly, breaking the silence. She was watching your hands move, her chin resting on her palm.
You looked down at the bundle of small, paper-like blossoms in your hands. They were a deep, striking purple, clustered tightly together on stiff, branching stems. They didn’t look like traditional, delicate flowers; they felt rugged, papery, and completely indestructible.
“These are Statice,” you explained, your voice soft in the quiet room. “Most people call it Sea Lavender.”
“Statice,” Alexia repeated, testing the word. “Like statistics?”
You laughed softly, your hazel eyes crinkling. “No, though I’m sure your analysts love those. It comes from the Greek word for ‘causing to stand’, because the flower holds its color and shape for years, even after it’s been cut and dried. It practically never fades.”
Alexia took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze locked onto yours. “Does it also have a meaning?”
“It does,” you nodded, setting the bundle down. “Statice symbolizes remembrance and sympathy, but in modern botany, it represents success and turning adversity into triumph. Because it can grow in harsh, salty coastal soils where nothing else survives, it’s the flower of endurance. It tells someone that no matter how grueling the winter gets, they have the permanent strength to see it through.”
Alexia stared at the purple blossoms for a long moment. The heavy, quiet tension from September felt like it was shifting into something deeper, a silent understanding passing between you. She looked up from the flowers, her hazel eyes searching your face, lingering on the soft curve of your lips.
“Endurance,” Alexia murmured, her voice carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “I think I needed to hear that today.”
“I know,” you said softly, offering her a reassuring, warm smile. “That’s why I’m the florist and you’re the captain.”
Alexia smiled, a real, bright smile that reached her eyes this time. She finished the rest of her tea and stood up, looking visibly lighter, the exhaustion pushed to the background. She picked up the small, beautifully styled box of VIP table accents you had set aside. “I should get back to the museum complex before they send a search party for me.”
“Let me walk you to the door,” you said.
You walked around the counter, opening the heavy wooden door for her. The cold November wind instantly caught your hair, blowing a few blonde strands across your face. Alexia stepped closer to you for a brief second, using her tall frame to shield you from the biting gust.
As she tucked her hands into the deep pockets of her coat, you quickly reached into your apron.
“Here,” you said, slipping a small, dried sprig of the deep purple Statice into the front pocket of her heavy coat, right beside her fingers.
Alexia froze, looking down at your hand, then up at your face. Her breath hitched slightly in the cold air, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to your eyes.
“For luck,” you whispered, your cheeks flushing from more than just the cold. “A reminder that you endure.”
Alexia’s expression softened into something intensely private, a look that made your heart do a violent flip. She reached up, her thumb brushing against your cheek for a fleeting second, sending a jolt of pure warmth straight down your spine.
“Thank you, flower girl,” she said quietly, her voice full of an unspoken weight. “For the tea. And for the flowers.”
You watched her drive away into the grey November afternoon, your hand instinctively rising to touch the spot on your cheek where her thumb had rested.
December transformed Barcelona into a city of lights. The streets were filled with the scent of roasted chestnuts, and festive decorations lined the shopfronts. Inside your shop, the air was a rich, intoxicating mix of fresh pine needles, cinnamon sticks, and dried orange slices. The annual Barça Christmas charity gala was coming up, and the club had commissioned you for massive festive wreaths, garlands, and dozens of premium poinsettias. Your shop looked like a winter wonderland, albeit a very busy one.
The holiday rush was in full swing, and you were currently losing a wrestling match with a massive, incredibly stubborn pine garland. A festive red velvet ribbon kept your hair pinned back and out of the line of fire, leaving you free to squint through a shower of flying needles as you used both hands to heave the heavy, fragrant greenery onto the display rack.
“Tia! Tia, look at me! I’m a Christmas elf!”
You turned around to see Lucas, wearing a floppy green felt hat he had found somewhere, trying to balance a pinecone on his nose.
“You’re a very helpful elf, Lucas,” you laughed, adjusting a stray piece of twine. “But if you want to be a real elf, you need to help me move these heavy crates of soil to the back before the delivery van arrives.”
“Elves don’t do heavy lifting, Tia. That’s for trolls,” Lucas said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms.
“I heard that!” your father’s voice barked from the back room. “And I am not a troll, I am your grandfather! Go sweep the entrance!”
Before Lucas could argue, the brass bell above the front door chimed, letting in a swirl of crisp December air and a burst of loud, familiar laughter.
You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron. Your heart instantly did a familiar, erratic skip. It wasn’t just one player this time, it was a whole delegation. Patri, Kika, and Clara all walked in, led by Alexia. They were bundled up in thick winter jackets and beanies, their cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Hola!” Patri announced loudly, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. “We heard the florist was drowning in pine needles, so we came to inspect the goods.”
“And to escape fitness training,” Kika whispered, giving Lucas a high-five as she walked past him. “Hey, Lucas. Nice hat.”
“Hola, everyone,” you smiled warmly, your eyes instinctively finding Alexia. She was wearing a cream-colored knit beanie and a dark coat, and the moment her eyes met yours, the tired lines on her face seemed to soften. She gave you a quiet, lingering nod, her gaze dropping briefly to the red ribbon in your hair before looking back at your eyes.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, stepping up to the counter. “We were driving past and saw the delivery van outside. We figured you had a lot to load for the gala tomorrow, so we came to help.”
“You... came to help load crates?” you blinked, looking at the four professional athletes standing in your small shop. “I don't think the club’s insurance covers the captain straining her back lifting my poinsettias.”
“Please,” Patri scoffed, already grabbing the handles of a heavy wooden crate full of festive centerpieces. “We lift weights for a living, Y/N. This is a warmup.”
“I’ll help!” Clara said quietly, stepping forward with a shy smile. She carefully lifted a delicate tray of white cyclamen, making sure not to crush the leaves, looking very focused on doing a good job.
For the next fifteen minutes, your quiet shop was filled with absolute chaos. The players formed a mini-assembly line, carrying the heavy arrangements out to your delivery van. At one point, your friends happened to walk past the shop window on their way to a café. They froze, their jaws dropping as they saw the captain of FC Barcelona carrying a box of pinecones while Kika chased Lucas around a display of ferns. They caught your eye through the glass, pointing and mouthing, ‘What is happening?!’ You just flushed bright red and shrugged, waving them off.
Alexia carried the final, massive holiday wreath inside from the prep table. As she set it down on the counter, she breathed out a puff of air, her cheeks rosy from the chill.
“That should be everything,” Alexia said, leaning against the counter, just inches away from you. She looked down at a stunning arrangement you had set aside on the corner display. It featured a towering, majestic white flower with thick, velvety petals blooming spectacularly from a bulb. “Wow. What is this one? It looks like a crown.”
You smiled, stepping closer to her, your shoulder brushing lightly against hers. A sudden, electric warmth bloomed in your chest despite the December chill.
“That’s an Amaryllis,” you explained quietly, your voice soft and confident. “Specifically, a winter Amaryllis.”
“Does this one have a story?” Alexia asked, turning her head to look at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours.
“It does,” you nodded. “The name comes from the Greek word amarysso, which means ‘to sparkle.’ In botanical lore, it symbolizes splendid beauty, worth beyond beauty, and determination. Because it’s a bulb that sleeps all through the autumn and then blooms in the absolute dead of winter, it represents a deep, indestructible pride. It says that even in the darkest, coldest times of the year, something breathtaking can grow if you give it time.”
Alexia stared at the white petals, her expression turning quiet, a sudden, heavy shadow crossing her eyes. She looked down at her coat pocket, the very pocket where you had slipped the purple statice flower a month ago.
“Something breathtaking in the dead of winter,” Alexia murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense and searching, lingering on your lips for a second too long.
Before the silence could stretch, Patri called out from the doorway. “Hey, Ale! Are you buying that bouquet for the gala, or are we heading out?”
Alexia blinked, pulling herself out of the moment. She cleared her throat, a slightly forced, distant smile appearing on her face. “Right. Um, actually... can you wrap up a separate bouquet of red roses and holly? I need to take it with me tonight.”
Your chest tightened, a familiar, cold pang of reality hitting you. The girlfriend. You had almost forgotten, caught up in the warmth of the shop and the way Alexia looked at you.
“Of course,” you said, your professional mask slipping back on perfectly. “Give me five minutes.”
You wrapped the holiday bouquet with practiced efficiency, tying the ribbon tightly. You handed it over the counter, ensuring your fingers didn’t brush against hers this time. You didn't want to complicate things.
“Thanks, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, holding the romantic bouquet in her arms. She looked like she wanted to say something else, her eyes scanning your face, but she held back.
“Thank you all for the help,” you told the group, forcing a bright, cheerful smile. “See you at the gala tomorrow.”
After the players piled out of the shop, laughing and shoving each other into the cold evening air, the store felt suddenly huge and incredibly quiet. Lucas came over, taking off his elf hat and looking up at you with his smart-aleck eight-year-old eyes.
“Tia,” he said thoughtfully. “She looked sad when you gave her those roses.”
“Go sweep the entrance, Lucas,” you murmured, turning back to your counter.
You looked at the white amaryllis, sparkling under the shop lights. Splendid beauty, waiting in the dark.
x bonus chapter x
The Spotify Camp Nou hospitality suite was transformed into a glittering winter wonderland for the annual Christmas charity gala. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the massive room, reflecting off the silver trimmings and the dark green velvet tablecloths.
You stood near the grand entrance, smoothing down the skirt of your dark emerald dress. You had opted to leave your hair down, the soft waves brushing past your shoulders, and your eyes swept over the room with a sense of quiet pride. Every single table was adorned with your low-profile centerpieces, the rich pine, cinnamon accents, and striking white amaryllis catching the light perfectly. The club’s PR director had already stopped by to praise your work, noting that the atmosphere had never felt so elegant.
But despite the success, you felt entirely out of your element. You were a florist, used to dirt under your fingernails and the quiet hum of your family’s shop, not the clinking of champagne glasses and the flashing cameras of the Catalan media.
“You look like you’re plotting a getaway,” a smooth, familiar voice murmured from beside you.
You turned your head, your heart instantly doing a violent, familiar flip.
Alexia was standing there. She had traded her usual training gear and casual blazers for a breathtaking, floor-length gown in a deep midnight blue that hugged her athletic silhouette perfectly. Her hair was styled in sleek, polished waves cascading down one shoulder, and her eyes were looking down at you with an intense, quiet focus. Up close, her presence was almost dizzying.
“Alexia,” you said, a soft, breathless smile breaking across your face as you looked her up and down. “I could say the same about you. The dress suits you much better than a football kit.”
Alexia let out a low laugh, a genuine warmth spreading across her features. “Don’t let the managers hear you say that. But thank you. You look... incredible, flower girl. Truly. The emerald suits you.”
“Thank you,” you replied, your cheeks heating up slightly. You gestured to the room around you to redirect the focus. “What do you think of the arrangements? They look okay under the bright lights?”
“They’re perfect,” Alexia said softly, her gaze drifting over the room before settling right back on your face. “Everyone is talking about them. You completely transformed the space.” She paused, shifting her weight as she took a sip from her glass. “I saw your friends’ faces through the window yesterday, by the way. I think Patri scarred them for life.”
You laughed, the tension leaving your shoulders. “They texted me immediately demanding to know why the Barça captain was acting as my personal delivery courier. I told them I just have excellent customer service.”
“Clearly,” Alexia smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
Before the conversation could deepen, a sudden shift in the room caught your attention. A stylish, striking woman walked up to the bar a few meters away, gesturing for Alexia to join her. It was the girlfriend. You recognized her instantly from some late-night stalking.
Your chest tightened with that familiar, unwelcome pang of reality. You instinctively stepped back, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind your ear as your professional mask slid firmly into place. “Your guest is waiting. You should go, Ale.”
Alexia looked over her shoulder, her smile faltering. The lines of exhaustion and tension you had seen in November seemed to flash across her face for a brief second. When she looked back at you, her hazel eyes were guarded, lacking the easy warmth she had just shared with you.
“Right,” Alexia said quietly, her voice dropping a register. She looked at you for a long, lingering moment, as if she wanted to say something else, but the noise of the gala swallowed the space between you. “Enjoy the night, flower girl.”
“You too,” you murmured.
You watched her walk away, watching the way her posture shifted back into the rigid, perfect composure expected of the club's leader as she greeted her partner.
You didn’t stay much longer after that. You slipped out of the gala before the main courses were served, taking a taxi back through the brightly lit streets of Barcelona.
January in Barcelona arrived with a biting, crisp clarity. The holiday lights were packed away, leaving the city streets feeling stark and quiet under the pale winter sun. At the Ciutat Esportiva, the atmosphere was thick with intense focus; mid-season awards were being announced, and the press room was constantly booked for high-profile mid-season press conferences.
For your shop, January meant providing clean, minimalist arrangements for the media rooms: lots of structured greenery and sharp white accents that looked professional on television.
A persistent draft from the front door had you shivering slightly, prompting you to pull your thick wool cardigan tighter around your shoulders. A neat, high ponytail kept things out of your way as you leaned over the counter, the bright glow of your phone screen lighting up your face during your favorite Monday morning ritual: trading quick texts with Ingrid.
Hi Y/N! Let’s do something warm and bright for Mapi this week, Ingrid’s text from Lyon read. She’s feeling a bit down with the winter training schedule. Maybe some yellow or orange?
I have some stunning winter marigolds and orange ranunculus that just arrived, you typed back quickly, a soft smile on your face. I’ll make it look like a little burst of sunshine. How is France treating you?
Freezing! 🥶 But the football is good. Hey, by the way... is the vibe at the club offices as weird as Patri says it is? She texted me saying the locker room has been completely silent all week.
You paused, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. I haven’t been to the club this week, just the press room. Why is it silent?
There was a pause, the little typing bubbles appearing and disappearing before Ingrid’s reply popped up. Alexia is single again. Apparently, it happened right after the New Year. Nobody is brave enough to ask her about it, but Patri says she’s just throwing herself entirely into training.
Your heart gave a sudden, violent thud against your ribs. You stared at the words on the screen, a flood of conflicting emotions rushing through you. Single. The relationship you had meticulously crafted bouquets for was over. You thought back to the Christmas gala, the heavy, guarded look in Alexia’s eyes and the forced smile she had worn.
Before you could type a response, the brass bell above the door chimed. You looked up instantly, your breath catching in your throat.
But it wasn’t Alexia. It was Patri.
The midfielder walked in, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her heavy Barça parka. She looked tired, the usual mischievous spark in her eyes replaced by a quiet, subdued sigh as she approached the counter.
“Hola, chica,” Patri said, offering a small, weak wave.
“Hola, Patri,” you replied softly, setting your phone aside. “You look like you’ve been freezing on the pitch all morning.”
“Pretty much,” Patri muttered, leaning against the counter. “I’m here to pick up the press room displays for tomorrow’s briefing. Are they ready?”
“They’re right here,” you said, gesturing to the sleek, white ceramic vases filled with elegant eucalyptus and structured white stems. As you began to carefully wrap the base of the vases in protective paper, you kept your tone casual, though your pulse was racing. “Ingrid actually just texted me. She mentioned things have been a bit heavy at the training ground.”
Patri let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing her face with her hands. “Yeah. It’s tough. Alexia... she’s going through a lot right now. The breakup was rough, and instead of taking a breath, she’s just practically living on the pitch. First one there, last one to leave. She won’t talk to any of us about it.” Patri looked around the shop, her eyes landing on a display of small, delicate plants in the corner. “She usually comes here when she’s stressed, but she told me to pick these up today. I think she’s just hiding.”
Your chest pulled tight with a quiet, aching empathy. You didn’t want to fix Alexia’s problems, that wasn’t your place, but as a florist, you knew that sometimes when people couldn’t find the words, the flowers could speak for them.
You stopped wrapping the vase and walked over to a specific wooden shelf near the window. Tucked away in a small terracotta pot was a cluster of hardy, delicate white blossoms that looked like tiny, frozen bells.
“Take this to her,” you said quietly, bringing the pot back to the counter.
Patri tilted her head, looking at the small white flowers. “What is it?”
“It’s White Heather,” you explained, your voice soft and steady in the quiet shop. “It’s one of the few things that can bloom beautifully in the dead of January. In old botanical language, white heather symbolizes protection, good fortune, and the fulfillment of wishes.”
You looked up, meeting Patri’s eyes. “It’s not a romantic flower, and it’s not flashy. It’s a flower given to tell someone that you wish them peace and safety while they navigate a storm. Tell her... tell her it’s just a sponsor’s gift for the captain. A wish for a good second half of the season.”
Patri stared at the white heather, a soft, knowing expression gradually overtaking her tired face. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “A sponsor’s gift. Right.” She took the little pot gently, nesting it into her arm. “I’ll make sure she gets it. I think she really needs a little bit of protection right now.”
After helping Patri load the sleek arrangements into her car, you stood inside the doorway, watching the vehicle pull away into the cold January afternoon.
You walked back to the counter, picking up your phone to see a final text from Ingrid: Make sure to look after Ale if she stops by! x
You looked out the window at the grey Barcelona sky. Alexia hadn’t come to the shop this month, choosing to hide away in the noise of her training.
February brought the frenetic, dizzying rush of the Valentine’s Day season. For your shop, it was easily the most chaotic week of the winter. The counter was practically buried under mountains of crimson roses, delicate pink tulips, and heavy satin ribbons. Your father had been brought out of retirement (again) to handle the delivery logs, and your friends had even offered to help clip thorns after their corporate day jobs.
To make matters more intense, FC Barcelona had a massive home game at the stadium on Valentine’s Day weekend, meaning the club had ordered dozens of presentation bouquets for the VIP suites and the pre-match ceremonies. You had been working fourteen-hour days, your hair thrown into a messy bun with a pink silk ribbon, your eyes bright but exhausted.
It was late on a Friday afternoon when the heavy Valentine’s rush finally hit a brief, blessed lull. Your father had taken Lucas to get hot chocolate, leaving the shop quiet save for the hum of the coolers.
The brass bell above the door chimed, letting in a crisp breeze.
You looked up, automatically reaching for a fresh sheet of wrapping paper. “Welcome to Floristeria Arrels, give me just one second…”
The words died in your throat.
Alexia stood in the doorway. She was wearing a casual green-colored hoodie under a dark jacket, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her hands shoved into her pockets.
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. You hadn’t seen her in almost two months, and up close, you could see the change. She still looked tired from the grueling winter season, but the heavy, suffocating shadow she had carried in December was gone. Her eyes looked clear, grounded, and entirely focused on you.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low in the quiet shop as she walked up to the counter.
“Hola, Alexia,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter. You offered a warm, slightly tentative smile. “You survived the January schedule, I see.”
“Barely,” Alexia smiled, a genuine, soft expression that sent a sudden rush of warmth straight to your core. She leaned against the wooden counter. “Patri gave me the white heather, by the way. She said it was a ‘sponsor's gift,’ but somehow I didn’t think some sponsor’s administrative office was choosing specific botanical wishes for my peace and safety.”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable crimson. You instinctively tucked a stray blonde curl behind your ear, looking down at your hands. “Well... I just thought the captain could use a little luck for the second half of the season.”
“Thank you,” Alexia said quietly, her voice full of sincere warmth. “It’s sitting on my kitchen counter right now. It helped, flower girl. Truly. It was nice to have a bit of quiet luck around.”
A heavy, incredibly soft silence fell between you. The sharp, romantic tension from the autumn hadn’t disappeared; instead, it felt like it had thawed into something much more intimate, stripped of the boundaries that had kept you apart before.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence with a soft smile as you gestured to the sea of red roses surrounding you. “Are you here to brave the Valentine's Day madness? I can whip up a custom bouquet if you need one.”
“No,” Alexia said instantly. She looked at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours with a terrifyingly direct focus. “No more red roses. I’m actually just here for my own apartment. I wanted some fresh greenery. Eucalyptus, maybe? Something clean.”
Your chest loosened, a wave of relief washing over you that you couldn’t quite hide. “I can definitely do eucalyptus. Let me grab the fresh bunches from the back.”
You walked over to the cold storage, pulling out a lush, fragrant bundle of silver-dollar eucalyptus. As you brought it back to the workstation, you noticed a small, rustic clay pot sitting on a lower display shelf, holding a cluster of delicate, low-growing purple flowers. They were simple, wild, and blooming right out of the dark, rich soil.
“Here,” you said, setting the eucalyptus down and carefully leaning over to tend to the little plant.
Alexia leaned in, her chin resting on her hand as she watched your fingers gently brush a stray speck of dirt off one of the heart-shaped leaves. “What are those?”
“These are Violets,” you murmured, looking up to meet her gaze. “They’re traditional February blooms. In old floral language, they symbolize modesty, faithfulness, and subtle, unspoken affection.”
You gently traced the edge of a velvet petal, your voice soft and steady. “Because they’re small and grow close to the earth, they don't shout for attention like roses do. But they’re incredibly hardy. They bloom right out of the soil even when the ground is still cold, signaling that the winter is ending. It’s a plant that represents a quiet, fresh start.”
Alexia stared at the tiny purple flowers, then slowly raised her eyes to your face. She took in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnest warmth in your hazel eyes. She didn’t look away, the silence stretching between you until it felt completely breathless.
“A quiet, fresh start,” Alexia repeated, her voice dropping to a low, intimate register. She stared at the tiny purple flowers for a long moment, then looked up, her eyes locking onto yours. “I think a fresh start is exactly what I’m looking for.”
Your pulse hammered against your ribs, the silence between you suddenly feeling completely breathless. You managed a small smile, lifting the little clay pot. “Then the violets are yours. On the house.”
“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia whispered, her eyes softening with a genuine warmth.
You turned to the workstation to package everything up, laying out a large sheet of thick brown kraft paper to bundle her heavy branches of silver-dollar eucalyptus. Because the stems were springy and full, the paper kept unrolling and snapping back as you tried to fold it.
Seeing you struggle slightly, Alexia instinctively leaned over the counter and reached out to press her palm down on the edge of the paper to hold it steady for you.
As you brought your hand down to tape the seam, your fingers slid right across the back of her hand. It was a complete accident, a sudden brush of skin against skin. You caught your breath, your hand freezing for a split second against hers. Alexia didn’t move her hand away either; she just kept holding the paper flat, her hazel eyes flicking up to catch yours with a quiet, lingering intensity that made your skin tingle.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice a little breathier than intended as you quickly finished taping the paper.
“Anytime,” she replied softly, a slow, amused smile playing on her lips as she finally pulled her hand back. You leaned against the counter, your hands trembling slightly as you picked up your shears.
March brought the long-awaited arrival of spring. The biting winter winds softened into gentle, warm breezes, and the sun lingered just a bit longer over the city’s plazas each evening. For the club, March meant the intense preparation for the final stretch of the season, split up by a brief international break. For your shop, it meant a vibrant explosion of color as the first true spring blooms began to arrive in heavy wooden crates.
A heavy delivery crate sat open on the counter, trailing loose packing straw onto the floor as you worked. With your hair swept up and held securely out of your face by a smooth silver clip, you lifted out the final tray of potted bulbs. They weren’t quite blooming yet, but the tightly closed green buds were fat and bursting at the seams, showing just enough hints of bright yellow to promise a sea of golden warmth in a few days’ time.
The brass bell above the door chimed cheerfully.
“Hola!” Patri’s boisterous voice echoed through the shop before she even fully stepped inside.
You looked up, a bright smile instantly taking over your face as Patri walked in, closely followed by Kika. Both were dressed in casual tracksuits, looking relaxed and sun-warmed from an early training session.
“Hola, regulars,” you teased, leaning against the counter. “What can I do for you today? Don’t tell me Patri already managed to kill that pothos she bought in January.”
“No, that thing is indestructible, just like you said,” Patri laughed, walking up to the counter and resting her elbows on the wood. “We actually need a nice birthday plant for Kika’s aunt. Something that says ‘I love you’ but also ‘I forgot your birthday was this week and ordered this at the last minute’.”
“Hey! I didn’t forget,” Kika protested, though she was grinning as she wandered over to inspect a shelf of flowering cacti. “I just... misplaced the date.”
“Right, right,” you chuckled, stepping out from behind the counter to help them browse. “I have some beautiful potted orchids, or some fresh jasmine that smells amazing.”
As you walked them through the options, Patri kept casting sideways glances at you, a mischievous, knowing smirk playing on her lips. Finally, as you reached for a lush potted jasmine, Patri casually leaned against a display rack.
“So, chica,” Patri started, her tone entirely too innocent. “Alexia’s apartment has been smelling a lot like eucalyptus lately. I visited her apartment last night, and the girl who can barely keep a cactus alive has a perfectly manicured, tiny clay pot of purple violets sitting in prime real estate on her kitchen windowsill. Care to comment?”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, instant pink. You instinctively tucked a loose blonde curl behind your ear, your hazel eyes darting down to the plant in your hands as you tried to maintain your professional composure. “I just sold Alexia some fresh greenery, Patri. It's my job.”
“Uh-huh,” Kika chimed in, abandoning the cacti to join the interrogation, a massive grin on her face. “And is it your job to make our captain smile at her phone in the middle of video analysis? Because she’s been doing that a lot. Especially on Monday mornings after she sees the arrangements you send for Mapi.”
“I... I just provide good customer service,” you stammered, looking every bit the flustered, classic beauty as you tried to dodge their playful glare.
“Right, ‘customer service’,” Patri purred, swapping a highly amused look with Kika. “Well, just so you know, the captain’s schedule is absolute madness right now, but she’s suddenly magically free every single Tuesday afternoon. Completely single, too. And she really likes flowers. In fact, she’s been complaining that she doesn’t have a good excuse to come by the shop this month because the administrative team handled the international break orders online.”
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. The realization that Alexia was talking about you, that she was looking for reasons to see you, sent a wave of pure, thrilling heat through your chest.
To hide your burning face, you quickly turned back to the workstation, picking up a small trowel and reaching for a tray of vibrant potted bulbs you had been sorting earlier.
“If you two are quite finished playing matchmaker,” you said, your voice breathless but carrying a playful edge, “I need to finish processing these.”
Patri walked over, tilting her head at the rows of green, goose-necked stalks pointing out of the dark soil. She nudged one of the fat, swollen tips where a sliver of bright yellow was tearing through the papery casing. “Well, these look ready to burst. What are they?"”
“They’re Daffodils,” you murmured, grateful to anchor yourself back into your craft. You carefully brushed a bit of loose earth from the rim of a small pot. “They’re the ultimate flower of March. In traditional botanical lore, daffodils have a bit of a dual meaning. Historically, they could represent unrequited love, but globally, they symbolize rebirth, new beginnings, and unequaled affection. They’re the very first flowers to break through the soil after the frost, showing that the sun is finally back.”
Patri stared at the yellow flowers, then looked up at your flushed face, her expression softening into a genuinely warm, supportive smile. She reached out, lightly tapping the counter.
“Let’s go with the new beginnings part,” Patri said softly, giving you a reassuring wink. “I think the frost has officially melted, chica. You just have to wait for the sun to walk through the door.”
“Yeah,” Kika agreed, nodding enthusiastically as she picked out the jasmine plant. “And definitely don’t charge her for the next batch of eucalyptus.”
You laughed, the nervous tension giving way to a soft, bubbling happiness. After wrapping up Kika’s aunt’s plant and waving the two mischievous midfielders away, the shop fell into a quiet afternoon lull.
You looked down at the bright yellow blossoms growing from the little pot, their golden petals catching the warm March sunlight streaming through the storefront window. A fresh start. A new beginning.
April arrived with a sky-high spike in adrenaline. The city was practically vibrating with anticipation as FC Barcelona rolled into the Champions League Semifinals. The pressure on the squad was immense; every training session was hyper-focused, and the media presence at the Ciutat Esportiva was constant.
For your shop, April meant a flurry of quick, efficient corporate orders for the stadium’s luxury boxes. But inside Floristeria Arrels, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the high-stakes football world. It was a haven of soft rain, damp pavement outside, and the intoxicating, sweet scent of blooming spring bulbs inside.
Rain lashed violently against the storefront glass as the clock ticked past closing time on a stormy Thursday evening. A few loose strands of hair had escaped your bun, framing your face as you hoisted a heavy, freezing zinc bucket into place, determined to get the last of the fresh imports organized before finally calling it a night.
The brass bell above the door gave a sudden, sharp chime as the door pushed open against the howling wind.
You looked up, surprised. “Oh, sorry, we’re just about to…”
The words evaporated.
Alexia stood in the doorway. She was pulled into a dark, rain-slicked club jacket, her hood pushed back to reveal her hair, which was slightly damp from the storm. She looked completely worn out, not just physically, but mentally. The sheer weight of captaining the team through the highest-stakes week of the season was evident in the tight line of her jaw.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said quietly, her voice low and carrying a hint of hesitation. “I saw the lights were still on. I know it’s late.”
“Hola, Ale,” you breathed, setting the heavy bucket down. Your heart kicked into that familiar, erratic rhythm, but your immediate instinct was to offer her a reprieve from the storm outside. “Don’t worry about the time. Come in. You look like you just played ninety minutes in a downpour.”
Alexia let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, stepping further into the warm, fragrant sanctuary of the shop. She didn’t stay by the door; she walked right up to your workstation, leaning her hands against the aged wood. “Just ran from the car. The pressure this week... it’s loud. Everywhere I go, people are talking about the semifinal. I just needed twenty minutes where nobody asks me about tactical formations.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” you smiled warmly, your eyes locking onto hers. “The flowers don’t care about football.”
Determined to keep things light and give her the distraction she desperately needed, you went to move a large bucket of water and fresh cuttings out of her path. But your natural coordination chose that exact moment to fail you.
Your sandal slid on a slick spot of wet tile.
“Whoa!” you gasped, your arms flailing.
In your panic, your elbow clipped the rim of a heavy plastic bucket, sending a tidal wave of cold water splashing across the floor. You went down, landing awkwardly on your knees amidst a sea of scattered green stems and puddles.
“Y/N!” Alexia reacted with lightning-fast athlete reflexes, instantly dropping to her knees beside you on the wet floor. Her strong hands caught your forearms, stabilizing you. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your wrist?”
Your cheeks burned a violent, brilliant crimson. You looked up, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia’s face. The proximity was dizzying. You could see the golden flecks in her hazel eyes, could feel the warmth of her breath against your skin. You looked incredibly striking in your flustered state, your breath hitching.
“I’m fine,” you squeaked, your voice breathless as you looked down at the absolute disaster on the floor. “I told you... giraffe coordination. I just ruined my clean floor.”
Alexia stared at you for a heartbeat, taking in your wide eyes and your bright blush. Then, a sudden, beautiful sound broke through the quiet shop. Alexia laughed. It wasn’t the polite, guarded chuckle she gave to the media; it was a deep, genuine, chest-deep laugh that completely wiped the exhaustion from her face.
“You really are a hazard, flower girl,” she teased, her eyes crinkling with pure amusement as she let go of your arms to pick up a wet leaf.
“I’m a professional, I swear,” you laughed along, the embarrassment melting into a soft, bubbling happiness.
Together, sitting on the floor of the closed shop, you began grabbing the scattered stems. Alexia reached for a bundle of elegant, unbroken flowers that had escaped the water. They were sleek, cup-shaped blossoms of a stunning, soft pastel pink.
“Tulips, right?” Alexia asked softly, holding one up between you. The playful mood suddenly shifted, dropping into a quiet, heavy intimacy.
“Yes, those are Pink Tulips," you murmured, your voice steadying as you looked from the flower to her eyes. “They’re the heart of spring.”
“Do they have a meaning too?” Alexia asked, her voice dropping a register, her hazel gaze locking onto yours.
“They do,” you nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Unlike red tulips, which are very bold and aggressive about love, pink tulips are different. They symbolize affection, deep caring, and the attachment of a budding romance. They represent a feeling that is growing quietly, carefully... but securely. It’s the flower you give when you realize you're forming a bond you don’t want to lose.”
The silence that followed was completely breathless, heavy with a thick, undeniable tension. The storm outside seemed a million miles away.
Alexia didn’t look down at the tulip. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, intense and completely focused. Slowly, deliberately, she reached her hand up. Her warm fingers gently tucked a stray, damp lock of your blonde hair behind your ear, her thumb lingering against your jawline for a fraction of a second. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot straight down your spine.
“A budding romance,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper, her gaze dropping briefly to your lips before rising back to your hazel eyes. “I think that’s a very beautiful meaning, flower girl.”
You couldn’t move. You could barely breathe. The promise of what was growing between you felt completely overwhelming.
Alexia gently broke the spell, standing up and offering you a hand to pull you up from the floor. You took it, your skin tingling at the contact. She helped you grab a towel to quickly dry the rest of the floor, the heavy atmosphere shifting into a comfortable, warm hum.
When she finally prepared to leave, holding a simple bunch of the pink tulips you had wrapped for her, she stood by the door for a long moment.
“Thank you for the distraction,” Alexia said softly, her hand on the brass handle. “I think I’m ready for the match now.”
“Go win it, Captain,” you smiled, looking at her with all the earnest support you possessed.
As the door closed and she stepped out into the April rain, you leaned back against the wooden counter, your fingers tracing the spot on your jaw where her thumb had rested.
May in Barcelona was a golden, chaotic blur. The city was completely painted in blaugrana as the FC Barcelona women’s team pulled off a historic, breathtaking run, securing both the league title and the Champions League trophy. The entire city was in a state of absolute euphoria.
For you, May was a beautiful war zone. The club had put in massive, sweeping orders for the victory parade, the stadium gala, and the official team reception. Your shop had been working around the clock, but for the final presentation, you had to bring your craft directly into the heart of their celebration.
The media lounge at the Ciutat Esportiva was humming with organized energy. Security guards were tightly managing the perimeter, team photographers were uploading files, and the back of the room had been cleared out specifically for your workstation. You stood behind a long, white-draped table, focusing entirely on the grueling task of assembling the final massive presentation bouquet for the evening’s formal gala.
Your hair was pulled back securely in a claw clip to keep it out of your eyes, and you wore your dark green Floristeria Arrels apron over a clean linen blouse, your hands moving with practiced efficiency.
“The last of the stadium crates are fully secured in the van, Y/N,” your older brother said, walking up to the table with a clipboard. He had volunteered to manage the heavy loading today, and his calm, reliable presence was the only reason you were keeping up with the club's strict schedule. “Lucas is just finishing up the final inventory check.”
You looked over to see your nephew standing dutifully by the transport boxes. He took his job incredibly seriously, wearing a playful cardboard “gold medal” around his neck that he’d made to match the team’s achievements.
“Perfect. Thank you both,” you smiled, exhaling a soft breath of relief as you bound the thick floral stems with green twine. “Lucas, you’re officially the best assistant manager I’ve ever had.”
Lucas beamed proudly, checking off the last item on his list. “All thirty gold-ribbon packages are accounted for, Tia.”
Before you could praise him further, a sudden wave of lighthearted banter and clear, echoing laughter spilled into the lounge from the main corridor, signaling that the morning media restrictions had finally lifted.
The busy room instantly fell into a respectful hum as the players began to flood into the space. It was Patri, Kika, and Clara Serrajordi, all grinning from ear to ear, laughing loudly. And walking right in the center of them, looking completely radiant, was Alexia.
They weren’t in their formal gala gowns yet; they were wearing their official victory shirts, their faces glowing with the sheer, unmatched high of being champions of Europe.
“The champions are here!” Patri announced, throwing her arms wide as she spotted your workstation.
Your brother’s eyes widened, and he immediately grabbed Lucas by the shoulder, pulling him back to give the players room. “Hola, everyone,” you smiled, a rush of genuine, thrilled happiness washing over you as you looked at them. “Congratulations! The whole city is so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Y/N,” Clara Serrajordi said quietly, giving you a shy, proud wave from behind Patri.
Your eyes instinctively traveled across the crowded space, instantly locking onto Alexia. The moment her eyes met yours, the celebratory, public mask she had been wearing all morning seemed to drop. A quiet, incredibly deep warmth flooded her expression. She didn’t say anything at first; she just stood there, taking you in: your messy hair, your flushed cheeks, and the absolute focus with which you were navigating their high-profile chaos.
“We came to check on the final presentation bouquets before the media team takes them,” Patri said, leaning over the table to peek at your work. “Are we good to go?”
“Everything from the van is already styled in the main reception hall,” you said, nodding toward the majestic, sprawling arrangement on your table. “I’m just finishing up this last one.”
The bouquet was spectacular, filled with massive, lush flowers with incredibly thick, tightly packed layers of soft, voluminous petals that looked like ruffled silk.
Alexia stepped closer, bypassing her teammates to stand on the other side of your white-clothed table. She looked down at the breathtaking arrangement, her voice dropping into a low, private register. “Wow. These are incredible, flower girl. They look so heavy, like clouds.”
“They're Peonies,” you murmured, your voice dropping into that soft, confident register as you looked up into her hazel eyes.
“Peonies,” Alexia repeated softly, her gaze locked onto yours over the sea of pink and white petals. “What do they mean for a victory?”
“They’re the flower of honor and prosperity,” you explained, your heart doing a familiar, rapid thud against your ribs. “In old traditions, peonies represent good fortune and a legacy of success. But because they take years to establish their roots deep in the soil before they can bloom this spectacularly, they symbolize a triumph that was earned through deep, patient dedication. They say that the glory is real because the work behind it was real.”
Alexia stared at the peonies, a profound, quiet emotion passing over her face. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely full of an unspoken weight. The bustling lounge, your family, her teammates, everything seemed to fade into the background for a long, breathless moment.
“Patient dedication,” Alexia whispered, her voice carrying a promise that made your chest tighten with a thrill of anticipation. “I think that’s the most perfect meaning yet.”
“Hey, Capi! The media director needs us for the trophy photos!” Patri called out from the other side of the lounge, breaking the spell. Kika and Clara were already moving toward the backdrops, waving to the staff.
Alexia blinked, pulling herself back, but she didn’t move away immediately. She reached across the workspace, her fingers lightly brushing against yours for a brief, electric second that sent a wave of heat straight to your core.
“I have to go do the media rounds,” Alexia said softly, her eyes searching your face one last time. “But as soon as the madness of this week ends... I’m coming to the shop. We need to talk.”
“I’ll be there,” you whispered, a soft smile breaking across your face.
You handed her a single, perfect pink peony from the leftover batch on your table. Alexia took it carefully, holding the stem lightly against her victory shirt like a badge of honor, before turning to join her team under the bright flashing cameras.
You stood behind the table, watching her walk away into the golden afternoon light of the complex, your heart beating wildly.
June arrived with a quiet, golden stillness that settled over Barcelona. The roaring crowds at Spotify Camp Nou had cleared, the parade confetti had finally been swept from the avenues, and the relentless, high-octane pressure of the football season had officially evaporated into the off-season. For the club, the year was a wrap. For your shop, the heavy corporate contracts were successfully completed, leaving Floristeria Arrels in a peaceful, lazy summer lull.
You were standing by the front window, the afternoon sun warming your skin. Your hair was loosely braided and tied back with a simple green silk ribbon. The shop was a fragrant paradise of summer blooms, but without the chaotic rush of the past few months, it felt incredibly spacious.
Your contract with FC Barcelona was officially up for renewal. The paperwork was sitting on your counter, waiting for your signature, a testament to a year of hard work, flawless execution, and a family business preserved.
The brass bell above the door gave a soft, familiar chime.
You turned around, a welcoming phrase already on your tongue, but the words instantly caught in your throat.
Alexia walked in.
She wasn’t wearing a club jersey, a sponsor’s tuxedo, or a rainy-day training jacket. She was dressed in a casual, crisp white linen button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, light jeans, and white sneakers. Her hair was down, catching the golden June light, and her eyes looked completely relaxed, free of the crushing weight of the captaincy.
But as she approached the counter, you noticed something you had never seen on Alexia Putellas before. She looked nervous. Her hands were tucked behind her back, her posture slightly tentative.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth, low, and carrying a soft, hesitant warmth.
“Hola Ale,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter to meet her in the center of the shop. You offered a warm, genuine smile, your heart beginning to hammer a familiar, frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Or should I say Champion? What brings you by? I thought the club orders were officially done for the summer.”
“They are,” Alexia said, stepping closer. The faint, clean scent of her woody perfume immediately enveloped you. “The club is done. I’m not here for Barça, I’m here for myself.”
Slowly, deliberately, she brought her hands out from behind her back.
Your breath hitched, your hazel eyes widening in complete surprise. Held carefully in her hands was a bouquet. It wasn’t one of the grand, perfectly symmetrical corporate arrangements you usually made. It was small, slightly rustic, and clearly wrapped by hand. It was a beautiful, striking mix of deep crimson roses and delicate, star-like blue forget-me-nots.
“I, uh... I went to a little shop on the other side of the city,” Alexia admitted, a faint, endearing flush creeping up her neck as she looked down at the flowers, then back up into your eyes. “Because I knew if I tried to buy flowers from you, you’d just give me a lecture on botanical history or try to give them to me on the house. And I wanted to buy these for you.”
You stared at the bouquet, a profound, overwhelming wave of emotion rushing through your chest. You looked up at her, your eyes bright and soft. “Alexia…”
“I looked up the meanings,” Alexia continued, her voice dropping into a low, intensely private register as she stepped even closer, completely closing the distance between you. “The pink roses are for admiration and new beginnings. No pressure, no complications. Just... the joy I feel whenever I’m around you.”
She offered the bouquet to you, the tall, striking stalks of vibrant blue delphinium framing the soft pink petals beautifully. Your fingers brushed against hers as you took the stems, sending a warm, electric jolt straight to your core.
“And the delphinium is for an open heart,” she added softly, her hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Because this entire season, through the hardest months and the highest pressures, coming into this shop and seeing you was the one thing I couldn’t forget.”
Your heart did a violent, joyful flip. You held the rustic bouquet against your linen shirt, looking up at her with all the striking, classic warmth you possessed. “You did your homework.”
“I had a very good teacher,” Alexia murmured, a beautiful, relieved smile breaking across her face. She reached out, her warm hand gently cupping your jaw, her thumb tracing your skin just like she had in the April rain. This time, there was no storm, no phone calls, and no relationship boundaries keeping you apart. “The season is over, flower girl. No cameras, no press, no football. Just me. I want to take you out on a proper date. If you’ll have me.”
“I would love to,” you whispered, leaning into the warmth of her hand, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips.
Alexia’s eyes darkened with a sudden, deep affection, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your hazel eyes. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting months to do this.”
Slowly, she leaned down, her lips meeting yours in a soft, incredibly sweet, and lingering kiss. It tasted like summer, like a fresh start, and like the perfect culmination of a year spent growing roots in the dark.
the way english-language based media (especially in the USA) glaze michele kang is so blatant and disgusting. 🥴
but yes please tell me how kang is growing women’s football and “taking care of players” by:
releasing the “homegrown” players who helped the club be promoted to the wsl
firing the manager who helped the club be promoted to the wsl and reach mid level status
side lining the “star” players like asllani (who joined the club when it was in the championship) for big, splashy signings
holding the announcement of its biggest signing in new york city without any connection to the home ground and fanbase
meanwhile, other teams in both the french and english leagues are losing funding right and left and being dismantled 🧐
for anyone who has worked in the corporate world, this is what it feels like when private equity/venture capital takes over a company 💀 so let’s not be naive about what this is all about 🤷♀️
culers, it’s okay to be sad today. it’s okay to dislike michele kang and everything she stands for. it’s okay to feel deeply disappointed. it’s okay to feel upset about the state of the team and the league.
you don’t have to twist yourself into pretzels to try and justify anything. and you absolutely should not let anyone on this app bully you into thinking any differently. your feelings about this situation are 100% valid.
but know that barça will carry on despite the haters, despite the fans cheering on our downfall, and despite kang’s best efforts. we will lift that champions league trophy again. 💙❤️
Saying there is nothing Noble about leaving the club after 14 years bcs she is exhausted is bonkers. She has given her everything, if you look at all the interviews from the last 10 years you can clearly see how much pressure she put on herself. It is wild how some just choose to believe what they have put in their head instead of actually looking at the thing that happened and being said over the last few years
༄ synopsis - what begins as an innocent conversation between two strangers on a flight to chicago quickly becomes impossible to ignore, proving that sometimes the best connections happen thirty thousand feet in the air.
༄ word count - 3.4k
༄ notes - kinda had no plan for this but i wanted to post it anyways; not proof read
༄ warnings - fingering, mentions of alcohol, airplane sex, public sex
༄ read more - masterlist
the seat beside yours stays empty until the last boarding call.
you don’t look up at first.
there’s another line in the quarterly report that doesn’t quite add up. the acquisition numbers look optimistic to the point of fiction, and you’re halfway through highlighting a paragraph when someone slides into 4b.
a soft thud.
a carry-on tucked away.
the faint smell of expensive perfume and something clean.
“hi.”
you glance over automatically.
she smiles.
it’s unfair, really.
the sort of smile that belongs on magazine covers rather than overnight flights across the atlantic.
“hi.”
she settles in, buckling her seatbelt with practiced ease. a baseball cap disappears into the seat pocket, revealing blonde hair that’s slightly flattened from wearing it through the airport.
you return to your report.
you make it exactly three sentences.
“business or pleasure?”
you look up. “…pardon?”
she nods towards the stack of printed reports balanced across your lap. “are you reading for business or pleasure?”
you blink once. “unless we’re suddenly counting stocks as pleasure…” she laughs. “…then no. it’s all business.”
“some people do count investments as pleasure.”
you snort despite yourself. “do they?”
“absolutely.”
“those people need hobbies.”
she grins. “to each their own.”
there’s a pause, and you study her for a second. “what about you?”
“what about me?”
“why are you going to chicago?”
she leans back comfortably. “i’ve got a modelling thing.”
you nod slowly. “so you’re a model.”
she smiles wider. “i’m a footballer.”
“…oh.”
“but thank you for complimenting my looks.”
your cheeks warm just enough to annoy you. “that wasn’t-”
“it absolutely was.”
“i made an assumption.”
“based on my face.”
“based on the modelling.”
she hums, pretending to consider it. “i’ll allow it.”
the aircraft begins to taxi.
the conversation should end there.
it doesn’t.
“and you?” she asks. “what do you do when you’re not insulting footballers?”
“I work in finance.”
“that explains the reports.”
“i’m glad we’ve solved that mystery.”
“high-powered?”
“reasonably.”
“boring?”
“only to people who don’t enjoy spreadsheets.”
“ah.”
she nods thoughtfully. “so definitely boring.”
you smile despite yourself. “you asked.”
“i did.”
she offers her hand. “alexia.”
you take it. her grip is warm, firm, her hands slightly calloused from years of training and competing.
“y/n.”
“nice to meet you, y/n.”
the seatbelt sign stays on for another twenty minutes.
by the time it switches off, you’ve somehow learnt that she’s flying over for a campaign with a sportswear brand after preseason training.
she learns that you’re presenting to a board on monday morning.
“that’s why you’re reading reports on a plane?”
“i like being prepared.”
“you’re reading printed financial statements.”
“yes.”
“on holiday.”
“i’m not on holiday.”
“exactly.”
she shakes her head dramatically. “tragic.”
the flight attendant appears with drinks. “can i get you anything?”
alexia glances at you. “wine?”
you hesitate for perhaps half a second. “…why not.”
“two reds, please.”
the first glass disappears surprisingly quickly.
the second follows not long after dinner.
your reports are abandoned somewhere between discussing football stadium atmospheres and the merits of deep-dish pizza.
she tells stories well.
animated hands.
bright eyes.
every sentence somehow ending with you laughing.
you tell fewer stories.
she notices.
“you’re one of those people.”
“what people?”
“the quiet ones.”
“i talk.”
“when spoken to.”
“that’s generally how conversations work.”
“mm.”
she tips her glass slightly. “but when you do talk…”
she studies you over the rim. “…it’s usually worth listening.”
the compliment lands heavier than expected, causing you look away.
outside the window, there’s nothing except darkness broken occasionally by wing lights.
the cabin dims.
most people around you begin settling in.
blankets.
headphones.
sleep masks.
business class becomes strangely intimate in the low lighting.
voices lower.
movements slower.
alexia slips off her shoes, folding one leg beneath herself. “you’re thinking again.”
“am i?”
“finance face.”
“finance face?”
“very serious.”
“i don’t have a finance face.”
“you absolutely do.”
she reaches over before you can react. two fingers gently press the space between your eyebrows.
“right…”
another light push.
“…there.”
you stare at her. “…what?”
“your frown disappeared.”
she withdraws her hand like nothing happened. “much better.”
you should probably be irritated.
instead-
“you’re very confident.”
“only when i drink.”
“often?”
“maybe once a month.”
you laugh quietly. “i can imagine.”
she watches you for a moment. “there it is.”
“what?”
“you smile more than you think.”
you hold her gaze. “you’re very observant.”
“occupational hazard.”
“football?”
“captain.” she shrugs. “always watching people.”
the silence that follows isn’t awkward.
it’s… comfortable.
dangerously so.
she looks good in the dim cabin lighting.
you notice details now.
the strength in her forearms.
the watch on her wrist.
the tiny scar near her thumb.
she catches you looking. “what?”
“nothing.”
“liar.”
“i wasn’t-”
“checking me out?”
“…”
she smiles slowly.
“it’s okay.”
you clear your throat. “you’re very sure of yourself.”
“would it help if i admitted i’ve been trying not to look at you for the last hour?”
your heart does something deeply inconvenient. “…really?”
“really.”
another pause.
“those reading glasses aren’t helping.”
you glance down. “my reading glasses?”
“you put them on to read.”
“…yes.”
“terrible decision.”
you laugh under your breath. “because?”
“because every time you adjust them…” her eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning. “…i forget what i was saying.”
the air feels warmer.
or maybe it’s just the wine.
you remove your glasses. “better?”
she exhales once. “significantly worse.”
your laugh comes quieter this time.
closer.
neither of you has noticed when the armrest stopped being enough space between you.
your shoulders brush now whenever either of you moves.
she doesn’t move away.
neither do you.
“can i ask you something?”
“depends.”
“are you always this…” she searches for the word.
“…careful?”
“careful?”
“like you’re calculating twelve different outcomes before you say anything.”
you think about denying it.
instead-
“usually.”
“and right now?”
your eyes meet hers, and your voice becomes softer. “right now… i’m trying very hard not to make a bad decision.”
she smiles. “interesting.”
“why?”
“because i was thinking exactly the same thing.”
another beat.
the hum of the engines fills the silence.
she tilts her head slightly. “i’m going to ask you something.”
“okay.”
“you can absolutely say no.”
“okay.”
“but if i don’t kiss you before this plane lands…”
her smile turns almost shy for the first time all evening.
“…i think i’m going to regret it.”
your eyes flick briefly to her mouth then back. “…that’s funny.”
“why?”
“because i was wondering how much longer you’d wait before asking.”
she laughs.
quiet enough not to disturb anyone sleeping nearby.
“so…”
“so.”
“…may i?”
instead of answering-
you lean the remaining inch between you.
her lips meet yours gently. just once- soft, testing even.
when you pull back, neither of you says anything for a few seconds.
alexia’s forehead rests lightly against yours.
“…well,” she murmurs.
“well.”
“that didn’t exactly help.”
“no.”
“made it considerably worse.”
you smile.
“i noticed.”
her thumb brushes absentmindedly against your wrist. “walk with me?”
“where?”
she glances meaningfully towards the rear of the aircraft.
“just…” another smile. “…to stretch our legs.”
you look at her.
at the sleepy cabin around you.
at the knowing expression she’s trying (and failing) to hide.
then you quietly unbuckle your seatbelt.
“lead the way.”
the aisle lights are dimmed to a faint amber glow. most passengers are asleep, blankets pulled high, headphones in.
the hum of the engines swallows almost every sound.
alexia walks just ahead of you, one hand lightly brushing the seat backs. you follow close enough that when the plane shifts in a bit of turbulence your fingers graze her lower back.
she doesn’t pull away. if anything she leans into the touch.
the galley at the rear is empty. the flight attendants have retreated to their jump seats.
alexia glances once over her shoulder at you, that small conspiratorial smirk playing on her lips, then pushes open the door to the accessible lavatory.
the second the door clicks shut behind you the tiny space feels electric.
she turns and kisses you like she’s been waiting hours to do it. not gentle this time. her hands slide up your neck, fingers threading into your hair as she backs you against the counter.
you taste the red wine on her tongue, feel the solid warmth of her body pressing flush against yours.
you kiss her back harder, nipping at her bottom lip, and she makes this soft surprised sound that shoots straight between your legs.
“fuck,” she breathes against your mouth, half laughing. “you’ve been holding out on me.”
“you’ve been talking too much.”
she grins, bright and wicked, then ducks her head to mouth at your neck, sucking lightly just below your ear.
your head falls back against the mirror with a quiet thud.
her hands move with purpose. one slips under your blouse, palm sliding up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra. the other grips your hip, pulling you even closer.
you tug at the hem of her shirt, fingers finding warm skin and the firm lines of muscle along her abdomen.
when you scratch lightly down her sides she shivers and presses her thigh between yours.
the pressure is immediate. perfect. not enough.
“alexia-” you whisper.
she answers by rolling her hips, slow and deliberate, grinding against you until your breath catches. her mouth finds yours again, deeper, messier.
you can feel how turned on she is. the heat of her through her joggers. the way her breathing is already getting ragged.
her fingers work open the button of your trousers, sliding the zipper down just enough to slip her hand inside.
when she feels how wet you are she groans quietly against your lips. “dios mio… you’re soaked.”
you don’t answer with words. instead you push your own hand down the front of her joggers, past the waistband of her underwear, and find her just as drenched. the sound she makes when your fingers slide through her folds is low and filthy.
for a moment you just touch each other like that. slow, exploratory strokes. learning what makes the other gasp.
her forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard in the tiny space.
she curls two fingers and presses them inside you without warning. your knees nearly buckle.
you bite down on her shoulder to stay quiet, and she hisses in pleasure at the sting.
“that’s it,” she murmurs, voice wrecked. “just like that.”
you match her rhythm, sliding two fingers into her at the same time. she’s tight and so fucking wet it makes your head spin.
you crook your fingers and she clenches around you with a broken moan she tries to muffle against your neck.
the plane hums beneath you. someone coughs a few rows away. the risk of it all only makes everything sharper.
alexia’s thumb finds your clit and starts circling and your hips jerk forward involuntarily. you’re both trembling now, trying to stay quiet, hands moving faster, breaths mingling hot and desperate.
she kisses you again, messy and urgent, like she can’t get enough.
you’re right on the edge already.
alexia can feel it. she curls her fingers deeper, stroking that spot inside you with devastating precision while her thumb keeps perfect pressure on your clit.
her mouth is on your neck again, sucking, biting, whispering filthy little things against your skin.
“come on amor… let go for me.” the words combined with the steady rhythm of her fingers push you over.
you come hard, clenching around her, thighs shaking as the orgasm crashes through you.
you bury your face in her shoulder to muffle the sound, nails digging into her back through her shirt.
she doesn’t stop. she keeps fucking you through it, slower now, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive.
when you finally catch your breath you kiss her hard, tasting desperation. your fingers are still buried inside her, and you start moving again with renewed purpose.
you match the pace she used on you, curling, stroking, thumb circling her swollen clit.
alexia’s hips stutter. her breathing turns broken and shallow.
“fuck… just like that,” she gasps.
you can feel her getting close. her walls flutter around your fingers, slick and hot. you add a third finger and she moans louder than she should, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half shut.
her hand is still between your legs, lazily stroking you even as she starts falling apart.
the overstimulation makes you whimper but you don’t want her to stop.
“i’m gonna-” she chokes out.
“come for me,” you whisper against her mouth.
she does. hard. her whole body tenses, thighs clamping around your hand as she rides out the waves.
you keep moving through it, gentler now, until she’s shaking and panting into your neck.
for a long moment the only sounds are both of you breathing heavily and the low drone of the plane engines.
alexia pulls back just enough to look at you. her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, hair completely messed up.
she looks wrecked in the best possible way. she brings her fingers to her mouth and slowly licks them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
you nearly short-circuit all over again, and she grins at your expression, soft and satisfied.
you both start fixing your clothes with shaky hands, stealing little kisses between adjustments.
when you’re decent again she leans in and presses a gentler kiss to your forehead.
then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, she murmurs, “so i’ll pick you up friday at eight.”
you blink, still a little dazed. “sorry?”
she smiles, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “unless you only wanted this to be a one time thing.”
“no- no i’d love to see you again,” you say quickly, heart doing something ridiculous in your chest. “but i don’t even have your number?”
alexia’s smile widens, warm and a little cocky. “well amor, we better fix that then, shouldn’t we?”
The country club is the last thing the reader wants to inherit.
But as the summer starts winding down, she realizes she might not have a choice. Putting her own artistic passions aside, she starts preparing for the life that's already been planned for her, convincing herself that some dreams are meant to stay hobbies while others become obligations.
That is, until she meets Christina, the woman who runs the country club's surfing program.
Determined to squeeze every last drop of freedom out of what she knows may be her final summer before stepping into this new role, the reader signs up for a surfing lesson. She fully expects to spend more time falling off the board than standing on it. What she doesn't expect, is to fall just as hard for the woman teaching her how to ride the waves.
----
at the beach, in every life:
christina koch:
the reader:
----
a message from me:
hi everyone!! i hope you missed me...
but i just wanted to let you all know that my new fic is in the works and the first chapter should be out sometime in the near future!! i came up with this idea on a random day at work, and i just knew i needed to start writing! this one is a little bit heavier than my last one, but don't worry, i'll include all the warnings and tags once the first chapter gets posted!
the title is from the song "at the beach, in every life" by gigi perez, and i took some themes from the song and worked them into the story (i recommend giving the song a listen, it's AMAZING)
more details are on the way i promise, but until then, i hope you enjoy the summary and some moodboards <3
borja is such a great guy and renounced the selection unless rubiales resigned. it’s so special to see him and alexia swap kits. and it’s a barça one too 💙❤️
stormborns
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
discoholicmusic
andulkaphoto
gummygunk
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
