Beyond the Badge | Alexia Putellas x reader - Part 4
Part 4
Summary : You're Real Madrid Femenino personified, the captain, the one who joined the day the club was born. A 15-2 agreggate against Barça makes you wonder if loyalty is enough, and the Spanish camp that follows only make it worse. You've known Alexia Putellas for years but have never been close. This camp has other ideas for you both.
Pairing : Alexia Putellas x Real Madrid! Reader
Word count : 6.5k
Warnings : 18+ (smut), I won't put a warning for every chapter that contains some. I'm putting it on this one because it's the first one that does.
Masterlist
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You barely register the walk to her room. Your feet carry you there, through long corridors you learned by heart through the years. 119 is written in golden letters on a plate just next to the door, “Alexia Putellas” is taped up under it, as if to remind you what you’re walking into.
You don’t even overthink it. Your breathing is still ragged, you feel 30 seconds away from collapsing. You knock on the door, Alexia answers immediately, as if she has been waiting next to it. You don’t spare her a look and go lie down on the bed, throwing your slides on the floor. You put your head in the pillow and scream in frustration.
“Hey.” Alexia says softly. She comes to sit on the other side of the bed, close to you. She caresses your back up and down in comfort. “What’s wrong ?” You can hear the worry in her voice. To be fair, it must be confusing to her.
You groan and turn your head toward her. Her eyes are full of compassion. God, you love those eyes. “My agent called, about the contract.” You scrub a hand over your face. “I still have no freaking idea what I want to do.” You feel a lump in your throat, you absolutely won’t cry in front of her. Not because of a contract.
You take a deep breath to calm yourself. “Then there is the whole shitshow created by Vicky. I’m not literally mad at her but fuck with this whole contract thing it’s starting to be too much.” You’re rambling, she doesn’t stop you.
Her thumb traces slow circles between your shoulder blades, and it feels good, it’s grounding. You could get lost against the sensation, feeling the warmth of her palm even through your shirt.
“What can I do to help ?” Alexia is nice, too fucking nice. And her eyes are soft and–. “Hey, calm down, you’re shaking.” You haven’t even realized you were, you try to breathe in and out, it isn’t working much. She presses down her hand against your lower back, you shiver at the sensation.
She misinterprets your reaction and pulls her hand back slightly, hovering in a rare moment of awkwardness. She looks like she doesn’t know quite how to comfort you, and honestly, you can’t blame her.
You take a deep breath once your heartbeat stops pounding in your temple. “I’m sorry for coming here every time I’m overwhelmed.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “Hey no.” She says quickly. “You can come here anytime you need.”
The words land somewhere behind your ribs. Suddenly looking at her feels like a terrible idea. “What a good captain.” You deflect. How weird would it be for you to run away right now ? Because you definitely trust neither your instincts nor your mind right now.
She rolls her eyes, annoyed at you. “You know I’m not doing that just because I’m your captain.” You’re not that convinced it’s true. “And I have a single room, I'd be alone otherwise.”
You chuckle, starting to finally not feel like you’re gonna break down in an instant. “Oh yeah poor you, we can switch if it’s making you suffer too much.”
“We could.” Her tone is too serious for your liking.
“I was kidding Ale. I don’t have a problem with sharing my room.”
She searches your face, relaxing at whatever she finds there. She doesn’t push. “You’re feeling a bit better ?”
You nod, better because you don’t feel like you’re gonna implode. You can still feel how tense your body is. The conversation with your agent is playing on loop in your brain. Her presence is the only thing soothing your mind, you want to feel her palm against your back again.
Alexia still has a worried look, something in your chest goes soft at the sight. You look at her face, your mind can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she is. Her eyes, her lips, the feeling of her body against yours after the game against England, the way she has been opening her door without question for you. The adrenaline of panic is morphing into something else.
You also need a distraction, badly.
“Do you want to help me make a very bad decision right now ?” Confusion is written all over her face. Then your gaze drops to her lips, completely devoid of subtlety, before snapping back to her eyes. You watch recognition flare in them, followed by something much heavier.
She seems to hesitate. “I don’t want to take advantage of the state you’re in,” she whispers. Her jaw tenses. She looks away, then back at you. For a second you feel a cold shiver, worried you’ve gone too far. Then her eyes can’t stop themselves from looking down at your lips, and you exhale.
“Ale.” Her eyes snap back to yours. She’s on the edge of a cliff, you need to convince her to jump. “It’s not the first time I’m thinking about it,” you admit.
Her throat bobs, her eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second. Then, the distance between you vanishes. Her lips are soft against yours. Instinct takes over, your hand flies to her jaw, your thumb tracing her cheekbone. It feels great, more than great. Your mind goes blank while butterflies explode in your stomach, heat rushes through you so quickly it leaves you lightheaded.
She breaks the kiss first. When your eyes open, she’s already staring down at you, searching. She is entirely breathtaking. A smile breaks across her face, wider and softer than any victory you’ve ever seen her celebrate on the pitch.
The first words she says are “You see I was right to be trying to fix everything from the start.” She seems happy with herself, the words take a moment to register.
Oh yeah, you did basically tell her she was too much of a try hard when captaining the team. You can’t believe she’s thinking about that right now. She adds smugly “I’m a great captain, ain’t I ?” You shut her up with a second kiss. She smiles against your lips before melting when she feels your tongue.
Somehow you end up in her lap, her hands firm against your hips, grabbing the fabric of your shirt. When the kiss breaks because you unfortunately are both humans that need air, you press open mouth kisses on her jaw. You then lick the length of it. Alexia murmurs a curse and you kiss her again.
You put a centimeter of space between your two mouths. “We both know why I’m doing this, I need to take my mind off things. I don’t get why you’re doing this.” You murmur against her lips. You need to know why, to be sure she wants this.
Alexia’s eyes are dark with want, her breathing uneven. You can’t even imagine what she looks like when she’s close to coming undone. You want to discover that. “Maybe I just want to fuck you.” Her voice is lower than usual. Your brain short-circuits. For a few seconds, there's nothing but a buzzing sound. That might be the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life. You weren’t expecting Alexia of all people to say that.
As soon as thoughts come back, you kiss her again, this time more hungrily, teeth clash but neither of you care. Her hands slide under your shirt. Her palms are warm, almost sweaty. The heat of her skin against yours makes you feel like you're completely overheating. You pull back just enough to yank the fabric over your head, tossing it blindly across the room.
Alexia's eyes fix on the newly revealed skin. She has seen you like that plenty of times in a locker room. You will admit the context is a bit different. “You’re beautiful,” she breathes out. She puts her hands on the small of your back to push you closer to her, soft with her movements. She is too when she discovers your neck with her mouth. She takes her time to figure out what you like, the spots that make your breath hitch. You hump against her thigh and you can feel her smile in your neck.
Deciding Alexia is wearing far too many clothes, you reach for the hem of her shirt. You both end up laughing as you awkwardly struggle with the fabric, but you finally manage to yank it off and toss it blindly into the room. Looking down at her, your smile turns hungry. She is nothing but muscle, and you want to feel every bit of it under your palms and lips. You catch her earlobe between your teeth in a gentle nip. “Everything still okay ?”
She laughs softly. “More than okay cariño.” You weren’t expecting the endearment term, but you don’t dislike it. Your mouth goes to her neck, and her breathing stops for a second or two. You test things. First, you bite softly and she lets out a small moan, so you do it more. Then, you realize kisses don’t have much effect, so you bite and lick instead. You’re very careful to not leave anything close to a mark, that would be very hard to explain for her.
“Lie down,” you murmur. She doesn't hesitate, shifting lower until she’s flat on the mattress. Straddling her hips, you look down at her. She is a glorious sight. As your hand strokes down her abs, she flexes beneath your touch. “Show off,” you tease, swatting at her playfully.
Her thighs spread, welcoming you into the space between them. As you lower yourself, you drag your teeth lightly along her collarbone. Her hips grind up against you in response, you anchor a hand firmly on her hip to pin her to the mattress.
You always love your first time with a woman because that’s when you totally discover her body. You take your sweet time with Alexia, and she’s not complaining. Her bra is on the floor a few minutes later. She has her hand in your hair while you’re worshiping her abs, to be fair they deserve it. You know she’s getting impatient when she starts to push your head down gently.
You smile and go lower. You remove her sweats and underwear in the same motion, the teasing has gone on long enough. You part her thighs and you’re out of words for how wet she is. “Don’t comment.” She groans out. You look up at her and her cheeks are pink, it’s kinda cute.
You honor her request and stay quiet. Instead of stopping the tease like you promised yourself, you trail slow licks and sharp bites down the inside of her thighs. Her muscles twitch against your lips. The moment you move directly over her heat, her body tenses in stark anticipation, your breath catching against her cunt.
When you finally comply and lick, her whole body reacts. Her hips jump up and you put your forearm around her midriff to stop that from happening again. Her moan is low, throaty, and dangerously loud considering your surroundings. “Ale, I love that sound,” you murmur against her skin, smoothing a kiss into her inner thigh, “but you can’t be this loud here.” Without a word, she pulls a pillow over her face to bury the noise. Fuck, you miss the sound already.
Navigating her pleasure is harder in the silence, but you read her body instead. The way her hand knots into your hair, the sudden, sharp tension in her muscles. You lose all sense of time, you could spend a lifetime right here. Every low rumble buried in the pillow urges you onward. You press a single finger to her entrance, looking up to catch her eye. “Can I ?”
She gets the pillow away from her face for a second. “You don’t need to ask.” Her voice is a mess, low, hoarse, broken, you can’t believe you’ve done it. She’s pushing your head down to where it was before. Your finger enters her without any resistance, you can tell she’s already really close. You immediately enter a second one.
Her walls pulse around your fingers while your tongue keeps up its steady rhythm. It doesn’t take long for her to completely break. You feel the exact moment she comes undone. Her hips arch high against your mouth, chasing the friction, before she collapses back against the sheets. Not even the pillow can swallow the raw, broken cry she lets out.
You remove your fingers gently and move back up her body, leaving a wet trail while doing so. The pillow falls away from her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes still unfocused. You kiss her once, brief and soft, then again on her shoulder, tracing the curve of her waist while her breathing slowly settles.
As you linger over her shoulder, she hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to look at her. You can’t help the smile that breaks against her lips as you lean in. “You’re too smug,” she complains, though she doesn't pull away.
You kiss the line of her jaw and go to her ear. “You were so loud you needed a pillow to muffle your moans.” You say, your voice intentionally low, before tugging at the lobe with your teeth. She has an arm around your shoulders, her fingers dig into it at your words and you hiss because her nails are pointy.
You position yourselves on your arms so you can look down at her. “Do you still carry a strap in your suitcase ?” She rolls her eyes and swats at your shoulder while murmuring idiot. “Hey that was a genuine question.”
Her cheeks are tinted a bit pink, not from her orgasm. “I don’t have one at all times no. For quite obvious reasons I wasn’t planning to get lucky during camp.” You hum and press your mouth to the hollow of her throat, feeling the frantic pulse against your lips.
“So you were planning to get lucky during your trip to Valencia ?” It’s half teasing and half genuine curiosity. Her breath catches when you scrape your teeth against her pulse point while your right hand starts to travel down her body, she shivers when you trace her ribs. You use your left arm to not put your whole weight on her.
“Yeah, I have a girl I was seeing– Fuck.” She stops when your hand reaches the inside of her thigh and your short nails dig into the soft flesh there. You smile against her shoulder and bite it. “Why are you asking these questions right now ?” She complains.
Your hand moves between her legs, your index finger tests how wet she still is, careful to still avoid her clit for now. She’s drenched, some new wetness already coating your fingers. “Maybe I just want to hear your voice.” It’s also some curiosity that came after Vicky told you the story. You’re quite satisfied that Alexia used the past tense when talking about the girl. You won’t dwell on that, not now, not anytime really.
Shifting downward, your mouth finds her breast, swirling your tongue over her skin before pulling her into your mouth. She clamps her forearm over her face, desperately hiding her moans. You let her go with a slow, teasing drag of your teeth. She drops her arm just long enough to glare at you. “I can’t believe that’s your choice of conversation.”
Your fingers toy with her entrance, brushing past her wetness but deliberately withholding what she wants. “I think that's a perfectly appropriate topic. I would love to use a strap on you.” The sheer bluntness of it makes her breath hitch. Before she can recover, you finally sink your fingers inside her, drawing out a low, throaty moan.
It takes her a moment to collect herself enough to talk back. “I had no idea you would be such a yapper.” You chuckle against her skin, raising some goosebumps as your tongue moves to her other breast. This time she anticipates the touch, quickly burying her face in her arm to muffle the sound. It’s a shame, you don’t want any teammates hearing you through the walls, but god, you want to hear her.
Your mouth travels up her chest, a sharp bite to her forearm prompting her to uncover her face. “Imagined sex with me a lot, Putellas ?” You don’t give her a chance to answer as your fingers start moving inside her again, catching her gasp with a kiss. You track her reactions through pure instinct, the intakes of breath when you do certain movements, her fingers gripping your hip every time you hit that spot.
The kisses start to get messy the moment your thumb grazes her clit. She loses her composure completely, unraveling into a mix of breathless Catalan you don’t understand and raw noises you can’t hope to muffle. To quiet her down, you press closer, offering your shoulder for her to bite. It makes the movements a little clumsy, the angle a bit awkward, but you maneuver around it, keeping your fingers moving in a steady rhythm.
You will be able to hide the bruise on your shoulder, but your back is going to be a disaster if she keeps clawing at your skin. “Easy with the nails, tiger,” you gasp against her hair, “you’ll leave marks.” She doesn’t say anything, but she takes the hint, wrapping her hands back around your hips and smoothing her palms flat against your skin.
Her teeth on your shoulder sting, but it’s the kind of sharp pain that only feeds the pleasure. Sensing how close she is, you lock into the rhythm, driving into what’s working. Then, she snaps. Her body arches in a mirror image of her first orgasm, her teeth sinking agonizingly deep into your shoulder as she clamps down impossibly tight around your fingers. A second later, just like that, the tension breaks, and she falls quiet against the bed.
You’re careful when you remove your fingers. Alexia still has her eyes shut, breathing heavily, her whole body covered in sweat. You want to take a mental picture because she looks like a work of art. You’re proud to have done it.
She comes back to her senses slowly. When her eyes finally open, you hold her gaze and make a show of sucking your soaked fingers, drawing a breathless laugh from her. But as her eyes drift to your shoulder, her smile fades into a wince. “I didn’t realize I was biting so hard. I’m sorry,” she says softly, tracing her thumb over the rapidly forming bruise.
“Don't worry. If it had been too much, I would've told you,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss her gently. Her breathing is finally evening out, her skin growing cooler and less flushed as the adrenaline begins to fade.
Her gaze drifts down your body, her eyebrows arching. “How the hell do you still have so many clothes?” she asks. You shrug, looking down at your intact bra and sweatpants. You hadn’t really noticed the layers while your focus was entirely on making her come, but now that the dust has settled, a heavy, demanding ache is building between your thighs.
“It’s supposed to be your job to remove them,” you tease. “You’re not even the one who removed my shirt.”
An arm locks around your hips as she suddenly reverses your positions, settling herself firmly on top of you. “I had no idea you would be such a brat in bed.” Letting out a soft laugh, you guide her jaw down to meet your mouth, biting gently at her bottom lip before releasing it.
You lick her lips teasingly. “You don’t seem to mind it much.”
“I’m gonna shut you up,” she promises, her breath hot against your lips. She presses a hard kiss to your mouth, then drags her lips down your jaw to the hollow of your neck. Her untied hair brushes softly over your collarbone.
She starts nipping too hard against the sensitive skin, forcing a hiss from your throat. “Hey, easier on the teeth. I don’t mind them later on, but it’s too much right now.” She breathes an apology against your throat, instantly adjusting. Driven by the ache between your legs, you push down on her shoulder. “Ale, hurry up.” Before you can move her, she grabs your wrist, holding you completely still.
“Let me enjoy you,” she retorts, her mouth lingering at the top of your chest. Your throat goes completely dry. Looking down at her, you realize you would let Alexia do absolutely whatever she wants to you.
Then, she abruptly sits up. “I need a hair tie.” You let out a miserable groan at the sudden loss of her weight on top of you as she pads toward the bathroom. In the sudden quiet, a flicker of doubt creeps in about what the hell you’re doing. It evaporates the second she steps back out, twisting her hair into a messy bun. You take the opportunity to shamelessly drink in the sight of her naked body. Fuck, she’s a goddess.
She climbs back over you, settling into her position on top while you loop your arms securely around her shoulders. Her mouth returns to the top of your chest, but she pauses, looking up at you as her fingers play with the clasp of your bra, silently waiting for your consent. A single nod is all it takes, and she doesn’t waste a second.
Her grin turns almost boyish as she unhooks the fabric, stripping your bra away and tossing it aside. “You’re gorgeous,” she whispers against your skin before drawing one of your nipples into her mouth. Your back arches instinctively at the sudden rush of pleasure, prompting her to press a heavy hand down to steady your hips. She takes her time painting your chest with her tongue, sending waves of heat rippling through your entire body.
When she finally migrates lower, she stops at your stomach, mapping your abs with a slow, passionate mix of lips and tongue. “I have better abs than you, don’t I?” you tease, panting slightly. In lieu of an answer, she presses her thigh firmly up between your legs. The sound you let out is close to a whimper, but nobody can prove it.
“Seems like I found a way to shut you up,” she teases back. She bites gently at your stomach, testing your reaction. The desperate way you grind your hips against her thigh in response seems to give her all the satisfaction she needs.
Her hand toys with the waistband of your sweats. “Don't be a tease,” you breathe out. She tugs them down the moment you lift your hips to help her, discarding the fabric somewhere in the room. A sharp gasp escapes your lips when the chill of the A/C strikes your flushed skin.
Alexia parts your thighs with her hands, her gaze darkening. “Fuck, you’re wet. Are you turned on by your own talking ?”
You let out a breathy laugh at her words. “Your lips and tongue may have played some part too,” you admit.
She looks up at you with a radiant smile, she kisses a tender spot above your knee, her palms sliding up your inner thighs. But as her fingers start to graze your center, you grip her wrist, holding her back. Alexia instantly freezes, concern replacing the heat in her dark, dilated eyes. “Is everything okay ?”
You’re deeply touched by her immediate softness. “Yes, amor,” you murmur, the pet name slipping out naturally in your eagerness to reassure her. “It’s just that those nails aren’t going inside me.” Alexia looks down at her hands and winces in realization. The press-ons are long, and they’re the kind of pointy you don’t want to take any risks with.
“I know how to use them, it won’t hurt,” she promises softly.
You look down at her hands again. A girl had told you that exact same thing once, and you’d ended up sidelined for a week. Having to explain that particular injury to the club physios was easily the most humiliating moment of your life. “Still a no,” you state firmly.
She nods, letting the matter drop without any further argument. “If I’d known this was happening, I would have taken them off,” she whines.
Sorry Alexia, next time I will tell you in advance “Hey just so you know in a few hours I’m gonna be mad enough to fuck someone I absolutely shouldn’t be fucking.
You push the intrusive thought far away before it can ruin the momentum. Instead, you cup her chin with your right hand, tilting her face up to force her to look at you while your thumb caresses her cheek. “You do realize you have other ways to pleasure me besides your fingers, right ?”
A small fire relights in her eyes as a wicked smile creeps across her face. She plants one last kiss above your knee, her lips trailing a slow path back up your inner thigh before she finally settles herself between your legs. Strands of loose hair escape her bun, brushing softly against your skin. When she finally looks up at you, her expression is completely sinful.
“What do you want ?” She’s so close that the warm air of her breath brushes against your skin as she speaks, making you shudder.
“What do think, Alexia ?” you reply, thoroughly exasperated. Of all the times for her to play dumb, she picks right now.
“I don’t know,” she whispers, refusing to break eye contact. Her nails trail a light, maddening scratch across your abs, driving you absolutely crazy. “Want to play some poker ?”
“I think it’s a bit too late for strip poker, Ale.” You know exactly what she wants, she's waiting for you to ask her to eat you out. But two can play this game.
The low huff of her laughter sends a rush of warm air over your center, making you twitch. “I won’t get you to beg for it ?” She mocks disappointment, but the playful glint in her eyes tells you she’s secretly thrilled by your resistance. Sliding her palm upward, she presses it flat against your sternum, feeling your heart hammering wildly beneath her touch. Despite your defiant words, she knows exactly what kind of effect she has on you.
“You’ll need to do better than that next time, Capi.” You don’t know if it’s the challenge, the promise of a next time, or the deliberate use of her title that makes something snap inside her. Frankly, you don't care, because her tongue finally connects with your clit. You aren't usually the loudest, but the sudden contact forces a low, trembling moan from your throat.
“Careful of the noise, cariño,” she murmurs against your skin. In response, you press your heel firmly into her spine, pushing her back down between your thighs to make her understand she needs to get to work. A muffled huff of laughter escapes her against your sensitive skin, entirely amused by your impatience.
As she goes down on you, you guide her rhythm, adjusting her pace with a mix of breathless words and guiding hands. She is incredibly good at following orders, you quickly realize. The sensation of her mouth feels so much better than any of the thoughts you're trying to outrun. Tangling your fingers into the loose strands of her bun, you cup the back of her neck, tugging sharply whenever she hits the perfect spot. Meanwhile, your free hand blindly traces the sharp line of her jaw, mapping its rhythm as she drives you out of your mind.
Once you start getting close, you whisper, “Look at me.” The raw heat in her eyes is almost enough to push you over the edge on its own. When she begins to lower her gaze to bury herself back between your thighs, you command, “No, look at me while you do it.”
You refuse to break eye contact. The hand on her jaw shifts to the side of her face. Initially meant to direct her, it’s now the only thing keeping you anchored. Your other hand fists blindly into the sheets, white-knuckled and straining. Even though there is zero risk of her pulling away, your heels remain locked against her lower back, pinning her right where you want her.
You know she feels it the exact second your orgasm hits. It starts with a ragged gasp before you completely run out of air, your thighs locking tight as an electric rush fires through every cell of your body. She guides you through the crest of it, her tongue never missing a beat.
The moment it threatens to turn into overstimulation, you tap her cheek, and she gets the memo instantly. She trails slow, soothing kisses up your torso until her mouth meets yours, tasting yourself on her lips. You loop your arms around her shoulders, holding her steady while her head sinks into the crook of your neck as you slowly float back down to reality.
As your heart rate finally settles, you start tracing the exposed tattoos on her back with your fingertips. You don’t ask about their meanings, and she seems perfectly content with the quiet intimacy for a few minutes. “I’m gonna fall asleep,” she whispers, her breath warm against your neck.
You kiss the crown of her head, and she burrows deeper into your side. “We should at least take a shower,” you murmur. She groans in protest, even though she knows you’re right. “Come on, Capi.” You give her ass a light, playful slap to tell her it's time to move, and she instantly nips at your neck in revenge. Laughing, you untangle yourself from her and stand up. Left without your warmth, it doesn’t take her long to follow your lead.
Getting clean takes a while, given how much kissing and touching happens under the water, but you eventually finish. You quickly discover that Alexia is a massive cuddler after sex, and you find yourself liking it a lot. It takes zero convincing on her part to get you to spend the night. She offers you some of her clothes to sleep in, but you almost left the room entirely when she tried to hand you a pair of Barça shorts. Plain cotton ones had to do instead.
You settle onto the bed, laying back with her resting on top of you just like before. Her hair is untied now, draping over her bare back as you slowly run your fingers through the damp strands. “I still find it so funny that you’re such a yapper in the bedroom when you’re not like that at all in real life,” she teases softly.
A sudden wave of self-consciousness hits you, even though you know it’s stupid. “Tell me if you want me to tone it down,” you say, though it sounds a bit more broken than intended. Some of your exes hated that, and you had to make conscious efforts to tone it down with them, so you know you can.
Alexia instantly shifts from her comfortable spot against your chest to look you in the eyes. “Hey, it wasn’t a criticism. I think it’s incredibly hot.” She presses a tender kiss to your cheek, then another to your lips. You could easily get used to this. Fuck, that's a dangerous thought. Suddenly, her gaze drifts to your shoulder and she winces. “Are you sure my biting didn’t hurt too much? It looks pretty bad.”
“I already told you it was okay Ale.” You put your hand around her hips and tug her back down on top of you. “I will figure something out to hide it.”
Neither of you asks what tonight means, or if it will ever happen again. There is no easy answer to that. Or, at least, none that would satisfy either of you right now. It’s still early, considering you arrived just after dinner, but exhaustion is finally catching up to you.
You’re already starting to drift off when Alexia shatters the quiet by bringing up the one topic you wanted to avoid. “You should really start talking about your contract, you know,” she says softly. “Not necessarily with me, but if you just let the clock run out without weighing your options, you're going to regret it. Even if you would have chosen Real anyway.”
You let out a long sigh. Maybe it’s because you’re in a great mood after the sex, but your mouth talks for you. “It’s just… It feels like there is what I want to do and there is the rational thing to do.”
Alexia hums in acknowledgement. “I feel like the heart should always beat the reason. But that’s particularly true in your situation.” Maybe Alexia is an idealist, you’re not. You’re so fucking afraid of making the wrong choice.
“I feel like my heart is telling me to stay just because it’s safe, not because it’s the best choice.” Staying at Madrid where friends, family, and your childhood club are is just so easy. You’re not sure it’s what’s best for your career.
“You’re looking at it too much like there is a good and a wrong answer.” Her tone is soft, her thumb is caressing your side, the words still sting. “Career choices are rarely that easy. You have to choose what is the most likely to make you the happiest in the long run. And that depends on a ton of things : winning trophies, money, closeness to family and friends, the atmosphere in the club you’re joining, the city you’re going to. And happiness isn’t a perfect equation, especially when it’s related to football where results can’t be predicted. You can make the right choice on paper and have it end up being the wrong one because life happens.”
“Very reassuring.” You say ironically. Alexia is trying and you’re maybe being a little too mean. “Thank you, for the words. I think I have trouble figuring out how happy football can make me.” That’s not an admission you make often. You love football with your whole heart, you’re not sure you want it to be your whole life.
“What do you mean ?” You can hear she’s perplexed, it must be confusing for Alexia to hear someone say that.
“It’s just… I’ve never won at club level, so I don’t know how much winning makes it worth it. I’ve also never been the closest of friends with my teammates. Like yeah, I will hang out with them outside of the mandatory things from time to time, but I don’t want my whole circle to be about it. In Madrid, most of the people I hang out with don’t give a fuck about football. I feel like having a life outside of it makes it easier to commit to it when I’m actually on the pitch or training. Like it’s easier to not burn out.”
That’s why I never messed with another footballer before, you add mentally.
You continue. “Munich was miserable for that. I didn’t really realize it at the time because I couldn’t compare. But god, I’ve been so much happier in Madrid. At the same time maybe it was only the context, maybe I was too young when I went to Bayern. It would be perfect if there was another club in Spain I could go to, so I could still be fairly close to everyone. But I’m never going to Barcelona.”
“I mean you could consider it.” You roll your eyes and gently bite her earlobe, she jumps in surprise. “Idiot.” She mumbles.
“I think… I would love to experience somewhere else, just for one year and if I’m miserable, I can go back. But I’m afraid of burning bridges with Real. And I’m afraid that they’re gonna perform while I’m gone. Imagine if Real reaches the semis of the Champions League the season I’m not here ? I would be miserable. Why can’t I fucking duplicate myself.”
She laughs softly at your words. Then takes a more serious tone. “You’re linking the comfortable choice with it being the bad choice. As you said, football isn’t what you are.” She takes a deep breath. “Everyone tells me football is too much what I am, you know. Even Jenni told me that.” Her laugh is almost bitter. “Olga told me that all the time too.”
“Wait, Olga as in our teammate, since when ?” You interrupt, trying to make some sense.
“No !” She laughs. “Olga is the name of my ex, she has nothing to do with football.” That was an awkward mistake to make on your part. “Anyway, my injury forced me to reconsider things. I was actually more available for my friends and family, hanging out with them more. I realized everything I was missing out on because of football. It’s so easy to get caught up with the constant pressure from everyone : the media, the fans, the front office…”
“Do you think you would have left Barça at one point, if not for the injury ?” You’re curious.
“Yeah.” She answers honestly. “And then I would have realized everything that’s not football that I have in Barcelona.” There’s a pause. “To be clear, I’m not saying our situations are entirely comparable. I have the luck that my childhood city also has the best club in Europe. It’s easier to stay when you’re winning everything, it would be stupid not to. I just wanted to say to not push aside too much the outside of football aspects when taking the decision.”
“Thank you, a lot.” You say sincerely. You kiss the top of her head. “I think it really helps to talk about it, it’s just hard to.”
“Anytime.” She answers without hesitation. She snuggles even closer to you. “We should go to sleep.”
You look at your phone, it’s only 10PM, why did you decide to be a professional athlete again ? “Yeah, I will put my alarm early so I can go back to my room with Vicky before she wakes up. I will just tell her I came back late in the night.”
“Okay,” Alexia says softly. She moves to turn off the bedside lamps as you set up the alarm to 6AM. Once the room is dark, she gets back to her previous position on top of you. She kisses you, a long one but without heat behind it, before her head settles on your shoulder. One of your arms circles her waist, while the other circles her shoulders. “Goodnight cariño,” she whispers.
“Goodnight Ale,” you whisper back. In the back of your mind, a million alarm bells are screaming at you, a frantic reminder of just how compromising this situation truly is. But exhaustion has taken over. Wrapped up in her warmth, you let her touch drown out the noise until there is nothing left but silence.
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A/n : It was my first time writing smut, I'm quite happy with how it turned out (Don't ask me how much time I spent writing and rewriting it, I know the whole scene by heart now). I hope it doesn't feel too rushed.
Also because it has been a subject recently, having short/long nails doesn't correlate to being a lesbian and/or in a relationship. r just doesn't like the idea of them inside her ✌️
Great chapter!! The smut felt so natural. Love that R’s walls are starting to come down. Ale seems down bad for R… would be interesting to get her insight into their relationship (past and present)!
Summary - 4 times you maybe had a mother and 1 time you definitely did
Word Count - 24.3k
1:
The restaurant is small and loud in the comfortable way places in Barcelona often are, packed with overlapping conversations and clinking glasses and the smell of garlic and fresh bread drifting through the open space.
You trail beside Alexia as she guides you through the crowded entryway with a hand resting lightly against your upper back, steering you without really thinking about it, the touch casual and familiar enough now that you lean into it automatically.
You’re halfway toward your table when someone calls her name. “Alex!”
Alexia turns immediately, her face shifting into surprised recognition as a woman near the bar stands from her seat with a wide grin already spreading across her face.
“Madre mía,” Alexia laughs softly as they pull each other into a quick hug. “How long has it been?”
Too long, apparently, because the conversation starts moving immediately, fast and overlapping in the way it does when people already know each other well enough to skip all the polite pauses.
Alexia asks about family, about work, about mutual friends whose names mean absolutely nothing to you, and you hover awkwardly at her side for a second before taking a small step back, instinctively trying to disappear from the interaction altogether.
Until Alexia’s hand lands on your shoulder, warm and firm. “And this,” she says easily, her mouth curving into quiet pride as she gently nudges you forward, “is my kid.”
You go completely still as she introduces you. Your eyes snap to her so fast it almost hurts.
But Alexia has already turned back toward her friend, already moving seamlessly into the next part of the conversation like she hasn’t just detonated something directly in the center of your chest.
Her kid. Not the kid I mentor. Not a player from the team. Not even family, which is already enough to make your throat tight every time she says it.
Her kid.
The words settle somewhere deep and immediate. They ping around your chest in a way that makes it difficult to focus on anything else for the rest of the conversation happening around you.
You barely hear the rest of it, only catching fragments while Alexia and her friend continue talking easily beside you, her hand still resting absently against your shoulder the entire time like she doesn’t even realize she’s keeping you anchored there.
She calls a lot of people affectionate things. You know that.
She calls Vicky hermanita. She calls Patri hermana. She says those words casually, affectionately, naturally, like they belong perfectly to the person she is assigning them to.
But this feels different. Your relationship with Alexia is different.
They don’t wake up in her house every morning and fall asleep there every night. They don’t rely on her for rides and meals and doctors appointments and reassurance after nightmares they pretend not to have. They don’t know where she keeps the extra blankets or which tea she makes when someone can’t sleep or how she hums quietly under her breath while cooking dinner when she thinks no one is listening.
They don’t know the version of her that pads downstairs half-awake in oversized sweatpants to make sure you took your pain medication for your broken foot at three in the morning. They don’t see the way she checks the weather before your appointments so she can hand you the right jacket without asking, or the way she bought you those jackets to begin with after quietly realizing the warmest thing you owned was a worn-out hoodie that barely counted as winter clothing.
They don’t know how instinctive it has become for her to reach for you in crowded spaces, how automatically she glances over to make sure you’ve eaten enough, how quickly her attention finds you no matter how many people are around her.
You do.
And suddenly the distinction between hermanita and my kid feels enormous.
You always call her Ale. Never Alexia. Just Ale. Other people call her that too sometimes, teammates and old friends and family, but it still feels strangely personal to you, like something that belongs more to the two of you than it should.
You like the way it sounds. You like the way her attention always finds you when you say it, the way her head turns immediately no matter how distracted she is, like your voice reaches her differently from everyone else’s. Teammates can be calling her name directly beside her and she’ll still miss it, but you can mutter “Ale” from across the room and watch her attention snap toward you before you’ve even finished the word.
You’ve never known what to call her beyond that. Not because you don’t feel it. Because you feel too much of it.
Maybe hermana could make sense in theory. Vicky calls you hermanita often enough, usually with an expression that suggests she enjoys watching you turn bright red every single time she says it. But even then, when you try to place the word onto Alexia inside your own head, it feels slightly wrong, slightly off-center, not big enough somehow for whatever this is between you.
Because sisters are equals. And you have never once mistaken the way you lean on Alexia for equality.
You’re so deep in your own thoughts that you barely register the conversation winding down. It’s only when the woman turns fully toward you again that you realize she’s leaving.
“It was very nice meeting you,” she says warmly.
You straighten slightly at the sound of your own existence being acknowledged again, your brain scrambling to catch up with the moment as you offer her a small smile in return.
“Adéu,” you reply politely. “And… yeah, nice to meet you too.”
She smiles once more before disappearing back toward the front of the restaurant, leaving you standing there beside Alexia with your thoughts still spinning in slow circles around something you don’t quite know how to process yet.
Alexia glances down at you then, her expression relaxed and easy again, completely unaware of the crisis currently unfolding in your head, and places a light, guiding hand against your upper back again as she steers you further into the restaurant.
“Wow,” she says lightly, shaking her head with a faint laugh, “what a small world, huh? I haven’t seen her since high school.”
You swallow down the confusion before it can reach your face too obviously, forcing yourself to let it go for now, because the familiar smell of grilled chicken and fried potatoes is already wrapping around you, warm and comforting and distracting enough that your stomach immediately starts paying more attention than your thoughts.
Questions can wait. Food feels more urgent.
So instead of asking what my kid was supposed to mean, you tilt your head toward her and decide to tease her instead.
“Is it really a small world,” you ask dryly, “when you literally know every person in Barcelona… and probably most of the surrounding suburbs too?”
Alexia lets out an offended little scoff, rolling her eyes dramatically before bumping her shoulder lightly against yours.
“That is not true.”
You stare at her flatly. “Ale,” you say with mock seriousness, gesturing vaguely around the restaurant, “you are on a first-name basis with the entire wait staff and the valet.”
“Well, that’s called being polite,” she replies without missing a beat, already steering you toward your usual table. “And it is not my fault this is your favorite restaurant and we come here every week.”
You narrow your eyes at her suspiciously. “I’m pretty sure the waiter started bringing you sparkling water before you even sat down.”
“That’s customer service,” she says easily. “Very normal.”
“The hostess literally called you mi reina.”
Alexia only shrugs, playfully unashamed now. “What can I say? I’m beloved by the people.”
Despite yourself, a real laugh escapes you. Alexia’s expression softens immediately at the sound of it, warmth and quiet relief flickering across her face before she reaches over to ruffle your hair affectionately as you slide into the booth beside her.
And just like that, some of the strange tightness that had been sitting in your chest ever since she introduced you loosens enough for you to breathe around it again.
2:
You’ve been no contact with your foster parents ever since you moved in with Alexia.
You’re still not entirely sure what happened behind the scenes to make that possible.
You had asked Alexia about it once, only once, sometime during that first week after your surgery when the pain medication made you a little braver about asking questions you normally swallowed down. She had gone strangely quiet for a moment after you asked, her expression flattening into something unreadable before she finally told you, very simply, that she had “taken care of it,” and that you did not need to worry about ever going back there again.
There had been something distant in her eyes when she said it, something cold and controlled underneath the softness she usually reserved for you, like she was remembering the hospital room, remembering the way your foster mother had stood over your bed with alcohol and cigarettes still clinging to her breath while she hurled insults at you like they were nothing.
You hadn’t pushed for details after that. Partly because Alexia clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Partly because you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know.
But you knew she must have gone back to that house at some point, because not long after you moved in permanently, she had shown up carrying the limited possessions you actually owned, your clothes folded neatly in laundry baskets, your old childhood plush tucked awkwardly under one arm like she hadn’t quite known what to do with it.
She never told you what the house looked like when she got there. Never repeated a single thing your foster parents might have said to her.
But you noticed the way she carefully washed every piece of clothing before putting it away, the way she ran your plush through the laundry twice until it no longer smelled faintly of smoke and mildew and instead carried the soft clean scent of her detergent.
You noticed the way her jaw tightened the first time she saw you instinctively flinch at a slammed cabinet door.
You noticed how she quietly started knocking before entering your room, even when the door was wide open, as though she wanted to make absolutely certain you never had to wonder whether your space would be respected.
You noticed a hundred little things like that. Things she never pointed out. Things she never took credit for. Small adjustments made so naturally and consistently that it would have been easy to miss them if they weren’t all designed to make you feel safer.
That had been months ago now and since then, life had settled into something quieter, steadier, the rhythm of school and training and recovery blending together until it almost felt normal. Almost.
Today, training has ended but no one seems particularly eager to leave yet, the late afternoon sun still warm against the pitch as players linger in small groups, stretching or passing balls around lazily before heading inside.
You’re near the edge of the field with Clara, both of you goofing around more than actually training, trying to nutmeg each other in increasingly ridiculous ways while arguing loudly over what should and should not count as a successful attempt.
“That one doesn’t count,” you insist after she barely clips the ball through your stance. “Your first touch was terrible.”
“My first touch was genius,” Serra shoots back, already grinning. “You’re just slow.”
“Please, I’m coming back from injury and still better than you.”
She gasps theatrically at that, clutching her chest like you’ve deeply offended her, before lunging forward to try again, the two of you laughing as you dance around each other near the sideline.
Then you hear it. A familiar raspy voice. Too familiar.
“So this is where you always ran away to…”
Everything inside you stops. The laughter dies instantly in your throat as your body goes rigid, your stomach dropping so hard it feels almost painful, every muscle locking before your brain even fully catches up to what’s happening.
Your foster father stands just outside the fence surrounding the training ground, one hand hooked lazily through the metal bars like he belongs there. He’s wearing a collared shirt you didn’t even know he owned, the fabric wrinkled but cleaner than anything you ever remember seeing him in, and his usually greasy hair has been combed carefully to one side in a way that feels deeply unsettling, like someone trying too hard to look respectable.
Beside him, your foster mother stands stiffly with her purse tucked under one arm, her chin tilted upward slightly as she stares directly at you, her eyes narrowed like she’s daring you to ignore them.
Your blood turns cold.
Beside you, Serra finally manages to knock the ball cleanly through your planted feet.
“Yes!” she celebrates, throwing her hands up triumphantly before noticing you haven’t reacted at all. The smile drops from her face almost instantly.
You are completely frozen. Your expression has gone blank in that terrible, distant way she’s never seen before, your shoulders tense, your breathing suddenly too shallow.
Serra follows your line of sight toward the fence, her own posture straightening slightly as she takes in the unfamiliar couple standing there.
“Can I help you?” she asks cautiously, stepping half a pace closer to you without even realizing she’s doing it. “This is a closed practice.”
You could kiss her for speaking because your own voice feels trapped somewhere far away from your body.
Your foster father sends Serra a fake smile, the kind that never quite reaches his eyes, before dismissing her entirely with a lazy flick of his gaze.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “I don’t need any help from you. Just from my beloved foster daughter here.”
Serra’s expression changes instantly when the words click into place, her eyes darting sharply toward you, panic and understanding colliding there all at once.
You don’t actually know how much the girls know. You had told Serra and Vicky pieces of it over time, small fragmented explanations about why you had moved in with Ale, enough to satisfy their concern without fully opening the door to everything behind it. But judging by the horrified look spreading across Serra’s face now, Alexia must have filled in a bit more of the gaps at some point, enough that she understands this is not a normal family visit.
She turns on her heel without hesitation.
“Alexia!!” she shouts across the pitch, her voice loud enough to cut cleanly through the noise of training.
Alexia looks up immediately, her attention snapping toward the panic in Clara’s voice before her eyes even fully locate her. Her gaze sweeps across the field quickly, searching, and the second she spots your rigid posture near the fence she drops the ball at her feet and starts running toward you without another thought.
Halfway there, she realizes who is standing on the other side of the barrier. Her expression instantly changes from worry to anger.
“This is a closed practice,” she says sharply as she closes the distance, stepping between the girls and the couple at the fence without even seeming to think about it. “How did you get in here?”
Serra instinctively shifts farther behind Alexia the moment she reaches you, clearly unwilling to stand anywhere near the people who have managed to make their captain look this furious.
You still haven’t moved. But Alexia notices the way your hands have begun trembling at your sides, subtle enough most people would miss it, violent enough that she catches it immediately. Something in her posture hardens even further.
“So good to see you again, Ms. Putellas,” your foster mother says sweetly, her tone dripping with something artificial and ugly beneath the mock politeness.
Alexia ignores her completely. Instead, she turns slightly toward Clara, her voice dropping into quiet, urgent Catalan. “Take her away and tell Pere to call security.”
That finally jolts you out of your frozen haze. Your hand shoots out, grabbing onto Alexia’s arm before Clara can move you anywhere, your fingers tightening around her sleeve hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.
Your eyes drag desperately to hers, panic finally surfacing fully there as you try to communicate something you cannot possibly say out loud in front of them.
Please don’t leave me here. Please don’t make me deal with them alone. Please protect me.
Alexia’s entire expression softens the second she looks at you. Her hand comes up to cover yours where it grips her arm, squeezing once, firmly, grounding you. Her eyes hold yours for a long moment, steady and reassuring despite the fury still simmering underneath them. Then she nods very slightly. A promise.
She turns back toward Clara, gesturing more gently this time for her to take you away from the fence. You let yourself be guided backward then, your legs unsteady beneath you as Clara carefully pulls you toward the rest of the team clustered farther down the pitch.
As you approach, Patri and Irene brush past you, each squeezing your shoulder gently as they move by, silent reassurance before taking up positions on either side of Alexia like some terrifyingly beautiful version of the queen’s guard.
“Security is on their way,” Patri says coldly, her arms folding across her chest as she fixes your foster parents with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.
“Oh perfect,” your foster mother replies smoothly. “Perhaps they can escort us to your legal department. Or should it be the financial department?” She glances toward your foster father with faux thoughtfulness. “Which do you think, dear?”
“Better to be safe and stop by both,” he replies with a grin.
Alexia’s shoulders go rigid. “What business do you have here?” she asks, her voice low and dangerous now, every word edged with barely restrained fury.
Your foster father gives a lazy shrug. “Well, when a football club breaches the terms of a foster arrangement and effectively steals a child from a legal guardian…” he says casually, “there are usually financial consequences attached to that.”
Your stomach twists violently.
Your foster mother reaches into her purse and pulls out a folded newspaper. Even from across the pitch, you recognize it immediately. The cover story from after the Clásico.
A giant photo of you and Alexia celebrating your brace together, her arms wrapped around you while you laughed breathlessly into her shoulder beneath the stadium lights.
The Heir to the Throne? the headline had read in massive letters across the front page.
You had been mortified when you first saw it. Alexia had been delighted. She’d brought it home grinning like she’d won another Champions League and hung it proudly on the fridge despite your dramatic complaints about how embarrassing it was. You remember eventually grinning right back at her anyway because she’d looked so impossibly proud of you.
Alexia clearly recognizes it too. You can see it in the way her back stiffens even more.
“Imagine my surprise when I saw this on the way to work yesterday,” your foster mother says lightly, shaking the paper once for emphasis. “Who would’ve thought our little girl was such a big star?”
Her gaze drifts over Alexia’s shoulder until it lands directly on you. Her lips curl slightly as she raises her eyebrows mockingly.
“Well,” she says sweetly, “at least now we understand why everyone suddenly wanted to play hero.”
Alexia moves forward so quickly it surprises even Irene and Patri.
One second she is standing between them and the rest of the team, controlled and rigid with anger, and the next she is directly in your foster mother’s space, forcing the woman to tilt her head back slightly just to maintain eye contact.
“She is not yours,” Alexia says, her voice low and sharp enough to slice cleanly through the entire pitch. “She has never been yours.”
She doesn’t shout. Doesn’t shove or push, even if every instinct in her body clearly wants to. She just stands there with the full weight of her captain’s authority pressing down around her, shoulders squared, expression cold in a way you have never seen directed at anyone before.
“I saw the way you treated her,” she continues, her tone turning even harsher. “Do not stand here and pretend you have ever cared about her.”
“Watch your tone,” the husband snaps suddenly, stepping forward as he yanks his wife backward by the arm hard enough to make her stumble.
Several of the girls tense immediately. Alexia doesn’t even flinch. If anything, she steps closer.
“No,” she says coldly, her eyes locking onto his with terrifying steadiness. “You watch your tone.”
The entire field has gone silent now.
Alexia’s voice never rises, but somehow that only makes it more frightening, every word deliberate and controlled in a way that feels infinitely more dangerous than yelling ever could.
“I could ruin you,” she says plainly. “I have eyewitnesses, doctor’s reports, photographs. I have everything.”
Your foster father’s expression flickers for the first time.
“The only reason I haven’t filed a police report already,” Alexia continues, “is because that girl over there is finally happy, and dragging her through a court case after everything she has survived would hurt her more than it would help her.”
Her jaw tightens visibly then. “But if either of you ever come near her again,” she says quietly, “I will make absolutely certain you regret it.”
The husband and wife both go still. Your foster mother swallows hard enough that you can see it even from a distance.
“You’re bluffing…” she whispers finally, though the confidence from earlier has completely drained from her face.
Alexia tilts her head slightly. “Do you really want to test that theory?” she asks. “Against me, my legal team, and my mountain of money?”
That lands. You see it right away in the way both their expressions shift, the realization finally settling in that this is not the scared little girl they used to corner in cramped hallways anymore, and more importantly, that she is no longer alone.
Alexia steps forward once more, fury simmering just beneath the surface now. “You disgust me,” she says, every word filled with quiet contempt. “Not only did you abuse her for years, but the second she experiences even an ounce of the joy and success she deserves from her hard work, you show up like vultures looking for more to take from a literal child.”
Her eyes narrow slightly as her lip rises in a snarl. “You are not worthy of cleaning the dirt off her boots.”
Beside her, Irene finally reaches out and catches Alexia lightly by the arm. “Ale,” she says quietly, her tone gentler now. “Security’s here. Let them handle it.”
Alexia’s chest rises sharply once before she finally breaks eye contact, glancing toward the three security guards now approaching quickly from the far entrance to the pitch.
“These people are trespassing,” she tells them, her tone clipped and commanding again as she gestures toward your foster parents. “Please remove them from the premises and take their photographs. They are never to be allowed back here again.”
“Sí, capitana,” one of the guards replies without hesitation. They move forward, taking hold of your foster parents’ arms despite their immediate protests.
“This is ridiculous-” your foster father starts loudly.
“You can’t seriously-” your foster mother adds over him.
But their voices sound weaker now, smaller.
The moment security begins escorting them away, Alexia immediately turns toward you. Like the rest of the world stops mattering the second they are no longer a direct threat.
You hadn’t even realized tears were running down your face until she reaches you, her expression changing the closer she gets, all that cold fury melting into something softer, steadier, protective in a way that nearly undoes you completely.
“Hey,” she says gently the moment she reaches you, both hands coming up to cradle your face without hesitation. “Hey, look at me.”
You try. God, you try. But your breathing is uneven now, panic and adrenaline crashing together so violently inside your chest that it feels impossible to steady yourself.
Alexia notices immediately. “Okay,” she murmurs softly, her thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as she guides you a little farther away from the fence. “That’s okay. Just breathe for me, mi amor. They’re gone now. You’re safe.”
Safe. The word hits something deep inside you, something bruised and terrified and far younger than sixteen.
Your hands grip the sleeves of her training jacket tightly before you even realize you’re doing it. Alexia lets you. Of course she does.
Behind her, you can vaguely hear Patri telling the coaches to cancel the rest of training while Irene quietly herds the younger girls farther away to give you privacy.
But all of that feels distant compared to the way Alexia is looking at you right now. Like you matter more than any of it. Like she would burn the entire world down before letting them touch you again.
Your fingers twist tighter into the sleeves of her jacket as another shaky breath catches painfully in your chest, the adrenaline still tearing through you too fast for your body to keep up with.
“I thought…” Your voice breaks, forcing you to swallow hard before trying again. “I thought they were going to take me from you.”
The words come spilling out after that, messy and frightened in a way you usually work so hard to hide.
“I don’t care about the money or whatever they wanted,” you rush out quietly, your eyes fixed somewhere near her collarbone because looking directly at her suddenly feels too vulnerable. “I don’t care about any of that, I just…” Your throat tightens again. “I just want to stay with you.”
Alexia’s expression changes so quickly it almost hurts to look at, something fierce and heartbroken flashing across her face all at once before she pulls you even closer against her, one arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders while her other hand cradles the back of your head protectively against her neck.
“Petita,” she says, her voice firm in a way that cuts cleanly through your panic. “You are not going anywhere.”
Her grip tightens slightly, like she’s emphasizing every word through touch as much as speech. “No one could ever take you away from me,” she says again, slower this time, making absolutely certain you hear her. “No one.”
Something inside you cracks open completely at that. You bury your face against her shoulder with a small, broken sound before you can stop yourself, your body finally giving in to the panic you’d been holding rigidly at bay since the moment you heard that terrible voice at the fence.
Alexia just holds you tighter as you sob into her neck. One of her hands slides slowly through your hair while the other stays firm against your back, grounding you against her as she presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head, then another, murmuring soft reassurances between them so quietly only you can hear.
“I’ve got you.”
“You’re safe.”
“You’re mine and you’re not going anywhere.”
Your breathing stays uneven for a while, hitching painfully every few seconds despite your attempts to calm down, but Alexia never rushes you, never loosens her hold or asks you to pull yourself together. She simply stands there in the middle of the training ground, holding you like protecting you is the most obvious thing in the world.
Eventually, slowly, your breathing begins to settle against her shoulder. And even then, she doesn’t let go.
3:
You’re not someone who shows pain easily.
You learned a long time ago that discomfort was something to survive quietly, that weakness only became dangerous once other people could see it, so you got very good at swallowing it down before anyone noticed. Bruises, exhaustion, hunger, fear - it all gets tucked away behind clenched teeth and stubbornness until it eventually passes or breaks you, whichever comes first.
It is almost certainly a trauma response. You know that. And you are fairly confident your new therapist is eventually going to have a field day unpacking it once she notices the pattern, but thankfully the conversation hasn’t quite gotten there yet.
Still, now that your life has become something steadier, safer, warmer in ways you’re slowly beginning to trust, it feels like some hidden switch inside you has flipped without permission. Because suddenly there is someone you’re allowed to lean on. Someone who doesn’t recoil from it.
And apparently, once your brain realized that, it decided to overcorrect dramatically. Which is why being sick has transformed you into the most pathetic version of yourself imaginable.
Affection is not something Alexia withholds from you even under normal circumstances. She hugs you constantly, ruffles your hair whenever you walk past her, presses absent-minded kisses to your forehead while talking to you like it’s second nature.
But you almost never initiate it yourself. It’s not like you don’t want to. There’s just some deeply ingrained part of you that still feels like you need a reason first, an excuse solid enough to justify asking for comfort out loud.
So most of the time you wait for moments that already leave you cracked open enough to make the reaching unavoidable - after big matches when the adrenaline is still humming through your veins and you throw yourself into her arms without thinking, after nightmares when you wake up shaking and find yourself drifting toward her room before your pride can stop you, after injuries or panic attacks or bad days when the need outweighs the fear of being too much.
Those are the only times it feels acceptable to you, like there has to be a visible wound before you’re allowed to ask to be held. And even now, after everything, there is still a tiny hesitant part of you that waits for permission before reaching too far.
Except today you have an excuse. And you intend to exploit it fully.
You wake up feeling awful, your body heavy and achy beneath the blankets, your skin too hot while somehow still leaving you shivering hard enough to make your teeth chatter slightly.
By the time you make it downstairs, wrapped dramatically in one of Alexia’s oversized hoodies, you apparently look rough enough that Alexia takes one glance at you from the kitchen and immediately abandons the coffee she’s making.
“Oh, no,” she murmurs, crossing the room quickly.
Her palm settles against your forehead first, cool enough that you practically melt into it on instinct, your eyes fluttering shut as your overheated body chases the relief.
“You need to go back to bed,” she says gently, her brows pulling together in concern. “You have a fever.”
You lean farther into her hand shamelessly, your body practically draped against hers now as she moves her other hand to the back of your neck, checking there too with the same careful focus she uses for injuries.
“Mhm,” she hums softly. “Definitely a fever.”
You groan weakly in response, mostly for dramatic effect.
“No training today,” she continues firmly, already slipping fully into caretaker mode. “Your body is fighting something and you need to rest, okay?”
Instead of answering properly, you let out a miserable little whine and throw your entire body weight against her dramatically, nearly folding yourself straight into her chest.
Alexia immediately smiles, because despite your theatrics, she knows exactly what this is.
The clinginess. The deliberate helplessness. The fact that you are absolutely milking this illness for every ounce of affection possible.
And unfortunately for her, she finds it deeply endearing.
“Ay, petita,” she laughs softly, pressing a kiss against your sweaty temple before rubbing a soothing hand up and down your back. “Come on. Let’s get you back upstairs.”
You make absolutely no effort to move. In fact, you go limp on purpose, forcing her to support most of your weight while you cling dramatically to her shoulders like a very sickly koala.
Alexia snorts out a laugh. “You are unbelievable,” she mutters affectionately, half carrying and half dragging you toward the stairs while you continue pretending your illness has rendered your legs entirely useless.
“If I have to go back to bed,” you mumble against her shoulder, “can I at least lay in your bed?”
Alexia glances down at you suspiciously. “Why do you want to be in my bed?” she asks, amused already. “Is something wrong with yours?”
You shake your head quickly, suddenly a little embarrassed now that you’ve actually said it out loud, but also painfully aware that in your current fragile, feverish state, Alexia would probably hand you the moon if you asked convincingly enough.
“Noooo,” you whine softly. “But yours is more comfy.” You tilt your head back just enough to hit her with your best miserable puppy eyes. “And I think it’ll make me feel better.”
Alexia stares at you for a long moment, clearly trying and failing not to smile too much.
“You’re such a princess,” she informs you finally, though her voice is fond enough to ruin the accusation entirely.
“Please?” You grin weakly.
She shakes her head affectionately, already defeated. “Okay,” she sighs dramatically. “But you go upstairs now and get cozy while I bring you medicine and a cold cloth, alright?”
You nod immediately, suddenly cured enough to become energetic again as you peel yourself off her and start hurrying toward the stairs.
Well “hurrying” might be generous. You bound up the first three steps with surprising enthusiasm before your feverish body immediately reminds you that you are, in fact, sick, your legs turning heavy and achy fast enough that you slow to a sluggish climb while Alexia watches from below with deeply entertained concern.
“There she is,” she calls up dryly. “Miraculous recovery lasted almost seven seconds.”
You glare weakly at her over the railing. “I’m fighting for my life.”
Alexia laughs softly to herself as she watches you continue your painfully dramatic ascent upstairs.
You enter her room slowly, pausing briefly in the doorway as your eyes sweep across the familiar space with a strange sort of caution, like you’re stepping into somewhere important.
You’ve been in here before, of course. Tentatively wandering in while she finished getting ready in the bathroom, sitting carefully on the edge of her bed while she did her makeup and talked to you about training or school or whatever ridiculous thing Alba had texted her that morning. Sometimes you would lay on the rug near the window while she folded laundry, listening to her hum absentmindedly under her breath while she worked.
But you’ve never really been in here without her.
Privacy is still something that feels oddly sacred to you, mostly because before Alexia you’d never actually had any. Bedrooms had always been shared or temporary or entered without knocking, your belongings touched and moved around whenever someone else felt like it.
So even now, after finally feeling settled, you try carefully not to intrude on spaces that belong entirely to her, the same way she has always been so deliberate about respecting yours.
But now you have permission and apparently being feverish has dissolved whatever remaining boundaries your pride normally clings to.
You wander farther into the room slowly, your neck craning slightly as you take everything in with fresh eyes. The large landscape paintings above her bed, all soft blues and golds and coastlines. The oversized cream chair tucked near the windows where she sometimes sits to read scouting reports. The walk-in closet slightly ajar, revealing rows and rows of neatly organized clothes, more than you think you could realistically wear in five lifetimes.
Your gaze drifts toward the chest of drawers against the far wall, lined with framed photographs.
There’s the picture of Alexia and Alba as children missing half their front teeth while grinning at the camera with grass stains all over their knees. A photo of her father with his arm around her shoulders that you’ve seen before because she pauses at it sometimes when she thinks no one notices. Another of her mom and Alba smiling on some beach vacation somewhere impossibly beautiful.
Then your eyes catch on one you don’t recognize. You stop moving entirely.
It’s a picture Alba took after the Clàssic a few weeks ago, sometime during the celebration after the final whistle when everyone had still been riding the high of the win. Alexia’s arm is wrapped securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss against your forehead, and you’re looking directly at the camera with this huge unguarded grin that almost startles you to look at now, because you look so undeniably happy in it.
Happy and safe and loved.
You stare at the photograph for a long moment, your chest tightening strangely when you realize she didn’t just save it on her phone somewhere. She printed it, framed it, and put it here. In her room. Among the people she loves most.
Your stomach erupts into butterflies so violently it’s honestly embarrassing, and you quickly force yourself to look away before your tired brain spirals into something unbearably emotional about it.
You eventually drift toward the bed and sit down carefully near the edge.
It’s perfectly made, obviously, the duvet smooth and crisp enough that it looks like it belongs in a magazine because perfectionist Alexia is physically incapable of leaving a bed messy.
You sit there for a second debating with yourself. Going on the bed feels normal enough. Going under the covers somehow feels far more intimate. Too much, maybe.
Your brain briefly considers staying politely on top of the blankets like a civilized person. Then another violent shiver wracks through your body hard enough to make your teeth chatter.
Yeah. Forget civilized.
You pull back the duvet clumsily and shimmy beneath the soft sheets with absolutely zero dignity, immediately sinking into warmth that smells faintly like Alexia’s detergent and vanilla and something else distinctly her. You let out a small, involuntary sigh the second your head settles against her pillow.
A few minutes later, Alexia nudges the bedroom door open carefully with her hip, balancing a steaming mug of tea in one hand while the other holds a damp cloth, a bottle of medicine tucked securely beneath her arm.
She pauses when she sees you fully cocooned beneath her blankets, only the top half of your face visible above the duvet, your fever-flushed cheeks pressed into her pillow. The look that crosses her face then is so openly fond and tender it makes you blink.
“What?” you mumble suspiciously, your voice rough and scratchy from sleep and fever as you squint at her from beneath the blankets.
“Nothing,” she says quickly, though the smile tugging at her mouth makes it obvious it’s absolutely not nothing. She shakes her head lightly as she walks toward the bed. “You’re just very cute, petita, and I love you a lot.”
Something warm and embarrassingly emotional unfurls in your chest immediately.
“I love you too,” you mumble back automatically, already burrowing deeper into the pillow afterward like hiding inside her bedding might somehow protect you from the vulnerability of saying it out loud so easily now.
Alexia’s expression softens even further at that, though thankfully she decides not to make a big deal out of it. Instead she sets the tea carefully on the bedside table before moving closer, one hand sliding gently behind your shoulders.
“Okay, sit up for me a little,” she murmurs.
You immediately groan in protest. “Noooo.”
“Yes,” she counters calmly, already helping guide you upright despite your dramatic suffering. “Medicine first, then you can go back to being tragically ill.”
You grumble something deeply pathetic under your breath while she laughs quietly, steadying you carefully against her chest as she hands you the pills and then the tea.
“Take it, okay?” she says gently. “It’ll help with the fever.”
This time you obey without argument, mostly because your head feels like it’s being split open from the inside and your bones ache in a way that makes existing feel exhausting.
Once you finish, Alexia takes the mug from your hands and helps lower you carefully back against the pillows, fussing with them afterward until they’re arranged exactly how she wants, fluffing one beneath your neck before tucking the duvet securely beneath your chin.
“There,” she murmurs approvingly. “Better.”
Her fingers brush gently through your hair, sweeping the damp strands back from your forehead before she places the cold cloth there with careful hands. Relief floods through you instantly. You let out a small sigh, your eyes falling closed as the coolness settles against your overheated skin.
“Gràcies,” you mumble weakly.
“Of course, bebé.”
You stay still for a moment after that, hovering somewhere between awake and asleep while the medicine slowly begins dulling the sharp edges of your fever.
Eventually you feel the mattress shift beside you and your eyes shoot open. Alexia pauses halfway into climbing onto the bed, clearly catching the surprise on your face.
“Is it okay if I lay with you?” she asks softly, one knee still pressed into the mattress while she watches you carefully. “Or would you rather rest alone?”
“Yes,” you answer so quickly it almost overlaps her question. Then you blink, suddenly aware of how eager that sounded. “I mean…” you mumble awkwardly, tugging the blanket slightly higher. “It’s your bed.”
Alexia smiles, warmth flickering across her face at your obvious embarrassment, but mercifully decides not to tease you for it. Instead she settles beside you carefully, laying on her side with one arm tucked beneath her head so she can look at you properly.
Her hand reaches out to adjust the cold cloth slipping crookedly across your forehead, her fingertips brushing softly along your cheek afterward. You lean into the touch without even thinking about it, fever and exhaustion stripping away whatever pride normally slows you down. The corners of her mouth twitch upward faintly at that.
“Come here, carinyo.” She opens her arms toward you slightly and that’s all the invitation you need.
You immediately curl toward her, pressing yourself against her chest while she wraps both arms securely around you, one hand sliding up into your hair while the other settles warmly between your shoulder blades. Somewhere in the process you tug the now-warm compress off your forehead and let it fall forgotten off the bed because honestly this feels infinitely more healing anyway.
You burrow closer instinctively, your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of her shirt while her fingers continue moving slowly through your hair over and over again, rhythmic and soothing in a way that makes every tight, aching part of you slowly start to loosen.
You breathe in deeply. Vanilla lotion. The soft floral scent of her perfume lingering faintly against her skin. The smell fills your lungs and something in your body finally unclenches completely, your shoulders relaxing against her for the first time all day as exhaustion begins pulling you steadily toward sleep.
Above you, Alexia presses another gentle kiss into your hair and tightens her arms around you slightly, like she can physically hold the fever away if she tries hard enough.
“Sleep, mi vida,” she murmurs against the top of your head, her voice warm and impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”
Words of affection are not something Alexia ever withholds from you either.
She tells you she loves you every single day with the same easy certainty other people use to comment on the weather. She calls you every nickname imaginable, each one somehow sounding entirely natural coming from her mouth - petita, bebé, amor meu, carinyo, mi vida. Sometimes she invents new ones on the spot just to make you roll your eyes dramatically at her.
And every single time, something warm blooms inside your chest so quickly it almost hurts. You’ve never really had names for her in return. Not beyond Ale. Because anything else has always felt too big somehow, too vulnerable to say out loud when you still aren’t entirely sure what you’re allowed to call someone who has become this important to you.
But apparently your feverish, exhausted, emotionally defenseless brain has decided that problem no longer matters.
Because right as sleep finally starts dragging you fully under, your body warm and heavy against her chest while her fingers continue combing slowly through your hair, the words slip out completely unprompted.
Soft and sleepy. Barely more than a whisper.
“T’estimo, mama.”
You are already too far gone to really process what you’ve said. Too exhausted to feel the way Alexia’s entire body stills beneath you. Too close to sleep to notice the sharp inhale she takes, or the way her hand pauses in your hair for just half a second before trembling slightly when it starts moving again.
You don’t see the tears immediately gathering in her eyes either, bright and sudden and entirely vulnerable in a way almost no one ever gets to witness from her.
For a long moment, she simply looks down at you curled trustingly against her chest, your breathing finally slow and even now, your feverish face relaxed in sleep while one of your hands still grips loosely at the fabric of her shirt like even unconscious you want to stay close.
Something in Alexia’s expression breaks open completely then. Like some final wall inside her quietly giving way. She lowers her head and presses another kiss into your hair, more delicate than any she’s ever given you before, lingering there for an extra second as her eyes close briefly.
“T’estimo, filla,” she whispers back, her voice thick with emotion. “Moltíssim.” [I love you too, daughter. So, so much.]
4:
You should have known right from the start of the night that it was going to end badly. In hindsight, the warning signs had been everywhere.
You had just won the league, the locker room still buzzing with the kind of happiness that only comes after months of work finally paying off. Music blasted from someone’s speaker, bottles of water had already become makeshift champagne replacements, and every few seconds another player would get dragged into a celebratory hug whether they wanted one or not.
Naturally, Alexia was attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Which, considering the circumstances, was a completely hopeless endeavor.
“We have a Champions League semifinal in one week,” she reminded everyone for what was probably the third or fourth time that evening, standing in the middle of the locker room with her arms folded across her chest. “So celebrate, enjoy yourselves, have fun, but please try not to do anything stupid.”
Her gaze landed directly on Pina and Cata.
Pina immediately looked offended. “Why are you looking at me?”
“Because speaking from experience,” Alexia replied without missing a beat, “you’re usually involved when something stupid happens… CATAchaça and PINAcolada.”
The locker room erupted into laughter while Pina clutched her chest dramatically. Cata just pointed and laughed, not even trying to defend herself.
Alexia remained completely unmoved. “One week,” she repeated firmly. “That is all I am asking for.”
The problem was that while her attention was fixed on the usual suspects, she was completely missing the real danger. Because on the opposite side of the room, Vicky and Serra had already made eye contact and were wiggling their eyebrows at each other conspiratorially.
Some sort of plan was already forming. You saw it happen and maybe you should have been concerned but instead, you laughed. Which was probably your first mistake.
By the time the official celebrations begin winding down and players start splitting into smaller groups, you have forgotten about the look they shared earlier. You’re standing near your locker packing the last of your gear into your bag when Vicky suddenly appears on one side of you and Serra appears on the other, the coordinated maneuver suspicious enough that alarm bells should probably start ringing immediately.
“We’re going out tonight.”
You blink at them. “What?”
“We’re going out tonight,” Vicky repeats, as though she has just informed you of something obvious.
Your eyes widen instantly. “But Ale just said-”
“What Ale doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Vicky interrupts, lowering her voice mischievously as a deeply concerning grin spreads across her face.
Beside her, Serra nods with complete confidence. “Exactly.”
You stare at both of them. “That feels very much like the opposite of how that works.”
Neither of them looks remotely convinced.
You hesitate, your mind immediately jumping to all the reasons this is probably a bad idea, the most obvious being that Alexia would absolutely hate it. But when you look between them, both of them watching you expectantly, something warmer pushes against your reservations.
Over the past several months, your friendship with them had grown in ways you never really expected. What had started as occasional lunch invitations and persistent attempts to drag you into conversations had gradually become coffee runs after training, afternoons at the beach, movie nights, and group chats that somehow accumulated hundreds of messages while you were asleep.
For the first time in your life, friendship felt easy.
You didn’t spend every interaction waiting for the other shoe to drop or wondering if people were only being kind because they felt obligated to be. When Clara texted you to come get coffee or Vicky showed up at your door demanding you go watch the sunset with them, it was because they genuinely wanted you there.
They aren’t including you because Alexia had asked them to. They didn’t keep you around out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way they had simply become your friends, and you had become theirs.
Maybe that’s why saying yes feels so important.
Because when you look at them now, both practically vibrating with excitement as they wait for your answer, you can’t help feeling excited too. It feels good to belong somewhere, to be wanted without having to earn it first, and for a girl who had spent most of her life expecting connections to disappear the moment she relaxed, that feeling was still a little bit miraculous.
“Okay,” you finally say, a smile spreading across your face despite yourself. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
The reaction is immediate. Both of them cheer loud enough that several nearby teammates turn to look.
“I’ll go tell Ale,” you say, already turning toward where Alexia is finishing an interview with club media.
You make it exactly three steps before Vicky grabs your arm. “No.”
You look back questioningly, “Why not?”
The look Vicky and Serra exchange makes your stomach drop. Because whenever those two share a glance like that, it usually means they’re about to do something incredibly stupid. And worse, they’re usually very proud of it.
“Because,” Vicky explains patiently, like she’s speaking to a particularly slow child, “if we tell her we’re going out, she is never gonna let you come.”
You huff at that, a little embarrassed to be reminded of your age in front of your cool older teammates.
You’re only a few weeks away from seventeen, but unfortunately that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone. Being the youngest player on the team means everyone treats you like some combination of little sister, mascot, and their mildly accident-prone child. Being known as Alexia’s kid - whatever that meant - certainly doesn’t help matters either.
“It’s all good though,” Serra says, clapping a hand onto your shoulder. “We have a plan.” That sentence immediately makes you nervous. “We’re going to tell her we’re having a sleepover at Vicky’s.”
You stare at both of them. Neither looks remotely concerned by how terrible that plan sounds. Eventually, against your better judgment, you nod and allow yourself to be dragged across the room toward your guardian.
“Hermanaaaa,” Vicky calls dramatically as soon as she’s within earshot.
Alexia looks up with immediate suspicion. You watch her eyes narrow before they slide past Vicky’s shoulder and land directly on you. The look she gives you is unmistakable: What are they doing?
You can only shrug helplessly and point toward Vicky.
Alexia somehow grows even more suspicious and Vicky throws an arm around your shoulders before she can ask questions.
“So,” she begins casually, which is already a terrible sign, “Clara and I were thinking that since we just won the league and everything, maybe we could have a little sleepover tonight. At my apartment.”
Alexia says nothing so Vicky continues talking. Which is another terrible sign.
“You know, just movies and junk food and celebrating.”
Still nothing. Alexia’s gaze slowly shifts toward you. You immediately become fascinated by a nearby wall.
“Uh-huh,” she says.
“We’ll be very responsible.”
“Mm.”
“And try to go to bed early?”
“Mhmm.”
Vicky is starting to sweat. You can tell. Unfortunately, Alexia can too.
The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable before Alexia finally sighs and rubs a hand across her forehead.
“Fine.”
Vicky’s entire face lights up. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Both Vicky and Serra let out triumphant cheers and jump around you.
“But you bring her back in one piece, you hear me?” Alexia says, pointing a warning finger at them.
The girls are already celebrating too hard to listen. Alexia watches them for a moment before her expression softens slightly.
Truthfully, she isn’t entirely convinced this is a good idea. You usually crash hard after big matches, especially emotional ones, and she can already see the exhaustion lurking beneath your excitement. But at the same time, seeing you build friendships with people your own age has been one of her favorite things to watch this season.
For a long time, your entire world had revolved around her. And while Alexia secretly loves that more than she should, she also knows it isn’t healthy for a teenager to spend every waking moment following a thirty-two-year-old woman around. You deserve friends. You deserve people who understand what it’s like to be your age. You deserve a life that exists outside of her.
So she ignores the small voice telling her this is probably a terrible idea.
Vicky and Clara sprint off to collect their things before she can change her mind.
You linger for a moment after the girls disappear, your feet rooted to the floor even as the rest of the room continues moving around you. Alexia notices immediately, as she always does, her attention finding you as naturally as breathing.
“You sure you’re okay going to Vicky’s?” she asks, her voice softening slightly now that the others are out of earshot. “You know you’re allowed to say no, right? They won’t be upset if you’d rather come home.”
The concern is genuine. If you told her right now that you wanted to leave with her instead, she would text Vicky an apology and have you in the car before either of them could protest.
You nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, I know.” You glance toward the door where your friends disappeared. “I think it’ll be fun though.”
Alexia studies your face for another moment, making sure you’re telling the truth and not just agreeing because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her because her shoulders relax and a smile slowly appears.
“Okay then,” she says warmly. “Have fun, and be good.”
Before you can respond, she pulls you into a hug, one arm wrapping securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss to the top of your head. The affection is so familiar now that you instinctively lean into it.
“I’m very proud of you, petita,” she murmurs.
Something in her voice makes you look up. Her eyes are a little shinier than usual when she pulls back, her hands settling on your shoulders as she holds you at arm’s length for a second, like she’s trying to memorize the moment.
“Your first league trophy,” she says softly, a smile spreading across her face. “I know it’ll be the first of many for you, but the first one is always special, no?”
The pride in her expression is almost overwhelming.
“I still remember mine,” she continues with a quiet laugh. “You spend years dreaming about it and then suddenly it’s real and you’re standing there holding it thinking, that’s it? That’s what all those years felt like?”
You laugh softly.
Alexia’s smile widens.
“Maybe tomorrow we celebrate properly,” she suggests. “Just us. We could get a pizza and take it to the beach, sit by the water for a few hours.”
She says it so hopefully and there is so much pride behind it that your stomach twists painfully with guilt.
Because she’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. Because she’s trusting you. And you’re lying to her.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I’d like that a lot.”
Something softens immediately in her expression. “Good.”
She pulls you into another hug before you can say anything else, holding you close for a moment while she presses another kiss into your hair.
And as you hug her back, surrounded by her warmth and her pride and her absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, the guilt settles a little heavier in your chest than it did before.
------
The guilt doesn’t disappear entirely. It just gets drowned out.
First by laughter then by music then by the simple, unfamiliar joy of being sixteen years old and surrounded by people who genuinely want you there.
It's difficult to dwell on guilt when you’re doubled over laughing in the middle of Vicky’s apartment while Serra attempts to explain why her outfit absolutely qualifies as “subtle.”
The evening starts innocently enough.
There are bags of chips spread across the coffee table, half-empty boxes of fries balanced on the kitchen counter, and a movie playing on the television that nobody is actually watching because the three of you keep talking over it every thirty seconds.
And technically - technically - nobody has lied yet. You are at Vicky’s apartment. You are having a sleepover. There is a movie playing.
If Alexia suddenly called right now, every word Vicky told her would be true. Mostly. That technicality makes you feel significantly better.
At least until Clara disappears into the kitchen and returns carrying three drinks. Your eyes immediately narrow. Vicky immediately starts grinning.
She places one in front of you before settling back onto the couch. You stare at it for a second. The drink itself isn’t particularly intimidating, but it’s still enough to make you hesitate.
You’ve never really been interested in alcohol before. Between football and school and trying to survive the rest of your life, it simply never felt important enough to think about.
But tonight feels different. It’s not like anyone is pressuring you and you’re not trying to impress anybody. You’re just sitting on a couch with your friends after winning the league and for once there isn’t a single responsibility demanding your attention.
So when Clara lifts her glass toward you, you find yourself lifting yours too.
The first sip makes you wrinkle your nose. The second is considerably better. By the third, you’re laughing again as Vicky dramatically insists the drink tastes sophisticated while Clara informs her that nothing containing that much soda and fruit juice qualifies as sophisticated.
By the time you’re piling into a taxi half an hour later, a warm pleasant feeling has begun spreading through your chest and shoulders, softening the edges of everything around you.
The city lights seem brighter. The music seems better. Your teammates seem even funnier than usual.
Vicky spends most of the ride talking with her hands while Clara argues passionately about something neither of them can fully remember anymore. You jump into the conversation whenever a thought occurs to you, and almost every time you do, the entire backseat dissolves into laughter.
You find yourself smiling constantly.
It’s not even because of the drinks but because you’re happy. Because for the first time in your life, celebrating success doesn’t feel lonely.
For so many years every achievement had been followed by the same thing: going home, sitting quietly with it by yourself, and trying not to think too hard about how nobody was waiting there to be proud of you.
Tonight is different. Tonight there are people beside you who understand exactly how hard you’ve worked for this. People who were there for the early mornings and the extra sessions and the tears and the setbacks. People who know exactly what this trophy cost.
And they want to celebrate it with you.
The realization settles warmly in your chest as the taxi turns a corner and the club finally comes into view.
The place is absolutely packed. Music pours into the street every time the front doors open, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your feet while colorful lights flash across the crowd gathered outside. A line stretches halfway down the block, groups of people talking and laughing beneath the glow of the signs overhead.
You can’t stop yourself from staring. Even from here you can feel the energy rolling out of the building.
Vicky notices immediately, a grin spreads across her face. “First club?”
You shoot her an unimpressed look. “You know it’s my first club.”
“Fair.” She looks entirely too pleased by that fact.
The three of you make your way toward the entrance, weaving through clusters of people who instantly begin recognizing them. Congratulations are called out from several directions. Someone asks for a photo. Another person shouts something about the league title that makes Clara laugh. None of it seems unusual to either of them.
When you finally reach the front, the bouncer takes one look at Vicky and immediately breaks into a smile. “Well, if it isn’t our champions.”
Vicky bows dramatically. “Thank you, thank you.”
He rolls his eyes before stepping aside. “Congratulations on the league. Let’s bring home that European title too, ok?”
As he opens the rope, his gaze drifts briefly toward you. Recognition flickers across his face and his eyebrows rise slightly.
“Look at that,” he says with an amused smile. “They even brought Alexia’s kid.”
Your stomach does a strange little flip and heat rushes to your face. Because apparently even here, miles away from the training ground and Alexia’s watchful eyes, everyone still knows exactly who you are. Or maybe more accurately - whose you are.
Before you can formulate any sort of response, Vicky hooks her arm through yours and begins dragging you toward the entrance.
The club is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Hundreds of people move together beneath flashing lights that change color every few seconds, washing the crowd in alternating shades of blue and pink and purple. The bass is so loud you can feel it vibrating through your ribs, while somewhere above the dance floor a DJ stands on an elevated platform, one arm raised triumphantly as the crowd roars back at him.
It’s overwhelming and somehow energizing at the same time.
You’ve never really been the type for house parties, partly because nobody ever invited you to them and partly because spending your weekends training had always felt more important than sneaking around looking for trouble. Left entirely to your own devices, you probably never would have found yourself somewhere like this.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who was telling the story, you have Vicky and Clara.
The two of them immediately hook their arms through yours as soon as they notice your attention wandering, creating a human chain as they guide you through the crowd.
“We’re not losing you in here,” Clara informs you.
“Stay between us, rookie.” Vicky squeezes your arm affectionately.
The three of you weave through the sea of people until you finally reach the bar, where Vicky turns toward you with an expectant look. “Do you want water?”
You glance at the drinks everyone around you seems to be holding.
“No,” you decide. “I’ll just have whatever you guys are having.”
It turns out their choice is tequila. A decision you regret almost instantly.
The shot burns all the way down, your face scrunching up dramatically as you cough and grab for the nearest glass of water.
“Oh my god.” Your eyes begin watering immediately. “That is disgusting.”
They double over laughing while you glare at them through watery eyes.
“You looked so confident,” Clara manages between laughs.
“I was confident.”
“Clearly...”
“I thought it would taste better.”
That only makes them laugh harder.
Vicky slings an arm around your shoulders. “We’re teaching you how to do that properly.”
“No.”
“Hmmm… yes!”
She and Clara exchange another one of those eyebrow wiggles that have never once led to anything good.
You immediately decide you don’t want to know what they’re planning.
Fortunately, the conversation dies when a new song starts and the crowd erupts around you. Vicky lets out an excited gasp. Clara points dramatically toward the dance floor. And before you can object, both of them are dragging you back into the crowd.
The next hour passes in a blur of music and laughter.
Your hands are in the air more often than not. Your hair sticks to your face. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
At one point Vicky nearly falls over trying to spin Clara. At another, Clara accidentally elbows three people around them and spends the next five minutes denying it happened despite multiple eyewitnesses.
You laugh until your stomach hurts. You dance until your legs ache. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, surrounded by music and flashing lights and your friends singing lyrics they barely know, a warm feeling settles in your chest.
For so much of your life, happiness had always come with conditions attached to it. There was always something waiting on the other side - a problem to solve, a consequence to avoid, a voice reminding you not to get too comfortable because good things never seemed to last very long.
But tonight feels different. Tonight there is only the music vibrating through your ribs, Clara nearly losing a shoe in the crowd, Vicky screaming every chorus directly into your ear, and the strange, wonderful realization that nobody here expects anything from you besides showing up and having fun.
You think maybe this is what being normal feels like. The thought makes you smile.
Vicky is in the middle of passionately explaining why she should be the team DJ and not Patri when her eyes suddenly slide past your shoulder.
Her sentence cuts off and her expression changes. A grin begins spreading across her face.
“Oh.”
“Oh what?” you ask.
Vicky doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs your arm and physically pulls you closer, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal classified information.
“Don’t look now,” she says. “But there is a really pretty girl staring at you by the bar.”
Which, naturally, guarantees that you immediately look. Your head whips around so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
Vicky lets out a horrified groan. “Oh my God.”
“What?” you ask defensively.
“You looked!”
“Well how else am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
Vicky presses a hand dramatically to her forehead. “Young padawan,” she says solemnly, “I have so much to teach you.”
You ignore her and glance back toward the bar. The girl is still looking at you and now she knows you’ve caught her. Heat rushes into your face.
She smiles. You smile back.
The girl lifts her hand in a small wave. Your stomach immediately does something deeply embarrassing.
Beside you, Vicky makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a proud parent. “Oh she’s cute.”
“Vicky please stop.
“And she’s definitely looking at you.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. Unfortunately, that only encourages them.
For the next several minutes they proceed to hype themselves into a frenzy while you repeatedly insist that you are absolutely not going to walk across a crowded club and introduce yourself to a stranger.
Eventually Clara has enough and physically places both hands on your shoulders and turns you toward the bar.
“Go.” Clara punctuates the command with a gentle shove between your shoulder blades before you can come up with another excuse.
You stumble forward a step and immediately turn back to glare at them. “Traitors.”
Neither of them looks remotely guilty. In fact, they look delighted.
“Good luck!” Vicky calls after you, cupping her hands around her mouth like she’s sending a soldier off to war.
Clara is laughing too hard to contribute anything useful, though she does give you an enthusiastic thumbs-up that somehow makes the entire situation feel even more humiliating.
You spend the walk to the bar trying desperately to remember how normal human beings are supposed to interact with attractive strangers.
Unfortunately, this is not a skill you’ve ever really had reason to develop. Football has always made sense to you. Defensive structures make sense. Pressing triggers make sense. The correct weight and angle of a through ball make sense.
This? This feels significantly more complicated.
By the time you reach the bar, you’ve completely forgotten whatever plan you had managed to come up with.
“Hi…” you manage awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck as you stop beside her.
The girl’s entire face brightens immediately. Up close she’s somehow even prettier than she looked from across the room. Her features are softer than you’d realized beneath the flashing club lights, and she looks younger too, probably close to your own age rather than the university student you’d imagined from a distance.
“Hi,” she says warmly, like she’s genuinely happy you walked over. “I’m Lia.”
You tell her your name.
Her smile widens. “I know.”
That should probably register as strange. It should probably make you wonder how she knows who you are. Instead, your brain becomes completely occupied with the fact that she’s smiling at you.
The conversation starts easily after that, which surprises you almost as much as it relieves you. You’d expected awkward pauses and forced small talk, but somehow neither ever arrives. Lia has an effortless way of keeping conversations moving, jumping between topics so naturally that before you realize it the two of you have been talking for nearly half an hour.
Even more surprisingly, she somehow gets you talking. Usually you’re content to let other people carry conversations while you listen from the sidelines, but Lia keeps asking questions that are easy to answer and then actually seems interested in what you have to say. Before long you’re talking about music and school and football and the absurd things your teammates do on a daily basis.
Somewhere along the way she offers to buy you a drink. You agree without thinking much about it. Then later she offers another. And later still, another.
You don’t really notice the pattern forming. You’re too busy enjoying yourself.
The warm buzz that had started earlier is becoming stronger now, making everything feel a little softer around the edges. The music seems better. Your jokes seem funnier. Lia’s smile seems brighter every time she directs it your way.
Which is probably why it takes you much longer than it should to notice when the questions start to shift, drifting away from the playful, harmless things you’d been talking about earlier.
At first it doesn’t seem strange.
“So what’s it actually like playing for Barça?”
You shrug and answer. You tell her about training and travel and how surreal it still feels sometimes when you walk into the locker room and realize you’re surrounded by the players you idolized as a child.
She laughs in all the right places. Nods attentively. Seems genuinely interested. A few minutes later she asks another question.
“What’s Alexia really like?”
That one feels normal too. Everybody asks that. Fans ask it. Reporters ask it. Even your classmates ask it whenever they find out who you live with. Any connection with one of the most famous footballers in the world means that sooner or later every conversation circles back to her.
So you smile and say, “She’s great.”
Lia laughs. “That’s the boring answer.”
You grin despite yourself. “She’s also bossy.”
“There we go.”
You tell a story about Alexia confiscating your phone during a movie because you’d been playing some ‘stupid game’ instead of paying attention. Lia laughs hard enough that you find yourself relaxing again.
For a few moments the conversation continues comfortably. Then Lia tilts her head.
“She’s basically your mom, right?”
You blink. The question catches you so off guard that you genuinely don’t know how to answer for a second.
“What?”
Lia shrugs lightly before taking another sip of her drink. “I mean, everyone says you’re her daughter.”
You let out an awkward laugh. “No.”
The answer comes automatically. It’s the same answer you’ve given a dozen times before. But this time you hesitate. Because that isn’t entirely true either... not anymore. Not after everything that’s happened.
Not after hospital rooms and physical therapy appointments and sleepless nights spent sitting beside your bed. Not after being tucked into blankets when you were sick or picked up from school when it rained or scolded for skipping breakfast before training. Not after being loved so thoroughly and consistently that somewhere along the way you stopped feeling like a guest in her life and started feeling like you belonged there.
The simple answer should still be no. And yet it doesn’t feel quite that simple anymore.
“Well…” You run your fingers through your hair awkwardly. “Not really.”
Lia leans forward slightly. “Not really?”
You shrug. “I live with her. She’s my guardian.”
The words feel strangely inadequate. Like they leave out all the important parts.
Because guardian is technically correct. Guardian is what the paperwork says. Guardian is what the lawyers and social workers and club officials call her. But guardian doesn’t really explain why she kisses your forehead when you’re tired or why she still checks that you’ve eaten after training or why hearing her call you petita feels more like home than any place you’ve ever lived.
Still, it’s easier than trying to explain all of that to a stranger.
Something flickers across Lia’s face. It’s gone so quickly you almost miss it. Interest.
But not the warm kind she’d been looking at you with earlier. It’s sharper and more focused. Like a person who has just stumbled across a detail they weren’t expecting and suddenly wants to know everything about it.
A small knot has begun forming somewhere deep in your stomach, tightening a little more every time she asks another question.
At first you try to ignore it. Maybe it’s the alcohol or you’re overthinking things or maybe you’re just not used to talking to pretty girls and your brain is finding new and creative ways to embarrass itself. But the feeling refuses to go away and the questions keep coming.
She doesn’t ask about music anymore or about school or even really about you. The questions keep circling back to Alexia, to the team, to your life in ways that feel increasingly specific.
You try to pivot and move the conversation forward, but it’s almost like each answer is leading to the next question rather than satisfying it.
You glance down at your drink then back at Lia then down again. Trying to figure out exactly when the evening changed. Trying to figure out why you suddenly feel so exposed. Like you’ve accidentally said too much. Like you’ve wandered into a conversation without understanding what it was actually about.
The music feels louder now. The lights harsher. The alcohol no longer warm and pleasant but heavy and dull. And for the first time since you sat down at the bar, you find yourself wishing you were back on the dance floor with your friends.
Because this doesn’t feel like flirting anymore. It feels like an interview.
You glance around the room, your eyes moving over the sea of strangers and flashing lights until they finally land on Vicky across the dance floor.
The panic on your face must be far more obvious than you realize because her smile instantly vanishes at your eye contact. One second she’s laughing at something Clara is saying, and the next her attention is completely focused on you. Her eyebrows draw together slightly as she follows your gaze back toward the table, taking in Lia, your half-finished drink, and the uncomfortable way you’re sitting in your chair.
You watch understanding settle across her face.
Without hesitation, she reaches out and grabs Clara’s arm. Clara stumbles slightly, looking annoyed for all of half a second before Vicky points in your direction. Whatever expression is on her face must explain everything because Clara’s posture immediately changes too.
The two of them start quickly moving toward you. The relief that floods your chest is so immediate it almost makes you dizzy.
“There you are!” Vicky announces brightly the moment she reaches the table, sounding exactly like someone who has been searching for you for hours rather than dancing twenty feet away the entire time.
The lie is so blatant that under normal circumstances you might have laughed. Right now you’re too grateful to care.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Lia’s eyebrows lift slightly. You don’t miss the way Vicky positions herself beside your chair, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours, creating a subtle barrier between you and the conversation. Before anyone can respond, she reaches down and takes your hand. The simple gesture feels strangely grounding.
“Come on,” she says. “Clara needs to go to the bathroom.”
Clara blinks. For a brief moment she looks completely confused before realization dawns.
“Oh.” A beat passes. “Right.” She nods seriously. “I do.”
Vicky gives her an approving look before turning back to you. “Can you come with us?”
The answer leaves your mouth immediately. “Yeah.” The relief is so overwhelming that you don’t even attempt to hide it.
You offer Lia a small apologetic wave before allowing yourself to be pulled away, stumbling slightly as Vicky immediately increases her pace and starts weaving through the crowd with Clara close behind.
The second you’re far enough away that the music and bodies swallow the table from view, Clara turns toward you with wide eyes.
“What the hell was that about?”
You let out a long breath, running both hands through your hair as you try to organize your thoughts through the haze of alcohol and the lingering discomfort still crawling around in your stomach.
“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. “She was cool at first. Like really cool. We were just talking about music and school and random stuff, and then…” You trail off, frowning slightly as you try to pinpoint exactly when the conversation changed. “I don’t know. Suddenly she started asking me all these weird questions.”
“Weird how?” Vicky asks immediately.
You shrug. “Just… invasive, I guess. About Alexia. About where I live. About the team. About contracts and who hangs out with who and what everyone is like behind closed doors.” The more you list them, the stranger it sounds.
Clara’s face twists in distaste. “Yeah, that’s weird.”
“Right?” You point at her emphatically. “That’s what I thought.”
“That’s not flirting.”
“No!”
“That’s legit an ESPN exclusive.”
The three of you burst out laughing. Some of the tension finally leaves your body.
Vicky wraps an arm around your shoulders and squeezes. “Well congratulations.”
“For what?”
“You survived your first fan girl. The first of many I’m sure.”
You groan dramatically. “Please never let me do that again.”
“Oh don’t worry,” Clara says. “We’re screening all future applicants.”
“You don’t get applicants.”
“I absolutely do!”
“You looked at one pretty girl and immediately got trapped for thirty minutes.”
You bury your face in your hands while both of them laugh.
The embarrassment lasts all of thirty seconds before the music from the main room swells again and Clara grabs both of your wrists. “Okay, enough of that. We came here to celebrate!”
The reminder settles something inside you. Because she’s right. You didn’t come here for some girl.
You didn’t spend the entire season training and fighting and sacrificing and pushing through injuries just to spend your night answering questions from a stranger.
You came here with your friends, people who wanted to celebrate with you.
When you look at Clara and Vicky now, both smiling at you expectantly, the lingering weirdness of the conversation suddenly feels insignificant compared to that.
“Come on then,” you say, grabbing both of their hands. “Let’s go dance.”
Within minutes you’re back on the dance floor, laughing hard enough that your stomach hurts while Clara nearly starts another incident by repeatedly stepping on strangers’ feet.
And little by little, Lia fades from your mind entirely.
What you don’t know is that she hasn’t forgotten about you.
Earlier in the night, while you and your friends had been dancing beneath the flashing lights, she’d quietly taken photos. Photos of the three of you celebrating, of you laughing, of you with drinks in your hands.
And later, after you’d left the table, she posted them.
Alongside those photos came a short series of tweets recounting parts of your conversation, including the casual admission that Alexia was your guardian and that you lived with her.
Within an hour, the posts have begun spreading.
The Barça Femení fanbase has been speculating about your relationship with Alexia for months. About how close you two seem. About why she looks after you the way she does. About why everyone on the team treats you like her child.
Now, for the first time, they think they have confirmation.
And to make matters worse, the photos show exactly where you are. At a club. On a night when Alexia believes you’re safely sleeping at Vicky’s apartment.
The posts begin spreading long before the night is over.
And with every share, every repost, every comment and screenshot, they move a little closer toward the one person you least want to see them.
------
An hour later, you are definitely drunk.
Not dangerously drunk or stumbling-unconscious drunk, but drunk enough that the world feels pleasantly softened around the edges, drunk enough that dancing has gradually devolved into jumping and yelling lyrics that none of you actually know, and drunk enough that every joke Vicky makes somehow feels like the funniest thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life.
Your feet ache from spending hours on the dance floor and your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, but neither sensation is enough to dampen your mood. If anything, they feel like proof of how much fun you’re having.
The three of you are gathered around Vicky’s phone near the edge of the dance floor, supposedly trying to order an Uber home, though the process is moving significantly slower than it should because Clara keeps offering increasingly terrible suggestions while you provide enthusiastic support for all of them.
“No, look at that one,” she insists, pointing vaguely at the screen. “We should definitely get an XL.”
You immediately nod. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Vicky stares at both of you like she’s questioning every life decision that led her to this moment.
“There are only three of us, why would we need a car that big?!”
You and Clara promptly dissolve into more laughter.
The night feels perfect. Messy and loud and ridiculous, but perfect. The sort of night that you’ll all spend years talking about afterward.
Which is probably why none of you notice the shift in the air.
It begins at the edge of the crowd. A subtle ripple of movement that works its way through the room as heads begin turning one after another, conversations faltering as people glance toward the entrance and then glance again.
You barely register it at first. Your attention is still fixed on Vicky’s phone and Clara’s increasingly passionate argument about why party buses should be an option on Uber.
Clara suddenly goes quiet. The change is so abrupt that it catches your attention. You look up just in time to see all the color drain from her face and her eyes widen.
“Oh fuck.” The words are barely audible.
Vicky frowns. “What?”
Instead of answering, Clara grabs her arm. Vicky follows her gaze and immediately freezes. The smile falls off her face so quickly that it feels unnatural.
Your stomach drops before you even turn around. Some internal warning that whatever is standing behind you, you aren’t going to like it. Slowly, you lift your head and the world seems to stop.
Alexia is standing in the middle of the club.
For a brief, disorienting second your brain refuses to process what you’re seeing because it simply doesn’t make sense. Alexia isn’t supposed to be here. Alexia is supposed to be asleep. Alexia is supposed to think you’re curled up on Vicky’s couch watching movies and eating junk food.
Instead she’s standing ten feet away, still dressed in the oversized sweatshirt and gray sweatpants she wears around the house, the sleeves pushed up unevenly and her hair pulled back in a hasty bun that looks like she threw it together while walking out the door.
The expression on her face makes every trace of alcohol evaporate from your system.
You have seen Alexia angry before. You’ve watched her argue with referees. You’ve watched her tear into rivals who commit dirty tackles. You’ve watched her stand in front of cameras after painful losses with frustration burning behind her eyes.
This is different. This is somehow worse. She isn’t making a scene, there is no yelling or dramatic explosion of emotion. Instead all of her anger has condensed into something frighteningly controlled, something sharp and deliberate and impossible to ignore.
The music continues thundering around you, lights still flashing overhead, hundreds of people still dancing and talking and laughing, but it all feels strangely distant now, muffled beneath the pounding of your own heartbeat.
Alexia’s gaze moves slowly between the three of you before finally settling on you.
The look in her eyes makes your stomach twist. Underneath the fury you see the hurt, and somehow that feels infinitely worse.
When she finally speaks, her voice is calm enough that anyone passing by might miss the danger entirely.
“We are leaving.” No one argues. No one even considers it. The authority in those three words is absolute. “Now.”
Then she turns around and starts walking toward the exit.
The three of you follow immediately. Your earlier laughter has vanished completely, replaced by a heavy silence that follows you all the way through the crowd and out into the cool night air beyond the club doors.
Nobody speaks. Not Vicky. Not Clara. Certainly not you. The only sounds are your footsteps against the pavement and the distant pulse of music spilling out behind you.
Alexia doesn’t slow down or look back as she leads you toward her car, parked carelessly at the curb in a place that is almost certainly illegal. The security guards standing nearby don’t seem particularly interested in mentioning that fact, which is probably the smartest decision anyone has made all night.
You can feel her watching you occasionally from the corner of her eye as you walk, tracking every uneven step.
You make a conscious effort to walk in a straight line, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and willing your body to cooperate, but the attempt feels almost laughable. Your head is buzzing, your limbs feel heavier than usual, and every movement requires just a little more concentration than it should.
You know she can tell and normally, if she saw you struggling even a little, she would already be beside you. She would have a hand hovering at your elbow, ready to steady you before you even stumbled, and she would probably be asking whether you’d had enough water or if your feet hurt from standing all night.
Tonight she does none of those things.
She reaches the car first, unlocks it with a sharp press of the key fob, and slides into the driver’s seat without waiting for any of you. The door slams behind her with enough force to make all three of you flinch.
The sound echoes in your chest.
Vicky is the one who helps you into the passenger seat.
The gesture is careful, almost overly so, like she’s afraid that if she moves too quickly she might somehow make the situation worse. Normally she would be teasing you mercilessly by now, making jokes about your terrible flirting skills or your complete inability to handle tequila, but tonight she doesn’t say a word.
As soon as you settle into the seat, you squeeze your eyes shut. Partly because the alcohol is making your head spin slightly. Mostly because you know that if you open them, you’ll have to look at Alexia and you aren’t sure you can handle seeing how angry she is.
The back doors open, then close. You hear Vicky and Clara climb into the backseat, suddenly so quiet that it’s almost unnerving.
The contrast is startling. The drunken giddiness that had carried all three of you through the night has evaporated entirely beneath the weight of your captain’s disappointment.
The car pulls away from the curb. Nobody speaks. Not at the first red light. Not after the second. Not even when Clara accidentally drops something and the noise makes all four of you jump.
The silence stretches longer and longer until it becomes a physical thing, heavy enough that it seems to fill every corner of the vehicle. You have never heard Vicky remain quiet for this long. You aren’t entirely convinced it’s medically possible.
Eventually curiosity gets the better of you. Very carefully, you crack one eye open.
Alexia is staring straight ahead at the road. The dashboard lights cast faint shadows across her face, highlighting the tight set of her jaw and the way her hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough that her knuckles have gone pale.
The sight makes your stomach sink. Underneath the anger, she looks tired. Exhausted, even. Like she was ripped out of sleep and immediately thrown into the worst possible version of her night.
“Ale…” you start quietly, your voice sounding much smaller than you intended. “It’s not-”
“We are not discussing this right now.” The interruption is immediate and final. The kind of tone that leaves absolutely no room for argument.
Your mouth snaps shut. Your eye closes again.
Very rarely do you find yourself on the receiving end of Alexia’s anger, and even when you do, it is usually brief and contained. She corrects you when you’ve crossed a line, makes sure you understand why, and then moves on because holding grudges has never been part of her nature.
This feels different, heavier. Like she’s still trying to sort through her own emotions before she says something she’ll regret.The realization does absolutely nothing to ease the knot growing in your stomach.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. The silence never breaks. The only sounds in the car are the hum of the engine, the occasional click of a turn signal, and the distant noise of the city drifting past outside the windows.
Eventually Alexia pulls up in front of Clara’s parents’ house. The car sits idling at the curb while Clara gathers her purse with shaking hands.
For perhaps the first time since you’ve known her, she looks genuinely nervous.
“I’m really sorry, Ale.” The apology comes out barely above a whisper.
Alexia keeps her eyes on the windshield for several seconds before finally giving a stiff nod.
She doesn’t tell Clara it’s okay. She doesn’t reassure her. She doesn’t soften the blow. And somehow that hurts worse than a lecture ever could.
Clara swallows hard. “Goodnight.”
Alexia nods again. Nothing more.
Clara climbs out of the car and shuts the door quietly behind her. Alexia waits until the front door opens and Clara disappears safely inside before putting the car back into drive.
The drive toward Vicky’s apartment somehow feels even worse. Without Clara there to absorb some of the tension, the atmosphere inside the car becomes almost unbearable.
You can practically feel Vicky’s anxiety building behind you.
“Ale, porfa,” Vicky finally says from the backseat, her voice sounding much smaller than usual after nearly twenty minutes of silence. “Please say something.”
For a moment Alexia doesn’t respond. She keeps her eyes fixed on the road ahead, the glow of streetlights sliding across her face as she drives, her expression unreadable except for the tension still visible in her jaw.
When she finally speaks, her voice sounds tired more than anything else. “Telling you how disappointed I am isn’t going to change what happened tonight.”
The words settle heavily over the car. Vicky immediately shrinks into her seat. “Ale…”
“No.” Alexia shakes her head. “No, because I honestly don’t know what you expected to happen.”
The frustration is becoming harder for her to contain now. “I’m just so disappointed in all three of you.”
You physically flinch.
Alexia notices but keeps going. “You should have known better.”
“We were safe, I swear,” Vicky rushes to say, leaning forward in her seat. “Nothing happened. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to them.”
Alexia lets out a short laugh, but there is no amusement in her tone. It’s the kind of laugh people make when they’re too frustrated to do anything else.
“Really?” The single word makes the car feel even colder. “Because from where I’m sitting, that’s clearly not true.”
Vicky opens her mouth again, but Alexia beats her to it.
“You know… considering my daughter is currently going viral on Twitter.”
The words hit the car like a grenade.
“What?!” The response comes from both you and Vicky at the exact same time.
Alexia doesn’t even look away from the road. “You heard me.”
The knot in your stomach immediately twists tighter.
Behind you, Vicky is already digging frantically through her purse for her phone, nearly dropping it in her haste. The glow of the screen illuminates her face as she scrolls, and within seconds she lets out a string of curses so creative that under different circumstances it might have made you laugh.
“That dumb fucking-” She cuts herself off before finishing the sentence. “Alexia, she was set up! You have to understand that this isn’t her fault.”
The reaction is immediate. “You think I don’t know that??” For the first time that night, Alexia’s voice rises. The sudden spike in volume is enough to make all of you jump.
She takes a long breath through her nose, visibly forcing herself to calm down before she says something harsher than she intends.
When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, but only just.
“You two need to understand something,” she says, words are directed at both of you, but her eyes flick briefly toward you. “You are public figures. You play for the biggest club in the world and because of that there are expectations whether you like them or not. Every place you go, every person you meet, every mistake you make, somebody is always watching and somebody is always recording.”
The city lights flicker across her face as she drives.
“So tonight, I honestly don’t care that some wannabe journalist decided to leak information she had no business posting online. I will deal with that in the morning.”
The promise sounds less like a possibility and more like a threat. You suddenly almost feel sorry for Lia… almost.
“What I care about is that the two of you looked me directly in the eye and lied to me. What I care about is that you knowingly ignored my instructions and deliberately put yourselves into a situation where something could have happened.” Her grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“She is sixteen, Vicky.” The disappointment in her voice somehow hurts more than the anger. “What the fuck is she doing in a nightclub?”
“Ale, it’s not her fault.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. You twist in your seat slightly, trying to look at her despite how worried you are about her reaction.
“She got me out of there when things got weird. The second I looked uncomfortable, she came and got me. Both of them did.” Your voice grows stronger as you continue.
“That girl started asking all these strange questions about you and us and the team and where I lived and stuff. I didn’t know what was happening, but Vicky did. She got me out of there right away.”
You glance back at your teammate. “She was protecting me the whole time.”
The silence that follows lasts several seconds. Long enough that you wonder whether Alexia is going to argue.
Instead, she sighs - a long, exhausted sound. “I know.” There is no uncertainty in her tone. “I know it’s not her fault.” For the first time all night, some of the anger leaves her voice. Not all of it, but just enough to reveal the fear hiding underneath.
“But that’s exactly my point.” She shakes her head. “You three should never have been in that situation to begin with.”
Nobody has an answer for that. Because she’s right.
The silence stretches again. Eventually Vicky drops her gaze to her lap.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks. “I really am.” She wipes quickly at her eyes.
“I know I lied.” The words seem to cost her something.
“I just wanted to hang out with her.” She laughs weakly, though it sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
“I wanted us to make memories together. She’s always training or studying or doing something responsible and I thought…” She pauses to wipe her eyes again. “I don’t know. I thought we could do something fun.”
Her voice drops lower. “And I was worried you’d say no.”
The confession hangs in the air. Alexia doesn’t answer, but she must notice the quiet sniffing coming from the backseat because when she finally pulls into Vicky’s apartment complex, she doesn’t immediately put the car back into drive after parking. Instead, she sits there for a moment with both hands resting on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on something beyond the windshield, before letting out a slow breath and opening her door.
Vicky follows right away.
You watch them through the passenger window as they move a few steps away from the car and stop beneath one of the streetlights lining the sidewalk. The yellow glow casts long shadows across the pavement and illuminates the tear tracks still visible on Vicky’s face. For a second neither of them says anything. Then Alexia opens her arms.
That is all it takes before Vicky folds into her instantly. The younger woman practically collapses against her, burying her face in Alexia’s shoulder as the sobs she has clearly been fighting for the last twenty minutes finally win.
You can’t hear what they’re saying through the closed windows. You can only watch.
You watch the way Alexia’s arms tighten around her. You watch the way she lowers her head so she can speak directly into her ear. You watch her rub a hand slowly up and down Vicky’s back with the same patient rhythm you’ve felt yourself more times than you can count.
Months ago, a sight like this might have hurt. Months ago, before you understood what Alexia’s love actually looked like, you might have felt that familiar sting of jealousy. You might have watched someone else receive her comfort and wondered whether there would be less left over for you afterward.
Now you simply feel relieved.
Because if Alexia is still standing there holding Vicky after everything that happened tonight, then maybe the world hasn’t ended after all. Because if Vicky is still allowed to cry into her shoulder and be forgiven, then maybe there is still hope for you too.
Eventually Alexia leans back just enough to cup Vicky’s face between both hands, wiping away tears with her thumbs while speaking softly enough that the words never reach you. Whatever she says causes Vicky to laugh through a fresh wave of tears, which in turn makes Alexia smile sadly before pulling her back into one final hug.
The entire interaction is so painfully familiar. The comfort, the reassurance, the certainty. The unspoken promise that she is angry but still loves you. That she is disappointed but not leaving and whatever happens next, she will still be there when the conversation is over.
When they finally separate, Alexia presses a kiss to the top of Vicky’s head before walking her all the way to the building entrance, waiting patiently while she punches in the code and steps inside. Even then she doesn’t leave right away, lingering on the sidewalk until the door closes behind her. Only then does she return to the car.
The difference in her is obvious. The anger that had been keeping her upright for the last hour seems to have drained away, leaving behind something far more difficult to look at.
She looks exhausted. It’s not even physical exhaustion, though there is certainly some of that too, but emotionally exhaustion in a way that makes her seem older than usual.
She settles into the driver’s seat and closes the door quietly behind her. Neither of you speaks. The car remains parked.
Outside, Barcelona continues sleeping around you, occasional headlights drifting past and distant conversations floating through the night air, but inside the vehicle everything feels strangely still.
Her phone vibrates in the cup holder. The sound breaks the silence. Alexia glances down at the screen and some more of the tension leaves her shoulders. It’s Vicky letting her know she made it upstairs.
Only after reading the message does Alexia put the car into drive and pull away from the curb.
The city slides past outside the windows in a blur of streetlights and empty sidewalks while neither of you says anything for several minutes.
Eventually, without looking away from the road, Alexia finally speaks.
“I was really scared.” The confession is so quiet and so unexpected that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard her correctly.
You turn toward her. The stoplights ahead paint soft shadows across her face, highlighting the tiredness around her eyes and the way she keeps worrying at her lower lip with her teeth.
“I thought you were at Vicky’s apartment,” she continues after a long pause. “I thought you were safe. I thought you were asleep on the couch watching movies, and then suddenly my phone started ringing.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel.
“First it was messages. Then it was people calling. Then somebody sent me photos.” She swallows. “And for twenty minutes I didn’t know where you were.”
The words make your heart ache. Because this isn’t about the club anymore. It isn’t even about the lie. It’s about fear. Real fear. The kind that had apparently been eating her alive while she was driving across the city looking for you.
“I didn’t know who you were with,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know whether those people posting photos were the same people you were with. I didn’t know if someone had given you something. I didn’t know if you were okay.”
The guilt settles so heavily in your chest that it almost hurts to breathe.
“I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you…” her voice trails off as she blinks quickly trying to keep her tears from falling.
“Ale…”
You don’t know what else to say. You don’t know how to fix any of it. So instead you repeat the words she has given you a hundred times before.
“I’m here.” Her eyes flick toward you briefly. “I’m okay.”
You reach across the center console and place your hand over hers. “I’m safe with you now.”
For the first time all night, something in her expression softens.
She turns her hand over and threads her fingers through yours. “I know, petita.”
The nickname nearly breaks your heart. Because it sounds exactly the way it always does - warm, certain, loving. As though none of that has changed.
You spend the rest of the drive in silence, your hand remaining tucked inside hers while the city passes outside the windows. Every few moments her thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles in a repetitive, absent-minded motion, and although she never says another word, you begin to suspect she isn’t doing it to comfort you.
You think she is reassuring herself. Reminding herself that you are really there beside her. That she found you. That you’re safe. And that, despite everything that happened tonight, she still gets to bring you home.
------
When you finally pull in through the gates, the house sits exactly as you left it, quiet and dark beneath the night sky, the familiar porch light casting a soft glow across the front steps.
The engine goes silent, leaving only the ticking of cooling metal and the faint sound of crickets somewhere beyond the yard. For a moment neither of you moves. The tension that had filled the car earlier has changed shape now, no longer sharp and angry but tired and heavy, weighed down by everything that has happened since Alexia walked into that club.
Eventually she unclips her seatbelt and steps out.
By the time you reach for the handle, she is already opening the passenger door for you. You step down onto the driveway and immediately feel her hand settle around your elbow.
You don’t need the support anymore. Most of your drunkenness has worn off during the drive home and your head is far clearer than it was an hour ago. Still, you don’t say anything. You like the contact too much.
The two of you make your way inside together, Alexia locking the door behind you before guiding you upstairs with one hand resting lightly against your back. The gesture is familiar enough that you don’t even think about it anymore. Somewhere along the way you had stopped being surprised by how naturally she takes care of you. What still surprises you is how much you want her to.
When you reach your room, she sits you down on the closed toilet lid before disappearing briefly into the bathroom cabinet. A moment later she returns with a packet of makeup wipes and kneels in front of you.
The tenderness of the gesture nearly hurts.
You had lied to her. You had worried her. You had ignored her instructions and broken her trust. And yet here she is, crouched in front of you at three in the morning, carefully removing the remnants of makeup and glitter from your face with the same patience she always uses.
Neither of you says much. The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of the wipe against your skin.
When she’s finished, she tosses it away and crosses to your dresser without needing to ask where anything is. She knows this room almost as well as her own. A moment later she is holding your favorite pajamas, the soft worn set that always seems to find its way to the top of the drawer whenever you’ve had a bad day.
“Brush your teeth, bebé.”
You nod as she leaves to give you privacy.
When she comes back several minutes later, you’re already in bed.
The blankets are pulled over your legs and you’re propped against the headboard, hands wrapped around your knees as exhaustion finally begins catching up to you. Alexia is carrying a bottle of cold water which she opens before handing it over.
You take a long drink. Then another. And another. Partly because you’re dehydrated, but mostly because it delays the conversation you know is coming eventually.
When you finally lower the bottle, your eyes find hers. “Ale?”
Her expression softens as she looks up at you. “Yes, mi amor?”
The endearment almost makes your eyes sting. You stare down at the bottle in your hands.
“I’m really, really sorry.” The words come out small and rough.
For a moment she simply looks at you. Then her hand comes up to brush gently through your hair.
“I know, bebé.” She tucks a loose strand behind your ear. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” she says quietly. “Right now you’re exhausted and I’m exhausted, and neither of us is going to think very clearly tonight.”
You nod. The lump in your throat grows a little bigger. “Ale?”
She huffs out the faintest hint of a smile. “Yeah?”
“Do you think…” you begin before losing your nerve, your fingers tightening around the water bottle in your lap as you stare down at the blanket.
Alexia remains completely patient, giving you all the time in the world to find the courage to ask. “Well maybe…” You stop again, frustration and exhaustion making it impossible to get the words out properly. “Could you maybe stay here tonight?”
Alexia tilts her head slightly, her expression softening as she looks at you.
You don’t elaborate. You don’t need to. You just blink back at her, feeling far too tired and emotionally wrung out to explain that after everything that happened tonight, the thought of being alone feels unbearable.
“Okay, bebé.” Her answer comes so easily that it makes your chest ache.
She rises from the edge of the bed and moves around to the other side, pulling off the oversized sweatshirt she had thrown on earlier. Beneath it are the pajamas she’d clearly been wearing when she received those phone calls, and the sight sends another wave of guilt washing through you because it is impossible not to picture her seeing those photos, grabbing the first thing she could find, and racing out the door without a second thought.
She came for you. She hadn’t stopped to change. Hadn’t stopped to think. Hadn’t stopped at all.
The mattress dips slightly as she climbs into bed beside you.
For a while neither of you says anything. The room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of blankets and the distant hum of the air conditioner, both of you staring up at the ceiling while the events of the night slowly begin settling into place.
Eventually Alexia reaches across the space between you and gently pulls you against her side. The movement is so familiar now that you go willingly without thinking.
Her arm wraps securely around your shoulders while her fingers slide into your hair, scratching lightly against your scalp in the exact way she knows helps you relax, and almost immediately you feel your entire body begin to soften beneath her touch.
The tension leaves your shoulders. Your breathing slows. The frantic energy that has been buzzing beneath your skin since she walked into that club finally starts settling.
Sleep begins creeping up on you slowly. Your eyes grow heavier. Your body sinks further into the mattress.
Then, just as you’re beginning to drift, a memory resurfaces from the car. The words hit you all over again.
My daughter.
Your eyes fly open. Your breath catches sharply enough that Alexia stirs - even half asleep, her response is automatic. Her eyes blink open lazily, heavy with exhaustion, and she lifts her head slightly from the pillow to look down at you.
“You okay?” she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep.
You don’t answer right away because how are you supposed to explain this? How are you supposed to explain what happened inside your chest when she said those words?
You had spent most of your life belonging to nobody. Passed from house to house, caretaker to caretaker, always feeling temporary, always feeling like you were occupying space that could be taken back at any moment.
People had called you a lot of things over the years : foster kid, placement, responsibility, problem. Nobody had ever looked at you with fear in their eyes and called you theirs.
And Alexia hadn’t even done it intentionally. She hadn’t sat down and chosen those words carefully. She hadn’t made some grand declaration. The words had simply fallen out of her mouth in a moment of panic because, somewhere in her mind, that was already what you were.
Her daughter.
The realization makes something warm and painful bloom inside your chest all at once.
You don’t know how to tell her that hearing those words felt like being handed something you’d secretly wanted for so long that you’d stopped allowing yourself to hope for it. You don’t know how to tell her that you’ve been replaying them over and over in your head ever since.
So instead you simply shake your head and burrow closer.
Your hands curl into the front of her pajama shirt and you press your face against her shoulder, holding onto her a little tighter than usual.
Alexia studies you for a moment until a quiet breath leaves her nose, carrying equal parts affection and amusement, before she leans down and presses a gentle kiss against your forehead.
“T’estimo, mi amor,” she murmurs softly.
One of her hands settles against the back of your head while the other resumes its slow journey through your hair.
She doesn’t ask any questions or make you explain. She just holds you.
The steady movement of her fingers gradually slows as sleep begins pulling at her again, each pass through your hair becoming a little lazier than the last until eventually her hand comes to rest against the back of your neck.
A few minutes later her breathing deepens. The familiar rhythm fills the room.
You listen to it for a long time. Long enough for your eyes to grow heavy. Long enough for the warmth in your chest to outweigh the guilt still lingering there. Long enough for sleep to finally pull you under too, tucked safely against her side while her arms remain wrapped around you exactly where they belong.
5:
The perfect season somehow ends exactly the way Alexia insists all perfect seasons should: with a trophy in one hand and an excuse to throw a party in the other.
You stand off to the side of the patio watching the chaos unfold with increasingly wide eyes as Alexia, Irene, and Patri completely take over the backyard, moving furniture from one end of the garden to the other with the seriousness of people preparing for a diplomatic summit rather than a seventeen-year-old’s birthday party.
At some point during the morning, the normal outdoor seating arrangement had disappeared entirely. In its place now sat long tables covered in decorations, enormous flower arrangements filled with carefully coordinated colors, and what looked suspiciously like an entire wall of balloons that seemed to grow larger every time you looked away for more than five minutes.
You aren’t entirely sure where half of it came from. You do know that at one point you heard Alexia discussing delivery schedules with someone on the phone before mentioning that the caterer would be arriving at three o’clock, which had nearly caused you to choke on your coffee because, as far as you were concerned, ordering pizza would have qualified as party planning.
Apparently Alexia strongly disagreed.
The strange thing is that none of this had been your idea.
Your birthday wasn’t technically until tomorrow, but after weeks of relentless pestering from Vicky and Clara, who seemed personally offended by your complete lack of interest in celebrating yourself, you had eventually worked up the courage to ask Alexia if maybe they could come over for an afternoon.
Just them and maybe a few teammates. Something simple.
You had even presented your argument carefully. Having people over at the house still complied with the terms of your grounding, you had pointed out. After all, you had spent the last month accepting the consequences of your disastrous decision-making without complaint, fully aware that sneaking into a nightclub, lying to Alexia, and accidentally becoming the center of a social media firestorm had earned every restriction she’d given you.
Alexia had listened to your carefully constructed reasoning for approximately ten seconds before laughing outright.
Then she’d reached over and ruffled your hair. “It’s your birthday, petita,” she had said. “You can celebrate it anywhere you want.”
The truth was that you genuinely did want it here. You liked that somewhere along the way the house had stopped feeling like Alexia’s house. It felt like yours too.
Your shoes lived by the garage door. Your textbooks ended up scattered across the kitchen table. Your favorite cereal permanently occupied a shelf in the pantry. There were photographs of you throughout the house now, mixed naturally among the family photos as though they’d always belonged there.
Most importantly, it was the first place you had ever wanted to invite people to. The first place you had ever felt proud of. The first place that felt enough like home that you wanted to share it with your friends.
Unfortunately, what began as a small gathering had spiraled wildly out of control.
The chain of events had apparently started with Vicky. Vicky told Kika. Kika told Patri. Patri told every living person in Barcelona. And because footballers were apparently incapable of minding their own business, the information had spread through the entire team with frightening efficiency.
Now people kept appearing at training asking what time the party started. Players you hadn’t technically invited were somehow discussing what swimsuits they planned to bring. At one point Mapi had asked whether she should bring an appetizer. You hadn’t even known she was coming.
Alexia, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the entire situation. If anything, every new guest only made her more excited.
Over the last two weeks, she had been almost impossibly happy. Winning the Champions League had left the entire team floating for days, her contract renewal had removed months of uncertainty, and the season itself could not have ended more perfectly if someone had written it in a script.
Your birthday had arrived immediately afterward and somehow became the thing she was most excited about.
She had talked about it constantly. She had made lists. She had revised those lists. She had asked what food you wanted, what music you wanted, whether you preferred a cake or multiple desserts and then decided to get both.
Every time you sheepishly informed her that another teammate had somehow heard about the party and wanted to come, her face had lit up even more.
“Bebé, our house is enormous,” she had told you after your latest attempt to apologize. “You could invite everyone you know and we’d still have room.”
As it turned out, you were dangerously close to testing that theory.
The whole thing should probably have been overwhelming. Honestly, it was a little overwhelming. But every time you started feeling nervous about the growing guest list or the increasingly elaborate decorations, you would look over at Alexia and see the excitement written all over her face.
She was just so happy to be throwing you a party, so happy to have an excuse to fill the house with people who cared about you, so happy to celebrate you in a way that made it impossible for anyone to miss how loved you were.
Birthdays had never really meant much before. For most of your life they had passed quietly, acknowledged by very few people and celebrated by even fewer. The only part you had ever cared about was football, because another birthday usually meant another promotion, another chance to play against older girls, another step forward in the sport you loved.
Everything else had always felt secondary and forgettable. Just another date on a calendar. Alexia, however, had treated this birthday like a national holiday. The date had been circled on the kitchen calendar for months.
She had started asking what you wanted weeks ago. More than once she had casually mentioned that she already had “a few ideas” but wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything specific you hoped for first.
Every time, you had shaken your head with growing embarrassment. Because the truth was that you genuinely couldn’t think of anything. Every time she asked, you found yourself looking around at the life you’d somehow built here and realizing that you already had everything you’d spent years wishing for without ever expecting to find.
And judging by the knowing look Alexia kept giving you whenever you failed to answer the question, you suspected she already knew that.
------
Alexia laughs when the third balloon in less than ten minutes explodes directly in Patri’s face.
The sound echoes across the backyard, followed immediately by Patri’s increasingly dramatic complaints about being personally victimized by party decorations, which only seems to make Alexia laugh harder. Eventually she gives up entirely, gesturing for Patri to surrender the pump and go find something else to do before she somehow manages to injure herself preparing for a birthday party.
Patri leaves with all the dignity of a disgraced soldier retreating from battle.
Once the others disappear inside to continue setting up decorations throughout the house, you make your way across the patio toward Alexia, who is crouched beside an increasingly elaborate balloon arch that has somehow become one of the most important projects of the day.
“Ale.” She glances up immediately. You are fairly certain you could whisper her name from the opposite side of Barcelona and she’d still somehow hear it.
“Maybe I can do that?” you ask, gesturing toward the pump. “I want to help.”
The expression she gives you is fondly exasperated. “Petita, it’s your birthday.” Then she pauses. “Well, birthday weekend.”
You can’t help smiling at the correction.
“You shouldn’t be setting up your own party.”
“Yeah, but I want to.” You shift your weight slightly before adding the part that usually works. “Pleaseee?”
Alexia studies you for a moment, clearly debating whether to continue arguing, before finally surrendering with a shake of her head. “You blow them up and I’ll arrange them.”
The victory feels embarrassingly satisfying. You immediately claim the pump before she can change her mind.
For a while the two of you work quietly beside one another, settling into an easy rhythm as you inflate balloons and hand them over while Alexia somehow transforms what should be a chaotic pile of plastic into something that actually looks organized and intentional.
At some point you become aware of her watching you, checking in without wanting you to notice she’s checking in.
Eventually she breaks the silence. “You doing okay?” The question is simple and casual. But you know her well enough by now to hear everything underneath it.
The month after the club incident hadn’t been easy. The grounding had been fair, but fair didn’t necessarily mean enjoyable. There had been difficult conversations and consequences and more than a few moments where you’d felt terrible about how badly you’d scared her.
Even now, weeks later, she still checks sometimes. Making sure you’re actually okay. Making sure you’re happy. Making sure the weight of everything that happened isn’t still sitting on your shoulders.
You glance around the yard before answering.
The patio is bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Through the open doors you can hear Patri and Irene arguing over something neither of them actually cares about enough to be fighting over, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of people who have spent years annoying each other affectionately. Somewhere nearby the pool filter sends water gently splashing against the tiled walls, and the warm summer air carries the scent of freshly cut grass and flowers across the backyard.
For a moment you simply take it all in before your eyes return to Alexia. To the woman sitting beside you surrounded by half-finished decorations and balloon fragments, looking at you with enough affection to make your chest ache.
And for once the answer comes easily. “Yeah.” You mean it, you genuinely mean it.
Four hours later, however, you mean it a little less.
The party is perfect. The food is incredible, the weather is somehow cooperating despite the fact that Barcelona summers usually seem determined to melt everyone alive, and every person you care about appears to be having the time of their life.
The problem is simply that there is so much of it.
So many people. So much noise. So much attention.
The backyard has transformed into something that feels closer to a festival than a birthday party, every corner occupied by a different conversation, every chair filled, every patch of shade claimed by some combination of teammates, relatives, classmates, and family friends.
The table near the back door is completely buried beneath gifts, colorful wrapping paper stacked so high that you can barely see the surface underneath anymore, and every time you glance in that direction you swear the pile has somehow gotten bigger.
There are Barça players scattered throughout the yard. There are classmates you never expected to see standing beside Champions League winners discussing school gossip. There are various members of the Putellas i Segura family tree whose exact relationship to Alexia remains something of a mystery to you despite repeated explanations.
Across the yard, Vicky and Clara have recruited one of Alexia’s younger cousins into an increasingly competitive game of keepy-uppy that seems to involve far more shouting than the sport technically requires. Every few seconds somebody erupts into celebration while somebody else accuses them of cheating, and the argument inevitably starts all over again before any actual conclusions are reached.
Nearby, Kika, Esmee, and Salma have turned the pool into their own personal volleyball court, the game growing more aggressive with every passing minute as increasingly dramatic dives send water splashing onto anyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
Pina and Cata have established themselves near the drinks table, a development that several people have openly described as concerning, though not concerning enough for anyone to actually intervene.
Meanwhile, you seem to have spent the entire afternoon being gently passed from one conversation to the next.
Every time you think you’ve finally escaped a cluster of people, somebody spots you from across the yard and waves you over. Every time you finish one conversation, another begins. Every time you manage to sit down, someone appears beside you wanting to congratulate you on the season, ask about school, discuss football, or tell you a story you somehow feature prominently.
It is wonderful. It is exhausting. It is probably the most loved you have ever felt in your entire life.
And that might actually be the problem. Because every few minutes something happens that throws you off all over again.
One of Alexia’s relatives hugs you goodbye and tells you they’ll see you at the next family gathering as though your attendance is already assumed. Someone refers to the house as yours without even thinking about it. Another person talks about next season as though your future at Barça is inevitable.
Each interaction is small. Insignificant on its own. Yet somehow they keep accumulating until your chest feels strangely tight.
You catch yourself looking toward Alexia more than once. She is everywhere. One moment she’s helping carry trays of food onto the patio. The next she’s greeting another arriving guest. Then she’s laughing at something Alba says, throwing her head back with a smile so bright that even from across the yard you can see it.
The happiness radiates off her in waves. Every time her eyes eventually find you somewhere in the crowd, her entire expression softens in a way that still catches you off guard despite how often you’ve seen it. You know that look now. You know exactly what it means. Which somehow only makes your chest twist even more.
Because there was a time when birthdays passed almost unnoticed. There was a time when nobody decorated anything. Nobody planned anything. Nobody circled dates on calendars months in advance. Nobody spent weeks discussing cakes and playlists and guest lists as though your existence was an event worth celebrating.
You never really minded back then. At least you told yourself you didn’t. You became very good at pretending things didn’t matter. Very good at convincing yourself that wanting less was the same thing as needing less. But sitting here now, surrounded by more love than you know what to do with, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain those old lies.
Eventually, after being trapped in a conversation with Patri about music, summer plans, and at least three separate stories that somehow merged together halfway through, you manage to slip away under the excuse of needing another drink.
The moment you step inside the house, the noise dulls slightly. The music becomes distant. The conversations blur together. The air feels cooler.
You find yourself wandering toward the staircase instinctively and lowering yourself onto the bottom step, settling into that strange middle ground where you are technically still present but no longer actively participating.
You rest your chin against your hand and stare vaguely toward one of the paintings hanging on the opposite wall, your focus gradually softening until the details blur together. You take slow, deep breaths, trying to understand why your eyes suddenly feel suspiciously warm.
When you finally glance up, Alexia standing in the doorway watching you with a look that suggests she figured out exactly what was happening several minutes ago.
You immediately feel sheepish. Your birthday party is happening twenty feet away and you’ve hidden yourself on the stairs like an overwhelmed cat.
You open your mouth, already preparing to explain yourself, but Alexia’s expression shifts before you can get a single word out. A grin spreads slowly across her face, the kind that always means she’s had an idea and that everyone around her is about to be dragged into it whether they like it or not.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
You blink. The question takes several seconds to register. “What?”
“Do you want to get out of here?” She gestures vaguely toward the backyard. “My mom is here. Alba is here. Everyone is fed, nobody is fighting yet, and there is enough food to survive a small natural disaster.”
You stare. Alexia continues like this is the most reasonable suggestion in the world. “They won’t even notice we’re gone. And we’ll be back before cake.”
The next thing you know, she was leading you through a side gate with a football tucked beneath one arm, both of you trying and failing to suppress your laughter as though you were committing some elaborate crime instead of temporarily abandoning a gathering full of people who adored you. The ridiculousness of it all only becomes funnier the farther you get from the house.
By the time you reach the small park at the end of the neighborhood, the tightness in your chest has already eased considerably.
The evening air is warm without being oppressive, carrying the lingering scent of summer grass and sun-warmed pavement. Behind you, the party continues somewhere beyond the trees and rooftops, reduced to a distant memory of music and laughter that feels pleasantly far away rather than overwhelming.
The two of you spend a while kicking the ball back and forth without much purpose, neither of you really trying to play properly. The football becomes little more than an excuse to move around while you talk, the conversation drifting effortlessly from one topic to another as you laugh about the increasingly chaotic state of the party. You speculate about which guests will somehow end up in the pool before the evening is over, debate whether Pina and Cata should ever be trusted with drink responsibilities again, and spend several minutes discussing a couple who may or may not be having an argument near the buffet table.
For the first time all afternoon, everything feels manageable. The constant attention has disappeared. The endless conversations have quieted. The pressure to be perceived has evaporated. It is just you and Alexia and a football. The simplicity of it allows something else to surface.
You trap the ball beneath your foot and stare down at it for a moment before speaking.
The admission comes slowly, partly because you’ve never really thought about it before and partly because you’re only just beginning to understand it yourself.
You tell her that birthdays were never something you paid much attention to growing up. They came and went like any other day, acknowledged occasionally but rarely celebrated, and somewhere along the way you stopped expecting them to matter. Football was usually the only thing worth noticing, because another birthday often meant another promotion, another chance to play at a higher level, another step forward in the one area of your life that felt predictable.
“I don’t know why I got so in my head about it,” you admit after a long stretch of silence, your eyes following the football as it rolls lazily through the grass before coming to rest a few feet away. “I think it was just a little overwhelming, you know? All those people there for me.”
The words sound small once they’re out in the open. A little ridiculous even. You kick absently at a patch of grass.
“I don’t know,” you continue more quietly. “I think maybe I just don’t feel like I deserve it.”
The confession leaves your mouth before you can stop it. Immediately you wish you could take it back. Hearing the thought spoken aloud makes it sound far sadder than it did inside your own head.
Beside you, Alexia doesn’t answer right away. She rarely does when the conversation starts drifting toward something important.
Instead, she takes a few slow steps forward until she’s standing beside you, both of you looking out across the open field while the evening sky stretches above the park in shades of pink and gold. The sun has nearly disappeared now, leaving only the soft glow of sunset lingering along the horizon, and for a while the two of you simply stand there shoulder to shoulder while a warm breeze stirs the grass around your feet.
When she finally speaks, her voice is soft enough that it almost blends into the evening air. “Love isn’t something you deserve.”
You glance toward her. Her gaze remains fixed on the sky. “It’s not something you earn either.”
The words are spoken so matter-of-factly that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard them correctly. Alexia notices your confusion, small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
“People always talk about deserving love like it’s some kind of reward,” she says quietly. “Like if you’re good enough or successful enough or kind enough, eventually somebody hands it to you. But that’s not how it works.”
Her hands slide into the pockets of her shorts. “Love isn’t a prize. It isn’t a transaction. It isn’t something people give you because you’ve finally proven yourself worthy of receiving it.”
She turns her head slightly then, just enough for you to catch the affection in her expression. “It just is.”
The simplicity of the statement makes your chest ache. She says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there has never been any question about it.
“You didn’t earn Alba’s love,” she continues after a moment. “You didn’t earn Vicky’s love or Clara’s or my mom’s. None of those people spent the afternoon in that backyard because you somehow convinced them to.”
A small laugh escapes her. “Trust me, if I could convince the family to do anything, life would be much easier.”
That earns the faintest smile from you. Alexia’s expression softens even further when she sees it.
“They were there because they care about you,” she says. “Because they love you. Because somewhere along the way you became important to them and now they can’t imagine their lives without you in them.”
The words settle heavily in your chest. It’s as if something you’ve been carrying for a very long time is finally being set down.
For a while neither of you speaks. The breeze moves through the trees overhead. The sounds of the neighborhood drift around you. And somewhere behind you, hidden beyond rows of houses and garden walls, your birthday party continues without either of you.
Alexia exhales softly through her nose. When she speaks again, her voice is thoughtful. Almost amused.
“You know,” she says, “I call you my daughter in my head every day.”
The world seems to tilt slightly. Your head turns so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.
Alexia notices immediately. The smile that appears on her face is small and fond. She’s been expecting this reaction.
“I have for a while now.” She shrugs one shoulder comfortably, like she’s talking about something she accepted a long time ago.
“You never earned my love either.” The words are quiet and certain. “You just have it.”
You stare at her. Unable to look away. Unable to speak.
“You never had to earn a place in my life,” she continues. “You never had to prove that you belonged there. You never had to become successful enough or talented enough or good enough for me to care about you.”
A gentle smile appears on her face. “The day I decided you were staying with me, that was pretty much the end of the discussion as far as I was concerned.”
A laugh escapes you despite the tears suddenly threatening behind your eyes.
Alexia reaches over and squeezes the back of your neck gently. “Alba loves you because you’re you. Vicky loves you because you’re you. My family loves you because you’re you.”
Her eyes meet yours then, steady and certain in a way they always are when she’s saying something she knows to be true. “And I love you because you’re my daughter.”
The words hit harder than anything else she’s said.
It doesn’t surprise you, you’ve spent months suspecting it. You’ve spent months noticing it in all the small things she probably never even realized she was doing. In the way she worried whenever you were late getting home. In the way she always remembered the things that mattered to you, no matter how insignificant they seemed. In the way she fussed over injuries and schoolwork and meals and sleep schedules. In the way her eyes immediately searched for you whenever she entered a room.
Most of all, you’d noticed it in the way she loved you. A kind of love that had never felt temporary. A kind of love that never seemed conditional. A kind of love that simply existed, unwavering and constant, no matter how many mistakes you made.
Still, hearing her say it aloud feels different. It feels like someone finally putting a name to something that has been quietly growing between the two of you for so long that neither of you can quite remember where it started.
Your throat tightens. Your eyes sting. You stare stubbornly down at the grass beneath your feet because looking directly at her suddenly feels impossible.
“I call you mama in my head too.” The confession slips out before you can stop it.
The second the words leave your mouth you want to crawl into a hole and never emerge again. Heat floods your face. Embarrassment follows immediately after. You feel exposed in a way you haven’t felt in a very long time, like you’ve accidentally handed her a piece of yourself you never intended anyone else to see.
“I don’t even know when I started,” you admit quietly, still refusing to look at her. “It wasn’t intentional or anything. It just sort of…” You trail off, searching for words that don’t seem to exist. “It just happened.”
The silence that follows stretches long enough that you finally force yourself to look up.
When you do, Alexia is staring at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. There is so much love that it almost hurts to look at. She looks like someone who has just been handed something precious she never dared ask for.
Slowly, she reaches up and cups the side of your face. The touch is warm and steady. The same hand that has fixed your hair before interviews, checked your temperature when you were sick, wiped tears from your cheeks, and squeezed your shoulder after difficult matches. This time it lingers.
She steps closer and presses a kiss against your temple, letting it rest there for several long seconds before finally pulling back.
When she finally speaks, her voice is impossibly gentle. “You know you’re allowed to say it out loud too, right?”
Your breath catches. The question hangs between you, so simple and yet somehow so frightening. Because thinking it and saying it are two very different things. Thinking it is safe, private, yours. Saying it aloud makes it real.
Alexia must see the panic flicker across your face because her smile softens even further. “It belongs to you.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside your chest, like rain sinking into dry ground.
“You don’t have to earn that either,” she continues quietly, her thumb brushing across your cheek in the same soothing way she always does whenever you’re upset. “You don’t have to wonder whether you’re allowed or whether it’s okay or whether you’re somehow asking for too much.”
A small laugh escapes her then, warm and fond and full of affection. “Trust me, carinyo, if anyone in the world has the right to call me that, it’s probably the girl I’ve spent the last year accidentally raising.”
The laugh that escapes you comes out broken immediately by a sob. The sound surprises both of you.
One second you’re standing there trying very hard to keep yourself together, and the next every emotion you’ve apparently been carrying for months comes crashing through the carefully constructed walls you’ve built around them.
You don’t even think about it. You just move. Throwing yourself forward until you’re wrapped around her. Holding on tighter than you ever have before. Your hands fist in the back of her shirt. Your face disappears into her shoulder.
And then you’re crying. Big, ugly, helpless sobs that shake your entire body. The kind that come from somewhere deep. Somewhere old. Somewhere that has been waiting a very long time for this.
Alexia doesn’t say a word. She simply catches you. The way she always does. Her arms wrap around you tightly, one hand settling firmly between your shoulder blades while the other slides into your hair, fingers moving through it in slow, soothing strokes as she holds you against her chest.
You can hear her heartbeat - it’s strong and steady and familiar. You cling to her like she’s the only solid thing in the world. And maybe, in this moment, she is.
She lets you cry for as long as you need. Simply holding you while years of loneliness and fear and uncertainty finally loosen their grip enough to be carried away by tears.
Eventually the sobs begin to quiet. Your breathing steadies. The crushing pressure in your chest eases enough for you to lift your head.
You look up at her through blurry eyes and wet lashes, your cheeks stained with tears, your nose hopelessly stuffy, your throat aching with emotion.
Alexia immediately brushes a tear away with her thumb. Looking at you like you are the most precious thing she has ever been trusted with.
Your voice trembles when you finally speak.
“T’estimo.” Fresh tears instantly fill Alexia’s eyes. You see them before she can blink them away.
“T’estimo molt, mama.”
The word feels different out loud. Bigger and warmer. Like something that has belonged to you for a long time finally finding its way home.
For a second Alexia simply stares at you. The world seems to narrow to the space between you.
All the sounds from the party fade into the background. The laughter, the music, the voices drifting across the neighborhood become distant and insignificant compared to the look on her face.
A tear slips down her cheek. Then another.
She lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh through the tears, shaking her head slightly as though some part of her still can’t quite believe she’s actually hearing it.
As though she’s spent so long loving you this way that she never stopped to imagine what it might feel like to have that love named and returned.
Then she’s pulling you right back into her arms. Holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
“T’estimo també, filla.”
Her voice cracks around the last word. Daughter.
The same certainty you’ve heard every time she’s called you petita, or bebé, or amor meu. The same unwavering certainty that has lived beneath every hug, every forehead kiss, every late-night conversation, every moment she chose you without hesitation.
Only this time neither of you has to hide behind other names. Neither of you has to dance around the truth anymore.
“Moltíssim.”
The word is barely more than a whisper against your hair, but you feel it all the same.
The kind of love that asks for nothing and expects nothing. The kind of love that simply exists.
The kind that always existed between you, long before either of you were brave enough to say it out loud.
Omg this was INCREDIBLE! I don’t even know where to start because I loved all of it so much!
All their slip ups made me SO emotional and their final confessions to one another was one of the best dialogues I’ve ever read!! Special shout out to when R was sick and clingy - that was adorable!
I hope you’re super proud of yourself for writing this. Such a beautiful display of love between a mother-daughter pair 💜💜
☆ Summary: The sheets are ruined, Clara is possibly dating someone, Alexia loves her teammates, an Instagram live might or might not out you and Alexia to the world, and alcohol makes you far too horny for your own good
☆ Word count: 7.5K
☆ Warnings: (+18) SMUT • bathroom sex • fingering (r receiving) • slight voyeurism (?) • lots of kissing • making out • clara walking in during the worst possible time again • the girls teasing you and Alexia a lot • everyone is a bit tipsy ok
☆ A/n: keeping score universe!! You will enjoy this fic more if you read these fics first -> part 1 here
You were finally fully dressed for the club. With a black t-shirt and matching cargo jeans, you looked put together enough. You couldn't say the same about the room, though.
In fact, you and Alexia were currently in the middle of a clumsy and thoroughly ungraceful attempt to strip the bed. You were trying — emphasis on trying — to yank the damp, ruined sheet off the mattress before housekeeping, or worse, one of the girls saw them.
Unfortunately, Alexia was moving way too slowly, and it looked like she had never once been expected to do teamwork, which was a shame for a player of her aptitude.
"Alexia," you said for what had to be the tenth time, pulling off the elastic band from your side of the fitted sheets while watching her struggle with hers for the last two minutes. "Have you ever changed a fitted sheet once in your life? Why the hell is it taking you so long?"
"Of course I have!" She scoffed.
You raised an eyebrow, and she folded.
"The elastic on this one is ridiculously tight, okay?! I have to stick my hand under the mattress," She held up her fingers in protest. "And I got my nails done yesterday. I don't want to ruin them!"
You blinked at her. "You cannot possibly be serious right now."
Suddenly, there was an impatient knock on the door, and Alexia let go of her side of the mattress. Of course she did.
You closed your eyes tight, breathing in and out to not scream at her.
While Alexia wandered off towards the door, you walked to where she was once standing to do the (very, extremely) simple work of removing the fucking fitted sheets off yourself.
All the while, a voice you knew very well called out from the other side of the door.
"Open up! We need to leave soon!" Clara's voice was sunny, and buoyant and utterly unwelcome, well, at least, by your part.
You froze in place with a handful of fitted (damp) sheets gripped tightly in your fist. "Oh no–"
Alexia apparently did not seem to understand that this was possibly the worst time to let a nineteen-year-old into the room. Instead, she smiled at the sound of Clara's voice and reached for the lock before you could mutter a word of protest.
If she had taken one single look at your face, she would have seen the panic written all over; she would have noticed your eyes widening, the internal screaming for her to step away from the door immediately, but since she did not, the door swung open, and your lovely sister walked right in.
Clara was as cheerful as she was the last time you saw her on the pitch, except now she wore clean clothes instead of her dirty match kit. The kid took one step into the room, and her eyes quickly landed on you.
You gulped, forcing a smile that did not come. Judging by the way Clara's eyebrow immediately lifted, you were probably frowning instead of smiling.
Your sister paused and narrowed her eyes. You could see that Clara instantly sensed your distress, like a shark sensing a droplet of blood in the ocean. Very slowly, very Hollywood-like, her gaze drifted to the now-bare, stripped mattress.
You watched colour draining from her cheeks, her pale face turning to Alexia, who was just beaming, wholly oblivious to the situation happening around her.
"Hi, Serra!" Alexia greeted her happily, leaning against the wall next to the entrance,
She was treating Clara as if they hadn't seen each other in months instead of hours. Cute… completely adorable! But also deeply unhelpful! Where was her sense of urgency?!
"Did Patri tell you what time she was meeting us or–?"
"Deu meu! No!" Clara's jaw dropped a centimetre per millisecond. "Please, por favor, don't tell me you two just–"
"Oh… perfect," You groaned as a furious blush rushed out from your neck all the way to the capillaries of your cheeks. You quickly threw the balled-up sheet and shoved it inside the wardrobe just to get it out of sight. "Clara, just close your eyes and try to pretend you didn't see the sheets, okay?"
Alexia stood perfectly still for a moment, slowly taking in the situation. But then, it all clicked in her head: Clara's reaction, the bed, and finally, what exactly you two had been doing before Clara walked in that resulted in you two having to strip the bed—
"Oh. Oh…" she said, her smile faltering. "Mmnn. S-sorry Serra, I don't think I should let you in…just yet."
You looked at Alexia deadpan, crossing your arms. "Oh, you think, Putellas?"
"Ay!" She protested, pouting. "Don't last-name me, mi amor! I was just excited to have the girls here, and I thought Patri was with‐"
"It's been less than an hour since we got to the hotel," Clara interrupted, looking like someone who had seen disgraceful things. "How can you two have already had sex?"
You and Alexia exchanged looks for a second, and then both of you looked at the girl.
"That's… that's actually plenty of time to–" Alexia began responding, right at the same moment Clara clamped both her hands over her ears.
"Ew!!" Clara said, offended, practically jumping backwards. "Don't tell me the details! That's so disgusting! What's wrong with you?!"
"You were the one who asked the question-?" Alexia pointed out, throwing her hands up in the air.
"Sí, pero–"
"Can the two of you please stop talking about this!" you interrupted loudly while wrestling a clean sheet onto the mattress. "Why does everything always seem to circle back to my sexual life!"
"My?" Alexia gasped, looking completely offended. "Excuse me? Our. I'm part of your sexual life!"
"I'm going to puke," Clara gagged. "I'm serious… I'm so nauseous."
"Please do so in the hallways and not in our room, por favor," Alexia replied, gesturing rather dramatically toward the open door, as if having to clean vomit would be the greatest inconvenience imaginable. You were a doctor, you were kind of familiar with it, so it wouldn't be that bad, right?
But Clara didn't move. Instead, her eyes widened even more, squinting intently at your collarbone "Y/n… Is that a– a hickey!?"
You felt your stomach drop as though someone had put stones on it. Your hand flew up on pure instinct to cover your throat before you even thought about it. You hadn't had the chance to put on concealer yet. "No, it's not."
"Then why are you covering your neck?" Clara challenged, crossing her arms.
"B-because–"
Before you could come up with a more convincing lie, Clara turned entirely to Alexia, looking unimpressed. "Really, capi?" she asked. "In the neck? That's such a beginner move… Everyone can see it."
Alexia tilted her head, looking pretty offended "Excuse me? Beginner move? she pointed at herself. "I'm thirty-two!"
"Do you want to tell me something, Clara?" You interrupted, your own eyes at your youngest sister, who, seemingly, overnight, had become suspiciously knowledgeable about the art of giving hickeys.
"Ugh, no!" Clara said, blushing creeping up her cheeks, while she held her hands up defensively. "No! Of course not, mana!" her eyes darted away. "We can actually go back to talking about the fact that my captain was all over my sister!"
"Or," Alexia countered, a slow and dangerous smirk shining across her face as she sensed Clara's panic. " We can talk about you, Serra, and why you seem to know so much about the appropriate, hidden location to give people hickeys.
Clara blushed so deeply and so rapidly that you became genuinely concerned about her blood pressure… Interesting, very interesting. You stared at her, making a mental note and snapping it into a place in your brain. You were definitely going to sit her down for a very long, very serious talk the second you got back from Oslo.
"Okay, stop!" you commanded, throwing your hands in the air. "No more talking about puking, and no more talking about sex, and no absolutely no more talking about hickeys!"
"Yes, Yes! Please, let's not talk about that ever again!" Clara agreed, clearly thrilled to have the spotlight off her own (possible) love life.
Her enthusiasm only made her look guiltier.
But then, in a change of mood of a true teenager, she looked towards Alexia, a smile shining bright on her face.
"...And how's my favourite three time Bollon d'or doing?" Clara asked cheerfully, stepping forward to give Alexia a playful punch on her arm. "After today's game, you'll definitely win it, I can already see itAa Can I go with you? Please? To the red carpet?"
Alexia let out a dramatic huff, rolling her eyes as she walked into the bathroom. "There's no red carpet yet, Serra. You know I don't like it when you guys-"
"Yes! Yet!" Clara said. "You said yet. That's the spirit, capi!"
"Oh Dios mío," Alexia rolled her eyes.
"She's gonna win it, you know?" Clara whispered loudly to you and ignored the captain's attempt to modesty as she trailed behind Alexia into the bathroom. "Your novía is going to be a three-time ballon–"
"I can hear you, Serra," Alexia called out from the mirror.
You glanced over and found her frowning at her reflection while fixing her hair. Her expression should be annoying, but the faint smile tugging at her mouth ruined the whole effect completely.
"-Loud and clear," she continued. "Stop, yeah?"
Clara grinned, and you couldn't help but grin too.
The girls never missed a single opportunity to tease Alexia about her achievements, and despite all her complaining, she secretly seemed to enjoy it far more than she liked to admit, and you found that utterly hilarious.
In the end, you realised a million things were happening at once: a possibly secret relationship brewing in your younger sister's life, a few too many (poorly hidden) hickeys burning on your neck, and an entire squad waiting downstairs while your girlfriend and your sister continued squabbling like siblings.
But right now, your most pressing concern was getting your makeup done before the team bus left without you.
Both Alexia and Clara ended up crowded around the bathroom counter to finish their hair and makeup side by side. You leaned your shoulder against the doorway, simply watching with a small smile on your face.
Alexia was so unbelievably patient and sweet with Clara. She shared her (expensive!!) products without complaining, gently helping her blend her blush the right way and correcting Clara whenever she got too impatient and tired and rushing through it.
Watching the two of them together like that made you fall even deeper in love with Ale. A dangerous thought erupted in your chest without warning, making you wonder about future life with Alexia, one that involved living together. It made you wonder about (eventually) having a small version of her with those same hazel eyes clinging to your legs and calling you mama.
The image hit you so unexpectedly that you quickly shook your head, clearing the thoughts away. That was definitely not a conversation meant for right now. It was a conversation for a much, much older version of yourself… right?
In fact, you were so thoroughly blinded by love and distracted by your rather alarming thought that you completely missed the moment Alexia decided to pick up her phone and started an Instagram Live.
Yes.
Out of the two of them, Alexia was the one who chose to do it.
This was a very unusual day.
"Hola culers!!" Clara beamed instantly as Alexia handed her the phone, only for Clara to focus the camera right back on the captain again.
"Ay, no, no! Point it somewhere else," Alexia mumbled, waving her hand and leaning into the mirror to focus on applying her lipstick. "I don't like cameras."
Despite being literally one of the biggest names in women's football, Alexia was always shy whenever attention was directed solely at her.
It was ridiculous and incredibly endearing.
"It's your live and you don't even want to be in it?!" Clara asked, looking absolutely scandalised. "You're making your fans sad, Alexia!"
"Fans, Serra? Please," Alexia laughed, shaking her head as she pressed her lips together to even out the lipstick.
You chuckled from your spot in the doorway, and both of them snapped their heads to look at you at the exact same time. As if only now they remembered your presence.
Alexia paused, lipstick still held mid-air. The bathroom lighting was incredibly warm, hitting the sharp line of her jaw and making her look unfairly pretty.
You stared at her, your heart doing somersaults.
You were definitely, absolutely going to have more sex tonight. In every possible position. Bedding be damned. Your back too.
"Guys!! Look who is here!"Clara immediately redirected the phone toward you. "This is my real hermana mayor! Say hi!! Oh, and be kind, yeah? she's a little shy." [Older sister]
You, just like Alexia, did not enjoy cameras.
On instinct, you spun around to escape being filmed… only to walk directly into a wall of a body. Patri had apparently let herself into the room at some point and was now standing right behind you.
Great.
Alexia's room was the official gathering point for the late-to-the-party teammates.
"Holaa chicas!" Patri smiled, her strong hands instantly grabbing your arms before you could take another step. "Can we go–Oh! Are you guys on live?" Her face lit up. "I want to be in it, too!"
She steered you back into the bathroom doorway with zero resistance to your protests, presenting you squarely in front of Clara and the phone as if you were the one who asked to participate in the live, and not her.
"Patri, no," You argued.
"Yes!" Clara and Patri said together.
"Jesus," you muttered, looking anywhere but at the screen. You looked so ugly up close! Damn, front cameras need to be destroyed.
"This is my mana," Clara continued cheerfully, shoving the phone close to your face as if you were not currently being held physically in place against your will. "And this is my hermana mediana, Patri!!"
Patri smiled and leaned down to press a kiss on the top of Clara's head, then smoothly lifted the phone out of the nineteen-year-old's hands and turned the focus onto herself. "Serra was incredible today, right guys? Her and La Reina–""
You glanced at Alexia.
She always went a little quiet when she heard that nickname, a faint blush appeared on her neck, a small dip of her head, like she still didn't quite know what to do with it, even after all this time.
You kept your expression very neutral, digging your fingers into the doorframe to hold yourself back from crossing the room and kissing her.
"Are you the only one ready, y/n?" Patri asked, glancing at you with a grin, while Clara successfully wrestled the phone back in her own hand and went right back to chattering with it.
You nodded.
"She's very efficient," Alexia said from the mirror, her eyes catching yours in the reflection.
"I'm not efficient," you countered, voice low and shy, trying to ignore the spike of heat in your cheeks. "You and Clara just take double the time."
"Of course they do," Patri agreed, and without further warning, she reached out and took both Clara's and Alexia's faces in her hands at the same time, ruthlessly squeezing their cheeks together. "Look at these two. Baby doll faces… munequitas!" [Dools]
Clara laughed loudly, the camera tilting. Alexia smiled awkwardly, blushing even deeper, completely helpless against the grip of her midfield partner.
"Párate," Alexia mumbled, mortified, trying to swat Patri's hand away, but smiling nonetheless. [stop]
Clara was already scrolling through the comments on the live, squinting so hard at the screen that you were half tempted to confiscate the phone and send her to an eye doctor.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Someone just asked if Alexia always takes this long to get ready-?"
"I don't," Alexia said at the same time Patri said, "Yes."
Alexia shot her a grumpy look, and Patri smiled at her innocently. Clara, meanwhile, continued to move through the comments.
"Who is this girl? Guys!" She sounded offended."I already told you, she's my sister, like… my blood-related sister! We have the same last name!"
Without any warning, she swung the camera towards you, catching you off guard again and making you recoil immediately. "Clara, stop it."
"She's a doctor, too!" Clara continued. "Do you want to come say hi, mana? Show the world your face?"
You shook your head immediately, hiding being Patri. "No."
The words left her mouth before she could stop them, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror again. For a brief moment, neither of you reacted.
"You're gonna make the kid sad," she added, her voice dropping low, the usual cadence she reserved only for when you were both alone.
Mi sol.
Mi sol.
Mi sol.
Your mouth hung open, you looked at the phone, then at Alexia's obvious face. You lifted an eyebrow, trying to signal to her with your eye, "abort mission".
"I- Mhm… S-she can handle a little sadness from time to time," you said back, your voice way too tight as you tried to pivot the conversation away from the term of endearment. "Y-you both spoil her far too much."
"The people can hear everything you're both saying," Clara announced, more specifically to Alexia. She said it with the precise timing of a pest of a younger sibling who had been waiting for this.
"W-what?" you asked.
"The whole… mi sol thing." Then she put her hand under the mic and whispered. "People are commenting about it!"
The bathroom went horrifyingly quiet.
You and Alexia locked eyes in the mirror. Then, slowly, you both dropped to the phone, the live stream was still running perfectly, and the comments were scrolling faster than anyone could read them.
Mi sol. Mi sol. Mi s–
The eye contact with Alexia lasted longer than it should have. She had called your pet name, so… naturally. The atmosphere between you shifted into something awkward, of two people trying very hard to act normal and of course, failing spectacularly on it.
Alexia cleared her throat, suddenly becoming very interested in her makeup sponge. You, on the other hand, found a very tiny spot on the bathroom tiles that clearly required your absolute attention.
Patri looked between the two of you, then at Clara, then burst out laughing. It echoed off the walls and absolutely did not help the situation at all. If anything, it made it worse.
"I-I think I'm going to wait in the bedroom," you muttered, already turning on your heel to escape.
Behind you, Clara was calling your name in a whine,e and Patri was still cackling, and Alexia had said nothing at all. But when you caught her eye one last time, she had her lips pressed together, staring very hard at her face in the mirror to keep from smiling.
You walked back out and collapsed onto the mattress, hoping for a single second of peace. But guess what happened once you settled into the warm and clean blankets?
Salma walked straight into the room without knocking. It looked like Patri hadn't bothered to latch the door when she arrived. Salma, already visibly tipsy and glowing from the win, immediately threw herself at you, wrapping you in a massive bear hug.
"Mira, si no es la otra Serrajordi", she beamed into your ear. It was always a little weird hearing the player call you by your last name; usually, you just hear it around the hallways of the hospital back home. "How was the experience of the post-victory, huh?" [Look, it's the other Serrajordi]
You loosely pointed a finger toward the open bathroom door where Alexia's, Clara's and Patri's voices were echoing. The worst possible," you mumbled while rubbing your temples. "They are on li–"
"Estan en live?!"
It seemed like your worst nightmare was Salmas'greatest joy.
She sprinted into the bathroom, and a second later, all you heard was a mix of laughter, screaming and teasing. Through the noise, you could hear Clara saying that Kika told her that everyone else was waiting for them to go to the bar.
Usually, you were very good at finding your place in things. You were very good at minding your own business. But sitting out on the bed alone, hearing the girls laugh while you waited… felt a little weird.
At the same time you wanted to be closer to Clara and Alexia, you were well aware that the internet would hyper-analyse every single frame of you and Ale together. So, you were taking one for the team.
Alexia, seemingly possessing super girlfriend powers, chose that exact moment to walk out of the bathroom. She shut the door behind her, locking the girls inside, and walked in your direction.
She was wearing her dark blue champions shirt, just like every other girl on the squad. Her brunette hair was down, falling around her shoulders. She looked so breathtakingly pretty that you entirely forgot there were other people currently screaming in the next room over.
"Hey, guapa," she said softly.
She reached down, taking your hands in her warm palms and gently pulling you closer to her. She forced you to sit upright on the edge of the bed, and since she was standing right on the floor at the edge of the mattress, she was towering over you perfectly.
She stepped into your space, resting her chin right on top of your head and pressing a long and lingering kiss into your head.
"Why do I feel like your social battery is gone before we have even made it to the club?" she murmured.
"That's usually my baseline state after interacting with my sister for more than ten minutes," you mumbled into her shirt. You wrapped your arms around her waist, burying yourself in her before tilting your chin up onto her sternum to look up at her. "Sorry. I can't help it."
"Maybe with a few drinks in, you'll feel a little better," she suggested, a lazy, teasing smirk on her face as her thumb brushed your jawline.
"I can't drink," you said with a sigh. "My tolerance is practically zero."
"You can have one," she insisted softly, her eyes filling with affection. "I'll take care of you. I promise I won't let you dance on top of tables or anything."
You chuckled, the tension in your shoulder starting to melt. Okay, maybe a drink or two would be nice. "How generous of you."
"I know," she said. "I'm a sweetheart."
For a moment, neither of you said anything, but then her smile faded slightly.
"You are not mad, right?" she asked after a second, her teasing tone disappearing, turning hesitant, the change was very subtle, but of course you nodded it immediately.
You frowned slightly, super confused at the shift. "Mad about what?"
"That I called you mi sol…?" she explained. "In the live, just now? I didn't mean to, it just… came out."
"Oh, of course not, love," you said immediately. "Of course I'm not mad. I mean, we've been together for months now. People are going to find out at some point."
"So you don't really mind," she pressed, looking way too vulnerable for a woman who had just won the champions league. "Being seen with me… like that?"
Instead of answering with words, you held onto her waist and firmly pulled her down. She let out a gasp as she fell right on top of you, her body pinning you.
Lying there under her, you were acutely aware of the muffled voices and laughter still coming from the bathroom, making the proximity feel entirely too reckless. "Never," you said, looking right into her eyes so she could see you meant it.
"Never, baby, I'm only like that because I love what we have so much, and I want to keep it just ours for as long as we can, okay? And… yeah, the public and the media scare me. I mean… not even my Instagram is public, so seeing this many people constantly watching you… watching Clara… It scares me. But it is never, ever, about you, Ale."
She smiled so beautifully, a look of relief flashing across her face, so much so that you couldn't help but reach up to kiss her. You parted your lips, testing her tongue as your hand came up to cup her jaw, pulling her further down to deepen the kiss.
"My lipstick," she mumbled weakly against your mouth, though she wasn't actually trying to pull away. "You're going to completely ruin it."
"Mhm," you hummed. "Don't care."
"I spent a few minutes putting it on."
"I still don't care, Ale."
She smiled into the kiss and rolled her eyes, surrendering completely as she came back down to press her mouth to yours again. "Qué pesada eres, bebé," she muttered fondly. [you are so annoying, baby]
Even so, she leaned down again as your other hand slid down her back, moving lower to cup her ass over her jeans, pulling her hips flush against yours.
"Want you," you whispered, pout on your face.
"I know mi amor, but we can't–"
Like a bucket of ice being thrown directly over your head, the loud voices in the bathroom became calmer, and you heard the girl shouting goodbye to the live stream.
Alexia scrambled up from on top of you with the reflexes of a true professional athlete. She smoothed down her shirt and hurriedly walked to the vanity, correcting her lipstick with her thumb.
You sat up straight, smoothing down your shirt.
The second the girls walked into the room, Clara immediately rolled her eyes while Patri and Salam exchanged highly amused smirks.
"What?!" you snapped defensively, your voice way too loud and fast. "What are you guys looking at? Vamos, the bus is going to leave us–"
"Chica," Patri interrupted, walking right past the bed, casually patting your shoulder, a look of mock pity written all over her face. "You have lipstick on your nose."
Your cheeks turned a deep crimson. You hissed out and raised the back of your hand to aggressively wipe at your nose, wishing the hotel floor would succumb with you. "Oh fuck me," you said, more to yourself.
"You couldn't wait until after the club?" Salma smirked at you before shifting her gaze to wink at Alexia through the mirror. Alexia's shoulders went rigid, her cheek pink. "Damn, at this point I'm just going to start calling you two Lover girls."
"Please do not," Clara groaned, throwing her hand over her face.
By the time you arrived at the club, the panic of the Instagram Live disaster – and the whole being caught thing – had mostly dissolved beneath the sound of reggaeton music and a few (too many) sugary drinks.
Barcelona had rented out a private venue exclusively for the squad, the staff, and their families. There were easily around a hundred people packed into the space, creating a dense sea of bodies in wildly different stages of drunkenness. Everyone was dancing, drinking and eating… simply having a good time.
Blue and red lights were shining over the room, but they were dim enough that you could barely make out anyone's face, which was honestly ideal. The team had a silent agreement about not taking photos or videos during the later hours of the party, when everyone was drunker than they should be, with mascara running down their cheeks, lipstick smudged, inhibitions lowered, and composure long abandoned.
All the couples on the team were scattered around the club, completely unbothered as they kissed and danced freely now that the pressure of the cameras and public appearances had disappeared.
The atmosphere completely stripped away your usual reservedness, too.
You were tucked into a dimly lit booth beside Alexia, the heat of her body pressed against yours. You leaned your head back, looking around the room in search of Clara, but your sister was entirely occupied in the far corner of the club, laughing and dancing with the younger girls.
You turned back to Alexia. The alcohol humming pleasantly through your veins made you bolder than usual. Without really thinking about it, you leaned in, caught her jaw in your hand, and pressed your lips against hers.
Alexia went completely stiff. She was clearly not expecting it. You had never, ever kissed her in a public place before.
Even if the club was private, the reality of having her mother, your sister, her manager, and practically her entire professional circle in the same room usually kept both of you firmly on your best behaviour, private, but, as it was obvious, tonight you seemed determined to break several rules at once.
The size of the crowd only made it feel more intimate; everyone was so wrapped up in their own celebrations that no one was paying any attention to the two of you tucked away.
When you finally pulled back, the tables had completely turned. Now, you were the one pouting, staring at her with heavy, dissatisfied eyes.
"Kiss me, baby", you whispered, your fingers tightening slightly against her jaw. "Why don't you kiss me back? Don't want me?"
Alexia's pupils were blown wide, her breath hitching as she glanced nervously over your shoulder, but she made no attempt to move your hands away.
"There are people here, mi sol," she murmured, her voice low. She said it as if you had forgotten where you were, it only made you roll your eyes. "We can't-"
"I don't care, Ale," you said, rather bratty, as you shuffled closer until your knees bumped against hers. "I've been thinking about you since we left the hotel."
Alexia tilted her head, an incredibly fond smirk breaking through her as she took in your flushed cheeks. "I think you might be a little bit tipsy, cariño. When you told me you had a low alcohol tolerance, I thought you were being a bit dramatic," she paused. "but… I guess not."
You pouted harder, leaning your forehead against her shoulder.
"I've only had two drinks, baby," you mumbled, voice so sweet you barely recognised yourself. "I am sober enough, yeah? So please... just one kiss?"
That was all it took to break her. Alexia also folded for you, always.
With a resigned growl, she slid her hand gently around the back of your neck to pull you back to her. The kiss lingered a little longer than it probably should have. It was enough for the kiss to turn heated and far too intense for a room full of people.
Alexia's lips parted yours easily, her tongue tasting like the expensive drinks she had also been drinking. She slipped her tongue in, interviewing with you, completely devouring you with a sudden, desperate hunger that made your cunt pulse with need.
The touching and the kissing got dangerous too quickly, and Alexia had to be the one to forcefully drag herself away, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she rested her forehead against yours.
"My mum is here, baby," Alexia reminded you softly, breathing against your lips, her grip on your neck still there. "Clara, too. We can't do this here, alright? Later, I promise. Just a couple of hours and we'll leave."
You whined at the loss of contact and leaned forward to tease her lower lip with your teeth, biting it gently and feeling her trembling. Alexia closed her eyes as if she were trying her hardest to be the responsible one.
You touched her jaw, and Alexia opened her hazel eyes. You looked up at her through your lashes, completely undone by the alcohol and her touch. You were horny, the horniest you've been.
That was exactly why you didn't drink.
"Please, mi amor," you whispered, your voice small, breathless and desperate. "I need you now, Ale."
Alexia's gaze dropped to your mouth, her jaw tightening as she fought a losing battle against herself. You never did this; you were usually the cautious one, the one reminding her to behave, the one who always worried about who might be watching.
But right now, you were looking at her like the rest of the room had disappeared, and Alexia was the only person that mattered.
"Joder, Y/n," she muttered, shaking her head. "What happened to you, baby? Want me that bad?"
Before you could answer, she stood up and grabbed your hand. "Come on."
You let her pull you up from the booth, guiding you through the crowd. A few of her teammates stopped to talk to her, but Alexia was good at pretending she was just taking care of her drunk girlfriend.
"Hey! Where are you going?" Kika asked near the bar.
"Taking this one out for some fresh air," Alexia said, giving your joined hand a subtle squeeze.
Kika smirked, her eyes flickering between the two of you. "Oh, alright."
Alexia kept walking before Kika could say anything else. Instead of heading to the balcony, she turned left to make for the bathrooms. The second the door closed behind you, you were entirely all over her.
You didn't know what had shifted inside you between the hotel room and the club, but something had. Maybe if it was the alcohol, maybe the celebration, maybe watching Alexia simply relax for once.
Whatever it was, it made you suddenly consumed by an overwhelming need to just take Alexia apart, or be taken apart by her.
For the first time, you completely understood everything she had said back at the hotel about cannibalism being an act of pure adoration and bla bla bla. You wanted to take physical bites of her, bit by bit, until there was nothing left of Alexia but you.
The bathroom was private and small, one of those single-occupancy ones. It had just a toilet, a mirror, and a sink with a counter. You immediately backed her up against the counter, wrapping your arms tightly around her neck to drag her face down to yours.
"I'm wet," you whispered against her lips straightaway. "I'm all messy, Ale."
A sudden, fleeting flash of your usual shyness hit you,u but it also disappeared immediately. You knew exactly what you had to say to make Alexia lose that stiffness in her shoulders. Right now, you didn't want her tense; you wanted her to want you, too, to not hold back.
Alexia let out a low groan, her forehead falling against your shoulder as she fought for what little restraint she still had.
"Mi amor," she muttered, a mix of exasperation and affection. "I really don't think we should be having sex in a dirty club bathroom..."
But you were far too whiny, far too needy to listen to her logic or her reasoning.
The alcohol and the unadulterated craving for her had completely taken over. Without breaking eye contact, you reached down to unbutton your jeans, shoving the fabric out of the way.
You caught her hand in yours, your fingers locking around her wrist as you guided her hand down between your thighs, forcing her fingers to press right against your soaked underwear.
"Look, look amor," you whispered. "Look, I'm so wet, Ale. For you, baby."
Alexia let out a sharp moan into your neck, her entire body tensing at the sensation of your warm and slick underwear.
"Oh, cariño... joder—" she breathed, her fingers were already slicking with your wetness as you tilted your pelvis hard into her hand.
"Please, Ale?" you whimpered, your voice small, broken abnd desperate as you looked up. "We can do whatever you want with me once we get to the hotel, but please, I just need you now."
That was her absolute breaking point.
Alexia didn't say another word.
With a possessive growl, she hooked her fingers into the elastic of your underwear and hauled the fabric aside. She lifted you easily, setting your hips onto the edge of the counter, and jammed two of her long fingers deep inside you.
"Oh, fuck–" you moan, your head rolled back against the bathroom mirror, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat as Alexia immediately attacked your neck.
She was kissing, biting, and licking your skin all over, claiming you while her long fingers began to move in a deep, punishing rhythm inside your tight walls.
You were so wet for her; the intrusion felt so pleasing, it was exactly what you needed.
"Who would have thought that my girl would want to be fucked in a club bathroom, huh?" Alexia murmured against your skin, her fingers stretching you open effortlessly. "Any other fantasy you want to tell me?"
You whined, a sudden wave of warmth hitting your face that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "No teasing, Ale. Please–"
"No?" Alexia chuckled right against your ear, her fingers picking up the pace, curling deep inside you to find the exact spot that made your toes curl. "Por qué no? Estás tan mojada...no podías esperar a que volviéramos?" [Why not? You are so wet… You couldn't wait for us to go back?]
You were well aware ( and deeply embarrassed) of how completely desperate you sounded right now.
Having sex in a public bathroom was such a juvenile, reckless thing to do, so completely out of character for you. Under normal circumstances, you would have been the first person pointing out all the reasons it was a terrible idea, but under her touch, you couldn't help it. Common sense had abandoned you entirely.
You were undone, your orgasm was so, so close.
Desperate to ground yourself, you tangled your fingers into the hair at the nape of Alexia's neck, pulling her face away from your throat to bring her mouth directly to yours.
"Aah," you whined into the space between your lips. "I love you, baby. I love you, Ale."
Alexia truly was the softest person alive when it came to you. Hearing those words was all it took to completely shatter her teasing, dominant facade.
Her breath hitched, her entire posture melting as she kissed you with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness that made your chest ache.
"I love you too, mi vida," she whispered against your mouth, her voice thick and entirely gone for you. "So, so much. My sweet girl. My love."
"Not sweet," you mumbled, tightening your walls against her fingers.
"Oh, you are," she said, kissing your cheek, your lips, her fingers working so gently now. "You really are, my love. You taste so good, too. I can't wait to eat you as soon as we get into the hotel, gonna bury my face in this sweet cunt of yours."
"Ale–" you gasped, your nails running down her clothed back. "Baby–I'm close."
"Sí?" She asked. "Vas a correr para mí, mi nena?" [Are you gonna cum for me, my girl?]
"Uhum," you nodded, pouting. "I'm so close… c-can I?"
"You cum whenever you want, my love," Alexia said, "I'm here, amor, cum for me."
Alexia fused her mouth against hers and swallowed your cries as her hand kept moving, driving you toward your climax.
With her thumb pressing against your clit and her fingers thrusting inside your pussy perfectly, the friction became too much to bear. Your hips stuttered against the cold counter, your body arching into her hand as a orgasm took over you.
Your breathing was all wrong. Your heart was beating too fast. Alexia had broken you, or maybe you had broken yourself.
You could feel your pulse against her fingers, still buried deep inside of you; seemingly, she didn't want to leave you.
When the haziness finally passed, when your body felt like your own, the silence of the bathroom rushed back in, broken only by your ragged breathing.
The alcohol-fueled boldness completely vanished, replaced by an acute, overwhelming wave of post-climax embarrassment.
Slowly, you realised exactly what you had just demanded of her in a public venue, and immediately scrambled off the counter, frantically pulling your pants up and buttoning them with trembling, uncoordinated fingers.
You couldn't even look her in the eye, your face burning crimson as you stared intensely at the sink.
"I-I'm sorry. I-" You put your hand over your face. "I-I think I was.. a bit horny."
Alexia just stood there, entirely amused, taking a step closer to the sink to wash your slick fluids off her hands. "Oh, you think?" She said, smiling.
She rinsed her hands clean under the water, shook off the excess, and then leaned against the counter. The way she looked felt too pornographic. She watched you with a fond grin playing on her lips.
"You are awfully shy today, cariño," she teased softly, reaching out to gently pry your hands away from your face. "Come here, let me see that pretty face of yours."
You pouted, stubbornly refusing to look at her, keeping your eyes on the white floor. "No, don't look at me. I'm so embarrassed. We are never speaking of this again, alright? Let's forget this even happened."
Alexia just laughed, leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your burning cheek.
"Whatever you say, mi sol," she murmured, but then, she leaned even closer, her mouth closer to your ear. "But I'm never forgetting the way you came so pretty all over my fingers."
You groaned, mortified.
Alexia stopped her movements to really look at you, taking in your flushed skin and rumpled clothes. Her expression softened into something that you could only call protective and attentive.
She knew exactly how your brain worked, as much as she loved teasing you, she didn't want to actually push your embarrassment past its limit.
"Hey," she said tenderly, her index finger hooking into your belt loop. She gave a slight tug, bringing you closer. "Want me to help you clean up?"
Your head snapped up, your eyes wide. "I said stop teasing!"
"I'm not teasing amor," Alexia said, her voice calm and reasonable, which only made you more embarrassed. "You were very wet, and you always complain that it makes you uncomfortable afterwards, and we aren't exactly at home with our towels, so–"
Unfortunately. Alexia was right, the wetness spread on your inner thighs and dampening your underwear was already slick and cold, ready to become a sensory hell if you didn't do something about it.
"Stop, stop talking about towels and-and me being wet, please," you mumbled, your voice dropping as you let her pull you completely forward by your belt loop.
Alexia looked down. "So… want me to help you, or do you want me to turn around?"
You swallowed hard, and with a hopeless voice, you said "Turn around, please."
You carefully checked both sides of the hallway before stepping fully out of the bathroom corridor. To your relief, nobody seemed to have noticed your absence at all; the party was still going strong.
Feeling tired by everything that had happened over the last few hours, you and Alexia decided to come back to the same booth near the back to just sit down for a bit.
The second you slid onto the seat, you buried your face straight into the crook of her neck, still confused and mortified by what had just possessed you in that bathroom.
Alexia noticed your sudden retreat, but she didn't make a big deal out of it. Instead, she chuckled softly and wrapped her arm around your waist. Her thumb slipped naturally beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing lazy circles directly against your skin while she pressed a tender kiss to your temple.
A waitress stopped by the table a moment later, putting a couple of glasses on it. Alexia thanked her and picked up one of the glasses before pressing the glass into your hand.
"Drink," she murmured close to your ear. "Your lips are cracked, and it's hot here."
"No," you muttered into her skin, completely pouty and refusing to lift your head.
"Why not?" Alexia asked, her voice tinged with amusement.
"I am too embarrassed to look at you right now."
Alexia burst out laughing. "Baby, we have done way worse things than that before... don't be embarrassed."
"That's not helping."
"Perdon, perdon…" she chuckled, thinking for a second. "What about this: You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about?"
"I acted completely desperate," you groaned, hiding deeper into her neck.
"You were desperate," Alexia pointed out mercilessly. "Un poquito, sí." [A little, yes]
You rolled your eyes against her skin, your cheeks burning hot. "You are enjoying this way too much."
Alexia's grin was huge, completely wicked and proud as her thumb kept stroking your waist. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a smoky whisper that sent a fresh shiver straight down your spine.
"Claro que sí. Te has corrido dos veces hoy y soy la campeona de Europa... Tengo todo el derecho a disfrutarlo." [Of course I am. I made you cum twice today, and I'm a European champion… I have the right to enjoy this.]
☆ A/n: I hope you guys liked it! Once again I'm trying very hard to make this universe as realistic as possible, it's not very easy because I have to do a lot of thinking, so I'm honestly drained from all the writing i've been doing the last few days haha.
but oh I've been having a lot of thought about this universe lately, , ones that would add a bit of drama hehe.... because what if Clara was dating someone a bit too old for her? and oh! Reader just told me she got a job offer in england! hehe <3.....
Lovely writing as always! Poor Clara being traumatized yet again… absolutely adored Ale and R ganging up on her though. I thought the IG live part was a fun incorporation, and I enjoyed seeing R let loose and become so desperate for Ale 🫶🏻
Author's Note: had to split this into two chapters but a lot happens in this, we are so close to the ending now. also, i'm horrible at naming chapters but i do like this song and it fits 😊
You are seriously considering telling a national treasure to fuck off.
Leah Williamson stands in the alley in a beanie and a puffer jacket the colour of a conker, looking, it has to be said, extremely adorable, with her blonde hair peeking out of it and her cheeks slightly flushed. She also looks like a woman who has spent eleven minutes of your cigarette break arguing for chicken nuggets, and on that basis she can, with all due respect to her trophy cabinet, get absolutely stuffed.
"It's not even a hard ask," Leah says.
"It is a stupid ask."
"It's a simple ask."
"It is a stupid, simple ask."
"Jude."
"Leah."
You take a drag of your fag mostly to give your face something to do. You've got one hand on the wall, bracing yourself against the blonde across from you. The alley is cold and damp in the way London alleys are always cold and damp, the broken brick holding a sliver of the kitchen door open behind you, the warm yellow noise of the pub leaking out through the gap. Somewhere inside, soup night is in full swing. You should be in there. You are out here instead, being annoyed out of your mind.
"Say it again," you tell her. "Say the whole thing again. Out loud. Slowly. Listen to yourself this time."
Leah, who should be a serious person, the captain of her country, a woman who has lifted actual silverware in front of actual crowds, draws herself up to her full and considerable height and says, with total conviction:
"Dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets."
"There it is."
"For the menu."
"Mm."
"Arsenal nuggets."
"That is the part I cannot get past, Leah. Arsenal nuggets. Just... why?"
"Arsenal is awesome."
"Fuck Arsenal."
"Well, fuck you," Leah flicks back, completely unbothered now that she knows you enough to catch that you say that about most teams. First few times she was ready to throw hands. You figure you could take her. Maybe.
And now, because she knows your bullshit, Leah continues to build her case. She builds it the way you imagine she organises a back four: calm, patient, deeply certain she is correct.
"Here's my thinking," she says. "You took paella — which is rice, which is the most boring thing on earth, no offence to your Spanish —"
"They are not my Spanish."
"— you took rice and you made an entire squad of professional footballers lose their minds over it. You made me eat shellfish. I do not eat new things, Jude. Ask anyone. I am famously difficult. And you got me to do it."
"Thought it was my glowing personality that got you to do it."
"Your personality couldn't get me past the door, Judes, trust me."
"That was your doing." She points at you with a gloved finger. "So here is my question. If you can do that with rice — rice — imagine what you could do with something that already tastes good."
"A chicken nugget."
"A chicken nugget."
"You want me to elevate the chicken nugget."
"And possibly make it dinosaur-shaped. Yes."
You stare at her.
Leah Williamson stares back, entirely sincere, breath fogging in the cold, and you have the brief, vertiginous thought that this is your life now. That somewhere a younger version of you, the one who almost finished culinary school, the one with the knives and the plan, would be horrified. That version of you wanted copper pans and arsey head chefs and the word emulsion. This version of you is being talked at about dinosaur nuggets by a Lioness in a puffer jacket and is, on some humiliating level, considering it.
"They would have to be good nuggets," you hear yourself say.
Leah's whole face opens up.
"Jude."
"I said would. Conditional. Hypothetical."
"You're going to do it."
"I am going to think about telling you to fuck off."
"You're going to do it and you're going to put them on the menu and call them Lee's special —"
"Ok, you know what, why don't you take the fucking nuggets and shove —"
— and that is the precise moment the kitchen door opens behind you.
Not all the way. Just enough. The broken brick scrapes against the floor the way it always does, and the warm light from the kitchen widens across the wet stone of the alley, and you turn, mildly, expecting Hayley, or Carl, or Paddy come to tell you the soup is running low or that table six has a complaint or that the world is, in some new and minor way, ending.
Wouldn't be the first time.
But it is not Hayley.
Or Carl.
And it is not Paddy either.
It is Alexia Putellas.
Standing in the doorway of the kitchen you mop every night, under the bad yellow light you have personally complained about for a year, is Alexia Putellas.
And the first thing your brain registers — before the beanie, before the scarf, before any of the cardiac event that is about to follow — is that she has edges. That she has weight. That she is, in the most basic and shocking sense, taking up space in a doorway, displacing air, casting a shadow against the wet stone of the alley. For months she has been a face inside a phone, a voice inside a speaker, a flatness you have held in your hand at arm's length and turned this way and that.
Now there is a woman in three dimensions in your alley and she has depth. She has her own air around her. She has, you notice with a small lurch, a height and a shape and a way of standing that the phone never told you about.
Then your brain catches up to the rest and simply stops. Goes dark. Throws the whole switchboard. There is a sound in your ears like a held note. You are distantly aware that you are still holding a cigarette and that it has burned down further than it should have and that the small live coal of it is now very close to your fingers.
She is wearing a beanie too.
That is the detail your ruined brain decides to fixate on. Not the fact of her, here, real, breathing actual London air. The beanie. It is blaugrana. It is, unmistakably, a Barça beanie, blue and garnet, pulled down over her ears, and she is wrapped in a scarf so enormous and so woollen that it has swallowed most of the lower half of her face, and her nose has gone slightly pink at the tip with cold, and the overall effect — Alexia Putellas, two Ballons d'Or, the best footballer of her generation — the overall effect is of a very warm, very startled teddy bear.
Teddy bear with the most intense hazel eyes you have ever seen.
You burn your fingers on the cigarette.
You do not react to it. You are not currently in your body enough to react to it.
"Oh — Alexia!"
That is Leah. Leah, who is functioning. Leah, who lives in a world where Alexia Putellas appearing in an alley is nice and not a cardiac event. She steps forward, easy, warm, already pulling a glove off to shake hands.
"Lovely to see you. Keira said you might be coming over — the lasses' match? You good?"
"I am good." Alexia shakes the offered hand. Her voice does the thing it does, the careful thing, the second-language thing where each word gets set down deliberately, like she is laying bricks and wants them level. The lingering accent gives everything a musical sound, like she is singing and not speaking. "Cold. But good."
"It's grim out, yeah. You get used to it. Sort of."
Alexia's mouth moves behind the scarf. A small thing. Could be a smile.
You are still not speaking. You are aware that the not-speaking has gone on slightly too long. You are aware of this the way you are aware of a smoke alarm in another room.
Leah, oblivious, gestures at you with her newly bare hand.
"Have you two met? This is Jude. She's the chef round here. She's the reason the food's any good — she's the reason any of us keep turning up, honestly."
And there it is. The introduction. Have you two met. As if you have not. As if Alexia Putellas is not the most insane relationship of your entire adult life. As if you do not have her saved in your phone under her full name because you wanted the whole thing to light up when she called.
You open your mouth.
Your brain, still mostly offline, hands you the only words it can find on short notice.
"Hi," you manage to say. It's a struggle. You couldn't be pressed to even tell which language you spoke.
To Alexia.
Whom you have known for months.
Alexia looks at you. Properly, now. The scarf is still up over her chin but her eyes are not hidden at all, and they find yours and hold them, and there is something in them — warm, and amused, and steady, and a little bit like she has been waiting a long time to do exactly this — and she says, very gently, in front of Leah Williamson and God and the alley at the back of your miserable pub:
"Hola."
The alley goes very quiet.
Leah looks between the two of you. She's frowning a little, the way one might look at a puzzle piece that doesn't fit.
You watch her do it. And maybe something does fit, because Leah just nods a little, like she approves of the interaction, and decides, with the instinct of a genuinely decent person, that whatever this is, it is not hers to be standing in the middle of.
"I'm going to go," Leah says, points over her shouder "and see about the soup."
Nobody answers her.
"Right," she says. "Soup. Good talk, Jude. Think about the nuggets."
She edges past Alexia in the doorway, claps you once on the shoulder on her way through, and is gone, back into the warm and the noise, and the kitchen door swings most of the way shut behind her, leaving you and Alexia Putellas in a London alley in the cold with one broken brick and the smell of onions and a cigarette you have now definitely let burn out.
You drop it. Step on it. Buy yourself the half-second.
It does not help.
She is still here when you look up. That is the thing your brain keeps snagging on, every two seconds, like a needle skipping. She is still here. She has not dissolved. She is a person and she is standing in your alley and she came through your kitchen to do it.
"Hi," you say again. Just to make sure you actually said it.
It is the smallest word in the English language and it is all you have got.
"Hola," she repeats.
And that — that does it. That cracks it open. Because you have heard her say Hola before, on a screen, lamp-lit, six weeks ago, and you said it back so badly she laughed, and here it is again, the real one, the in-person one, the one with cold London air in it, and something in your chest that has been wound tight as a fist since the door opened just — lets go.
You laugh. You don't mean to. It comes out half a breath, helpless.
She is smiling now. You can see it even with the scarf. It has reached her eyes, both the small crinkles at the corners, and you think, distantly, dangerously: I am in so much trouble.
"You're here," you say, brilliantly.
"I am here."
"At my pub."
"At your pub." Her head tilts. "It is very ugly, Jude. Worse than the photos."
"Yeah, I know."
"Lucy said. I did not believe how much."
"It grows on you. Like mould."
That gets a proper laugh out of her, surprised, the breath of it clouding in the cold, and you would, in this moment, set fire to the rest of your life to keep hearing it.
You should say something normal. You should ask how she got here, who she is staying with, how long, why nobody warned you, why your hands have not stopped doing a small stupid thing at your sides. You should, at minimum, stop staring.
But you figure, in that small space of time, that you don't care about any of it. She might as well be here to announce the start of another World War, or that Oasis are going into hiatus again, and it wouldn't make a difference. You only care that she is here. In front of you. Within touching distance.
Alexia shifts her weight, tucks her chin a little further into the enormous scarf, and asks, with the careful, deliberate placing of someone who has clearly thought about the question:
"So. Do English people hug?"
And you — you absolute disaster, you poet of the north, you woman who has wanted nothing for months except to be in a room with this exact person —
"Not really," you say.
The silence that follows is immediate and total.
Not really.
NOT REALLY.
Why. Why would you say that. She has flown to a different country. She is standing in your filthy alley dressed like a teddy bear having clearly, clearly signposted a hug, has practically filed the paperwork for a hug, and your stupid panic-wired mouth has looked at the open goal and kicked the ball directly into the river.
Alexia blinks.
Then — because she is not stupid, because she has spent a considerable time learning the exact shape of your particular brand of catastrophe — she starts to laugh. Quiet, and astonished, and delighted, one hand coming up near her mouth.
"No?" she says.
"No, I —" You drag a hand down your face. "We don't, as a — culturally we're a bit — it's a whole repressed island thing, we wave, mostly, it's grim —"
"Okay."
"— but —"
You stop. You breathe. You look at her, pink-nosed and bundled and here, and you find, somewhere under the wreckage of your composure, one single working thought, and you grab it with both hands.
"But I'm half French," you say.
Alexia goes still.
"So," you say. "If you wanted. You could. Hug the French side."
For a moment she just looks at you, and you cannot read it, and the cold gets into the gap, and you think that's it, you've done it, you've finally said the thing too stupid to recover from —
"Sí," Alexia says. "Okay. I hug French side."
And then she is crossing the alley.
And then she is there, against you, both arms coming up around your shoulders, and the enormous scarf is in your face and it smells of cold air and someone's perfume, hers, most likely, and she is solid and real and warmer than the night had any right to leave her, and her chin fits over your shoulder like it was measured for it, and your arms come up around her on pure animal instinct, no brain involved, the brain having left the building entirely, and you hold on.
You hold on.
She is taller than you somehow expected and exactly the height you somehow knew. She holds on too. Not a polite hug. Not an English wave with arms. She holds on like she means it, like she has been planning the structural details of it, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, hugging you tight, so close, and you stand in your terrible alley with Alexia Putellas in your arms and you think, with the last functioning corner of your mind:
Oh.
Oh, I'm done for.
Neither of you says anything for a while. The pub thumps warmly behind the door. Somewhere a long way off a siren goes by and fades. Your fingers, the burnt ones, do not hurt at all.
When she pulls back, she does not go far. Just enough to look at you. Her cheeks are pink and it is not all the cold now and you are choosing, generously, not to mention it.
"Your French side is good at hugs."
"Best part of me."
"Mm." She considers you. "I will decide this myself."
You just stare at each other for another small, stupid moment. You think you have a goofy smile on your face that you can't control and Alexia, bless her, only tilts her lips back at you.
"It's nice to meet you," you breathe out, softer than you mean.
"Cariño..." Alexia exhales and you can feel the fondness underneath. The warmth. "You already know me."
You take her inside because it is freezing and because if you stay in that alley one more minute you are going to do something with your face that you cannot take back.
The kitchen swallows you both in heat and light. Alexia stops just inside the door and looks — at the steel, the hob, the stack of receipts with the pencil on top, the chaos of it, the small kingdom of it — and you watch her look, and you feel weirdly nervous, because what she thinks or says matters so much to you and you fear, truly, that she will look around and find it wanting.
She picks up the pencil.
Turns it over once in her fingers.
Puts it back exactly where it was.
"What?" you say.
"Nothing." But she is smiling again. "You write on the bad paper. On the receipts."
"I don't lose them."
"Jude. Get a notebook."
"Everybody keeps saying that."
"Correcto."
You don't know what correcto means but you want to keep hearing it. Anything she says, you want to hear it.
You take her out into the pub and the night gets, somehow, even more surreal. Because the whole gang is there — the actual gang, the people from the photos, the names from the voice notes — and they have colonised the long table by the window, and there is Jana lifting both arms like you have personally arrived to be knighted, and there is Lucy Bronze waving a soup spoon, and Aggie, and Keira, and a small dark-haired girl tucked under Lucy's arm who must be Ona, and Hayley behind the bar pretending to wipe something while watching the pair of you cross the room with the focus of a hawk.
You feed them.
That is the part that steadies you, in the end. The thing you know how to do. French onion gone deep and dark and sweet, the cheese pulled into ropes; the leek-and-potato pale and silky; bread you and Carl baked that morning. You bring it out in a clatter of bowls and the table makes the noise good tables make, and Alexia sits down among them in her ridiculous beanie and picks up a spoon and tastes the onion soup, and goes very quiet, and then looks up at you across the table with an expression you are going to keep for the rest of your natural life.
"Jude."
"Yeah?"
"This is —" Her English fails her. She says something in Catalan instead, low and quick, to Jana, who answers back with a gentle smile on her face. "It is very good. It is — muy bueno. Delicioso."
"Muy bueno." You do your best to repeat it, and although half the table laughs, Alexia doesn't. She only looks.
"You should be proud."
"I don't really do proud."
"You should learn." She says it lightly. It does not feel light.
You should leave her there, with her friends, with the soup, with the warm. That would be the polite thing. The not-getting-ahead-of-yourself thing.
She is... you don't think she is here for you. You are not that vain. You are not vain in the slightest actually but you can't help yourself because she is right here.
Your friend. Your crush. Mostly, the person who has heard you the most these past few months. The person you wanted to tell everything.
So, instead of doing the sensible thing, halfway through clearing bowls, you lean down near her ridiculous beanie and you say, quiet, just for her: "You can come sit in the kitchen, you know. If you want. While I work. It's warmer. And the company's worse, which you'll enjoy."
Alexia looks up at you.
"Yes," she says, immediately. No deliberation, no brick-laying. Just yes.
So she does.
She perches on the spare bench by the pass, beanie finally off, hair doing something soft and flattened and human, and she watches you cook. And you cannot quite get over it — that this is the same Alexia who watched you through a phone screen six weeks ago in this exact kitchen, off-shift, badly lit, and that now she is here, in the room, on the bench, the realest possible version.
You cook and you show off, a bit. You will deny this later. You do the thing with the pan. You explain your processes without being asked. You let her taste things off the spoon, blowing on them first like she is small, and she rolls her eyes at you but she lets you.
You talk.
It is so easy it is almost frightening. It is the thread, the same thread, the months of it — except now it has a face across the bench and a voice in the actual air and a laugh you do not need a phone speaker for. She tells you about the flight, about Ona, about Jana's homemade sign and her match. She talks slowly, insecure about her English but not about what she is saying.
And you tell her about the nuggets. She makes you describe the Arsenal nuggets twice because your accent makes it hard but then she laughs so hard the second time she has to put her face in her hands.
The pub empties around you. You half-notice it. Last orders, the scrape of chairs, Hayley flicking lights off in sections, Carl leaving with a grunt and a look at you that you decide not to interpret. The gang peels away in twos. And still you are talking, and still she is on the bench, knees pulled up now, entirely at home in your wreck of a kitchen, and it occurs to you, with a small quiet shock, that this is the longest and best date you have been on in years and you have not so much as sat down.
It ends because Jana falls asleep.
You find her when you finally go through to lock up — Jana Fernández, professional footballer, dead to the world on a window bench with her coat over her like a blanket and her mouth slightly open. You and Alexia look at her for a moment, like exasperated but fond parents.
"That's my cue," she says, head nodding towards Jana.
"Yeah."
You walk her to the door. The pub is dark behind you now, just the till light and the fairy lights Paddy refuses to turn off. You can feel the cold seeping from the outside.
"Alexia."
"Mm."
You are not going to chicken out. You decided that somewhere around the soup. You are going to be, for once, exactly as brave as the moment requires.
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
She looks at you. The corner of her mouth goes.
"I do not know," she says. "What am I doing tomorrow?"
"I could — there's stuff. London stuff. I could show you. The good bits. If you wanted."
"With you."
"With me. Obviously with me. I mean, if you want to."
Alexia laughs, and pulls her beanie back on, the stupid blaugrana one, down over her ears, and looks at you from inside her enormous scarf that swallows her whole like a teddy bear who has just been offered the entire world.
"Yes," she says. "Okay. Tomorrow. With you."
She goes to wake Jana up.
You stand in the doorway of your dark, ugly, beloved pub and watch Alexia Putellas haul a sleeping centre-back upright by the elbow, and you think that you are, without question, completely done for.
You find that you do not mind even slightly.
*
Alexia arrives from what — she believed it was — her very first date with Jude feeling very confused.
It is drizzling outside. It has been drizzling for hours. Drizzling, she has learned, is the default state of London in the same way cold is the default state of everything north of the Pyrenees and damp is the word Jude says approximately a thousand times a day.
Not that Alexia cares. She likes the sound of Jude's voice. Likes her accent. Likes the rhythm of her words and would gladly listen to Jude recite back the dictionary to her just to hear her speak.
She takes her coat off. Hangs it on the hook. Notices, dimly, that her hair has gone slightly curly in the way it does when the air is wet, the way Alba used to tease her about when they were children, Alexia parece un caniche. She doesn't care about it now.
She walks down the corridor toward the kitchen on autopilot, not sure how her face is looking in this exact moment.
Jana is sitting at the dining table with her laptop open, typing nonsense, probably answering her emails, when she registers Alexia's footsteps in the corridor and snaps upright like she has been electrified.
"Ale!"
She is on her feet before Alexia is fully through the doorway, bouncing once on the balls of her feet the way she used to do at training when she was particularly excited.
"Ale, tía, how was it? How was — what are you doing here? You said tonight, you said you would be back tonight, it is not even — it is barely — did you come to get a bag? Are you taking a bag back to her place? Should I leave the flat, should I —"
Alexia does not answer.
Alexia stands in the doorway in the slippers Jana left for her at the door, looking at Jana, and turns the entire afternoon over in her mind for the fifth time since she got in the cab, like a Rubik's cube she has been carrying since the café. Click. Click. Click. The colours will not line up. They have not lined up the whole way home. They are not lining up now.
"Ale?"
Jana's voice has gone quieter. Has noticed. Has clocked, in the way Jana clocks, that whatever this is, it is not what either of them had pencilled in for this afternoon.
Alexia opens her mouth.
What comes out is the question she has been trying to put words to since approximately three o'clock this afternoon. It comes out in the careful, deliberate register of a woman conducting a real cultural inquiry into something she does not, for the life of her, understand.
"Jana," she says.
"Sí."
"Are English people..."
She stops. Tries again.
"Are English people slow?"
Jana stares at her.
"What?"
"In the — feelings. The. Cómo se dice. Reading rooms. When you are — flirting —"
"Ale."
"— I want to be clear, I am asking seriously. Are they slow?"
Jana sits back down. Now she is the one very much confused.
"Tía," she says. "What happened?"
Alexia does not, at this point, know.
Alexia, in fact, would like to know.
She crosses to the chair opposite Jana and sits in it with a contained, slightly-too-upright posture. Spreads her hands over the table like she is ready to hold a meeting.
The most important meeting of her life: Understanding her English crush.
Jana shuts the laptop.
"Start from the beginning."
*
She wakes at seven. Of course she wakes at seven. Her body does not understand that the league is suspended for the international window, that she is in another country, that the only thing she is meant to do today is meet Jude. Her body, which has been on the same schedule since she was sixteen, has decided that seven is seven and that is, regrettably, that.
She lies in bed for a while. She gets up. She does her stretches on Jana's spare-room carpet because she cannot help herself. She goes to the kitchen.
Jana is, predictably, still asleep.
Alexia makes toast. She makes coffee. She eats standing up at the counter, looking out of the small kitchen window at the grey, wet, English sky, and she does not think she is excited and she is, quite obviously, excited. The toast is unnecessarily long-chewed. The coffee is unnecessarily savoured. She is killing time and she knows it.
At a quarter past nine, her phone buzzes on the counter.
Jude: morning. it is drizzling. default state of the country.
Alexia smiles before she has fully read it.
She types back slowly, because she would like the message to look like a message a normal woman has spent zero seconds composing.
Alexia: morning. what time should i meet you?
Three dots. They appear and disappear twice. Then:
Jude: twelve? i can come pick you up from jana's
Alexia: ok. what should i wear?
Jude: layers. and shoes you don't love.
Alexia: ok.
She sets the phone down on the counter and finishes her coffee, and her chest is doing something small and warm that she has come to associate with Jude and Jude only. The London girl who gets her all warm.
Alexia smiles into her mug.
*
By half past ten, she has, against all reason, three outfits laid out on Jana's spare-room bed.
This is humiliating. She is aware that this is humiliating. She is Alexia Putellas. She has been photographed in evening wear by people whose names she does not need to know. She has signed contracts with fashion houses. She has, on more than one occasion, walked a red carpet in heels, and she had not, in any of these moments, felt anything resembling what she is feeling now, which is the precise, low-grade panic of a woman who does not know what shoes you don't love technically means.
She is examining the third outfit, too smart, obviously too smart, what is wrong with her, when Jana wanders past the door in pyjamas with her bowl of yoghurt and stops dead.
"Tía."
"Do not."
"Tía, what are you doing?"
"I am picking clothes."
"You sure? Because from here it looks like your luggage exploded over your bed."
"This is a normal amount of clothes to pick from."
Jana, very slowly, comes into the room. Sets the bowl down on the dresser. Crosses her arms. Alexia throws her a glare.
"I have been waiting like six months for this. I am allowed three minutes." She looks, with theatrical care, at the bed. "Show me the contestants."
Alexia, against every instinct, points.
"That is too much," Jana says immediately. "That is a - what, a date for a Michelin restaurant. She is taking you on a walk, Ale, she said layers and shoes you don't love. She did not say shoes you don't love and also a silk shirt. No."
"Okay."
"That one." Jana tilts her head. "Too - too capitana. You look like you are about to read a statement to the press."
"It is just a sweater."
"It is your captain sweater, Ale. I know that sweater. That sweater has given speeches."
"You are inventing problems."
"I am identifying problems." Jana points at the third outfit. "That."
"That?"
"That. The white shirt. With the jeans. The good jeans. And the trainers, yes, those, the ones you said were too casual to bring, thank God you brought them anyway. Layers. Real layers. A jumper over it. The jacket you brought for the cold, the one with the inside pocket, sí, that one."
"It is too plain."
"It is not too plain, Ale, would you look at your face for once? You have a - bueno, you have everything, tranquila. You don't need the silk shirt. You need to look like a normal woman who has come to England to see a girl."
Alexia is not an insecure woman. A little bit shy, yes, maybe timid, but not insecure. But she wonders if this is how a teenager feels on their first date. Or a date that mattered.
She just wants to make sure Jude knows that she is deeply interested.
"I also came to England to visit my friend."
"Yeah, okay, you can lie to yourself, but if Jude was living in Berlin, you would be speaking German right about now."
Alexia laughs once, despite herself. Jana, sensing weakness, picks the outfit up off the bed and presses it into Alexia's arms.
"Wear it."
"Fine."
"And, Ale."
"¿Qué?"
"Wear the big earrings. Not the small ones. The gold ones. Trust me."
"Jana."
"Trust me."
Alexia puts on the white shirt and the jeans and the trainers, ties her hair back, leaves it loose, ties it again, leaves it loose again, decides to leave it loose, and puts in the gold earrings, and stands in front of Jana's hallway mirror and looks at herself.
She looks like a woman who has come to England to see a girl.
She looks, in fact, quite good.
Jana, watching from the doorway, gives her a single small nod that contains, somehow, the satisfaction of an entire scouting career.
"Perfecta."
"Gràcies."
"Go and ruin her."
"I am not going to ruin her, Jana —"
*
Jude arrives at five to twelve.
Alexia knows because her phone buzzes with a here. no rush, and she goes to the window and looks down.
There is Jude on the pavement outside Jana's building. The drizzle has stopped for a rare minute, but Jude still has the hood up and her hands in the pockets of a black jacket, the small frame of her tilted back to look at the row of windows. She finds Alexia's almost instantly. Alexia is, in fairness, not exactly hiding. Jude's face lights up in that crooked grin of hers and she gives her not quite a wave and not quite anything, and lifts a hand.
Alexia lifts one back.
Behind her, Jana, who is on the sofa now, still in pyjamas and browsing through Netflix, lifts her head.
"Is she here?"
"Sí."
"Bo." Jana waves at the window without getting up, a small dismissive Catalan flick. "Tell her hola from me. Suerte, capi."
Alexia goes down the stairs at a pace that is, she tells herself, perfectly normal. She is not running. She is walking, briskly, with the small, efficient steps of a woman who has somewhere to be and is not, particularly, excited about it.
She is, she finds at the bottom of the stairs, a liar.
She pushes the door open and steps out into the brisk cold, and there is Jude, who has taken her hood down now, hair slightly damp at the front, looking at her with the asymmetrical half-smile that does, briefly, terrible things to Alexia's heartbeat.
"Hi," Jude says.
"Hola," Alexia says.
There is a beat where they just look at each other. The kind of beat that has been happening between them in real time, in person, for about thirty hours now, and which Alexia is not yet used to and is not yet sure she will ever be. Jude shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, extends an arm, and pulls Alexia into a half-hug that is so very weird but warm at the same time.
Jude smells like rain and also wood. Her jacket has droplets of rain clinging to it, but the grey hoodie underneath is soft. Alexia is a little dizzy from the proximity alone. Rewards Jude with a kiss to her cheek that turns the tips of her ears a bright pink.
Alexia doesn't try too hard to hide her grin.
"Right, so, right —" Jude babbles, recovering first, stepping back. She tips her head down the road. "Walk?"
"Yes."
"We'll get the bus in a bit. And the tube. I'm taking you on a proper London tour, the actual one. Two-storey buses, walk a bit, tube one stop, walk a lot, that's how you do it."
"Sí, alright."
"Postcards are for tourists. We do it properly."
"Vale."
They set off. The day is grey and cloudy, doing its London thing, half-hearted and absolutely committed at the same time, and Jude pulls her hood back up almost immediately.
Alexia thinks, faintly, that it's the perfect day for a date.
*
If this was a movie, this would be the part where a collection of cutesy scenes of them both would overlap under slightly poppy music. Well, if this was a movie, Alexia could do with better weather and minus the huge rat that appeared in the walkway.
But, be that as it may, she would still choose this movie with her and Jude at the centre of it. And the supposed movie goes like this:
They walk first. Just walk. Through streets Alexia does not know, in a direction Jude clearly does, past pubs and laundrettes and a Turkish grocer and a man arguing on a phone in what might be Polish. Jude does not point things out. She just walks and lets Alexia look, with her hands in her jacket pockets and her hood up, occasionally glancing sideways like she is checking Alexia is still there.
They cross a road. The light is red. A van comes too fast around the corner because the van does not care about the light, and Jude, without looking, without even appearing to register that her own hand is doing it, puts her palm flat against the small of Alexia's back and stops her at the kerb.
The van goes past.
Jude takes her hand away.
She does not, as far as Alexia can tell, notice she did it at all.
Alexia notices.
The hand was steady. The hand was warm even through the coat. The hand was, in the brief two seconds it was there, the most attentive hand Alexia has been near in possibly two years. And Jude has already kept walking and is saying something about a bakery up ahead that is rude to customers but does good sourdough.
Vale, Alexia thinks. Vale.
They get to a market eventually. Broadway, Jude says, with the small proprietary pride of someone showing off a thing they did not personally build but feel responsible for anyway. It is a Sunday market. There are stalls of cheese and oysters and Vietnamese sandwiches and people in identical raincoats moving in slow, packed waves down the central aisle. Jude takes her elbow, briefly, to steer her past a man with a pram, and lets it go.
Alexia looks in wonder. She's been to London. She's a footballer, of course she has been to London. But not Jude's London.
It's more special this way.
"What do you want?" Jude asks.
"Anything."
"That is not an answer."
"Whatever you choose."
"Come on, give me something to work with here, Putellas."
"Tortilla. If they have it."
Jude raises an eyebrow.
"This is England."
"You said anything."
"I said anything we have."
"You said anything."
She gets a small, surprised laugh out of Jude. That one is becoming a project, she has decided, getting Jude to laugh, really laugh, the half-broken, winded sound she makes when she is caught off guard. Then Jude marches her down to the back of the market to a Spanish stall Alexia did not see coming, and points at the tortilla under the glass, and says:
"I can't believe you knew."
"I did not know. I hoped."
They eat it standing up under an awning while it drizzles again, sharing a fork. Jude does not seem aware of the fork-sharing as a piece of information. Alexia is extremely aware of it. The tortilla is good, properly runny in the middle, salty, the potatoes still holding their shape, and Alexia tells Jude this in slow, deliberate English, and Jude looks at her with something between pride and indigestion and says yeah? in the voice of a person very happy about providing good food.
"Sí, Jude."
"Cool. Right. Cool."
She pays before Alexia can. Alexia, in her interior, files this as well. She has spent her entire adult life paying for things, being expected to pay for things, being assumed to pay for things, and the fact that Jude in her stupid jacket has just bought her a tortilla for six pounds fifty off a stand in a Hackney market does, in a way she is not prepared for, undo something small in her.
She files everything today. She is a one-woman archive.
*
Alexia has lost count of the places they saw. But somewhere after Jude showed her her favourite statue in the city — the Peter Pan one, in Kensington, which does not surprise her at all — they reach Liv's place.
Jude is offhand about it, the way she is offhand about everything. She says, We can pop in, if you want. My friend's doing a thing. Pastries. She'll be insufferable but she'll feed us. And Alexia, who would at this point follow Jude into the river, says, Yes. Okay.
Liv's thing turns out to be a small Sunday pop-up in a railway arch in some part of East London Alexia could not point to on a map. Warm and full of the smell of butter and burnt sugar and the precise atmosphere of cool young women who have decided to do food. There is a hand-lettered chalkboard menu. There are tiny tarts arranged like jewellery. There is a queue. Jude bypasses the queue, because Jude is family here, the way she is family in three other corners of this city Alexia is starting to understand, and goes around the back, and Alexia follows.
Liv is mid-pipe, bag of crème pât in one hand, curls escaping a clip, frown of concentration, until she looks up.
"Oh," Liv says.
She says it the way Hayley said it. Alexia is starting to recognise this Oh. It has, she has learned, two stages: the first stage is that face is famous, and the second stage is the small, much more important one, which is that face is here, with Jude.
Liv does the second one in about a second and a half.
She does not say anything immediately. She sets the piping bag down, wipes her hands on her apron and comes around the counter, and she shakes Alexia's hand, and she says, with the careful, dry, slightly evil warmth of a woman who has clearly heard things:
"Lovely to meet you."
"You too."
"Did you know I was present for Jude's first desperate message to you?"
"Liv," Jude groans, rolling her eyes a bit.
"What? I was. It was so funny."
"You're embarrassing me."
"I think you embarrassed yourself, actually."
Jude is going pink again. Alexia is delighted. Liv stuffs a small pastry box into Jude's hands and a single, glossy almond croissant into Alexia's, and waves them out.
On the way out, Alexia eats half the croissant and offers Jude the other half, and Jude takes it without thinking, eats it, and there is buttery flake left at the corner of her mouth that Alexia will not point out, because pointing it out would mean either reaching to brush it or telling her, and Alexia does not currently trust her hands.
Jude wipes her own mouth, eventually.
Alexia grieves slightly.
*
They walk further. Jude shows her things. Not the postcard things. A canal Alexia did not know London had, a bench Jude particularly approves of, a graffiti piece on a wall she always stops to look at. She talks about Charli. She talks about Graham. She talks about her mother, only once, and only in passing, but Alexia talks about her father, and they smile because they know how rare it is. Someone to understand.
She does not talk about herself in any other way. She lets Alexia talk too, slowly, in her stilted English, asks her questions in the careful, patient way of a person who actually wants the answer, does not finish her sentences for her when she searches for a word.
Alexia thinks, somewhere around three o'clock: I am in love with this woman.
The thought arrives quietly. Without ceremony. Without the panicked qualifier she would normally bolt onto it. It's a simple fact. A fact that has been building through screens and late-night talks and misunderstandings across channels.
She is in love with Jude. She just needed to look at her to confirm it.
Vale, she thinks. Okay.
It is at this point that she decides, with the calm tactical clarity of the captain she is, that she is going to do something about it. Today. This afternoon. Before the cab home, before Jana's flat, before another night of Cariño over a screen and Jude smiling at her with three hundred miles between them.
She is going to kiss her.
She is Alexia Putellas. She has done harder things.
*
The café is the last stop.
It is small. Tucked into a side street. The kind of place with one barista and four tables and a window that has steamed up against the cold. Jude orders for both of them, not overbearing, but like someone who knows food: Flat white, and a long black, and one of those almond things if there's any left. She pays again, despite Alexia's small Catalan protest, and they take their drinks to the corner table by the window because the corner table is the only free table, and also because Alexia has been steering them subtly toward the corner table since they walked in.
It's the smallest table, private, away from the door, and it forces them to sit so close together, side by side, that her leg is touching the whole length of Jude's thigh, and that makes her giddy in a way she hasn't been since she was, maybe, seventeen.
Jude takes a sip, then wraps her hands around her flat white and leans back into the booth to look at Alexia properly.
"This is alright, isn't it?"
"It is very alright."
"Did you like it? Our..." Jude trails off, eyes darting out, finger tapping the side of her cup once. "Day?"
Alexia feels her cheeks heat up. God, she is a grown woman.
She smiles shyly. "Sí. Very good day."
The light from the window is grey and soft. The drizzle has slowed to almost nothing outside. There is some quiet music from a speaker behind the counter. The café smells of coffee and warm milk and the wet wool of everyone's coats.
Alexia takes a breath.
She does it in stages. Like a penalty.
She tucks the loose strand of hair behind her ear. It has been damp-curled there all afternoon and she has been ignoring it on purpose and now she tucks it, slow, deliberate, the way she has done in approximately four similar situations and seen reliably understood.
She wets her lower lip.
She leans forward.
It is an inch, maybe. Maybe two. Enough to close the distance between her side of the small table and the middle of it. Enough to bring her face into the warm light coming off the window. Enough to put her mouth, and she has, despite herself, been looking at Jude's mouth, off and on, for most of the afternoon, the small chapped corner of it where she bites in the cold, enough to put her mouth into the conversation.
She looks at Jude's mouth.
She lets it be obvious.
She has, in her life, done this exact sequence of three small movements and watched it land successfully approximately one hundred percent of the time. She is not bragging. It is simply true. Tuck. Wet. Lean. The other person reads the page. The page is read.
Jude reads the page.
Alexia sees her read the page.
There is, for about a quarter of a second, a flicker in Jude's face. Something that arrives and goes again so fast that Alexia, even in the act of clocking it, half-wonders if she imagined it.
Then Jude sits back.
She sits back, picks up her flat white with both hands, takes another sip, and says, with a breezy, slightly too-breezy lightness to her voice:
"Anyway, did I tell you about the thing Taco did the other day?"
Alexia's lean, half-completed, suspended in mid-air, has nowhere to go.
She holds it for one more half-second.
Then she recovers, because she has been giving press conferences since she was twenty, and she straightens up smoothly and picks up her own coffee and wraps her hands around it and says, with the carefully constructed neutrality of a woman not breaking eye contact with the abyss:
"No. What did Taco do?"
"Right. So. We have this, it's a, okay, so first you need to know that he is fat. He is a fat, fat, diabetic, criminally entitled dachshund."
"I am aware of Taco's situation."
"Right. Yeah. Anyway. The other day..."
And Jude is off. She is gone. Properly gone. Both hands moving now, the coffee abandoned, her face doing the thing it does when she is telling a story she is fond of, her accent getting worse with every sentence, mimicking Taco's expressions, mimicking the noises he makes, in a way Alexia would, on any other day, find so charming she would have to sit on her hands.
It is charming.
That is the worst part of it. It is so charming. Jude is animated and bright and entirely focused on telling Alexia about her stupid sausage dog, and Alexia, who would, an hour ago, have considered being told a fifteen-minute Taco story to be the highest possible privilege of her current life, finds herself sitting opposite this story with a cup of hot coffee turning into a cup of merely warm coffee in her hands and a small cold thing setting up shop somewhere under her sternum.
She listens. She nods. She makes the small encouraging noises. She laughs, once, real, despite herself, at the part where Taco apparently glared at Jude for an entire afternoon.
But under all of it.
Under all of it she is sitting in the corner of a small London café with her hair tucked behind her ear and her lip still slightly wet and her body still slightly leaned forward, and she is recalculating. In real time. With the precise, slightly nauseous focus of a player who has just realised her read of the match was wrong.
She had this wrong.
She has had this wrong, possibly, for some time.
She thinks back, frantically, while nodding at honestly whatever Jude is babbling on about. She thinks back through the day. The hand on the small of her back. The hand on her elbow. The fork-sharing. The way Jude's smile went asymmetrical when she said I will not get bored of you. The way Liv teased Jude. The way Jude turned pink. The way Jude offered her a coat she had not asked for when the drizzle picked up. The way Jude has spent the whole afternoon being, in every possible measurable sense, attentive.
That was all real. She is sure that was all real.
But maybe that was...
Friends, she thinks. The word lands in Catalan first. Amigues.
Maybe that was just how Jude is with friends. With people she likes. With Charli, with Hayley, with Liv. Maybe Jude is just like that. Maybe Alexia, who has been turning these small things over in her hand all afternoon and assigning each one a value, has been overweighting the currency.
Maybe the lean-in was, to Jude, an actual, literal lean-in. English people are notoriously weird; Lucy had said so. Keira took months to properly hug her.
Maybe Jude, sweet and slightly chaotic Jude, took it as a closeness she was not equipped to receive without panic, and stepped back.
Maybe Jude does not want this.
Maybe Jude is being kind. Maybe Jude has been being kind for close to six months, and Alexia, who is famously not stupid, has been doing what people do when they are lonely, which is reading kindness as something else.
The cold thing under her sternum makes itself larger.
She makes herself smile at the Taco story anyway.
They walk back to Jana's neighbourhood after the café. The drizzle starts up properly again. Jude is quieter on the walk than she was earlier, and Alexia cannot tell if she is reading that correctly either now, can no longer trust her own instruments. She tells herself a lot of things, all of which she has time to formulate at length, because there is a comfortable silence between her and Jude that she now suspects is, in fact, simply silence.
They stop at the steps to Jana's apartment building.
"Today was..." Jude scratches her jaw. "Yeah. That was a good one."
"It was very nice. Thank you."
"You don't have to —"
"I want to thank you."
"Yeah. Alright. You're welcome."
There is a small, awkward pause where, twenty-four hours ago, Alexia would have stepped forward and hugged her without thinking. She does not step forward now. She is not sure what the rules of hugging are anymore. She has, evidently, been getting all the rules wrong.
Jude solves it for her, in the end. Steps in. Wraps both arms around her. Briefly. Tight, then released. Pats her once on the back, in the way one pats a teammate. Steps back.
"Get inside before you freeze."
"Okay."
"Text me, yeah?"
"Okay."
She watches Jude walk back down the road in the drizzle, hands in her pockets, hood up, and she stands there for too long after Jude is gone, because she does not yet have what it takes to walk into Jana's flat and explain any of this.
She walks in anyway. Eventually.
*
"That is," Jana says, after a long pause, when Alexia has finished laying it out in pieces on the kitchen table, "the worst recap I have ever heard."
"Jana."
"I am serious. That is genuinely the worst recap. You have just described an extremely successful date and concluded it went badly."
"She leaned back, Jana."
"She panicked."
"She did not."
"Ale."
"She did not panic, she... she sat back, and she drank her coffee, and she talked about her dog."
"Tía."
"¿Qué?"
Jana looks at her for a long moment, with that deep thinking face Alexia has seen across fields for three seasons. "You leaned in to kiss her."
"...yes."
"And she leaned back."
"Yes."
"And then she talked about Taco."
"Yes."
Jana puts her face in her hands. Snorts a little.
"That is a woman who is in love with you."
"Jana, it is not..."
"You are both grown women acting nervous and stupid."
"Well, I can't disagree with that."
"I don't know what happened. Maybe you will just have to do the grown-up thing and talk. Use words."
Alexia grumbles. She knows she is pouting and that is not a good look on her. Or it is, but it is not very mature. She doesn't want to talk.
She wants to bat her eyelashes at Jude and kiss her senseless.
"She will have to talk. I already did the lean-in thing. I took a fucking plane for her. I..."
"So you admit that you didn't come to see me, puta."
"Not the point, Jana."
Jana bangs her head on the table. Alexia pouts even more.
*
You didn't need to show up to the shift today. Nobody was expecting you to. You showed up anyway because if you didn't do something with your hands for the next hour or so you were probably going to punch your own face.
Stupid, stupid, thick as a mule.
The soundtrack of your mind right about now.
Carl took one look at your face and shoved you toward the kitchen, sat you down on a stool, and dropped a huge sack of potatoes into your lap. The guy knows what's up and doesn't ask questions about it. He is, in his own crap way, one of the best people in your life.
You peel so many potatoes in the span of two hours that they will probably be on the menu for the next three months. You sigh.
You don't know why you panicked.
Actually you do know why. You just don't want to admit it.
You didn't know how you felt or how deep it was until Alexia was right there, right in front of you, looking so beautiful and so eager and real.
Even under London's horrible weather she was somehow brighter. You wanted to tell her that.
You wanted to tell her everything.
You were pretty sure you were in love, so utterly in love, the moment she bit into her stupid tortilla — really? Tortilla in London? — and groaned slightly at the taste and talked for a while with a drop of the sauce near her chin and you just kept looking at it. At her. At impossible hazel eyes and pink lips and —
Your mind went Oh.
It could not go Oh at a worse moment.
The peeler slips and scrapes the tip of your finger and you hiss. Fucking hell.
You should have kissed her. She leaned in. She looked at your lips. She clearly wanted to.
Then your mind decided, in the precise instant the lean was happening, to remind you that you fuck up most things in your life even if you love them dearly. So you recoiled. You panicked. You drank your fucking coffee like a coward.
Here is Alexia, who is kind and patient and so nice, so unbearably lovely to you, and you will, you absolutely will, fuck that up.
Look at you. Fucking it up even now. Self-fulfilling prophecy.
You let your head fall into your hands.
They smell weird. Starch and onion and the iron of a small cut you have only just registered.
That's when Hayley finds the perfect moment to poke her head in. She takes in your pathetic frame propped against the kitchen counter, gives you the precise up-and-down of a woman about to start something, and says:
"Weren't you supposed to be out celebrating your sucessful date today?"
You groan.
"How come everyone knew it was a date before me?"
"Because not all of us are as thick in the head as you, Jude."
"Cheers."
"What did you think it was?"
You consider. There is no good answer. You go with the worst one.
"Like, a casual hang-out between pen pals?"
Hayley stares at you. Stares at you with such concentrated, unmasked pity that you wipe your face just to check, because for all you know you have been crying for an hour and nobody told you.
"Jude."
"Don't."
"She took a plane."
"I am aware she took a plane, Hayley."
"To London."
"I am aware she came to London."
"And she could go anywhere. Anywhere, Jude. It is fucking London. Sloane Square. The Shard. A nice restaurant in Mayfair. Any one of which she could afford on the change in her coat pocket." Hayley is, you realise distantly, working herself up to something. "And she chose to come here. To this pub. To this sticky, shit-lit, mould-infested pub. To see your sorry ass."
"Ugh."
"Don't ugh me, you deserve to feel stupid right now, you twat. I should hit you over the head with the frying —"
She stops mid-sentence. Looks over her shoulder. Someone is at the door. Whoever it is has just done something that makes Hayley's face change.
She turns back. Her expression has gone grim.
"Well," she says. "I guess her mates are going to do that for me."
"What?"
You do not get to finish that what, because Hayley steps aside and Jana is already pushing through the door to the kitchen like she owns it, deeply pissed off and absolutely committed, and behind her, looking like a woman who has been dragged into a war she did not sign up for, is Aggie.
Carl's voice, from out front: "Oi. You can't —"
"I do not care," Jana says without turning around, "what your rules are."
"Right then."
You hear Carl give up. You imagine the small, defeated shrug.
This is, you note in passing, possibly the most unsanitary moment in this kitchen's history. Which is, given the state of this kitchen, quite an accolade.
Jana is making a beeline for you.
You raise the potato peeler in front of your chest like a small inadequate sword.
"What?"
The angry Catalan pokes your sternum with a very pointed, very expensively manicured nail.
"What."
Aggie, behind her: "Jana, mate, maybe just —"
"Not now, Aggie."
Aggie throws her hands up. Mouths sorry at you over Jana's shoulder. You appreciate it. You will be remembering Aggie's failed peacekeeping efforts in your will.
Jana pokes you again. Harder.
"What is wrong with you?"
You avoid her eyes. Many things are wrong with you. You wouldn't even know where to start the list.
"Look —"
"No. You look, you self-entitled prick —"
"That's a big word for you, Jana —"
"— I have been learning English for months, do not test me right now. Look. What is wrong with you? Do you not know when someone is into you? Do you not have eyes? Do you not — Aggie!"
"I haven't said —"
"I am ripping her a new one, come on, I am in a flow."
"I was going to say maybe the kitchen isn't —"
"Where else, Aggie. Where else am I supposed to do this. The pub? With Norman here?" She gestures sharply over her shoulder. "I do not want Norman in this conversation."
"Fair."
You did not think you were capable of being amused right now. Turns out you are. You hide it badly.
Jana sees it. Pokes you a third time. The third poke is, frankly, going to bruise.
"Do not smile at me, Jones."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"Where is she?"
That stops Jana mid-poke.
You don't entirely know why the question came out so fast. Some part of you, the part that has not been doing well for the last twenty hours, needs to know that Alexia is somewhere. Somewhere warm. Somewhere not crying. Somewhere not getting on a plane back to Barcelona without telling you.
Jana studies your face for a second. Her own softens, just barely, and then she remembers she's furious and the soft thing snaps back away.
"She is at Harrods."
"Harrods?"
"Lucy and Ona dragged her. Said they needed perfume. Nobody needs perfume. They are distracting her, Jude. While I am here. Dealing with this." She gestures at the entirety of you. "Three grown women are sacrificing their Monday morning to fix your fuck-up. Three. Plus me. Four. Aggie —"
"I'm support staff, I have made it very clear —"
"— Aggie is here for emotional support of the whole project."
Aggie nods at you, seriously. "It's true. I'm support staff."
"Right."
"They are walking her around Harrods looking at perfume she does not want," Jana continues, "while I am here in this — this — this mould fortress trying to find out whether you have any idea what you did yesterday."
"I know what I did yesterday."
"Do you."
"Jana —"
"Do you, Jude. Because she came home and asked me, with her actual mouth, if English people were slow."
You wince.
"I —"
"And I did not know whether to laugh or cry. Because I knew what had happened. Because I have known what was going to happen for six months. Because she has been talking about you for six months. Like — like a teenager. Like a teenager with — with a science crush, an obsession, on a girl in a band, do you understand what I am saying to you —"
"Jana, gently —"
"I am being gentle, Aggie!"
"You are not being gentle —"
"I am being Catalan gentle, which is different —"
"You're calling her a mould fortress —"
"Did you hear me call her a mould fortress? I called the pub a mould fortress, the pub is a mould fortress, the pub is the thing she keeps coming back to even though it is a mould fortress, which is the entire point, Aggie, focus."
You set the peeler down. Slowly. Very carefully. The way you would set down a weapon, surrendering.
"Jana. I —"
"And you know what I think." Jana is pacing now. Small kitchen. Three steps, turn, three steps, turn. "I think you are afraid of her."
"That's not —"
"I think you take one look at her and you see La Reina and you flip out, Jude. I think you see two Ballons d'Or and a capitana armband and a face on a billboard in Madrid and you decide you are not enough for it. I think you have decided that for her. You have decided what she is allowed to want. You have decided she is too much."
"Jana —"
"Because if that is what is happening here, Jude. If that is what you see when you look at her. Then you should — you should say so. And we should — we should call it. Right now. Because she does not deserve to be in love with a person who only sees La Reina and not her. She has had enough of those. They are exhausting. She has had a lifetime of them. She does not need another one. Not from you. Not from someone she has — she has —" Jana's hands are doing something in the air now, something furious and helpless, "— put up on the wall in her own head, Jude. Do you understand what I am — Aggie, help me, English, help me —"
"She means Alexia thinks the world of you," Aggie translates, gently.
"That. I mean that, exactly. Gràcies, Aggie."
"You're welcome."
"So if you cannot —"
You stand up.
You don't mean to. Your body stands up before your brain has signed off on it. The stool scrapes back loudly on the kitchen tile. The potato peeler hits the counter. The half-peeled potato in your other hand goes back into the sack.
The kitchen goes very quiet.
Jana stops mid-pace.
You are not, in your normal life, a person who gives speeches. Speeches are Charli's department. Speeches are for managers and politicians and people who have, at some point, willingly stood in front of a room. You are a kitchen woman. You communicate in pans being banged, doors being closed, fags taken in the alley. Speeches are not, traditionally, your medium.
You give one anyway.
"I don't give two fucks," you say, "if Alexia is Alexia Putellas."
Jana opens her mouth.
"Don't. Let me. I don't give two fucks. She could be a — hot dog seller. On the street. With a little cart. Lionel Messi'scousin's plumber, I don't care. La Reina or whatever the fuck you entitled fucks call her — I do not give a single shit."
"Jude —"
"Let. Me."
Jana closes her mouth. Aggie has frozen with her hand still half-raised in peacekeeping position.
Somewhere behind them, the kitchen door has cracked open another inch. You don't look. You can feel Hayley's energy in it. You suspect Carl is behind her. You will be dealing with all of it later.
"I am not afraid of La Reina," you say, and your voice is, you note with a small distant interest, doing something. Going thicker. Going steadier. Going somewhere you didn't sign up for. "Don't insult me. Don't insult her. Don't pretend that's what this is. That'd be easy. That'd be a problem I could fix by reading her Wikipedia and doing a couple of breathing exercises."
"Then what —"
"Listen. I am afraid of Alexia Putellas. My friend. The person I — I —" you stop, find the word, grab it, "like. The one who saved me as Jude. Who calls me cabrona. Who sent me — she sent me a voice note last Tuesday at eleven at night telling me about how her grandmother used to make leek soup. Leek soup, Jana. Eleven at night. Not because there's a reason to tell me about her grandmother's leek soup. Just because. Just because she wanted me to know."
Nobody says anything.
"She listens to my crap, Jana. All of it. The stupid stuff. The Carl stuff. The Eggy stuff. The Mum stuff, sometimes, when it slips. She listens like — like she's taking notes. Like there's going to be a test. Like the worst thing she could do is forget any of it."
You drag a hand down your face.
"I'm not afraid of La Reina. I'm afraid of Alexia. The person. The one I'm —" you exhale once, hard, "— in love with."
The kitchen goes silent.
Properly silent.
Even the extractor fan, which has had a slow grinding fault for two years, picks this exact moment to develop a sudden interest in nothing.
Jana stares at you.
Aggie stares at you.
Behind them, the door has opened the rest of the way. Hayley is standing in it, mouth slightly open. Carl is behind her, tea towel slung over his shoulder, holding a half-peeled onion, looking as though he has just walked into a confession booth.
Jana's whole face changes.
Slowly. Like a door swinging.
The fury goes out of her in stages. Her shoulders drop. Her hands lower from where they were doing the helpless Catalan thing in mid-air. Her mouth, which had been open to argue, closes.
And then she smiles.
Wide. Slow. Wild. The smile of a woman who has just heard, after months of careful and not-so-careful intelligence work, exactly the sentence she has been waiting to hear out of your mouth.
"Bo."
"Don't."
"Allà està. There you go."
"Don't do this."
"I knew you had it in you."
"Jana, I will throw this peeler at you."
"You won't, you are in love. You are too soft to throw things now."
Aggie, very quietly: "She has a point."
Jana steps forward. Pokes you. Differently, this time. Once. In the centre of your chest. Your heart, right there.
Almost — almost gentle. Almost.
"So. Jude. My friend. My idiot."
"Mm."
"What are you going to do about it."
And the thing is.
The thing is, you know.
You have been knowing, in the back of your head, since the moment the peeler slipped and you understood why you panicked. You have been knowing it the whole time Jana was shouting at you. You have been knowing it through Hayley's she could afford it on the change in her coat pocket and Carl's silent shrug at the door and the small, painful image of Alexia at Harrods being walked past perfumes she does not want.
You know what you are going to do.
You wipe your hands on your apron.
You look at Jana.
"Right," you say. "I need you to keep her at Harrods for another two hours."
Jana's smile widens further.
"Sí, capitana. What for?"
You pick the peeler back up. Set it down on the counter properly this time. Take your apron off over your head. Reach for your jacket.
"I've got a plan."
*
Alexia arrives at Jana's apartment exhausted. She has been exhausted since yesterday, really. Emotionally drained, in the precise way only a person who has spent twenty-four hours running through every possible interpretation of one quarter-second flicker on someone's face can be. Now she also has two bottles of perfume she did not want, three jumpers she did not need, and a coat Lucy talked her into.
It is not, she suspects, going to fit in her luggage.
Luggage she has to organise soon enough. She has one more day here in this damp city before she goes back to her sunny routine of training and matches and press, to Barcelona where the sun is hard and white and her flat is quiet.
Jude has not said a word.
Nothing. Not a text. Not a voice note. Not a hi or a sorry about earlier or even a taco says hello, which Alexia, in the cab back from Harrods, had been bargaining for in some humiliating corner of her mind as a bare minimum acceptable response.
Alexia thinks herself patient. Thinks herself resilient. Has been told, in approximately thirty interviews over the last decade, that her composure under pressure is one of her defining qualities.
She has found out, in regards to her English crush, that she is none of those things.
She sighs. Drops the Harrods bags inside the door with a small dispirited thud. Toes her trainers off. Considers, briefly, whether it would be insane to lie face-down on Jana's hallway rug for fifteen minutes.
Decides it would be only mildly insane.
Decides to compromise: face-down on the couch. Shoes off. Maybe a blanket. Maybe a small dignified weep into Jana's cushions, which Jana will pretend not to notice when she gets in.
Lucy and Ona went to get drinks somewhere. They tried to bring her. She declined. She has, she has decided, earned an evening alone on a sofa, in a country where she does not have to be Alexia Putellas for anyone.
She pads down the hall to the living room.
Her phone buzzes in her coat pocket.
She ignores it.
Three steps later it buzzes again. Then again. Then a fourth time, faster than is reasonable.
She pulls it out.
It is Instagram. The DMs. The thread that has begun all of this. The impossibility that turned into her catching a plane to London to see about a girl.
@jisthejones: tomatoes
She stares at the screen.
The notification has come in mid-sentence. The dots are still moving. There is, evidently, more.
@jisthejones: pasta
@jisthejones: or make from scratch? would she like that? do you make it from scratch? you do, don't you. christ.
@jisthejones: get the good cheese. the gratey kind. parm if they have proper parm.
Alexia, who has just been walking down a hallway, has, without realising, stopped.
She is standing in Jana's corridor in her socks with her coat half-on, looking at her phone like it has slapped her.
The dots keep moving.
@jisthejones: clean the flat.
@jisthejones: actually properly clean the flat, jude, hoover the corners, don't be a coward
@jisthejones: scrub taco. he stinks.
Jude is doing lists again. Like the first time.
She lets out a small noise that is not, technically, a laugh. She walks the rest of the way to the sofa in a daze, sits down, watches the dots move.
@jisthejones: candles? do you own candles? you don't own candles. buy candles.
@jisthejones: not weird ones. just nice candles.
Alexia's mouth does something at the corner.
There is a small, hot, completely unreasonable jealous spike that arrives somewhere around would she like that, because the she in would she like that is unattributed, and Alexia, who is a fully-grown woman with a Champions League medal, is briefly outraged by a hypothetical she who exists only because Jude has not specified.
She types, before she can stop herself.
@alexiaputellas: jude, you are doing it again —
Her thumb hovers over send.
She does not press send.
Because the dots are still moving again and Jude is going to beat her to it. She wants to know what comes next.
The dots move.
The dots stop.
The dots move again.
Then, two messages, one after the other:
@jisthejones: apologise for being such a dumbass.
@jisthejones: ask the pretty footballer out. maybe. if she forgives you.
Alexia goes very still.
She reads it twice.
The dots come back.
One more message.
@jisthejones: do you forgive me for being such a nervous wreck, ale?
Alexia's eyes do, betrayingly, the thing.
The thing she has been refusing to do all day. The thing she did not do in the cab. The thing she absolutely was not going to do in Jana's hallway with two hundred pounds of unnecessary clothing piled at her feet.
The thing she is, now, doing on Jana's sofa in her socks, looking at a phone screen, alone.
Just a little.
She wipes her face with the back of her wrist. Idiota. She is being an idiota. This is, in objective terms, four messages on Instagram from a woman in a sticky pub in South London who has, by her own description, just told herself off in writing for being a coward.
It is also, simultaneously, the single most romantic thing that has happened to Alexia Putellas in possibly five years. Possibly, her whole life.
She types, very carefully, because her hands are not entirely steady.
@alexiaputellas: there is nothing to forgive, cariño.
She looks at it.
Adds, because she wants Jude to hear it the way she means it:
@alexiaputellas: you don't have to.
The dots come on immediately. Like Jude has been waiting on the other end with her thumb hovering. And Alexia can imagine it clearly and the smile she wears is fond. So fond.
@jisthejones: i want to.
And then:
@jisthejones: come over tonight? my place. i'll cook. proper date.
Alexia reads that one approximately four times.
She types:
@alexiaputellas: proper date?
@jisthejones: proper date. like, capital P, capital D.
@jisthejones: with a tablecloth. probably. if i can find one.
@jisthejones: i'll text you the address. say yes, ale.
Alexia sits there on Jana's sofa in her socks looking at her phone, and her face is doing a thing she will not be able to describe later when Mapí asks her about it, and she has gone, in the space of approximately ninety seconds, from face-down-on-the-couch-energy to a kind of horizontal vertigo, like the floor has tilted up under her and she is on the verge of sliding off.
She types:
@alexiaputellas: yes.
Adds, before she can be embarrassed by it:
@alexiaputellas: sí. okay. yes.
The little seen indicator pops up immediately.
Then a single response, a beat later:
@jisthejones: ❤️
Alexia, on Jana's couch, makes a sound that is not, technically, a sound a Ballon d'Or winner is supposed to make.
She presses the phone face-down against her chest.
She breathes once.
Twice.
Then she sits bolt upright, with the abrupt clarity of a woman whose tactical brain has just rebooted at full operating capacity, and yells, into the empty flat:
"Jana!"
No answer. Jana is, of course, still out. The Catalan rescue squad has been on duty all day and is currently, somewhere across town, on the third drink of a well-deserved debrief.
Alexia calls her.
It rings three times. Jana picks up against a background of cheerful pub noise.
"Sí, capi."
"Jana."
"Mm."
"Jana, I need you to come back."
"Are you okay?"
"I — yes. Sí. It is — Jana, Jude texted."
There is a long pause on the line. The background noise dims. Alexia can hear, very faintly, what is possibly Lucy in the distance going what is happening, what is she saying.
"Oh," Jana says, in a voice that is doing a terrible job of sounding surprised. "Bueno. And what did Jude say."
"She invited me to her flat. Tonight. For dinner."
"Que bonito."
"Jana, you do not sound surprised."
"I am very surprised, capi, I am shocked, I am gobsmacked —"
"Jana."
"Mm?"
"I need to go back to Harrods."
There is another pause.
"Ay, Ale."
"Don't."
"Ay, capi."
"Jana, do not —"
"You want to buy —"
"Don't say it."
"— lencería —"
"JANA."
"I am only confirming!"
"Confirm in your head."
"I am bringing Lucy. She has excellent taste."
"You are not bringing Lucy."
"Lucy will be delighted —"
Alexia closes her eyes.
"You are coming back. Alone. Now. We are going. Quietly. Like normal adults."
"Quietly. Like normal adults."
"Promise me, Jana."
"Promise. I will not even tell Ona."
A pause. Alexia wants to bite her phone.
"You can bring Ona, she has good taste."
"YAY! Girl's shopping trip!"
Alexia has the good sense to pull her phone far away from her ears. She sighs. She needs all the help she can get.
"Come on, hurry up."
"Anything for love, capi."
Jana hangs up.
Alexia sits on the sofa with her phone in her hand and her two hundred pounds of unnecessary clothing piled at her feet, and the small leak in her eyes has, somewhere in the middle of the lingerie negotiation, dried up entirely.
She is going to Jude's flat tonight.
For dinner.
Proper date. Capital P. Capital D.
She gets up off the sofa.
Goes to her room. Pulls every item out of her case. Lays them on the bed. Picks up the phone again.
Types one more message.
@alexiaputellas: cariño?
@jisthejones: yeah?
@alexiaputellas: should i bring wine? red or white?
@jisthejones: bring whatever you want, ale. you could bring tap water for all i care.
@jisthejones: just come.
Alexia smiles at her phone like an idiot.
Outside, the drizzle starts up again against Jana's living-room window. London weather at its finest.
She does not even mind.
side note: cheers to our darling alexia, that she may be super happy wherever she ends up. visca la reina.
I’m speechless bc I loved this chapter SO much. Cannot explain just how satisfying it was for them to finally meet and spend time together. Super excited for the dinner date!
summary: Alexia Putellas had always been forbidden fruit. She was your father’s closest friend, and the woman who once made it clear she could never see you the way you saw her. You left Barcelona hoping distance would dull your feelings, your craving. But now you’re back and quickly realizing that the desire is still there. Only this time, it feels less like something you’re meant to resist and more like something that’s been waiting to be bitten into.
contains / tags: 18+ mdni, smut, explicit content, older!Alexia, dadsBFF!Alexia, younger!reader, footballplayer!reader, cunnilingus A!receiving, fingering A!receiving, making out, foul and inappropriate language, age gap, shared history, implied consent given, longterm pining and yearning, usage of yn and petnames (princess, princesa) | wc: 7k
DISCLAIMER: This fic contains an age gap of 8 years (present time reader is 24, Alexia is 32) and explores a dynamic of a shared history that not all readers may be comfortable with. There is also some foul language in the fic that references their relationship dynamic. I didn’t want to just leave a “DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT” type of warning. Hence, why I am including this disclaimer just to be safe. I believe I handled the topic with as much caution and tact as there can be when it comes to smut but if you feel that the age gap and history is something you would dislike or feel iffy reading about, do not read.
⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia has not left your mind ever since you met her.
She managed to consistently occupy a disproportionate amount of your brain for years. Even when you tried to get away from her.
You spent six years in Manchester, tried to get as far as you could at that age from Barcelona; you dated all kinds of women in the hopes that one of them would stick and yet, she was still the one who constantly occupied your mind.
Trying to forget about Alexia Putellas was impossible but seeing her again seemed even harder than you anticipated.
You bit your lip as you lingered in your childhood living room, just having arrived back from a small welcome drink with old friends, now returning to your welcome home party at your dad's house.
You watched her standing out there — beer in hand, talking to Patri about something, throwing her head back to laugh. She looked so familiar and yet so different. The once lankier build you were so familiar with was now firm and strong, her hair back to its natural brown, framing her face. She looked so good and every part of you couldn't stand it.
"You good, princesa?" Your dad appeared at your shoulder, reading your face in the infuriating way that fathers do. "Go on outside. Everyone's waiting to see you."
“Yeah, soon, Papà.” You hummed and gave him a small smile. "I was just, uh, reminiscing."
He laughed, a confused look on his face. "Well, you can reminisce outside." He nudged you. "C'mon. Alexia's been asking about you nonstop."
You said nothing, just nodded. "I'll follow you out. Just gotta change first."
"Okay, but don't make them wait too long," he said, already heading outside, already walking toward Alexia and her group. You stayed where you were for another moment, taking a deep sigh before heading to your bedroom to change.
⋆˙⟡♡ Your dad had you when he was young; he was only seventeen, barely settled into his own life, scrambling to figure out single fatherhood. Even if it was hard, he made it work but that meant giving up a lot.
Before he had you, he had been training with the Barcelona B team, trying to make something of himself, but after you were born and one tragically timed ACL injury later, he accepted that his dreams as a footballer were done. The world of football, though, that he couldn't let go of. So he took coaching courses, put in the hours, and slowly found his footing as an assistant tactical coach for the women's team.
Alexia was just a new signee to Barcelona then; she was eighteen, bright-eyed, restless with ambition. She and your dad got close after she badgered him into helping her with her defensive work, knowing he'd been a decent defender in his day.
Eventually, they got closer after all those training sessions, so much so that he started treating Alexia like his work-little-sister.
⋆˙⟡♡ You met Alexia for the first time at your housewarming party. Your dad had just inherited the house from your late grandfather, and after months of renovation, it was finally ready. It felt like a real change from the small apartment you'd grown up in. He invited people from the club, and Alexia was one of them.
You already knew who she was. You were also training in La Masia at that time. The women’s team had just become fully professional and all the femeni players were somewhat heroes to all of you girls in La Masia.
Your dad introduced you the way he always did, calling you his princesa. Alexia found it cute and adopted it on the spot, and began referring to you as princesa as well. While it made you cringe whenever your dad introduced you that way to his friends, insisting that you were too old to be called that, you didn’t seem to mind when it came from Alexia. You decided that you liked the way it sounded when it came from her.
Since then, Alexia became a constant presence in your life.
Along with other people from the club, she always came over to your house for weekends and right before the holidays, before she headed back to her family. In the times that she was there, she taught you to do football tricks. She’d help you with homework.
She occasionally also came to your youth games when she could, standing at the crowd with her arms folded, paying proper attention, and afterwards would tell you what you'd done well and what you needed to work on. Somehow that always mattered more than anything your dad or coaches said.
You didn't think anything of it for a long time. She was just Alexia, just always there.
But as you grew older, you slowly figured that there was something different in the way you felt about Alexia. And, by the time you were sixteen, you had fully figured it out: the reason you couldn't stop thinking about her, couldn't stop smiling when she talked to you, the way your heart did that stupid thing whenever she was near...
You knew, at that point, it wasn’t just platonic admiration.
⋆˙⟡♡ It was your eighteenth birthday. Your dad suggested that you celebrate it at a bar. He said something about celebrating Barcelona B winning the league and also something about wanting you to learn how to drink while surrounded by people you trusted.
Whatever it was, you just went along with it.
Because not only were you celebrating your birthday, the fact that you were finally being able to drink legally and that your team won, you were also celebrating the fact that Alexia was coming to see you again.
"She's actually coming?" your teammate said, for the third time.
"She always comes," you said, bragging a bit but trying to sound like it was nothing.
Throughout the years, Alexia slowly became a household name in Spain. She was catching the attention of everyone, signing brand deals, and receiving awards. She wasn’t just Alexia, your dad’s friend. She was now Alexia Putellas, la reina.
Though, while you loved watching her succeed, it also meant you got to see her less. The visits became less frequent: weekly became monthly, then monthly became occasionally. Then, occasionally became nothing much at all,
But thankfully, she was finally making time to see you for your birthday. Just as you were turning eighteen.
She arrived about an hour in,and you felt the energy in the room shift the way it always did when Alexia walked into somewhere. Your group of friends from La Masia started giggling and smiling, already eager to approach Alexia for a picture.
"Moltes felicitats!" She found you first, arms open. She hugged you properly, wrapping her arms around you and lifting you up for a second. All you could think about was how happy you were to see her again and how amazing she smelled, the same familiar perfume she had always used.
She pulled back from the hug and looked at your outfit, frowning to herself. "You turn eighteen and couldn’t wait to dress like it, huh? What happened to the Hello Kitty shirts?"
You felt the blush climb your face immediately. "Hey Alexia," you chuckled. “I missed you.”
“I know, I know, it’s been so long,” she said, chuckling, patting your head as she did. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to watch your games recently. I’ve been busy.”
“Trust me, I know,” you chuckled, waving off her apology.
"Well, at least I have something to make it up to you." She handed you a small box, wrapped neatly. "I hope you like it."
You opened it and felt the same fluttering feeling in your stomach. It was a delicate gold necklace with a dainty crown charm. You looked up at her.
"Thought it was suitable," she said simply. "For the princesa."
At this point, your face was fully red, heart beating overtime. You thanked her, hugging her once more.
"I'm putting this on right now," you said, as you pulled away from the hug, already fumbling with the clasp.
She laughed. “Let me.”
Alexia helped you with it, letting you turn from her, hands brushing your hair to the front. You bit your lip, a bit giddy she was doing it in front of your teammates. In your teenaged, delusional mind at the time, you felt it was the most romantic scene that could ever happen.
Before you could even turn around to present the necklace to Alexia, your dad materialized from the corner of the bar and clapped Alexia on the shoulder. "Ale, you made it."
"Of course." She said, greeting your dad before gesturing at you. "Xavi, your girl is a grown-up now."
Your dad looked at you with an expression that was mostly pride but also partly teasing. You knew he was going to say something that’ll embarrass you. "I know. I have to start watching out for the boys." He said, squeezing you close to him.
"Papà—" You groaned loudly, pushing him slightly, making him and Alexia laugh.
"My bad, my bad." He held his hands up immediately, grinning. "I meant to say that I have to watch out for the girls," he turned to Alexia to explain. "She came out and told me she likes women yesterday. It completely slipped my mind. again"
"Papà!" You said in an annoyed tone, widening your eyes at your dad. He always managed to stay the stupidest and most embarrassing things about you in front of Alexia. “That's not what I — I wasn't asking you to — madre mia."
Alexia was looking at you with an amused expression, chuckling. "Congrats?"
"I'm going to actually die of embarrassment," you groaned, shaking your head.
Your dad and Alexia laughed. He turned to Alexia "Come on, let’s go before I embarrass my kid anymore." your dad said, still grinning. "All the guys from the club are all over there. Sandra and Patri said they’re on their way too. Let me grab you a drink."
"One second," Alexia said, glancing toward the entrance. "I need to wait for—"
She was looking at the door. You followed her gaze.
"New girl?" your dad asked, apparently reading something in her expression. Just at the mention of it, your heart dropped.
Alexia shrugged, lazy smirk playing around your lips. "For now. I don't know. It’s nothing serious.”
“When did you become such a player, hermana,” your dad joked, squeezing Alexia’s shoulder.
The woman who walked in was obviously Alexia's age. She was confident, pretty, looking around the room until she found Alexia and crossed toward her. She greeted you warmly enough. You were seething too much to even remember her name because all you could focus on was how Alexia’s hand found the small of her back.
You just gave her a tight-lipped smile and said a curt thanks before deciding you’d rather not be around Alexia while she was with this new girl. You made your way back to your friends, who were already excitedly whispering about Alexia. You brushed them off, just wanting to celebrate and drink, pretending not to give a fuck about the Alexia even if you constantly watched her from your peripheral the entire night.
⋆˙⟡♡ By midnight, you were absolutely plastered. It started off fun – dancing with friends as you sang along to whatever song was blasting. Then very quickly, it became… not fun.
You found yourself in one of the booths, slumped over your teammate who was patting your back as you vomited into one of the empty gift bags.
Your dad appeared as soon as he heard. "Dios mío." He said, tone concerned more than mad. “I thought I told you to stop after your last shot an hour ago.”
From where you were slumped over, you gave him a weak shrug.
Much to your dismay, Alexia came rushing to where you were. She sighed at the sight of you absolutely plastered, sweaty and vomiting into a glittery pink paper bag.
She patted your dad’s arm. “You go settle the bill. I can drive her home and take care of her while you settle things here.
Your dad looked between you and her. "You sure?" He asked.
Alexia nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll text you once I get her back to your place.”
Your dad said his thanks as your friends helped you up, giving you a glass of water and wiping your mouth and face. As you stood up, Alexia put your arm around her, arm holding your waist to keep you steady.
She chuckled. “Looks like the princess enjoyed her eighteenth birthday.”
You groaned in response. “Alexia, I’m sorry…”
She looked at you and gave you an easy smile. “What do you have to be sorry for? You’re supposed to be the drunkest person on your 18th.” She joked as she walked you to her car. “Mission accomplished.”
⋆˙⟡♡ The car ride was quiet for a while. You sat in the passenger seat with your head tipped back and the window slightly open. In your hands was a new plastic bag that Alexia had gotten from somewhere in her car, just in case you needed it.
"Okay," Alexia said eventually, focusing on the road. "Lesson one. You have to eat carbs before you drink. Basic stuff, princesa."
You said nothing, closing your eyes for a moment, still feeling the alcohol swirl inside you.
"We'll work on it. Like when I used to teach you those ball control drills when you were little, remember? Except this time we can practice with shots." She glanced at you. "Much more useful life skill, honestly—"
"I hate you," you blurted suddenly.
Alexia wasn’t sure of what she heard. She frowned a bit but chuckled awkwardly. “What?”
"I said I hate you." Your voice came out thicker than you intended. Perhaps it was just because you were drunk, young, absolutely stupid and too honest. "I hate you so much."
Alexia didn’t respond yet. She grew concerned, pulling over to the side of the road, just a block away from your house. “Hey, princesa, what’s going on?” She asked, tone gentle. “Is everything good?”
"How could you bring her?" It came out before you could stop it. Your tone was pained and Alexia could hear it clearly. "To my birthday. How could you bring some girl to my birthday."
Alexia was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry. You're right, it was friends and family, I should have asked your dad first if–-"
"That's not what I mean." You shook your head, settling your back against the reclined seat, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill. "You don't understand."
Alexia sighed, unsure of what to do with this outburst. She knew you were drunk out of your mind but she knew that you wouldn’t have said all of it if you didn’t actually mean it. "Then tell me." Her voice was gentle. "You know you can tell me anything. You're like my little sister. I—"
"Stop." The word came out sharp, unslurred for once. "Stop saying that. Stop calling me that."
"YN—"
"I'm eighteen." Your voice broke on it, which was humiliating and yet, you kept going. "I'm not a little girl anymore. I haven't been for a long time and you keep — you just keep—"
You couldn't finish it. You didn't need to.
Alexia watched you as you turned slightly away from her, wiping your tears as you did. She mouthed a curse word to herself, finally realizing what you were trying to say. She took a deep breath before continuing.
"YN," she said, tone careful. “You know, I don’t…” She trailed off, still unsure how to face this situation.
"I know," you said. "I know, okay, I know. You don't have to say shit."
"I'm sorry." She sounded like she meant it, which made it worse. "Princesa, I'm so sorry, I didn't know at all that…”
She hesitated before continuing. “You'll find someone, you know? Someone your age who deserves you, who will treat you like an actual princess.” She said, trying to sound comforting but every single word she said felt like a dagger. “You’re a young and beautiful girl but YN, you know that I’m not— That I cannot…”
Alexia sighed, still struggling to find the words to comfort you. “I'll always be there for you, that doesn't change,” she continued. “There’ll be someone for you, princesa. I promise—"
“I don’t want anyone else,” you said, shaking your head, mascara streaking your face. “I want you.”
Alexia sighed, looking out the car, watching the road ahead. “YN, I don’t… I don’t see you like that,” she started. “You’re too young.”
“I’m eighteen, Ale.” You countered.
Alexia chuckled but it didn’t seem cruel or mocking; it just came out in disbelief. “Princess, I’m twenty-six,” she responded, trying to rationalize with you now. “We’re at such different parts of our lives. I don’t think you would want to date someone this much older. Quite frankly, if it was anyone else, I would disapprove too.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed. “Absolute bullshit and you know it. I'm old enough. I know what I want.”
Alexia sighed, trying to keep patient. “You don’t understand. It’s just… it won’t work.”
You scoffed and before you could think about it. You unclasped your necklace and held it out to her. “Then I don’t want this,” you said, tone harsh. “You cannot give a girl this and act like you weren’t leading her on.”
Alexia frowned. “Leading you on? YN, it was a gift. For your birthday,” Her tone came out offended and hurt. "How is that leading you on?"
You shook your head, dropping the necklace into one of the car’s empty cup holders. “I don't want it."
Alexia sighed, growing impatient. "YN, you're being dramatic. C’mon, I thought you liked it." She said, trying to talk some sense into you. “I really picked that one out for you cause you know how much I care about you. Don’t you like it?”
You shook your head. "I want something else." You looked at her directly as if daring her. "You know what I want."
She looked back at you and she sighed, lips turning into a tight line as she leaned back onto her seat, turning away from you. "No," she said.
"Alexia—" You tried to reach out but Alexia swatted your hand away.
"No." Her voice was harder this time, something in her composure finally frayed at the edges. "YN. I would never — you're practically my little sister or my cousin or whatever. For fuck's sake, I’m your dad’s friend.”
Alexia paused once she noticed that she was starting to raise her voice, breathing out for a moment. “I would never look at you like that." The words landed the way she probably intended them to. She didn’t want to hurt you but if that was what it took to draw the line, then that was what she was doing. "Never."
That was it. That was the moment Alexia broke your heart.
⋆˙⟡♡ After that, you left. You didn’t tell your dad what happened and you were certain Alexia hadn’t either. Which was probably why it must have come as a shock to hum when you decided that you were refusing the renewal offer from Barça B and accepted the offer from Manchester City.
You told your dad it was for the minutes, the development, the chance to play at the first team instead of fighting to work your way up to the first team at Barcelona. All of that was true in a sense but none of it was the real reason why you left.
You spent six years in Manchester City. There, you developed, slowly became very good at football and yet, still so shit at forgetting
You only saw Alexia twice in the time you were away: when City played Barça in the Champions League. The first time you kept your head down and got through it. The second time she tried to talk to you after the final whistle and you found a way to ignore her, walking straight past her and greeting Patri instead, who also knew you from back in the day, switching kits with her instead as if trying to make a point to Alexia.
⋆˙⟡♡ Your contract with City expired this season and you had decided not to renew. Alexia was in a similar situation: contract expired and leaving her club. It seemed like you were both at a crossroads.
You were back in Barcelona negotiating, and your dad had been beaming with excitement for two weeks at the idea of you possibly returning to Barcelona. Hence, why he was so set on inviting a bunch of friends from the club tonight at your welcome home party, as if to convince you to bite the bullet and sign with Barcelona.
That was why she was here.
And that was also why you have been anxiously looking through your outfits, settling on one that felt just right before heading to the party.
⋆˙⟡♡ You walked out into the backyard and felt her notice you before you even looked.
It happened in your peripheral vision. She was in the middle of a conversation, pausing to glance over to you eyes scanning you for a bit before excusing herself moving toward you with one hand holding a beer bottle and the other at the pocket.
She gave you a small smile. “Long time no see,” she smiled as her eyes quickly scanned you, lingering a microsecond longer where your abdomen was exposed. "You look…”
She trailed off and you nodded. “Yeah, I haven’t seen you since we played against each other.” You said.
She chuckled, nodding. “Yeah, when you totally snobbed me,” she said. She looked at you again, almost as if she couldn’t help it. "You look good.”
"You said that already." You said laughing
"I didn't actually say it the first time." She smirked.
You hummed, eyeing her too, dressed in a button-up top with her forearms exposed and straight-cut jeans. She looked good, even better than she did years ago.
Before you could continue talking, your dad caught sight of you, ushering you to talk to some other people from the club, clearly set on his agenda of convincing you to sign.
Alexia drifted away too but one thing was for sure: her eyes were on you the entire time.
⋆˙⟡♡ The crowd thinned out as the night got later.
You found yourself feeling a bit socially drained from all the talk about negotiation and signing, settling on the old, wooden swing at the edge of the yard, beer in hand. Alexia noticed you settle there, slowly walking over to you and sitting beside you.
“So…” She said, “I heard you weren’t dead-set on Barcelona yet. Are you actually considering Atlético?"
You shrugged. "Among others,” you responded before taking another sip of your beer.
"Don't tell me you’re considering Real Madrid," she asked.
You chuckled and shook your head. "Please, my dad would actually kill me."
"Yeah, your dad and everyone else who's ever met you." She bumped her shoulder against yours lightly. "La Masia girl ending up at Real Madrid. You’d be a villain."
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile.
She hummed. “So, when’s your next meeting with Barcelona?"
"Don't act like you don't already know everything,” you quipped back, looking at her and giving her another eye roll. With your dad’s big mouth, you were sure everyone at the party tonight was updated with all of your affairs.
Alexia chuckled. "I know some things," she said. "But I don't know what you're thinking about. You don't really talk to me anymore."
She paused, taking an exhale, before turning back to you and smiling. “Except from the last Champions League match where you called me a filla de puta on the pitch for stealing the ball from under you.” She smirked.
You chuckled briefly as you shook your head, not saying anything more, trying to pretend that you weren’t absolutely drawn in by the familiar smell of her perfume, trying to pretend that her presence didn’t overwhelm your senses and that you wanted to absolutely just jump her.
Alexia wanted to ask.
She had been wanting to ask for years: why you didn't reply to her texts, why you walked past her after that match like she was a stranger, why every birthday greeting she sent was left on seen.
Deep inside, she had a clue that it was about what happened six years ago, on your eighteenth birthday. But it had been years since then, you were twenty-four now. And from what she’s heard, you’ve been in several relationships. It had been years and yet, it seemed like you haven’t moved on.
"Well," she said instead, breaking the silence. "You know I'm leaving."
She glanced at you. "You'd be the perfect replacement. The next number eleven. It’d be like passing the crown — from la reina to la princesa." She paused, grimaced slightly at calling herself la reina.
You caught it and laughed, short and involuntary.
"Hey." Her voice shifted, something in it warm and pleased. "First smile I've gotten out of you all night."
You looked away but still felt the smile linger on your face.
"Which reminds me. I have something for you, actually." She reached into her jean pocket before presenting it to you.
You looked over. It was her gift from six years ago.
"I found it in my things," she said. "Just a few weeks ago, when I was packing up. I've had it for all those years apparently. Just thought you should have it back, like a welcome back gift."
You took it from her before turning it in your fingers. It looked exactly like you remembered it – dainty and classic. You handed it back to her without saying a word.
You turned slightly, lifting your hair. Her fingers found the clasp and you felt them brush your neck as she clasped the necklace on you. The charm settled in between your collarbones.
You turned around to present it to her. Alexia smiled and her eyes stayed on your neck, smiling, before looking away to take a swig of her beer. If you hadn’t been paying close attention, you wouldn’t have noticed the clear blush on her cheeks.
Gotcha, you thought to yourself, smiling as you did.
"Wait," you said with a smile. "I can't see if it looks right."
You stood up and gestured for her to do the same. "Come inside for a second. I want to see it in the mirror."
⋆˙⟡♡ She followed you to your room because Alexia Putellas had, apparently, never learned to distrust you.
You pushed your bedroom door open and stepped inside. The room was exactly as you'd left it: pink walls, old trophies on the shelf, the same furniture in the same places. She followed you in and stopped, looking around the room as she closed the door behind her.
You walked over to your vanity, bending over to the height of it. You looked at Alexia through the mirror as you adjusted the necklace at your collarbone. Behind you, she moved slowly along the wall, taking in the old posters and framed photos.
She stopped.
She was standing in front of the poster on the wall by your bed where you had a bunch of posters and the biggest of them all was a poster of her. You never bothered taking it down and apparently, neither had your dad. She stared at it with an expression caught between flattered and horrified.
"God," she said, sitting down on the side of your bed facing, taking a swig of her beer. She grimaced as she looked at it again. "I didn't know you had this. I look so young here."
You smirked walking towards her, in the space between the wall and the bed. “Yeah, you know I was always a fan.” You said as you stood in front of her. You bent down slightly, just enough that the necklace was dangling in her eye level from where she sat. “I feel like the necklace suits me more now.”
With the way you were bending, the top you were wearing hung low, just enough to show the lace bra you were wearing underneath. Alexia averted her gaze, pressing the beer bottle back to her lips and taking a swig. “Yeah,” she said, staring at the poster to avoid the sight of you.
You knew that this was your chance. Before Alexia could fully lift the beer back to her lips, you took it from her slowly, urging her to look you in the eyes as you brought it to your lips, drinking from it slowly before placing it on the bedside table.
Alexia gulped and stiffened, watching you standing over her, a look playing on her face.
“Wha–”
Before she could say anything, you moved closer to her, placing a leg on both sides of her lap and straddling her, adjusting until you were comfortably resting on top of her. “You know, I always admired you.” you said.
"YN—" she started.
"What? I always used to sit on your lap." You said it lightly, feignng innocence. “How is it any different now?”
"You know what you're doing." Her voice was careful, controlled in a way that felt strained.
"What? Cause I don’t know," You tilted your head, placing both arms around her shoulders. "What am I doing?"
She looked at you but didn't answer. Her hands were hovering around your hips, just suspended, uncertain but cautious. You smirked, seeing her neck move as she gulped.
You shifted forward slightly, closing the distance between you as your lips moved closer to her ear. "A lot has changed since that night," you said, quietly "Don't you think?"
Her jaw was tight.
"Six years." You leaned in, your breath brushing her ear. You felt her go very still underneath you. "I grew up. I left and I tried to get over you… but I couldn’t”
Alexia shifted a bit but you didn’t budge. "But I still want you," you said. "I still..."
You didn’t continue what you were saying. Instead, you turned your head, moved closer to her and caught the edge of her ear between your lips, nipping at it just enough to garner a small inhale from the older woman. Her hands moved closer to you but she kept them hovering as if she was still apprehensive.
You smirked to yourself before you planted a gentle kiss on the space between her ear and jaw. When she didn’t move, you moved your way further down the jaw, planting slow open-mouthed kissed, following the line of it. She stayed absolutely still, hands still hovering, not stopping you but not pulling you closer.
You moved down further, gripping onto her to keep balance. You kissed the side of her neck, sucking a bit as you did, surely leaving some marks on her. After, you pulled back just enough to look at her face.
Her expression had finally broken open into something unguarded. The pupils in her hazel eyes had doubled in size and she looked flushed, lips partly, open. You held her gaze for another moment before you took off your shirt, leaving you exposed in just a lace bra.
"YN." Her voice was different now, slightly rough at the edges. "You shouldn't—"
Before she could say anything more, you captured her lips with yours. Her lips were soft and she tasted like a mix of a light lipgloss taste and the beer she was just drinking. Alexia didn’t move at first, feeling all sorts of conflicted.
Your hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. Finally, her hands held onto your waist, keeping you steady and her lips started to follow your lead, lip-locking as you did. She held you lightly, a sharp contrast by the firmness and intensity of your kisses and the way you clung onto her.
This was what you’ve dreamt about all those years and you couldn’t believe you were finally able to do it.
It felt better than you could have ever imagined.
You broke the kiss, keeping your face close to her, looking into her eyes. Her eyes darted from your eyes to your lips, as if trying to make sense of what just happened. It was filled with a look of pleading. A plea or you to stop or for you to continue? You weren’t sure what it was.
You pecked her lips another time before leaving a trail of kisses from her cheek to her jaw then down her neck. After a final kiss on her exposed collarbone, you slid off her lap and sank to your knees on the hardwood floor in front of her, your hands finding the button of her jeans. She put a tentative hand on yours.
"You can tell me to stop," you said, waiting for her response. “Just tell me and I’ll stop.”
Alexia looked down at you, eyes lidded, breathing heavier than before. She blinked but did not say anything, removing her hand from on top of yours.
You smirked at her, pleased with her reaction, as you continued pulling down the zipper. As soon as they were open, you tugged at both her pants and underwear simultaneously. Alexia said nothing but the way she lifted herself slightly off the bed – just enough for you to pull the pants off of her –- told you everything you needed to know.
You took her bottoms off, parting her legs as you did, leaving her completely exposed. You subconsciously licked your lips upon seeing the wetness gathering between her thighs. A moan nearly escaped your lips as you looked at it for a moment more, letting her light musky smell waft to you, feeling yourself clench in arousal.
You moved closer, looking up to lock eyes with her as you did. Alexia’s mouth parted with her chest rising and falling with anticipation. With your hand, you parted her folds, watching the slick glisten beneath your fingers as you did.
Alexia inhaled sharply, her hands gripping the sheets as she leaned back, tilting her head away as though she couldn't bear to watch.
“Ale,” you said, voice soft. “Please look at me.”
Alexia bit her lip before reluctantly looking down at you.
You offered her an innocent smile. “Watch your princess,” you said just audible enough for her to hear.
You watched her neck move as she swallowed, unsure of what to do at this point. Her breath hitched once more as your mouth enveloped around her clit, forming a light suction around it.
You kept your eyes on her, almost urging her to keep eye contract as you continued slowly to suck on it in a slow, steady pace. After you settled into it, you began using your tongue to trace her folds before slowly settling on her clit, pressing it flat against her before swiping upwards, catching her nectar, coating your tongue.
A moan escaped your lips as you tasted more of her wetness – light, salty, and slightly tangy. The moan vibrated against Alexia, eliciting an open-mouthed gasp from her.
You continued to alternate between sucking and licking on her clit. You moved your hands from her legs to just behind her hips, pulling yourself closer. As your pace increased, you pressed yourself deeper against her, determined to make her fully unravel.
Alexia bit down on her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. One hand found your hair, gripping lightly the back of your head. She wasn’t pushing you away nor pulling you closer, just holding you as if just to hold onto something to ground her. You smiled when you felt her shift closer.
Not satisfied with her reactions, you quickened your pace, now flicking your tongue against the small, sensitive part of her clit. A full moan finally escaped Alexia as she took her hand from your hand and moved it behind her on the bed, to keep herself balanced.
You took that as a good sign, keeping your pace fast and steady. A string of small moans continued to spill from Alexia’s lips, arching her back slightly as she fully laid on your bed, brown hair sprawling beneath her.
For a moment, you allowed yourself to savor it all: the taste of her on your tongue, her warmth, the smell of her against you, the knowledge that you were finally tasting Alexia Putellas.
This was the same Alexia you always wanted, the same Alexia who never noticed you, at least not in the way you wanted her to. The same Alexia who swore that you she could never see you in that way. And here she was now, trembling beneath your mouth, choking down her sounds. It filled you with satisfaction. It felt like redemption.
You felt yourself growing more desperate with every passing second, and it only drove you forward. Alexia's moans grew louder. "Sí, sí," she murmured, her voice low and strained. “Sigue así.”
The pride in you filled your chest, urging you to go further. You pressed two fingers against her opening, letting her slick coat the tips of it before pushing in, garnering another sharp breath from Alexia.
You glanced up at her. Her button-up top had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of toned skin. Her stomach tightened as you began moving your fingers further into her. The sight of it was intoxicating.
Eventually, you lifted your mouth away but kept your fingers where they were. Moving up, you positioned yourself over her. Alexia looked back at you through heavily lidded eyes, mouth still parted.
Before she could react, you captured her bottom lip, kissing her with fervour as you continued to thrust into her, pounding faster into her. You could feel Alexia struggle to keep up with the kiss, her lip-locking growing sloppy, unable to focus on anything else but the pleasure, as you curled your fingers, pressing into her.
You moved your mouth to her jaw, kissing and sucking and biting. Alexia gripped the sheets, knuckles turning white as she did. She arched into you as you continued to pound against her. The sounds of your thrust against her wetness filled the room. Soon, it was becoming impossible for Alexia to keep her moans quiet. She got louder, incoherent words strung together with gasps and moans, as she felt your fingers fuck into her.
You moved closer to her, whispering onto her ear. "Ale, you're getting so loud,” you said, voice teasing and amused. “Do you want my dad to find you getting absolutely wrecked by his only daughter? The idea must turn you on, huh?" With that, you thrusted into Alexia harder, curling your fingers into her as you did.
Alexia winced as she heard your words but could not hold back her moans as you relentlessly fucked her. She felt embarrassed and ashamed of how good it felt to be fucked by you and of just letting you do this to her. Deep inside her, she knew this was wrong, that she shouldn’t be enjoying this.
And yet, here she was, overwhelmed with pleasure and writhing underneath you.
Alexa cursed under her breath as she felt your fingers repeatedly curl into her, hitting her sensitive spot each time you entered her. She could feel the orgasm build up into her as she did. You felt her clench around your fingers, internal walls tightening.
“Yeah, Ale, come for me,” you whispered in her ear, almost taunting. “Come for your princess.”
With one more curl of your fingers, Alexia felt the waves of pleasure take over her body. She arched her back further, closed her eyes, face contorted in pleasure as she allowed the orgasm spread throughout her body.
After a few more thrusts, you pulled your fingers out of her, waited for her to open her eyes fully before you wrapped your mouth around your fingers, sucking your fingers clean as she watched.
Alexia averted her gaze, bringing her hand to her face, pretending to wipe sweat off of it but really just so she wouldn’t have to look at you, feeling the pleasure dissipate slowly only to be replaced by frustration and shame.
You couldn’t make sense of it then but something in you just felt powerful at that moment, like the tables have finally turned. Six years ago, she turned you down and broke your heart, claiming that she will never see you in that way. And here you were now, making her eat her words, showing her that she was wrong.
"Can't believe you'd let me do that." You said teasingly as you rested beside her in bed, smiling. "Did the thought of my dad finding us make you hornier?"
Alexia frowned a bit as she heard the question but she didn’t answer. She stood up so suddenly. She ignored the mild dizziness from the sex and the sudden standing, immediately putting her bottoms on and cursing under her breath.
"Leaving me already?" You said, smirking, filled with pride.
She hated how you were teasing her. She didn't know why you were doing so when you knew she was already feeling shameful about what just happened, when you knew that Alexia was the kind of person who would generally never allow something like that to happen normally.
“Hey,” you said, sitting up slightly, watching her look around for the shoe she took off. “Alexia, c’mon.”
She ignored you.
You frowned, reaching out for her hand. “Don’t leave your princess just after she fucked you.”
Somehow, that was what sent Alexia over the edge. She stopped putting on her shoes and spun around to grab your face, clutching so hard that your lips were almost puckering. "Don't ever disrespect me like that again." She hissed at you.
Your eyes widened at the energy shift. It was your turn to be speechless. Alexia was gripping on to your face firmly. Even if you had something to say, you wouldn't be able to at how tight her grip was.
"Actually, don't talk to me ever again." Alexia let your face go, slightly pushing you to the side as she let your face go. You kept yourself steady with your hands on the bed, looking up to her.
She fully buttoned her pants. She didn’t look back at you. She stormed out of the room, slightly slamming the door behind her.
You sat there, silent. You felt a bit guilty and ashamed. You didn't anticipate her to get this angry at you. Actually, you didn't anticipate anything.
You admittedly just acted on all the pent-up frustration from the past few years. Maybe it was just wanting to get back at her for her rejection years ago. Whatever it was, the feeling of pride dissipated quickly. You knew this was a mess you couldn't easily fix.
"Fuck."
a/n: wooop, anyway messy and didnt bother doing much proofreading but i hope u guys liked it! i so rarely write bottom!Alexia but i hope u guys liked it still. if you did, i'd appreciate a like and reblog! i also have other fics ongoing if any of u are interestedddd. anyway, lmk ur thoughts and please be nice.
if any of u are interested in a part 2, which will be... just more smut with dbf!Alexia, lmk in the comments and if i post it, ill tag everyone.
(another disclaimer: the plot is vaguely reused from an old fic I have published for another fandom. I did not plagiarize because… I wrote it ahahah. Changed some things up but there are a few similarities with my old fic and this one.)
What an amazing fic! I loved the birthday flashback and how you used time + physical distance as factors in the evolution of their relationship. And the tension was top notch!
You and Alexia Putellas have never liked each other.She thinks you’re uptight and impossible to please. You think she’s arrogant, emotionally unavailable, and incapable of committing to anyone for longer than a few months.The only thing you have in common are your best friends, a happily married couple with a one year old daughter.But when a tragic accident leaves that little girl orphaned, everything changes, because hidden inside their will is one final surprise.They named you and Alexia as the legal guardians.
Part 1
Word Count: 5.3k
The first time you met Alexia Putellas, she flirted with the waitress while her date was in the bathroom, that pretty much told you everything you needed to know about her.
Your best friend Sofia had spent months insisting Alexia was “actually really sweet once you got to know her,” but all you saw was arrogance wrapped in expensive perfume and cocky charm. She always walked into rooms like she owned them, like people should be grateful she acknowledged them and worse she knew it.
Alexia thought you were impossible, too guarded, too stubborn, too quick to judge her before she’d even opened her mouth. Every dinner with your mutual friends ended the same way, sharp comments, eye rolls, sarcastic digs disguised as jokes.
The only reason you tolerated each other at all was because of Sofia and her wife Marta, Alexia’s long suffering personal trainer. They were disgustingly in love. The kind of couple who danced in the kitchen while cooking. The kind who left voice notes just to say “drive safe.” The kind who made everyone else at the table feel painfully single.
And then one rainy Thursday night, they were gone.
A drunk driver crossed the centre line on the motorway, neither survived.
You still remembered the way the hospital waiting room spun around you when the social worker gently explained there had been a will.
A plan in the event something happened to both of them.
You and Alexia had been named legal guardians of their one year old daughter, Olivia.
You actually laughed at first not because it was funny, because it made absolutely no sense.
“You’ve got the wrong people,” you told them immediately, voice numb, “There’s no way Sofia chose us.” But she had.
Apparently, months ago over wine and dinner and one of those stupid hypothetical conversations nobody thinks will ever matter. Who would take Olivia if something happened?
Marta had chosen Alexia, Sofia had chosen you, and together, they’d decided Olivia deserved both.
Which was how, three days later, you found yourself standing in Sofia and Marta’s apartment holding a screaming toddler while Alexia argued with a car seat instruction manual like it had personally insulted her.
“This is impossible.”
“It literally clicks in.”
“It does not click in.”
“You’re a professional athlete and you’re losing a fight to plastic.”
Alexia shot you a glare sharp enough to cut glass, “Why is she crying again?”
“She’s one, Alexia.”
“Well what does she want?”
You stared at her in disbelief, “You seriously don’t know?”
“I know footballers, not babies.”
Olivia’s cries only got louder, for one awful second, silence settled between you and Alexia, not angry silence. Scared silence, because underneath the fighting, resentment and grief, the truth sat heavily in the room neither of you knew how to do this and neither of you could walk away.
Olivia needed you.
So when Alexia finally looked at the baby trembling in your arms, eyes red from crying, something in her expression cracked. Just for a second, fear, real fear, “She keeps looking for them,” Alexia whispered quietly.
The comment hit like a punch to the chest, because she was right. Every time the apartment door opened, Olivia turned her head expectantly.
Every time a phone rang, she perked up, waiting, still waiting for her mothers to come home and suddenly your anger toward Alexia didn’t feel nearly as important as the tiny little girl caught between both of your grief.
“She liked when Sofia sang to her,” you murmured.
Alexia swallowed hard, “Marta used to bounce her when she got fussy.”
The baby hiccuped another sob, then slowly, awkwardly, Alexia stepped closer, “Can I…?”
You hesitated before carefully handing Olivia over, at first she looked unnatural in Alexia’s arms, all long limbs and uncertainty but then Olivia grabbed onto the front of her hoodie with tiny fists, and Alexia completely froze. Like that tiny hand had shattered something open inside her.
“She trusts you,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Alexia looked down at Olivia, devastated, “No,” she said softly. “This is Marta's”
🍼
The funeral was a blur of black clothing, damp tissues, and people speaking too softly, you hated how quiet grief made everyone. Like if they lowered their voices enough, maybe it wouldn’t be real.
The chapel overflowed with people, family friends, neighbours. Marta had known half of Barcelona through work, and Sofia somehow collected people everywhere she went. There were flowers lining every wall. Olivia would never understand how loved her mothers were, at least not yet.
You stood near the back during most of it because the front row felt unbearable. Alexia sat there beside Marta’s elderly parents with Olivia asleep against her chest in a tiny black dress and white tights.
The image unsettled you more than it should have, Alexia looked… right, not polished celebrity Alexia Putellas. Not the smug woman you’d spent years rolling your eyes at across dinner tables.
Just a grieving woman holding a baby like she was terrified to let go, Olivia woke halfway through the service and immediately started crying.
The loud, confused cry of a child who didn’t understand why everybody around her smelled like sadness.
You instinctively stepped forward at the same moment Alexia stood up, your shoulders collided lightly, “I’ve got her,” you whispered automatically.
Alexia’s jaw tightened. “I know how to hold a baby.”
“That’s not what I—”
“She’s fine.”
The sharpness in her voice made several nearby people glance over, you immediately backed off, embarrassed, “Fine.”
Alexia disappeared out the chapel doors with Olivia still crying against her shoulder, you tried to ignore the guilt curling in your stomach.
🍼
The wake afterward was somehow worse, too many memories, too many people saying things like they’re in a better place when everybody knew the better place would have been here, with Olivia.
You escaped onto the balcony for air sometime after hour two, Barcelona stretched golden beneath the evening sun, beautiful and indifferent. “You always run away from parties?”
You didn’t turn around, “Only the ones where both hosts are dead.”
Silence, then the balcony door clicked shut behind Alexia. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed she’d changed Olivia into a pale yellow sleepsuit. The baby was finally asleep again against her shoulder, tiny cheek squashed into Alexia’s neck.
“You were rough on me before,” you muttered.
Alexia looked exhausted. “You think today is the day to pick a fight?”
“You started it.”
“You implied I couldn’t comfort her.”
“I implied she was crying.”
Alexia laughed once under her breath, humourless, “There it is.”
“What?”
“That thing you do.”
You frowned, “What thing?”
“You decide who people are immediately.” Alexia shifted Olivia carefully higher against her chest, “You met me once and decided I was selfish. Arrogant. Some woman incapable of caring about anyone but herself.”
“If the shoe fits.”
Her eyes flashed, “You know absolutely nothing about me.”
“And you know everything about me?”
“No,” she snapped, “But I at least know grief isn’t a competition.”
You looked away first, below you, traffic moved through the streets like normal, people walked home from work, couples laughed outside restaurants. The world kept going in the most offensive way possible. “I just…” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “I don’t understand why they picked us.”
Alexia’s expression cracked slightly at that, “Sofia told me once,” she said quietly, you looked back at her, “She said you were the most loyal person she’d ever met.” Alexia swallowed. “She said if Olivia ever lost them, you’d love her enough to survive it.”
The words hit straight through your chest, “And Marta?” you asked softly.
Alexia looked down at the sleeping child in her arms before answering, “She said I’ve spent my whole life running from the idea of being needed.” A bitter smile flickered across her face, “Apparently she thought Olivia would change that.”
You didn’t know what to say to that, for a long moment, the only sound between you was Olivia’s soft breathing.
Alexia adjusted Olivia carefully against her shoulder, one large hand spread protectively over the baby’s back while the other rubbed tiredly over her own face. Up close, she looked wrecked.
Not the polished version the world knew. No cameras. No media training. No perfect hair or sharp little smirks.
Just grief.
“You know what the worst part is?” she said quietly after a while.
You leaned back against the balcony rail, arms folded tightly across your chest against the evening chill. “There’s a lot of options.”
Alexia let out the faintest breath of a laugh.
“She keeps doing new things,” Alexia murmured, looking down at Olivia. “Little things.” Her thumb stroked absentmindedly over the baby’s back. “Yesterday she said ‘up’ properly for the first time.”
Your chest tightened immediately.
“And they missed it,” Alexia finished softly.
The words settled heavy between you, because that was the unbearable thing about death, wasn’t it? Not just the absence. The accumulation. Every future moment stolen too.
First words.
First day of school.
Nightmares.
Birthdays.
Broken hearts.
Sofia and Marta would miss all of it.
Olivia shifted sleepily against Alexia’s chest, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her black blouse. Alexia immediately stilled, instinctive now, protective.
You noticed it before she did, “You’re holding her differently.”
Alexia glanced up, “What?”
“The first day,” you said quietly, “You held her like she was glass.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly, “Now you hold her like she belongs there.”
For a second, something vulnerable crossed Alexia’s face, then she looked away, “She cried for an hour last night.”
You frowned slightly, “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because it was three in the morning.”
“So?”
Alexia’s jaw shifted like she didn’t know what to do with that answer, “I drove around with her.”
“What?”
“She wouldn’t settle.” Alexia shrugged tiredly, “Marta used to say car rides worked sometimes.”
Your eyes widened slightly despite yourself, “You drove around Barcelona at three a.m with a screaming toddler?”
“It worked eventually.”
“And you didn’t think to ask for help?”
That finally pulled Alexia’s eyes back to yours, irritation flickering there again, familiar now, easier than grief, “You think I can’t do one night alone?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It’s what you imply every time you look at me.”
You exhaled sharply, “Why are you so defensive all the time?”
“Why are you so convinced I’m going to fail her?”
The question hit harder than you expected because the answer was immediate and ugly, because you thought Alexia left people. You thought she got bored, detached, restless.
You thought eventually she would decide this was too hard and disappear, leaving you alone to pick up the pieces and maybe Alexia saw some of that on your face because her own expression slowly closed off, “There it is again,” she said quietly.
You looked away first.
Inside the apartment, laughter suddenly erupted from somewhere distant and painful. People trying desperately to force life back into a room that death had gutted clean.
You hated them for it a little, “I saw you once,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.
Alexia frowned faintly.
“At that restaurant near the beach. Maybe two years ago.” Your fingers tightened against your sleeves, “Your date went to the bathroom and you flirted with the waitress right in front of everyone.”
Realisation flickered across Alexia’s face, “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
Alexia actually winced, “She was flirting with me first.”
You stared at her flatly, “That’s your defence?”
“No.” Alexia rubbed a tired hand over her forehead, “My defence is that the woman I was with had spent three months cheating on me.”
Your mouth shut immediately.
Alexia looked back down at Olivia instead of you, “I’d found out an hour earlier.”
The silence that followed felt different, not softer exactly, but uncertain, “I didn’t know that,” you said eventually.
“You never asked.”
The honesty in it stung because she was right. You had decided who Alexia was instantly and never moved from it, but standing here now, watching her sway unconsciously with Olivia sleeping against her chest despite her own exhaustion, the picture didn’t fit together as neatly anymore.
Alexia looked over at you after a moment, quieter now, “Marta used to get so annoyed at me.”
Despite yourself, your lips twitched faintly, “Only annoyed?”
“She said I sabotage anything before it can matter to me.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“She was dramatic.”
“She married Sofia voluntarily. Obviously dramatic.”
The corner of Alexia’s mouth finally lifted properly for the first time all day, small, brief, and God, that somehow hurt worse. Because suddenly you could see exactly why Marta loved her.
The balcony door slid open before either of you could say anything else, Marta’s elderly mother poked her head out carefully, eyes swollen red from crying, “There you both are,” she said softly, “Olivia’s overnight bag is packed.”
The reminder hit immediately, overnight, because Olivia wasn’t going home with Sofia and Marta anymore.
She was going with you and Alexia. Alexia’s face lost all trace of warmth at the exact same moment your stomach dropped.
Neither of you had thought past the first few days and funeral, not really.
Marta’s mother hesitated gently. “Have you discussed… arrangements?”
You and Alexia looked at each other, absolutely not, “I assumed,” you started slowly.
“At your place?” Alexia interrupted at the exact same time.
You both stopped, Marta’s mother looked exhausted already.
Alexia shifted Olivia carefully higher against her chest. “My home has security. Privacy. Extra rooms.”
You blinked, “You live way of the city, it would take me over an hour to get back and to, to work”
“And your flat is better?” Alexia shot back. “Fourth floor with no lift.”
“She can’t even walk yet.”
“She owns a stroller.”
“She also owns me, apparently.”
To your horror, Marta’s mother suddenly laughed, a real laugh wet and startled and exhausted, but real.
You and Alexia both stopped immediately, the older woman pressed trembling fingers against her mouth, eyes filling again. “God,” she whispered shakily. “You sound exactly like them.”
The grief hit so suddenly your chest physically hurt, because you could hear it too now. Sofia’s sarcasm, Marta’s dramatic sighing, the bickering underneath affection.
Alexia looked down abruptly, jaw tight and Olivia, still asleep between both your disasters of a lives, let out one tiny sleepy sigh and reached her little hand outward blindly straight toward you.
In the end, neither of you really argued about it, maybe because you were both too exhausted, maybe because every alternative felt wrong.
So you grabbed Olivia’s overnight bag in tense silence while mourners slowly filtered out of the apartment, and an hour later you found yourself unlocking the door to Sofia and Marta’s home with Alexia standing beside you holding a sleeping toddler and looking just as hollowed out as you felt.
The apartment smelled the same, vanilla candles, laundry detergent and baby shampoo, it was normal, that was the cruelest part. Nothing inside had changed even though everything had.
Alexia carried Olivia to her room while you stood frozen in the kitchen staring at the half finished grocery list still stuck to the fridge.
Milk.
Pasta.
Bananas.
Marta’s terrible handwriting underneath:
tell Sofia to stop buying expensive tomatoes x
Your throat tightened so fast it hurt, from down the hall, you heard Alexia murmuring softly, not words exactly, just noise of comfort.
You found her eventually standing beside the crib in the dim glow of a nightlight shaped like a moon. Olivia had starfished herself across the mattress, one tiny hand curled around the ear of a stuffed rabbit.
Alexia didn’t look up when you entered, “She fought sleep,” she whispered quietly.
“She always did.”
That finally made Alexia glance over at you, “You know a lot.”
You shrugged tightly, “Sofia used to call me every day after work.” Your eyes stayed on Olivia, “Sometimes just to complain about teething.”
A small silence settled, then Alexia carefully pulled the blanket higher over Olivia’s stomach with surprising gentleness, “She snores when she’s really asleep,” Alexia murmured.
You blinked, right on cue, Olivia let out the tiniest snuffling sound in her sleep and despite everything, a breath of laughter escaped you.
Alexia looked startled by the sound, like she hadn’t expected laughter to exist anymore, neither had you.
🍼
An hour later the apartment had gone quiet, too quiet.
You changed into one of Sofia’s oversized university hoodies you found abandoned over the back of a chair because your funeral clothes felt suffocating. Then you grabbed a notepad and pen from the kitchen drawer before heading toward the living room determined to do something practical before your brain collapsed entirely.
The television glow hit first, football commentary second, and then Alexia.
She was sprawled across Sofia and Marta’s sofa like she belonged there, one arm stretched along the back cushions, beer bottle dangling loosely from her fingers while some late night La Liga replay flickered across the screen.
You stopped dead in the doorway, “Really?”
Alexia’s lips came away from the bottle as she looked over lazily, “What?”
You stared at her in disbelief, “We need to sort arrangements.”
“For what?”
You actually laughed once because surely she couldn’t be serious, “For Olivia?” you hissed, “For the fact we apparently have a child now?”
Alexia frowned slightly like that was an overreaction, “She’s asleep.”
“Yes, and tomorrow she’ll still exist.”
“She tends to do that.”
“Oh my God.” You dropped the notepad onto the coffee table harder than intended, “We need a plan.”
Alexia looked back toward the television briefly, “We have one.”
“No, we absolutely do not.”
“She needs feeding, sleeping, nappies changed—”
“She also needs stability. Routine. Clothes. Daycare.” You pointed at her beer, “Apparently one responsible adult.”
Alexia’s eyes narrowed instantly, “I came here, didn’t I?”
The room tightened immediately, you folded your arms, “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you implied.”
“You’re watching football while I’m trying to figure out how we’re supposed to raise a child.”
Alexia set the beer down slowly now, irritation finally surfacing properly, “And what exactly do you want me to do tonight?” she snapped, “Solve the next eighteen years in one conversation?”
“I want you to care.”
The words landed harder than intended, Alexia stared at you, then, very quietly, “That’s unfair.”
For a second guilt flickered unpleasantly in your stomach because she looked genuinely angry now, hurt.
“You think because I’m not panicking visibly that I don’t care?” Alexia leaned forward, forearms braced against her knees, “I am trying not to completely lose my mind in the house our friends are never coming back to.”
The football commentary droned softly in the background, you looked away first.
Alexia rubbed tiredly at her face before speaking again, quieter this time, “Marta used to ask me watch matches here after training.”
Your eyes flicked back toward her despite yourself.
“Sofia would complain the entire time,” Alexia murmured, “‘Nobody normal enjoys this much football.’ she'd say. But then never made us turn it off”
A tiny smile tugged at her mouth briefly before disappearing again.
You sank slowly into the armchair opposite her, exhaustion finally catching up with you.
The notepad sat untouched between you, Alexia reached for the remote and muted the television, the apartment immediately felt heavier.
After a long silence, she nodded toward the notepad, “Fine.” You looked up cautiously, “We'll do arrangements.” You handed her the pen, Alexia took it like it personally offended her, then she stared blankly at the paper for a solid ten seconds before asking, completely serious, “What does a baby actually do all day?”
You stared at Alexia across the coffee table, Alexia stared back completely seriously, “You cannot be this unprepared.”
“She eats, cries and bites people,” Alexia defended, “I know the basics.”
“She’s one, not a raccoon.”
Alexia ignored that, reaching for the notepad instead, “Fine. Explain the tiny dictator’s schedule.”
You exhaled through your nose and dragged the pen back toward yourself, “Okay. Right.” You flipped to a clean page. “We need to figure out our work first.”
Alexia leaned back into the sofa cushions with another tired sigh, “Training starts at nine most mornings. Earlier if it’s gym work.”
You scribbled it down, “And matches?”
“Depends. League games are usually evenings weekends. Champions League can mean extra training.” She paused, “Sometimes away trips are a few days.”
Your pen stopped, because somehow you hadn’t really considered that part yet. Alexia wasn’t just busy, she was one of the most recognisable footballers in the world, her schedule was chaos wrapped in sponsorships and international duty.
You looked up slowly, “You travel a lot.”
Alexia’s expression tightened slightly, defensive instinct kicking in immediately. “I can't help that.”
“I didn’t say you could.”
“You thought it.”
You chose not to answer that. Instead you looked back down at the paper, “My shifts rotate.” You rubbed at your temple, “Usually three long days a week at the hospital. Sometimes nights.”
Alexia blinked, “You do nights?”
“Occasionally.”
“What about Olivia?”
“Well I’m hardly going to leave her alone in the flat.”
Alexia frowned deeply now, properly thinking, “Could your shifts change?”
You laughed once without humour, “In a hospital? Not because my life imploded, no.”
That quieted both of you again, life imploded, it was accurate. Alexia reached for the pen this time, pulling the notepad into the middle of the table between you both, “Okay,” she said, more focused now, “We work around Olivia.”
Something about the wording settled oddly in your chest, not around yourselves, around Olivia. You watched Alexia start drawing lines across the page messily.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
Her handwriting was unexpectedly neat, “You take evenings,” you decided aloud, “Your training’s done by early afternoon most days.”
Alexia nodded slowly, “You’d have mornings then.”
“That works better with my shifts.”
“And nights when i'm away?”
You grimaced, “I can swap some.”
“You shouldn’t have to swap everything.” You looked at her sharply, surprised by the immediate response, Alexia shrugged like it was obvious, “She’s both ours.”
The words landed strangely, because suddenly this wasn’t temporary sounding anymore, not babysitting or helping out, ours.
You looked down quickly before she noticed whatever crossed your face, Alexia tapped the page again, “Match days are harder.”
“Because?”
“I’m gone most of the day to late at night.”
“Right.”
“And after games there’s media, recovery, sometimes team obligations.”
You rubbed a hand over your face, “Jesus Christ.”
Alexia snorted softly. “Exactly what Marta used to say.”
You both fell quiet again at the mention of her. The grief moved strangely between you both now. Less like a wall. More like a third presence sitting silently in the room beside you.
Eventually you cleared your throat, “Okay. So on match days, Olivia stays with me, I'll have to make sure I'm not working.”
Alexia immediately frowned, “That’s not fair.”
“It’s fine.”
“No it's not.”
“It'll have to be, Alexia.”
“That’s not the point.” You blinked at the sharpness in her voice, Alexia looked frustrated suddenly. “I don’t want her feeling like a burden”
The room softened slightly after that, because underneath the bickering, underneath all the sharp edges, there it was again. You looked back down at the timetable quietly, “Neither do I.”
Alexia rubbed slowly at the label on her beer bottle before speaking again changing what needed to be sorted, “Maybe…” She hesitated like the suggestion physically hurt her pride, “Maybe we keep her here.”
You frowned, “Here?”
“In the apartment.” Alexia gestured around vaguely. “Her room is here. Her toys. Her routine.” She swallowed once, “Everything smells like them.” Your chest tightened painfully. “She’s already lost enough. She shouldn't loose her home to." Alexia’s voice had gone very quiet now.
You looked toward the hallway instinctively, toward Olivia asleep down the corridor surrounded by traces of Sofia and Marta everywhere. The moon nightlight, tiny shoes by the door, drawings on the fridge, a life paused halfway through.
“She stays here,” Alexia said again more firmly this time, looking at the timetable. “We come and go.”
You stared at her for a long moment, and annoyingly it was the smartest thing either of you had said all night. “She’d stay in her own bed,” you murmured slowly.
Alexia nodded once, “She keeps her familiarity.”
Another nod, “No moving her between apartments every two days.”
Alexia looked relieved you understood before she quickly hid it behind irritation again, “Obviously.”
You rolled your eyes automatically, “You don’t need to act smug every time you have one good idea.”
“One good idea?” Alexia scoffed, “I’m carrying this operation.”
“You couldn’t install a car seat six hours ago.”
“And yet here I am, solving custody logistics.” Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Alexia looked startled again by the sound, then smugly, “There she is,” she murmured.
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Too late.”
You shook your head but the tension in the room had shifted now, just slightly, not gone, it'll probably never gone, but softer around the edges.
Together, you both kept scribbling across the timetable for another hour, training schedules, hospital shifts, night feeds, daycare possibilities, trying to find a solution for those hours neither of you would be able to be home with Olivia.
There were arguments, Alexia insisted toddlers could probably survive on pasta and fruit pouches alone.
You informed her that counted as nutritional neglect. You argued over bedtime routines, screen time, whether babies needed tiny expensive shoes before they could even walk properly.
But underneath every disagreement sat the same desperate, fragile goal to keep Olivia safe and loved. Keep Olivia happy enough to survive losing the centre of her entire world.
Sometime after midnight, you both ended up sitting cross legged on the floor surrounded by papers and half empty mugs of coffee, staring at the chaotic timetable that now controlled both your lives.
Alexia looked exhausted, you probably did too
🍼
The next morning felt unnervingly normal, which somehow made everything worse.
Olivia woke at six thirty screaming for a banana she immediately refused to eat. By seven, there was yoghurt in your hair, one sock missing entirely, and a children’s cartoon theme tune looping through the apartment loudly enough to qualify as psychological warfare.
You were exhausted, not normal tired bone deep exhausted, the kind where your body felt heavy and your thoughts moved slower than usual.
You’d barely slept after finally collapsing onto Sofia and Marta’s sofa around two in the morning, and Olivia had apparently decided grief meant separation anxiety because every time you stepped more than two feet away from her she burst into tears again.
By midday, the apartment looked like a tiny hurricane had passed through.
Toy blocks covered the rug, one of Olivia’s stuffed animals floated face down in a mug of cold coffee.
You had somehow changed three nappies, watched the same animated rabbit sing about vegetables six times, and cried quietly in the kitchen while sterilising bottles because Sofia used to do this exact thing standing in this exact spot.
Alexia still hadn’t shown up, you checked your phone again.
2:41 PM. Nothing. No message. No warning. No call, your shift starts at three.
You bounced Olivia absently on your hip while trying not to spiral into outright fury, “She said she’d be here,” you muttered more to yourself than the baby.
Olivia shoved sticky fingers into your cheek.
“Thank you for your emotional support.”
The front door remained stubbornly silent, by 2:52, you were pacing, at 2:56, you were fully angry, at exactly 3:07 PM, the apartment door finally unlocked.
You spun around so fast Olivia startled against your shoulder and there she was. Alexia walked into the apartment wearing training gear and sunglasses like this was any other afternoon, bag slung over one shoulder, completely unhurried.
“Hi,” she said casually, kicking the door shut behind her.
You stared at her in disbelief, then at the clock, then back at her, “You’re late.”
Alexia blinked once, slowly pulling off her sunglasses, “By seven minutes.”
“Seven minutes after my shift started.”
“You said three-ish.”
“I absolutely did not say three-ish.”
Alexia dropped her bag beside the sofa, “Training ran over.”
“And you couldn’t text?”
“I was driving.”
“For forty minutes?”
She opened her mouth, closed it again, “Okay,” Alexia admitted reluctantly. “I forgot”
You actually laughed once because the alternative was screaming.
Olivia immediately sensed the tension and started whining softly against your shoulder, Alexia’s expression shifted the second she noticed.
“Oh, hey Livvy,” she murmured instantly softer, stepping closer.
Olivia reached toward her automatically, the betrayal stung a little, “Unbelievable,” you muttered while transferring her carefully across.
Alexia took Olivia with practiced ease now, settling her easily against her hip. The baby immediately grabbed fistfuls of Alexia’s hoodie string with a sleepy little sigh, like she’d been waiting.
Something sharp twisted unexpectedly in your chest.
Alexia noticed your expression immediately, “What?”
“You can’t just wander in whenever you feel like it,” you snapped, grabbing your jacket off the chair, “This isn’t optional, Alexia.”
Her face hardened slightly at your tone, “I know that.”
“Do you?” You gestured around the apartment helplessly, “Because this morning Olivia cried for twenty minutes because I went to the toilet without her and I had to call my supervisor to beg for a delayed start because apparently my co-parent thinks punctuality is a suggestion.”
Alexia’s jaw tightened immediately at the word co-parent, “Training changed last minute.”
“So you call.”
“I said I forgot.”
“And I’m saying you don’t get to forget anymore!”
The words cracked louder than intended through the apartment, silence followed instantly, Olivia startled in Alexia’s arms, lower lip wobbling dangerously.
Alexia immediately bounced her gently, “Hey, hey, no, cariño…” The softness in her voice hit like emotional whiplash after the argument.
You dragged a hand over your face immediately, guilt crashing in, “I’m not yelling at you,” you muttered quietly toward Olivia.
“She knows,” Alexia said shortly, still soothing the baby.
The apartment went quiet except for Olivia’s little sniffling breaths. You grabbed your bag harder than necessary, “I can’t do this alone.”
The admission slipped out before you could stop it, Alexia looked up then, irritation flashing immediately into something sharper, “You think I’m not trying?”
“You forgot.”
“I was at training.”
“You were supposed to be here.”
“And I am here now.”
“That’s not how responsibility works!”
Alexia scoffed suddenly, exhausted and angry all at once, “Right, because you’ve been doing this perfectly?”
The comment hit instantly, your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You keep acting like you’re the only one grieving here.”
“Oh, don’t do that.”
“You look at me like I’m one mistake away from abandoning her.”
Because you were, the silence after that was ugly, too honest, Alexia saw it on your face immediately and for the first time since all this started, something genuinely hurt crossed her expression.
“There it is,” she said quietly.
You looked away first, Olivia made another upset little noise between you both, tiny fingers tangled tightly in Alexia’s hoodie.
You suddenly couldn’t breathe in the apartment anymore, couldn’t stand the toys everywhere, the grief everywhere, Alexia everywhere.
You snatched your keys off the counter.
“Where are you going?” Alexia asked sharply.
“To work.”
“You’re upset.”
“No shit.”
“Don’t walk out like this.”
You laughed once, humourless, “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
Alexia shifted Olivia higher against her chest, frustration radiating off her now too, “We’re supposed to be figuring this out together.”
“Well maybe try showing up first.”
The words landed hard, Alexia’s face closed off immediately and guilt flickered for maybe half a second before exhaustion smothered it completely.
You headed for the door, behind you, Olivia started crying properly now, distressed by the shouting, reaching one tiny hand toward you over Alexia’s shoulder.
The sound nearly stopped you, nearly, but Alexia held her tighter instead, jaw clenched, “Go then,” she snapped quietly. "Before you upset her anymore than you already have"
So you did.
The apartment door slammed harder than intended behind you, echoing down the hallway and even halfway down the stairs, you could still hear Olivia crying upstairs.
Summary: You have the flu from hell. And if there’s one thing you are determined to do, it’s to keep Alexia away from you. The only issue? You haven’t told her you’re sick yet…
Word count: 10,767
Pairing: Alexia x Reader
Warnings: None! Except dramatic reader…
For main story: MASTERLIST
A/n: Based on this request. This was so much fun to write, so thank you anon for requesting it 😊 see end for more notes
——————————————————————————————————————
On any other occasion, you’d feel incredibly guilty for behaving like this. You try to be a good partner. A good girlfriend. Supportive, honest. You’d do anything for Alexia. Anything.
And she’d do anything for you. You know that without a doubt.
Which is exactly why you’re avoiding her.
Because you’re trying to protect her.
Sure, from Alexia’s perspective, her girlfriend has essentially vanished off the face of the earth for four days, but that’s beside the point.
This is a noble sacrifice. A selfless act.
A heroic, flu-ridden quarantine. You’re practically a martyr, really.
You realise how insane that sounds almost immediately, but unfortunately the fever has decided it’s a perfectly rational train of thought, so here you are.
Guilt twists in your chest, sharp enough to rival the ache in your throat. You feel awful. Literally and figuratively. Your head is pounding, your body heavy beneath the duvet, every swallow like dragging sandpaper down your throat.
Alexia doesn’t deserve this. But she deserves getting ill even less. That’s what you keep telling yourself while ignoring her third call of the day.
It’s not even eleven in the morning and already you’re not sure how much longer you can keep this up.
Because you can’t answer.
You can barely speak, your throat feels like sandpaper, and if she hears your voice, she’ll know instantly something’s wrong. Then she’ll insist on coming over, and that absolutely cannot happen.
Because Alexia Putellas getting taken down by whatever mutant flu strain currently possesses your body would actually haunt you forever.
So instead, you pull up your messages.
You: Sorry baby, can’t talk right now
Alexia: Amor, please just tell me what’s wrong
You: Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine
Alexia: I haven’t seen you for four days. You’re avoiding my calls. You won’t even video call.
Yeah, and for good reason. You look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a bush ten times over.
You feel like it too.
You: Baby, everything’s okay. I’m just busy at the moment but I’ll talk to you soon, promise.
It physically hurts to send that.
To lie.
You told yourself you were done with secrets, yet here you are lying through your teeth to the person you love more than anything.
God, you’re awful. An actual villain.
No reply comes, meaning she’s either taken the hint… or you’ve upset her enough that she’s ignoring you back.
She doesn’t deserve this, but it’s for her own good!
She’ll understand.
Hopefully.
It started four days ago. The morning after you’d spent the weekend at Alexia’s. At first it was just a tickle in your throat, nothing concerning. But it deteriorated quickly. By that afternoon, you felt like you’d been hit by a semi-truck. You left work early and haven’t been back since. You’re trying to protect your colleagues too.
You thought about working from home, but even looking at your laptop felt like needles being shoved into your eyes.
It’s not like you haven’t had the flu before. Plenty of times. But this? This was different. This was the flu on steroids.
The entire first night was spent shivering beneath the blankets, only to wake up feeling like someone had replaced your blood with molten lava. You barely left your bed except for miserable trips to the bathroom. Day three gave you false hope. The headache eased enough that you could actually move without feeling like death, and you even made it to the sofa, mostly because you were sick of staring at your bedroom walls. But the relief didn’t last long.
You still feel like shit.
Every attempt to eat turns your stomach. You’ve been forcing yourself to drink water even though every swallow feels like pins down your throat.
Safe to say, you are not winning this battle.
And you are definitely not being a good girlfriend.
It was easy to get away with at first.
The first day, you were honest. You told her you had a headache and probably wouldn’t text much that night. Luckily, she had training the next morning, so the messages stayed minimal.
But by the evening, her curiosity was already piqued.
She’d called. You ignored it, claiming you were trying to finish a project. Except she already knew you’d wrapped up a major one the week before, and there was no way you were suddenly this deep into another.
Still, she bought it. Or at least pretended to.
But then the excuses started running thin. You managed to answer one call after she threatened to come over, quickly blurting out something about needing to help Maria with something. Since then, it’s only been texts. Your throat’s worse now, too wrecked to survive a conversation, and there’s absolutely no way you can let her see your face.
There’s no doubt about it anymore. She knows you’re avoiding her. She doesn’t know you’ve not left your apartment in four days. She probably thinks you’re going to work, carrying on normally. Or maybe she doesn’t think that anymore.
God, what if she thinks you’re cheating?
Before you can spiral any further, your phone finally buzzes.
Alexia: Bebé, please
Alexia: Have I done something wrong?
Your heart actually cracks at that.
Alexia: Please just tell me so I can fix it
You: No baby, you’ve done nothing wrong, I promise
You: Please don’t worry
You briefly consider pulling the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line, because technically it’s true. But that’s probably the worst possible thing you could say right now.
She’ll definitely think you’re cheating then.
Your phone rings again.
Fuck.
You let it ring out. At this point, you’ve already cemented your status as being the world’s worst girlfriend, so apparently you may as well commit to the bit.
Another text comes through almost instantly.
Alexia: Amor, I’m serious now. Please answer me.
You sigh, staring at the message.
Well, what are you supposed to say to that? You’ve already used every excuse in the book. At this point you’re two texts away from faking your own death.
You type anyway, hoping something here will calm her down.
You: I’m sorry I’m being awful.
You: I miss you.
You: I just need you to trust me a little longer.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Alexia: Trust you? Amor, what’s going on??
Alexia: Are you in trouble?
Alexia: Please just tell me so I can help
Great.
Now she’s think you’re in danger.
Which, technically you are. But only because your immune system appears to have declared war on the rest of your body.
You’re trying desperately not to dig this hole any deeper, but somehow every text makes things worse.
You: No one’s in trouble, baby. I’ll explain everything soon.
You: I promise.
You drop your phone beside you with a groan, suddenly too exhausted to keep up with your own lies. Your headache’s already creeping back, pressure building behind your eyes.
Curling deeper beneath the blanket, you shut your eyes and hope sleep fixes at least one of your problems.
Because yes, you’re being awful. But once you tell her the truth, she’ll understand.
Hopefully.
————Alexia———
“I just don’t understand!” Alexia huffs, dropping onto the bench between drills. Patri sits beside her, grabbing two water bottles and handing one over.
“What did she say exactly?” Patri asks carefully, like she’s trying to piece together a crime scene.
“Nothing. That’s the problem!” Alexia says, twisting the cap off her bottle far more aggressively than necessary.
“She was completely fine on Sunday. Nothing seemed weird. I dropped her home, we kissed goodbye, said we’d talk the next day…”
She takes a frustrated drink before continuing.
“And since then? Barely anything. She ignores my calls, keeps saying she’s busy with work, or with Maria, or that she has a headache.”
Alexia frowns.
“She wouldn’t even video call me.”
Patri shrugs lightly. “Well… did you do something?”
Alexia turns to her immediately. “No!”
Then, quieter, “…At least… I don’t think I did.”
Patri hums thoughtfully, sipping her water.
“Maybe she just wants some space.”
Alexia’s expression drops almost instantly.
“…Space?”
Patri notices immediately.
“No-no, I didn’t mean it like that,” she says quickly. “I just mean maybe something’s going on. She’s never acted like this before, right?”
Alexia shakes her head. “Never.”
And that’s the part driving her insane.
If Y/n was angry, Alexia could handle that. If there was a problem, she’d fix it. But this? Being shut out completely?
It’s eating her alive.
“Then there’s probably a reason,” Patri says gently. “Give her a little time. Try again later, see what she says.”
Alexia’s expression tightens, uncertainty flickering across her face.
“And if she doesn’t answer?”
Patri opens her mouth. Pauses.
Apparently she’s run out of reassuring things to say. Before either of them can continue, the coach calls training back to order. Saved by the bell.
“Come on, Capi,” Patri says, patting her shoulder as she stands. “Channel that frustration into the football before you start stress-texting her paragraphs.”
Alexia barely cracks a smile as Patri jogs back onto the pitch.
Four days.
Four days of being practically ignored for reasons she still doesn’t understand.
Something uncomfortable twists in her stomach. What if she has done somewhat wrong? What if Y/n doesn’t want to see her?
Alexia drags both hands down her face with a groan.
Enough. She can’t go on like this.
She’s finding out what’s going on.
One way or another.
———————————
Alexia pulls up smoothly along the curb outside Y/n’s office building. A complete contrast to how she feels.
Is this too much?
She doesn’t want to be that girlfriend. The kind who needs to know everything, who tracks where her partner is every second of the day.
The thought alone makes her feel sick.
Y/n doesn’t owe her constant updates. She trusts her. Completely. She’s her own person, allowed her own space, her own life. Alexia would always respect that.
But none of that settles the twist in her stomach. If she can just see her, just know she’s okay, then she’ll leave her alone. She’ll give her whatever space she wants.
Honestly, if Y/n opened the door right now and told Alexia to fuck off, she’d probably accept it.
Confused? Yes. Deeply offended? Maybe a little.
But at least she’d know she was okay.
That’s all Alexia wants.
She already tried calling again on the drive over.
Ignored. Again.
At this point, she’s not even sure why she keeps expecting a different result. Alexia steps out of the car and heads towards the building entrance, pressing the buzzer beside the door.
Someone answers almost immediately.
“Good afternoon, how may we help?”
“Hola, it’s Alexia. Can I come up?”
There’s a tiny gasp on the other end. Alexia can’t help smiling a little. She’s been here plenty of times, but Y/n’s coworkers still react like a celebrity’s randomly appeared in reception.
“Of course, Ms Putellas — I mean, Alexia. Please come up.”
The buzzer clicks. Alexia heads upstairs towards the office, but the door swings open before she even has a chance to knock.
“Alexia! Ay dios mio, it’s so good to see you!”
Maria immediately pulls her into a hug. Alexia laughs softly in surprise, hugging her back anyway.
She literally saw Maria last week, but the woman always greets her like they’ve reunited after war. It’s oddly endearing.
Maria steps back quickly. “Sorry, come in, come in.”
Alexia follows her inside, eyes instantly scanning the office. Some coworkers wave. Some immediately pretend to be busy. Others openly stare.
She recognises all of them.
But no Y/n.
“So, what can we do for you?” Maria asks cheerfully.
Alexia looks back at Maria. “I was actually hoping to speak to Y/n. Is she around?”
Maria blinks.
“Y/n? She’s at home, isn’t she?”
Alexia frowns.
“…Home?”
“Sí.” Maria tilts her head slightly. “She went home on Monday. We haven’t seen her since.”
Then Maria pauses, her expression shifting. “Wait… Alexia, is she okay?”
Alexia just stares at her for a second, trying to catch up with the conversation.
Home.
Since Monday.
Y/n hasn’t been avoiding her to go out or spend time with someone else. She’s been home the entire time.
“Why did she go home?” Alexia asks slowly.
Maria looks even more confused now, like the answer should be obvious.
“Because she was sick.”
Sick.
Y/n is sick.
Alone.
For days.
And she never told Alexia.
A horrible mix of relief, confusion, guilt, and irritation crashes into her all at once.
Why wouldn’t she tell her?
“Alexia?”
She blinks, pulled from her thoughts. Maria’s watching her carefully now.
“Sí—sí. Everything’s fine,” Alexia says quickly, even though she very clearly looks like someone’s just short-circuited her brain. “I just… I need to go. But thank you.”
She offers an awkward little wave that somehow makes the situation even stranger before turning and heading back out of the office.
Maria watches her leave, completely baffled.
“…What the hell is wrong with those two?” she mutters to herself.
————You———
You’re dragged out of your nap by the sound of your phone buzzing beside you.
Eughhh. What excuse are you supposed to come up with this time?
You squint at the screen, expecting Alexia’s name. But it’s not Alexia.
Maria: Chica
Maria: Why has your girlfriend just turned up at work looking like she’s about to file a missing person’s report?
Your eyes widen. You sit upright instantly, which is a massive mistake because the room spins immediately.
Okay. Maybe sitting up was ambitious.
You wait for a second for the dizziness to settle before typing back.
You: WHAT??
You: What did you tell her??
Maria: erm… the truth??
Maria: Chica, please tell me you did not forget to mention to YOUR GIRLFRIEND that you’ve been sick for four days?!?!
You: MARIA NOOO
Maria: Y/N WHAT DO YOU MEAN NOOO????
Maria: You’ve been decomposing on your sofa for four days and you told her EVERYTHING WAS FINE?!
Maria: Ay dios mio
You: Maria! You should have lied!
Maria: How was I supposed to know I needed to lie???
Maria: And why would I lie to Alexia fucking Putellas???
You: Because you’re supposed to be MY FRIEND!
Maria: I didn’t know there was a script!
Maria: If you had warned me beforehand, I would have at least considered it.
You: You literally just said you wouldn’t lie to her
Maria: 🤷♀️ depends on the lie.
Maria: This is a terrible lie btw
Maria: You should have seen her face. You’ve emotionally terrorised that woman
You: NO NO NO NO NO
You: I was trying to protect her!
Maria: ????
Maria: By lying to her???
Maria: Chica I love you but what the fuck
You: stop judging me! It made sense in my head!
You: If she knows I’m sick then she’ll come here
You: and that CANNOT happen!
The second you hit send—
Buzzzz!
Your entire body freezes.
Slowly you turn your head towards the doorway of the living room.
FUCK.
You: FUCK MARIA SHE’S HERE
Maria: Sorry chica but this is entirely your fault
Maria: Good luck with that
You: 🖕
The buzzing stops.
You exhale carefully, which mostly turns into a pathetic wheeze thanks to your throat.
Looking back at your messages, guilt twists in your stomach a little. You’ve lied to Alexia. Now you’ve dragged Maria into your nonsense too.
Which, okay, arguably is part of a best friend’s job description. But still.
You: sorry, I love you really
There’s a brief pause.
Maria: I love you too
Maria: but genuinely good luck because she looked one missed phone call away from kicking the door down.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!
This time it doesn’t stop.
Just one long, relentless buzz, like Alexia’s decided she’s going to haunt your building until someone lets her in.
Fuck.
Groaning, you drag yourself off the sofa and stumble towards the intercom in the hallway. You press the button but don’t say anything.
Because technically… there’s still a tiny chance it’s not Alexia.
“… Amor?”
Fuck.
You let your forehead fall against the wall. There’s no getting out of this now.
“…Sí?” you croak.
There’s a soft exhale on the other end. Relief. Stress. Probably both.
“Amor,” Alexia says carefully, “let me up.”
You close your eyes, finger still pressed on the buzzer.
“No.”
Another exhale from the other side of the intercom, like Alexia’s physically forcing herself to stay patient.
“Bebé, please. I just want to see you.”
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because this is better for both of us.”
“Amor, I know you’re sick.”
“Sí, and you should understand why that means you need to stay very far away from me.”
“I’m struggling to see how this is helping.”
You groan quietly, leaning harder against the wall.
“Please, Alexia. I feel like shit, I look worse, and I cannot deal with this right now. I’m doing this for you.”
There’s a pause.
“Me?… Qué?”
You exhale.
“Just go. Please. Save yourself while still you can.”
“Madre mia,” she mutters, definitely not quietly enough. “Amor, will you please just let me see you?”
“No! You can’t come anywhere near me.”
“Amor—”
“I’m serious Alexia. This is proof enough I’m alive. So you can leave.”
“Amor—”
“Baby, I love you more than anything. But please just let me rot in peace, and I’ll see you when I’m better. I promise.”
“Amor—”
You lift your finger of the buzzer. And yes, you feel a little bad for cutting her off, but this is for the best. She can be angry, upset, disappointed, whatever. You deserve it.
But at least she’ll be safe.
Slowly, you shuffle back towards the living room, fully intending to collapse dramatically onto the sofa again.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
You stop dead.
Another knock.
Surely not—
“… Amor?”
Fuck.
You groan loudly this time.
Then comes more knocking. Relentless knocking. Oh, she’s doing this on purpose now.
You drag yourself back to the door.
“How did you even get in?” you call through the door.
“Your neighbour let me up.”
“Eugh. Traitor.”
“Let me in.”
You tighten the blanket around you, leaning against the wall.
“Alexia. I’m not opening the door.”
“Bebé, I will kick this door down if I have to. You know I will.”
“Then you can explain to my landlord why you damaged the property.”
“I will happily do so.”
You actually whine at that.
“Alexiaaa, please. Just gooo.”
“Amor, I am not leaving until you open this door and let me see you.”
“I don’t want you near me.”
There’s a softer pause on the other side now.
“Then don’t let me near you,” she says gently. “Just open the door.”
Her voice softens slightly.
“Please, bebé.”
You sigh heavily, losing both the will to live and the energy to keep this up.
The worst part is you want to open the door. You’ve missed her so much it physically hurts.
But you’ve committed to this stupid plan for four entire days now. You can’t fail at the final hurdle.
You walk over slowly, resting your forehead against the door.
“Alexia, please. I’ve successfully avoided you for four days. A sacrifice I made for both of us. This hasn’t exactly been fun for me either.”
“Bebé,” she says softly, “I would do anything for you. Anything. But please just let me see you.”
“Alexia—”
A softer exhale. Then quieter, “… Please.”
Fuck.
How are you supposed to say no when she sounds like that?
With a defeated groan, you unlock the door and pull it open the tiniest amount. Alexia immediately leans towards the gap. Her expression softens instantly, relief flooding her face, but not completely.
Her voice softens. “Can you open it fully?”
“No.”
She just stares at you.
You hesitate, then relent. “Fine… but don’t move. Actually, take three steps backwards.”
She almost smiles, shaking her head, but does it anyway.
You cautiously pull the door open wider before immediately retreating several steps back yourself.
Finally, there’s nothing separating you. Alexia’s expression softens even further at the sight of you.
You probably look horrific. Sweater hanging off one shoulder, hair resembling a small electrical fire, blanket still wrapped around you like a tragic Victorian orphan.
But despite everything, you can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth now that you can finally see her. She’s obviously come straight from training, hair still damp at the ends from a rushed shower, dressed in her tracksuit like she came here without even stopping to think twice.
God, you missed her.
Alexia smiles too, though it disappears quickly.
“You ignored me for four days because you have the flu?”
Your own smile drops immediately.
“Not just the flu, Alexia. This thing is lethal.”
She shakes her head and steps forward instinctively.
You jerk backwards at once, hand flying up.
“Hey-whoa! What are you doing?!”
“I’m coming in, amor.”
“What?! No, that wasn’t the deal! You said you just wanted to see me. You’ve seen me. Now you can leave.”
“Sí, but that was before I saw the state of you. I can’t leave you like this.”
“Sí, sí you can. And you will.”
Alexia’s expression softens despite herself.
“Amor, you know I think you are the most beautiful person in the world. I love you regardless… but you look terrible right now.”
You stare at her.
“Wow. Charming.”
“Let me take care of you.”
She steps forward again. You immediately retreat.
“No! Don’t move. Do not come any closer.”
“Why?”
“Because I will NOT be responsible for the death of La Reina!”
Your voice comes out louder than intended, and immediately breaks into a croak halfway through.
Alexia blinks, clearly fighting back a smile now.
“… Amor, you are not going to kill me.”
“You don’t know that.”
You point at her accusingly. “And stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing,” she says, very obviously trying not to laugh.
She takes another step, finally inside the apartment now, and closes the door behind her. The two of you stare at each other for a moment like some sort of Wild West standoff.
And you are absolutely not going down without a fight.
“Alexia,” you warn, exhaustion creeping in, “you cannot come any closer. I don’t want you suffering through this too.”
“Amor, I’ll survive.”
Her voice softens.
“I just want to take care of you.”
“I’m fine,” you insist. But even you can hear how pathetic that sounds.
Your energy’s fading fast now, the effort of standing up and arguing starting to catch up with you.
Alexia notices immediately.
“Bebé,” she says gently, taking another careful step forward, “you need to sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to faint.”
“I’m just tired,” you mumble. “You’ve exhausted me.”
Alexia actually looks a little guilty at that.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she says softly. “But I’m here now. Let me help you.”
You narrow your eyes, trying to maintain at least some dignity.
“Fine,” you grumble eventually. “But stay away from me.”
Alexia rolls her eyes.
“Most people would say thank you.”
“Most people clearly don’t understand sacrifice.”
That finally earns a proper laugh.
“You and your sacrifices.”
You groan dramatically and drag yourself back to the sofa, Alexia following close behind. Too close behind, for your liking.
You collapse into the cushions and blankets like you’ve just completed a marathon instead of walking ten feet across the room.
Alexia watches you fondly.
“Shut up,” you mumble without opening your eyes.
She smiles. “When did you last eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“… I had toast this morning.”
Her brows lift immediately.
“Amor, it’s nearly five.”
You shrug weakly. Alexia finally takes in the state of the apartment properly. It looks horrific. Empty cups and water bottles cover every available surface. Tissues are scattered across the floor. One blanket has somehow ended up half inside out.
Honestly, it looks less like you’ve had the flu, and more like you’ve survived a natural disaster. Normally, you’d be embarrassed. Right now, you barely have the energy to care.
Alexia looks back at you.
“Have you taken anything? Medicine?”
“I had some paracetamol.”
“Had?”
“… I ran out.”
She gives you a look that somehow manages to be equal parts concern, disappointment, and of course you did.
Then she heads to the kitchen, opening cupboards.
“You seriously don’t have anything else here?”
“No,” you groan from the sofa. “I’m letting it run its course. Medicine won’t make it go away any quicker.”
“No,” Alexia says patiently, grabbing a clean glass, “but it will stop you acting like you’re on your deathbed.”
She fills the glass with water and brings it over carefully.
“Here, bebé. Drink.”
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. Alexia immediately rolls hers and places the glass on the floor instead before stepping backwards dramatically.
“There. Safe.”
You reach for it, grateful despite yourself. Swallowing still hurts like hell, but the cold water helps.
“You need to sleep, amor.”
“Yeah, I was trying to do that before you started harassing me through the intercom.”
This time she genuinely looks guilty.
“Try to rest,” she says softly. “I’m going to the pharmacy to get you some things. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
She pauses near the doorway. “Also, I’m taking your keys.”
You groan dramatically from beneath the blankets.
“Don’t bother coming back,” you mumble in protest.
But the front door is already closing behind her.
Honestly, you don’t even have the energy to argue properly anymore. Sleep is already dragging you under again.
————Alexia———
Alexia prides herself on being a calm and patient person. Years of elite football have practically trained it into her. She doesn’t survive matches against certain teams without learning restraint.
But as she stands in the pharmacy aisle staring at flu medication, she starts to wonder how she’s managing to stay this patient right now.
The flu.
Four days of ignored called, cryptic texts, emotional distress, and near psychological warfare… because of the flu.
She shakes her head, half tempted to laugh right there in the middle of the aisle. She isn’t angry. Not really.
How could she be?
The whole thing is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
And somehow that only makes Alexia love her more. Though admittedly, right now, she is testing every ounce of patience she has.
Alexia grabs far more medicine than is probably necessary, just in case. Then she heads to the supermarket, filling a basket with fruit, vegetables, bread, tea, and enough groceries to survive a minor apocalypse.
Because apparently if left alone, Y/n will simply consume a slice of toast and perish quietly on the sofa.
By the time she lets herself back into the apartment, she’s hoping Y/n managed to fall asleep.
It’s quiet.
As she peeks into the living room, she finds her exactly where she left her, curled beneath a mountain of blankets, mouth slightly parted, soft snores filling the room.
Alexia immediately softens.
God.
She loves her so much.
Even when she’s being impossibly dramatic.
Especially then, honestly.
She steps closer, moving as quietly as possible because God forbid she wakes up and catches her violating her extremely strict stay away from me before I infect you rules.
The blanket has slipped halfway off her shoulder. Gently, she pulls it back up, tucking her in properly. She hesitates for a moment before brushing a few strands of hair away from her face, her thumb grazing softly across her cheek.
The first time Alexia’s touched her in four days.
Y/n melts into it instinctively, even asleep.
Alexia’s chest aches at how warm and soft she feels beneath her fingertips. It takes genuine effort to step away again. Mostly because she knows if she wakes up and realises Alexia touched her, she’ll probably start acting like Alexia’s signed her own death warrant.
Quietly, she heads into the kitchen and starts unpacking everything she bought. Then she makes the mistake of looking around again.
Madre mía.
The apartment looks disastrous. Cups everywhere. Empty bottles on nearly every surface. Tissues scattered around like confetti after a very depressing party. And when she goes to the bedroom, it somehow looks even worse.
Alexia stands in the doorway for a moment, hands resting on her hips as she takes in the chaos. The bed is completely stripped of any sense of order, sheets twisted, blankets half on, half off, bunched like they’ve been fought with. Tissues are scattered everywhere, clothes dumped on the floor, and the room still feels heavy and stale from four days of being shut in.
She cracks a window open slightly to let fresh air in.
Then she exhales slowly, already mentally organising everything she needs to do.
Right.
Y/n clearly cannot be trusted to take care of herself properly. Which means Alexia is taking over.
Whether she likes it or not.
————You———
You’re not sure what pulls you from your sleep. If you even really slept at all. Honestly, for a moment, you wonder if you died in your sleep. You certainly feel like it.
Slowly, you crack one eye open. Your vision blurs at first, but eventually you make out the kitchen light glowing softly in the corner. Then you hear her moving around.
Fuck.
Not loudly. Just quiet movement. Cabinets opening, dishes clinking softly, the sound of someone making themselves useful.
You shift slightly, muscles aching from lying in the same position for hours, and a weak groan slips from your throat. Almost immediately, Alexia appears around the corner, her jacket gone now, leaving her in just a soft white T-shirt and joggers.
“Amor?”
You groan again in response.
Her expression softens instantly.
“You’re still here,” you mumble, voice even rougher after sleeping and all your earlier arguing.
She smiles slightly. “Sorry to disappoint.”
You attempt to sit up. It takes far more effort than it should, involving several painful manoeuvres and enough heavy breathing to suggest you’ve just climbed a mountain rather than move six inches on a sofa.
Alexia walks over quickly, both hands occupied.
“Here, bebé. I made you honey and lemon tea.”
She lifts a small bottle slightly. “But first, take this. It’ll help your throat.”
Instinctively, you try leaning backwards, subtly hinting that she should not come any closer. Unfortunately, the sofa limits how dramatic your retreat can be, and Alexia ignores it entirely anyway.
You eye her suspiciously, though honestly you’re too exhausted to argue anymore.
She kneels carefully in front of you, pouring the medicine onto a spoon. You watch her quietly as she does it, warmth blooming in your chest. You’ve been awful to her for four straight days and she’s still here. Still taking care of you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Here,” she says softly, holding the spoon out carefully, her other hand beneath it in case it spills.
You lean forward and take the medicine. It tastes horrific, bitter enough to make your face twist instantly, but almost as soon as you swallow, the raw burn in your throat eases a little.
She smiles fondly before handing you the mug of tea.
“Drink,” she says softly. “It’ll help.”
You manage a quiet, “Gracias,” wrapping your hands around the warmth of the mug. The first sip almost makes you emotional. Actual flavour. A dramatic improvement from the lukewarm water you’ve been surviving on.
You blink a few times, feeling slightly more human now, and glance around properly. The apartment is spotless. Suspiciously spotless.
“Baby…” you say slowly. “Did you tidy up?”
“Sí.”
You stare at her for a long moment.
“Did you at least wear gloves?” you ask weakly.
Alexia blinks, caught off guard for a second before the corners of her mouth twitch upward.
“No. Believe it or not, I didn’t bring medical-grade protective equipment with me.”
Then, softer this time, “I washed my hands after, though. If that helps.”
You study her carefully, still clearly trying to calculate the odds of her getting sick just from existing near you. Finally, you nod once.
“Okay. Good.”
Your eyes drift back to her. She’s still kneeling in front of you, looking at you like you’re something precious. Like loving you is the easiest thing she’s ever done.
Guilt twists sharply in your chest.
Before you can spiral too far into that thought, another smell catches your attention. “What’s that?”
Alexia smiles slightly.
“Soup. It’s ready if you think you can eat.”
You blink at her.
“You made me soup?”
“Sí. Vegetable soup.” Her expression softens further. “Mi mamí used to make it for us whenever we got sick.”
Something warm settles in your chest at that.
“You didn’t have to do all this, baby.”
“I did,” she says simply. “And I wanted to.”
Then with a pointed look around the apartment.
“Because whatever you’ve been doing the last four days clearly hasn’t been working.”
You shrug weakly.
“I survived.”
“Barely.”
She stands and heads into the kitchen, returning a moment later with with a tray balanced carefully in her hands. The second the soup reaches you, the smell hits properly. Herbs, vegetables, warmth. Your stomach immediately wakes up.
You offer a weak smile. “Thank you, baby.”
Alexia smiles before glancing towards the empty space beside you.
“May I sit?”
You nod slowly.
“… As far away as possible though.”
She rolls her eyes fondly, rearranging some blankets before sitting at the opposite end of the sofa.
You take a careful spoonful, letting it cool for a second before swallowing. It’s incredible. Rich, warm broth, soft vegetables practically melting in your mouth, the kind of heat that unfurls slowly through your chest and settles deep in your bones. For the first time all day, your body doesn’t feel entirely at war with itself. The warmth is comforting in a way you’d forgotten food could be.
“This is amazing, baby.”
“Can you taste the love?” she asks with a soft smile.
You huff out a weak laugh.
“Sí. Very much.”
Silence settles comfortably around you after that. Maybe the two of you look ridiculous sitting at opposite ends of the sofa like strangers in quarantine.
But it still feels right.
Being near her again. Letting her take care of you.
For the first time in days, you feel like you can actually breath properly. Honestly, you already feel a little better.
Maybe Alexia herself is some kind of cure.
You finish most of the soup before your stomach taps out. Alexia takes the tray from you and sets it carefully on the floor.
Then she looks back at you with that same soft expression that keeps making your chest ache.
“So,” she says gently. “Are you going to explain all of this now?”
You blink innocently.
“What do you mean?”
Alexia gives you a look.
“Disappearing off the face of the earth. Ignoring me. Lying to me.”
Alexia tries to keep her expression light, but the last one clearly stung more than she wants you to know.
Guilt crashes through you immediately.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “I was just trying to protect you.”
Her brows pull together slightly.
“Protect me?”
You nod.
“Sí. I didn’t want you catching what ever this is.” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “You’ve got huge matches coming up. You can’t risk getting sick. Your teammates need you healthy. Your fans do too. I know how important that is to you.”
Alexia’s expression softens immediately.
“Bebé… you’re important to me too.”
Your chest aches at how gently she says it.
“I know,” you mumble. “And you’re important to me. That’s why I thought… I don’t know, a few days apart seemed like a reasonable sacrifice if it meant you stayed healthy.”
Alexia exhales softly through her nose, somewhere between fond and exasperated.
“Why didn’t you just tell me you were sick?”
You let your head fall back against the sofa dramatically.
“Because I knew you’d do exactly this,” you groan. “Come over. Take care of me. Ignore all common sense.”
Alexia chuckles at that.
Despite yourself, your mouth twitches slightly at the sound before falling again.
“I tried to be subtle,” you admit. “But apparently, I’m terrible at lying.”
“Very terrible.”
You sigh heavily.
“I’m so sorry, Alexia. I hated lying to you, I just… genuinely convinced myself it was the right thing to do.”
Your voice gets quieter.
“And I couldn’t call because I could barely speak. Or video call…”
You gesture weakly at yourself.
“You would’ve taken one look at me and known something was wrong.”
Alexia nods slowly, pieces finally clicking into place.
“So that’s why it was only texts.”
“Sí. But even looking at my phone made my head worse, so I kept everything short.”
You shake your head weakly.
“Honestly, I don’t know how I thought I’d get away with any of it.”
Alexia smiles softly, though there’s still something slightly sad underneath it.
“I knew something was wrong almost immediately,” she admits. “The first day, maybe I believed you. But after that…”
She shakes her head lightly.
“I didn’t know what to think.”
Guilt twists painfully in your chest.
“I was worried,” she says quietly. “I thought maybe something bad had happened. Or that I’d upset you somehow.”
Your throat tightens instantly, and not from the flu this time.
“Oh, Alexia…”
Your eyes sting suddenly.
“It was never you. Never.”
Your voice cracks.
“You could never do something to upset me like that. This is all my fault.”
Alexia watches carefully now, her expression impossibly soft. Somehow that only makes you feel worse.
“I was so stupid,” you whisper. “All of this was stupid. Why can’t I ever just handle things normally?”
“Amor—”
“No, seriously,” you say, tears finally spilling over now. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
The words start tumbling out faster.
“I ignored you. I lied to you. I shut you out for days and made you think something terrible had happened, and you’re still here taking care of me like I deserve it—”
“Bebé, hey—”
“And now you’re cleaning my apartment and making me soup because apparently I can’t even be sick without turning it into some massive emotional disaster!”
By now you’re full on crying, which feels deeply humiliating.
“I’m awful,” you choke out. “Honestly, who does this? What kind of person thinks pretending to disappear is somehow the logical solution to having the flu?”
Alexia looks caught somewhere between concern, confusion, and wanting desperately to hug you.
“Amor, you are not awful.”
“You should be angry at me,” you sob. “Like genuinely furious.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Well you should be.”
Alexia exhales softly, shaking her head.
“Why?”
“Because I acted insane!”
That nearly makes Alexia laugh despite herself. She stops it quickly when she sees your expression crumple further.
“Bebé,” she says gently, “you were trying to protect me. Was it a little dramatic? Sí, maybe…”
A tiny smile tugs briefly at her mouth.
“…But your heart was in the right place.”
You shake your head immediately.
“No, my heart was apparently in a psychological thriller.”
This time Alexia does laugh softly.
“Maybe a little.”
She shifts instinctively closer before stopping herself, visibly fighting every urge to comfort you properly.
“Listen to me,” she says softly. “Sí, I was confused. And maybe a little hurt.”
Your face crumples again immediately.
“But I never once thought you were terrible.”
Her voice turns even gentler.
“You are one of the kindest people I know. You just… massively overthought this.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” you mutter tearfully.
Alexia smiles. “You deserve love bebé. Even when you’re… being a little ridiculous.”
More tears spill down your face at that, overwhelmed by exhaustion, guilt, sickness, and how unfairly lovely she’s being about all of this.
She grabs the tissue box quickly, holding it out towards you like a peace offering.
“Here.”
You take several tissues with a muttered thanks.
Alexia watches you for a moment, before asking carefully.
“Amor… can I please hug you now?”
“No!” you say instantly through your tears. “It’s already bad enough you’re this close to me. I didn’t emotionally destroy both of us for four days just to give up now.”
Alexia leans back against the sofa cushions with a long sigh, once again choosing patience over committing a crime.
Then her expression shifts slightly, brows furrowing like she’s suddenly remembering something. She pulls her phone from her pocket and starts typing. You sniff miserably, wiping at your face with another tissue.
“You started feeling ill on Monday, sí?” Alexia asks, eyes still fixed on her screen.
You frown slightly. “Yeah… why?”
Alexia doesn’t answer immediately. Her eyes flick back and forth across what she’s reading.
Then slowly, very slowly, she looks up at you.
“…Amor.”
You immediately don’t like that tone.
“What?”
“We spent the entire weekend together.”
You blink.
“Okay?”
Alexia holds up her phone.
“Apparently people with the flu are contagious before symptoms even start.”
Your expression slowly falls.
“…What?” you whisper.
Alexia mouth starts twitching despite her best efforts.
“I’ve already been exposed, bebé.”
You stare at her blankly.
Then blink again.
“…No.”
“Sí.”
“No.”
“Bebé…”
“No.” You sit up straighter now, horrified. “You’re telling me that I locked myself away like a medieval plague victim for FOUR DAYS and I probably infected you before I even had a sore throat?”
You stare at her in genuine devastation. And your eyes start watering again.
“Please tell me is this a joke.”
Alexia shakes her head, sympathy written all over her face despite the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth.
“No.”
Your face falls completely.
“No, because that would mean this entire thing was pointless.”
Alexia gives you a look, somewhere between affection and resignation.
“Amor, respectfully, I already thought this entire thing was pointless.”
“Alexia!”
She breaks into a grin.
“I’m sorry, bebé, but this is a little funny.”
“It’s not funny! I put us through emotional warfare for nothing! The lies, the guilt, surviving on one packet of paracetamol and half a slice of toast—”
Alexia’s brows shoot up.
“Half?”
“That’s not the point.”
Alexia shakes her head fondly, still looking at you like you’re the most ridiculous person she’s ever met. Honestly, fair enough.
“Also,” she adds, glancing back at her phone, “you’re usually most contagious during the first few days.”
Your eyes narrow suspiciously.
“So, you’re probably not contagious anymore.”
“Yeah, but I might be,” you say with a pout. “Better safe than sorry.”
Alexia slips her phone back into her pocket and turns fully towards you. Even after all of this, there’s still so much love in her eyes it almost hurts to look.
“Honestly, bebé,” she says softly. “I’m past caring. I just want to be able to touch my girlfriend again. Hug her. Take care of her. Remind her how much I love her.”
Your mouth twitches despite yourself because honestly, that sounds dangerously tempting.
“Even when she’s the most dramatic person alive?”
Alexia’s smile grows. “Especially then.”
Your expression softens for a moment before faltering again. “She sounds exhausting.”
Alexia shrugs lightly. “Maybe. But I also think she’s one of the best people I’ve ever known.”
Her voice softens.
“And probably very overdue a hug.”
You exhale shakily.
“But what if you still get sick?”
“Then that’s my choice,” Alexia says simply. “It will be my fault. Not yours.”
She shifts slightly closer, cautious now, like she’s approaching a nervous animal.
“Please, bebé,” she murmurs. “Can I hug you now?”
And honestly… how are you supposed to say no when she asks like that?
Fuck it.
You nod.
Alexia smiles instantly and opens her arms.
You move towards her without hesitation this time, practically melting into her the second she wraps herself around you. Warm. Safe. Familiar. You bury your face into her shoulder as her arms tighten carefully around you, holding you like she’s been waiting four days to do exactly this.
Alexia exhales softly against you, relived in the same way she sounds after the final whistle of a difficult match. Then her face presses into your neck, lips brushing gently against your skin.
And suddenly, you’re crying again, a small wet patch forming on her t-shirt. Not from guilt this time. Just relief.
“I missed you so much,” you mumble into her shoulder.
Alexia’s grip tightens slightly.
“I missed you too, bebé.”
Her hand moves slowly up and down your back.
“Why are you crying, amor?” she murmurs softly.
You let out a watery laugh.
“I’m just really happy.”
Alexia chuckles quietly against your hair. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”
You hold onto her tighter at that, suddenly unwilling to ever let go again.
And Alexia lets you. She just sits there holding you, stroking your back and whispering soft things against your hair.
I love you. I missed you. You’re ridiculous. You’re perfect. I’m not going anywhere.
You absorb every word like medicine.
Eventually you pull apart slightly, though neither of you move very far. Alexia brushes a few strands of hair back from your face. Which is ambitious really, considering your hair currently looks like you lost a fight with a hedge.
“You’re so beautiful, amor,” she murmurs.
You huff weakly, but your cheeks warm anyway.
“I look like a corpse.”
Alexia grins immediately. “Maybe. But you’re my corpse.”
You stare at her for a second before laughing.
“That is simultaneously the most romantic and most morbid thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Alexia looks deeply pleased with herself.
“What can I say? I’m a romantic.”
Smiling, you settle back against her chest, tucking yourself beneath her chin while her hand rubs slowly up and down your arm. She presses a kiss to the top of your head.
Silence settles comfortably between you for a while before Alexia suddenly speaks again.
“…Amor?”
“Hm?”
“When was the last time you showered?”
You pause, internally cringing.
“… I can’t remember.”
She smiles against your hair. “Four days?”
“Probably,” you admit with a grimace. “I know it’s gross, I just… didn’t have the energy.”
Her arms tighten around you slightly.
“Do I smell?”
Alexia chuckles softly, pressing another kiss to the top of your head.
“No, bebé.”
“It’s okay,” you mumble. “You can be honest.”
“I am being honest,” she says fondly. “I just think a shower, or a bath, might help you feel a little more human again.”
You exhale against her chest. “Probably. But I don’t think I can stand long enough for a shower.”
“Then I’ll run you a bath,” she says easily. “No standing. You can just relax.”
You nearly moan at the thought because honestly, that sounds incredible.
“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”
Alexia huffs a quiet laugh.
“Amor, I’m already here. I’ve cleaned your apartment, force-fed you soup, and risked catching the plague. I think we’re past ‘have to’.”
You smile despite yourself.
“There are fresh towels in the cupboard,” you say. “But don’t go in my bedroom.”
Alexia stills slightly, hand pausing where it brushes along your arm.
You know what that means.
“… You’ve already been in there, haven’t you?”
“… Maybe.”
You groan softly.
“At least you know I’m not normally that disgusting. I would’ve cleaned everything when I was better.”
Alexia just smiles.
“It’s okay. You can be gross, dramatic, stubborn, exhausting,” she says lightly, brushing her nose against your hair, “and I’ll still love you.”
Your chest warms instantly. “I’ll still love you too.”
———————————
Alexia helps you up from the sofa, letting you lean heavily against her while you slowly shuffle towards the bathroom. The warmth hits you immediately the second you walk in, the scent of bubble bath filling the room. Honestly, you could cry again.
She helps you out of your clothes carefully, steadying you when your legs wobble slightly from the effort.
“Easy,” she murmurs softly, one hand firm against your waist.
She helps you step into the bath, guiding you down slowly until you sink into the hot water with a long, relieved exhale. Every muscle in your body immediately loosens.
She’s even dragged one of the kitchen chairs into the bathroom so she can sit beside you.
“Is it okay?” she asks softly.
You lean your head back against the edge of the bath, eyes already drifting shut.
“It’s perfect.”
Silence settles comfortably between you for a while. The kind that only exists when you know someone completely.
It’s all a little ridiculous, really. Alexia squeezed awkwardly onto a chair in your tiny bathroom, knees probably cramped, while you lie half-asleep in the bath like some terribly ill Victorian woman. But if she minds, she doesn’t show it. She just smiles at you, caring for you. Loving you.
“Thank you, baby,” you murmur eventually. “For everything.”
Alexia smiles softly, reaching out to brush her fingers over your damp shoulders.
“Anytime, amor.”
You crack one eye open.
“I can’t believe we could’ve been doing this four days ago if I’d just researched how the flu works.”
Alexia laughs quietly.
“Sí. Instead you exiled yourself from society.”
You smile sleepily before glancing over at her again.
“What did you actually think was happening?”
Alexia shrugs lightly. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d decided to immigrate. Or maybe you were hanging out with one of your other Spanish girlfriends.”
You snort softly. “I would never. You’re my favourite one.”
Alexia grins at that, but your smile fades a little after a moment.
“I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “I never meant to hurt you.”
Her expression softens immediately.
“I know.”
“Are you sure you’re not mad at me?”
Alexia’s brows furrow slightly like the idea genuinely confuses her.
“No, bebé. Don’t think that.”
She reaches out, brushing her thumb softly along your cheek.
“I know your sacrifice came from a good place. Even if it was… slightly ambitious.”
You smile sheepishly.
“I did have good intentions.”
“I know you did.”
Her fingers drift lightly through your hair, now damp at the ends.
“Do you want me to wash it for you?”
You smile immediately, nodding.
Alexia helps you sit up properly before grabbing your shampoo and the little plastic jug. She fills it with warm water, carefully pouring it over your hair, making sure it doesn’t get in your eyes. Then she works the shampoo into your hair, fingers massaging gently against your scalp.
You actually moan at the feeling.
Alexia snorts softly.
“That good?”
“Sí. You’re dangerously good at this,” you mumble, eyes closing again. “Add that to your list of talents.”
“Washing hair?” she laughs.
You nod seriously. “Sí, full time footballer, part time chef, nurse, emotional support system, and now apparently masseuse.”
She chuckles quietly.
“Don’t tell anyone. I’ll lose my reputation.”
“No, I think it’ll improve your reputation actually. People already love you. Imagine them finding out you’re secretly perfect too.”
Alexia shakes her head fondly, still massaging your scalp. You practically melt further into the bath. Then she gathers more water, carefully rinsing the shampoo from your hair.
“I’m not perfect,” she murmurs softly.
You open your eyes slightly, looking up at you. “Alexia,” you say seriously. “I may be wrong about many things, but not this. You are genuinely one of the best people I’ve ever known.”
Your expression softens.
“I’m really lucky to have you.”
Alexia smiles instantly.
“I’m the lucky one.”
You let out a quiet laugh.
“You are literally washing my hair after cleaning my gross apartment, feeding me soup, and surviving my psychological breakdown over the flu.”
You shake your head weakly.
“I think you’ve definitely pulled the short straw.”
Alexia just shrugs lightly. “And I’d pull it every time if it meant I ended up with you.”
The words hit you harder than she probably realises. Because that’s the thing about Alexia, she says things like that so naturally. Like loving you is the easiest thing in the world. Even after you ignored her for four days. Even after all the dramatics. She’s still here. Still choosing you.
You look at her quietly for a moment, overwhelmed all over again.
“I love you,” you says softly.
Her smile warms instantly. “I love you too.”
You swallow slightly before continuing.
“No, but… I really mean it.”
Her movements slow slightly as she watches you properly now.
“You’re it for me, you know,” you say quietly, but certain. “You. This. Us.”
You shake your head softly, emotional again for completely different reasons this time.
“I want this. Forever.”
You’ve not really said that before. You’ve told her you love her, countless times. Shown it in a hundred different ways. In lingering kisses and sleepy cuddles. In looks across crowed rooms. In soft smiles and reaching for her without thinking.
And maybe, in some way, you’ve always told her you wanted this forever. Just never out loud.
You’d like to think she already knows. And you know you don’t need words for something to be real.
But still.
You want her to hear it. Because she deserves to know. To know how much you love her. How much you love this.
Alexia shows up for you every single time.
When you’re annoying. Exhausting. Dramatic. Sick. Avoiding her for four days because you apparently think you’re starring in some tragic medical drama.
She’s still there.
Loving you anyway.
Always ready to pick up the pieces and quietly put them back together again. You wouldn’t want to do any of this with anyone else.
Not life. Not love. Not even the awful parts. She’s yours.
And somehow, impossibly, you’re hers too.
She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
She watches you for a moment, before asking, a little shy now.
“You want to be with me forever?”
You smile instantly, nodding with complete certainty. “Sí. Forever and always.”
The smile that spreads across her face is soft and whole, and you’re almost certain her eyes glisten slightly. She reaches up to cup your cheek again.
“I want that too,” she whispers. “Forever. With you.”
You smile as she leans in instinctively, but quickly lean back yourself.
“Sorry,” you say apologetically. “I still don’t think we should kiss.”
Her face falters for half a second before turning into a grin.
“You tell me all of that and then refuse to kiss me after?”
You nod seriously.
“Sí. I may have already contaminated you, but kissing feels like unnecessarily tempting fate.”
Alexia shakes her head, fondly, eyes impossibly full of love.
“You’re impossible.”
You shrug slightly.
“It’s sacrifice.”
That makes her laugh properly, and you can’t help joining in, the two of you settling back into the warmth of the moment, into each other.
———————————
Eventually, unfortunately, the water starts to cool, so Alexia helps you stand carefully. She wraps a warm towel, one she’d clearly left on the radiator, around your shoulders before drying you off gently and helping you step out of the bath. Then she helps you into your dressing gown while you brush your teeth. By the time you make your way into the bedroom, you pause at the doorway.
“Baby…”
Alexia looks up from where she’s fixing the blankets.
“Hm?”
“…Did you change the bedding?”
“Sí,” she says proudly. “Nice and fresh.”
You exhale softly, smiling despite yourself. “See? You are perfect.”
She huffs her laugh, shaking her head fondly.
You shuffle over to your dresser, pulling out clean pyjamas. Alexia helps you change into them before gently guiding you into bed. The second you sink into the fresh sheets, you sigh happily. Clean clothes. Clean bedding. Warm skin. It’s ridiculous how much better it makes you feel.
Or maybe it’s just Alexia.
Then she starts pulling her top off.
Hope immediately blooms in your chest, even though you’ve no right to expect anything more from her tonight. She’s already done far too much.
“You’re staying?” you ask quietly.
She pauses, shirt halfway off, abs unfairly on display. You try not to stare too long.
“Do you not want me to?”
You smile instantly.
“Of course I do. I just… don’t want you to feel like you have to.”
Alexia chuckles softly, tossing her shirt aside.
“You think I spent all evening nursing you back to life just to abandon you now?”
You laugh quietly. “I just mean… you’ve already done so much for me. If you wanted to go home and have sometime to yourself, I’d understand.”
Her expression softens immediately.
“Amor, I haven’t seen you for four days. There is no universe where I’m leaving your side tonight.”
Warmth slips through your chest so quickly it almost hurts.
She slips out of her joggers before switching off the light. Moonlight spills softly through the gap in the curtains, bathing the room in a pale glow as she climbs into bed beside you.
Instinctively, you shift away, habit more than intention at this point, but Alexia just laughs quietly before moving closer anyway, gently pulling you into her arms.
You melt into her immediately, resting your head against her chest as her arms settle securely around you.
God, you’ve missed this.
You stay like that for a while, just breathing each other in while her fingers drift slowly up and down your arm.
“Gracias, baby,” you murmur eventually. “For everything.”
She presses a kiss into your hair.
“You’ve already thanked me, amor.”
“I know,” you mumble. “I just wanted to say it again.”
A quiet pause settles between you before the guilt creeps back in.
“Honestly, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you ignored me after all that,” you admit softly. “I probably would’ve deserved it.”
Alexia immediately tightens her hold around you slightly.
“Bebé, I would never do that.”
You shrug weakly against her chest.
“Maybe not. But most people would’ve at least been angry.”
Alexia hums softly, thinking for a second before asking quietly.
“What would you have done if it had been me?”
“Hm?”
“If I’d been the one sick,” she says gently. “If I ignored you for four days because I thought I was protecting you… what would you have done?”
You huff a quiet laugh, because honestly, there’s only one answer.
“Probably exactly what you did.”
Alexia smiles softly, like that’s the point she wanted you to realise all along.
“Exactly, amor.”
Guilt still lingers stubbornly in your chest.
“I’ll make it up to you,” you mumble.
Alexia looks down at you, amused.
“Hm?”
“As soon as I’m better,” you continue seriously. “I’m going to be the best girlfriend ever.”
She laughs softly.
“You’re already the best girlfriend ever.”
You roll your eyes against her chest. “I’d beg to differ. The last four days alone should disqualify me.”
“Bebé—”
“No, listen,” you insist dramatically. “I have a redemption plan.”
Alexia chuckles immediately.
“You do?”
“Sí,” you say proudly. “I’m going to take you out for a really romantic dinner. I’ll give you massages whenever you want. We can have as much sex as you want—”
Alexia bursts out laughing.
“You make me sound like an animal, amor.”
“You are,” you tease, reaching over to tickle lightly at her side, making her squirm and laugh again.
“And most importantly,” you continue, smiling now, “I’ll going to give you all the kisses in the world. So many that you’ll get sick of me.”
Alexia’s expression softens immediately as she presses a kiss into your hair.
“I could never get sick of you, bebé,” she murmurs.
You smile against her skin.
“Good,” you mumble. “Because you’re stuck with me forever.”
Her fingers continue brushing slowly along your arm.
“Forever?” she asks lightly.
You frown slightly at her tone.
Wait—
“Geez, Y/n, I only said I liked you.”
You pause for a second in horror.
She starts laughing quietly to herself.
“Oh my god,” you groan.
“Sorry,” she laughs. “I couldn’t resist.”
You shake your head weakly.
“You know what? I’ll let you have that one. I probably deserve it after the emotional torture I put you through.”
She just laughs again, pulling you a little closer. Silence settles comfortably after that, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the occasional soft movement of her fingers against your skin.
Eventually she murmurs, “How are you feeling now, amor?”
You hum thoughtfully. “Better.”
And surprisingly, it’s true.
“This is the first time I’ve actually felt human again.”
You tilt your head back slightly to look up at her.
“Who knew all I needed was soup, a bath...”
You pause deliberately.
“…and a really supportive, patient, kind, ridiculously hot girlfriend.”
Alexia chuckles softly. “She sounds amazing.”
“She is,” you agree seriously. “And don’t tell her this… but she’s my favourite one.”
Alexia grins.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
You settle into silence again.
“Amor… can I ask you something?” Alexia says softly.
“Yeah, of course,” you murmur.
She exhales quietly, like she’s oddly nervous to say it.
“I know that you were trying to protect me. And believe me, that means more to me than you’ll ever know.”
Her arms tighten around you slightly.
“But if this ever happens again, no matter how small or serious it is, can you promise you’ll tell me?”
Your chest aches a little at how small she suddenly sounds.
“Even if you want me to stay away,” she continues softly. “At least let us make that decision together. I don’t want you dealing with things like this on your own.”
Guilt creeps back in immediately, because she’s right. You should have done that from the beginning.
You tilt your head up slightly to look at her.
“I promise, baby,” you murmur with certainty. “I’ll never shut you out like that again.”
Her expression softens instantly. She tightens her hold around you, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
You smile sleepily, further against her. Then a thought suddenly occurs to you.
“…I wonder where I even caught this from.”
“Hm?”
“Well, no one at work’s been ill,” you mumble. “And the only place I went last week was the supermarket.”
“Mmm,” Alexia hums thoughtfully. “I suppose it could’ve just been airborne.”
Then she pauses.
“Although…”
You lift your head slightly.
“What?”
“I went to Irene’s house last week.”
You furrow your brows. “Okay?”
Alexia looks suddenly thoughtful.
“Mateo had just gotten over the flu.”
You go completely still.
“…What?”
She nods slowly, clearly piecing it together herself now.
“He seemed completely fine,” she says carefully. “But he was climbing all over me the entire time.”
You stare at her.
“Alexia?”
“Qué?”
“You’re telling me you let a recovering child use you as a climbing frame and then came home and cuddled me?”
Her hand pauses where it’s stroking your arm.
“…Maybe.”
You groan loudly, burying your face dramatically into her chest.
“Oh my god.”
Alexia immediately starts laughing.
“You’re telling me I destroyed our relationship because of a tiny recovering child?”
“I’m sorry bebé—”
“No, because that’s actually humiliating,” you mumble against her skin. “I sacrificed our relationship for four days trying to protect you from certain death, and it turns out you’re the one who infected me.”
Alexia is fully laughing now, arms tightening around you.
“I didn’t know!”
That finally breaks you too, laughter bubbling out despite your sore throat because honestly, the whole situation is ridiculous now.
“That’s so unfair,” you mumble between laughs. “And how did you not catch it?”
Alexia shrugs against you. “I don’t know.”
You shake your head slowly.
“La Reina really is built different.”
She chuckles softly, pulling you even closer pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“I’m sorry, bebé,” she murmurs, though she still sounds slightly amused.
You hum sleepily, nuzzling closer into her chest.
“It’s okay,” you mumble. “I forgive you.”
The warmth of her arms around you, the fresh sheets, the exhaustion finally catching up to you after days of fighting it, it all settles heavily over you at once.
Your eyes start to drift shut.
Alexia notices immediately, her hand smoothing slowly up and down your back.
“Sleep now, amor,” she whispers. “Get some rest.”
You smile faintly, already half asleep. Grateful she’s here. Grateful she stayed. Grateful she’s yours.
You have a feeling tonight you’ll sleep better than you have in days.
… Even if she was technically responsible for your near-death experience.
———————————
A/n:
I hope you enjoy this one! Sure reader was dramatic but it was for a good cause 😂 and we got overprotective Alexia 🥰
Thank you again to anon who suggested this, I hope I did it justice, and sorry it took a while to come out.
No one has permission to copy, steal, repost or translate this work.
As always, please let me know what you think. Comments, reblogs, and asks all make my day. I love interacting with you all and hearing your thoughts/opinions. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story so far ❤️
I hope this is a somewhat nice distraction from everything, sending love to you all ❤️
☆ Summary: A glimpse into the hours following the Champions League victory in Oslo. You might or might not be wearing Patri's shirt through it all, which is a problem for a certain captain.
☆ Word count: 6.7K
☆ Warnings: (+18) SMUT • lot of dry humping • scissoring (again, yes) • boob love <3 • the captain armband stays on during sex • jealous/possessive Ale • mention of body image issues • baby alexia
☆ A/n: keeping score universe!! You will enjoy this fic more if you read these fics first
The Champions League final was here.
You had managed to get a few (precious) days off from the hospital, all so you could tag along to Oslo.
But travelling with the Football Club Barcelona meant navigating a game of hide-and-sick. You and Ale were still very private about your relationship, so much so that your presence in Norway has sent some small corners of the internet buzzing.
Online, the fans were completely split into two teams. Half of them thought you had come solely to support Clara, your younger sister, while the other half suspected you were there for Alexia, your rumoured girlfriend.
None of them knew you were there for both.
It was Clara's first time playing in a Champions League final, and since your parents were far too "busy" to make it to the game, you had made sure she would have someone cheering for her in the stands. At the same time, it was the first opportunity you had ever had to travel and watch Alexia play anywhere other than Barcelona.
Two birds, one stone.
When the final whistle blew, you were in the stands wearing a Guijarro shirt. The shirt had been a very strategic decision on your part.
Alexia and Clara had both suffered absolute meltdowns at the mere thought of you wearing the other's number and name. There was no chance you were subjecting yourself to the humiliation of a half-and-half shirt either, so you had ended the argument by picking up Alexia's phone, texting Patri yourself, and asking if she could sort you out a shirt with her name on it.
Clara had retaliated by making sure you could hear Traitor by Olivia Rodrigo playing from her room for three days straight. It was, indeed, torture.
Alexia, meanwhile, had pouted and declared that you were officially banned from kissing, hugging, or holding her hand until you came home with a shirt with her name and number eleven on it.
You did not cave.
She lasted four hours without kisses, hugs, or hand-holding. You didn't mention it when she finally folded. You just smiled into her hair as she pulled you in, both of you pretending the temporary ban had never happened.
Your plan had never been to go down onto the pitch for the celebrations.
You didn't want fans spotting you and Alexia together, which you knew would happen the second you were within a few meters of each other. You had told both Ale and Clara that beforehand, and they had agreed, after, of course, being babies about it.
But then the fans began to leave the stadium, the medal ceremony things were dismantled piece by piece, and the red and blue ribbons settled in the turf.
That's when you saw it.
Across the pitch, Alexia was laughing with her mum and uncle, tucked between them as if she were a little kid. A little further, Cata was wrapped up with her girlfriend and parents. Pina was surrounded by her mum and cousins, all of them talking over each other.
And then there was Clara.
She stood all by herself, a gold medal hanging around her neck, quietly watching everyone else. It was long past the moment when teammates were celebrating with each other; now they had all turned toward their own families. And Clara's family consisted entirely of you and your brother, who hadn't been able to take time off uni to come.
You felt your heart crack right down the middle, pieces of it falling in the stands. Before you could think better of it, before you could remind yourself why you had promised to stay in the stands, you were already moving towards the barrier.
You showed your credentials to the security guards, and they let you through without a second glance.
Clara didn't see you coming.
You caught her by surprise, wrapping your arms around her shoulders from behind. She gasped when she saw it was you, and you knew it was a sound you were going to carry around with you for a long time.
She was just so, so happy.
The expression on her face reminded you of when she was younger, doing dance recitals. Back then, she would search for you in the audience because your parents thought those performances weren't worth attending. As she spun around inside your embrace, her smile looked exactly the same as it had all those years ago. Except now, with fewer baby teeth.
You pulled her into a tighter hug, burying your face into her shoulder because, of course, she was taller than you despite being the youngest. The edge of her medal dug painfully into your sternum, but you ignored it.
"I'm so proud of you, Clarita," you whispered, "Te quiero, mana."
"Te quiero," she replied, kissing your cheek. "Thank you for being here."
Neither of you moved for a long time, and although there were plenty of people around, talking nonstop, it felt like this tiny space between the two of you was the quietest place on the entire pitch.
"You said you wouldn't come down," Clara murmured, squeezing you even tighter. "You said we would meet back in the locker room."
"I was being silly," you said, smiling up to her as the bear hug finally came to an end.
Your ribs were hurting. When had Clara gotten so strong?
You pulled back just enough to take the medal in your hands, turning it carefully. "I needed to see this medal up close, no?" You smiled. "You deserved it, bebé."
Clara rolled her eyes. "Don't call me bebé. I'm nineteen."
You ignored her completely as you reached up and pinched her cheeks. "Mi bebezota!"
"Urgh!" Clara groaned, trying to escape your grip. "Stop! You are embarrassing me"
A grin tugged at your lips. That was exactly what you wanted.
"People are watching, you know," she added.
People were watching indeed. Including Alexia.
It hadn't taken long for her to find you.
You obviously spotted her before she saw you; she was standing several meters behind Clara.
The moment her hazel eyes landed on you, something in her whole posture softened; a beautiful smile spread across her face even as she held herself carefully still, stiff, almost rigid.
Her shoulders were far too straight, the professional façace held tightly in place. She, as much as you, was entirely aware of how many broadcast cameras were following her every move.
It was almost as if she were waiting for you to make the decision.
Seeing her standing there, her temples covered in sweat that slipped down her collarbones, her face flushed from the game and from being smothered in her mother's affection, the identical gold medal that also adorned her neck....
She was pretty, and yours and the distance suddenly felt far too ridiculous to be taken so seriously.
You patted Clara on the back when Syd and Aicha called her to take some pictures. After watching her go, you turned and started walking towards Alexia.
She smiled at you the entire way.
When you stopped in front of her, you immediately pulled her into your side. You were hyper aware of your surroundings, so you kept the gesture simple, safe and casual.
You slid your arm around her shoulder, nothing more. You leaned in close enough for only her to hear, whispering a "mi campeona" right into her ear. Then you pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.
You hear her breath hitched, the puff of air that came out of her mouth was slow and warm against your neck as she instinctively leaned into you. She squeezed your waist just a second too long, just a fraction harder than any friend normally would.
"I thought you weren't coming down?" she murmured the exact same word Clara had said only moments earlier.
"Mhmm," you whispered, reluctantly stepping away from her, putting a more friendly distance between you. "I changed my mind."
Behind her, Eli and her uncle were watching the interaction with matching smiles.
You had met Alexia's family a few months ago, and along with the team, they were among the very few people who knew exactly what you meant to her. Something much, much more significant than her protegé's sister.
"Hola, mi amor!" Eli exclaimed, stepping forward and pulling you into a motherly hug, completely unconcerned by the cameras around you. "I'm glad you came down! I told you, it's fun being on the pitch after they win."
"Hey, Eli," you said, smiling and kissing both her cheeks. "You were, once again, completely right."
You turned in a slow circle, taking in the stadium, taking in everything.
"Everything feels far too big down here." You turned to Alexia. "How can you even play? I feel so tiny, like an ant."
Alexia shrugged, a soft look in her eyes. She always got those whenever you and her mom were together.
"You get used to it and--Mama! I told you I'm not cold" she pouted.
Alexia twisted away, trying to dodge as Eli attempted to drape a heavy coat over her shoulder.
"But you are shaking, bebé!" Eli insisted.
"I'm not shaking, mama," Alexia protested, already blushing. "I'm just–"
Before she could finish, you felt an arm suddenly land over your shoulder, dragging you slightly sideways.
"Guapa! Hi! look who's decided to join us. Got tired of hiding in your cave?"
Patri's voice was excited; she was always the sweetest on the team. She looked like she had been to war and back, maybe for them footballers, the Champions League final really was war.
"Hola!!!"
Another voice came. Kika appeared beside Patri, vibrating with energy, her dark hair sticking out in every possible direction. You knew those two would party a lot tonight.
Patri's brown eyes dropped to your back, her grin widening as she noticed the name printed across the fabric.
She looked over at Alexia, raising one eyebrow with mischief.
"Look at that, Ale," Patri teased, patting your shoulder proudly. "Your girl knows talent when she sees it."
Alexia's eyes narrowed playfully, her lips pressing into a tight, pouting line as she stared at the Guijarro shirt covering your torso. She looked at you, her eyes shining with that possessive spark you had come to adore. To expect.
Kika laughed, leaning into Patri's side. "Oh no... capi's a bit mad."
"I'm not mad," Alexia countered smoothly, though her eyes never left yours. "It's a nice shirt. It just happens to have the wrong number on it.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, Alexia had been grinning ear to ear for approximately forty minutes straight. She knew perfectly well what the two of you were going to do once you set foot into the hotel room.
The team bus wasn't leaving for the club for another hour and a half, but Alexia did not seem particularly invested in the public celebrations anymore. At the moment, she appeared to be significantly more excited about kissing your entire face.
The door had barely clicked shut behind you before her hands were on your waist.
"I'm so happy you are here, mi sol," she whispered against your lips, her voice raspy, probably from running so much and whatever singing had taken place in the locker room afterwards.
She kissed you gently at first, and then deeper, before resting her forehead against yours, breathing in slowly. Breathing you in.
"You looked pretty in the stands," she murmured. "My favourite fangirl."
"I'm your favourite even while in Patri's shirt?" You teased softly.
"Shut up," she murmured with a breathless laugh, not allowing you to mutter another word as she captured your mouth again, sucking your tongue.
"You won't be wearing it much longer, so enjoy it while you can."
You were fairly sure you would.
Her hands settled on your hips as she slowly guided you backwards through the room. There was something confident in her steps; they were so deliberate and confident, for a moment, it was easy to forget you were in a hotel a few kilometres away from her actual home in Barcelona.
The back of your knee bumped against the edge of the bed, and you let yourself fall onto it, with Alexia following right after.
You kissed her, tasting her champagne-tinged tongue, she felt weightless on top of you.
Her captain's armband was still hugging her bicep tightly; of course, she hadn't taken it off. Once you had told her how much you loved it when she fucked you with it, she had started to keep it. Her heavy gold medal was still hanging around her neck, swaying between you like a pendulum.
Alexia was exactly as good as she thought she was, completely dominant on and off the pitch. The way confidence seemed to be radiating off of her in a way that was equal parts dangerous and attractive.
Your hand travelled down to her lower back, your finger sliding beneath the waistband of her shorts to squeeze the firm flesh of her ass. You shifted under her, tilting your body just right to force her pelvis closer to yours.
"It was hot watching you play," you murmured against her mouth.
You leaned up, caught her lower lip between your teeth, biting into it enough for you to hear a small whimper fall from her tongue.
She pouted at you, her eyes hazy, unfocused. She was completely fixed on you, silently asking you to kiss it better.
You didn't make her wait, pulling her down once more.
"Soy su campeona?" Alexia whispered into the narrow space between your mouth. Her voice sounded much smaller than usual, completely bewitched, and slightly tipsy. [Am I your champion?]
"Si," you whispered, your hand clutching her ass. "Mine, only mine."
Alexia smiled and caught you in a kiss.
Her hot mouth trailed down the line of your jaw, dragging over the side of your throat. One hand guided your head gently aside as she found the hidden and sensitive spot right behind your ear, choosing to brand you there, sucking firmly until you knew it would leave a purplish mark.
A mix of a giggle and a gasp escaped you as your hand settled on her shoulders. "A hickey? Really? You teased. "How old are you? Sixteen?"
She huffed a laugh against your pulse point. "I deserved it, okay? I won the Champions League. I can do whatever I want today."
"Mhm," you hummed, tipping your head back a little further to give her entirely uninhibited access to do as she pleased. "I suppose you can do whatever you want with me, yes."
"Si?" She asked dangerously.
Even without looking, you could feel the slow, coy smile pressing right against your jugular.
"Uhum," you nodded as much as you could under her weight.
"Joder," she cursed, her breath hitching as the absolute submission in your voice sank in. Her hips shifted, rolling hard and against yours as she pinned you to the mattress. "Voy a correr si sigues diciendo eso." [I'm gonna cum if you keep saying that.]
She kept moving against you; it was clear that the confession made her turn absolutely relentless. She took off your shirt, leaving your torso bare.
She pressed her body completely flush, the medal a cool contrast between your breasts, while the rough fabric of her armband brushed against your arm. Her mouth claimed yours once more, her tongue pushing deep, the taste of champagne still there.
You could, somehow, feel her wetness through the fabric of her shorts, slick and hot.
Your fingers dug deeper into the meat of her ass, squeezing as you tilted your own body, forcing her pelvis to drag exactly where you needed. "You're so fucking hot, Alexia."
Alexia moaned low straight into the kiss, then broke it to trail her lips back to your neck, sucking another mark right beside the first.
"Mía," she murmured, voice dropping as her hips found a steady rhythm. [Mine]
Her clit was pressing and sliding against yours through layers of clothing. Her chest was absolutely perfect against yours. She nipped at your earlobe, her breath becoming faster and faster with every passing second.
"Dilo otra vez," Alexia demanded, grinding harder. [say it again.]
You arched up to meet her, your hands roaming beneath her shirt to feel the sweat-slick skin of her back. She trembled when your fingers dug into the tense muscles there.
"You can do whatever you want with me, baby," you breathed right into her ear. "Whatever you want, sí? I'm yours; you deserve it. I'm all yours tonight."
"Ah," she moaned, the medal clinked softly with every roll of her hips. "I want to fuck you nice and slow."
She was growing impatient with the barrier of clothes between you.
She shifted, yanking her shorts down just enough to bare herself before turning her attention to you, working at your clothes with impatient tugs until skin finally met skin.
Finally, you were both completely naked.
When her bare pussy finally settled over yours, your folds parted wetly under the weight. She resumed the grind right away, clit to clit, moving in slow circles.
"Oh god, you feel so good," you gasped, eyes dropping to watch the way her slick coated you, it was so messy, so raw, so fucking delicious. Your eyes landed on her armband again and that only made you get wetter. "Damn, Alexia. You are fucking dripping baby."
"Joder, amor" She hissed again, her voice cracking as overstimulation hit her. "Tan mojada-" [you're so wet]
Still, she kept the pace even, riding the shared wetness, her body soft yet controlled as she chased the edge without rushing towards it.
Her medal continues to swing between you, a constant reminder of the massive victory waiting just outside the hotel room.
Her hands slid up your arms before settling around your wrists, pinning them above your head.
"You get so bossy when you win," you manage to say, rolling your eyes. You loved it when she got more dominant.
Your head suddenly felt so heavy.
You weren't sure whether it was exhaustion, dehydration, or simply the overwhelming intensity of the day catching up with you.
You were so overwhelmed with the way her body was touching every centimeter of your skin, how her kisses were getting sloppy and wet.
She was desperate, and you were, too. Your cunts were grinding, making a mess on both your bodies, the slickness dripping down her pussy right into yours, soaking you completely.
"I'm bossy and you fucking love it," Alexia shot back, moving her body carefully, trying not to crush you, but apply the right amount of pressure to your clit. "You are soaked, mi amor, all for me, huh"
She was, of course, right.
Keeping one wrist pinned above your head with one single hand, Alexia used the other to grip your thigh firmly, spreading it wider.
"Stay like that," she whispered while absolutely devouring your neck. "Don't you dare move."
Alexia shifted you as if you were a rag doll, moving your legs how she wanted until her cunt was aligned to her liking.
"Next time you wear my shirt, si?" she murmured, jealousy still thick in her voice as her cunt moved with yours.
She looked down at you, her eyes dark as she kept rutting against you. "Tengo mi coño pegado al tuyo, y todavía no llevas mi camiseta?" [My cunt is pressed against yours, and you're still not wearing my shirt?]
"Mhmm," you moaned. Fuck.
You were gonna cum.
"Tell me who is going to make you cum," she asked, as if reading your mind, her voice was low as she continued her movements.
The pleasure was becoming so intense, you were going to snap.
Alexia's dirty talk was way too good. Her pussy was pulsing over yours, all slick, dripping down to soak the white sheets between your thighs.
Alexia pinched your arm. "Ouch!" You gasped, caught between pain and pleasure.
"Who is rubbing your cunt? Me or Patri?"
"Y-you," you managed to say, breathless.
"Who marked your whole neck?" She asked again. "Who gets to have you naked in her hotel bed? Who, mi sol?"
The sensation pushed you over the edge right after, your body arching up into her as waves of pleasure took over you.
"F-fuck, Ale," your body was going limp, all warm as the orgasm took over. "You baby, you, always you."
Alexia, sensing your orgasm, rutted her cunt faster until she was climaxing all over you. "Oh, god–" she moaned in your ear.
She stayed exactly where she was afterwards, naked and beautiful on top of you.
Your pussies were still pressed together, warm and dripping. Alexia nuzzled lower until she found your breast, drawing the nipple into her mouth with slow and comforting pulls.
Her tongue flicked lazily, her breath warm and even against your chest as she settled in, tasting the mix of sweat on your breast, while her fingers played with your other nipple.
"You didn't answer my question," she mumbled from your breast after a minute.
"Ahn?" You asked, your mind far too dizzy. You hadn't even realised she was on your breast, when you did, pleasure began to grow again. "I did, no-?"
"You'll wear my shirt?" She asked, her words slightly slurred. "Next time? Please?"
"Oh," you said, nodding against the pillows, your voice still shaky from the climax, it was so… intense. You weren't sure you would ever regain all of your breath.
"Yeah, of course. I mean…" A laugh escaped you. "After this, how can I not?"
Alexia made a pleased sound deep in her throat and kept her lips sealed around your nipple. Her body stayed relaxed on top of yours, her frame soft pressing down.
You realised it was probably the first time she felt at ease and relaxed since she woke up.
Her thumb continued to touch over your nipple, rubbing slow circles before giving it a gentle tug and roll between her fingers.
"We need to get ready for the club," you murmured eventually, your fingers threading through her now-brunette hair. "It's getting late."
She whined softly.
She sucked a little harder for a moment, refusing to lift her head. Her thumb kept playing, flicking and pinching the other nipple while her hips gave one lazy grind that made both of you shiver, your clits brushing.
"No..." she mumbled around the peak in her mouth. "Stay like this. Just a little longer."
"I can't be the reason you are late," you said with a chuckle, still combing your fingers through her hair. "It's not good for my reputation. I'm new to the Barcelona circle, the girls need to like me... they won't if I make their captain late."
"The girls will never think anything badly of you," Alexia said, her mouth finally unlatching. She rested her cheek against your chest, listening to your heart. "You are too sweet for that."
You chucked at that, staring at the beige hotel ceiling. Was it beige? Or had it once been white and simply not been cleaned properly in years.
"Sweet? Me?" You chuckled. "Okay, maybe love really is blind."
Alexia looked up, frowning. "What? You are sweet, gentle, caring-"
You shook your head, a hint of a self-deprecating smile on your face. "I'm not bebé. I'm stressed all the time. I'm moody as soon as I wake up. I'm constantly worried about something or someone-"
"Because you care," Alexia interrupted instantly.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows, no longer putting her full weight on you; she looked down at you with a very fierce expression.
"You are worried all the time because you care about your patients, about your siblings…" Her voice softened slightly. "About me."
You looked at her with soft (and slightly sad) eyes.
"I think you see me in a much better light than I actually deserve."
"I see you just right, mi sol," Alexia said, leaning down to kiss your lips.
"My sweet." Kiss.
"Pretty." Kiss.
"Gentle." Kiss.
"Loving." Kiss.
"Girlfriend.
You were smiling second one. You didn't try to stop it.
"You get too cheesy when you cum," you whispered, a sudden blush creeping up your cheeks. "It's adorable."
"I know, perdon," Alexia replied, pouting down at you without a single ounce of regret.
"I'm sorry I don't get cheesy," you murmured. "But I swear I love you just as much."
"It's okay," she chucked. "I know you love me. This is the first time you have actually taken time off for someone. That has to be true love."
You squinted your eyes, your cheeks heating up even more. "And who exactly told you that?"
Alexia chucked, leaning down to press a warm kiss on top of your blush. "Your sweetheart of a sister."
"Of course she did."
As it turned out, actually getting out of bed and preparing for the night was considerably less romantic than the books made it seem.
Once Alexia finally untangled herself from you, the two of you were forced to acknowledge the mess the sex left on the hotel sheets.
There was a large, damp stain stretched across the middle of the bed. The lingering scent of sex and slickness was mixed with the light breeze coming through the window.
Alexia did not seem remotely concerned about the ruined sheets, instead, she just propped her head up on her hand and simply watched you with a big and proud grin on her face.
You, in response, blushed all over, immediately scrambling for the duvet, dragging it up to your chin to cover yourself.
"Stop watching me like that," you pouted, clutching the fabric tighter.
Alexia rolled her eyes and continued to smile.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, moving smoothly without a single hint of instability; you were certain you would be wobbling if you had been topping the way she just did.
She walked across the room to fetch the two white hotel robes hanging by the wardrobe.
She slipped one on herself before returning to bed with the second. She gently tried to pry the duvet away from your tight grip so she could put the second one over your shoulders.
"We had sex less than twenty-four hours after we met for the first time," she teased, tugging playfully at the duvet. "Back then, you had absolutely no problem being naked around me… And now you are embarrassed?"
You rolled your eyes, holding it for dear life.
"Back then, I was thinner. But you know what they say, happy relationships make you gain weight." Your gaze dripped over her athletic frame. "Bon… unless you are a very disciplined footballer, then apparently, you don't gain a single kilo."
Alexia's playful expression vanished instantly, replaced by genuine worry.
"What!??" She blurted. "Are you having issues with your body? Like... body image issues?! Mi amor, you are the prettiest woman alive!"
You rolled your eyes at her dramatics. This was exactly why you hadn't said a single thing until now.
"No, I'm not having any issues," you said. "I know I'm... fine. I'm just different than when we started dating and–"
"You are, like, hotter now," Alexia interrupted, stating it so blankly and firmly as if she was merely speaking facts.
"Huh?"
"You are hotter," she repeated. "Because you are my lovely, beautiful girlfriend now."
You smiled at her, your heart feeling warm. The poor thing was trying hard to reassure you.
Your sweet, sweet girl. "Gracias, Ale."
"No, baby, I mean it," Alexia insisted, her tone changing to something so incredibly tender and sincere it made your chest ache. "You are perfect. Your face is perfect, and your body-"
Your grip around the duvet loosened, and Alexia took advantage, finally managing to wrap the robe around you. "And your thighs are perfect, and your tummy is perfect… and everything about you–"
"Okay, love, that's enough--"
"If I could, I would eat you whole."
You blinked at her.
"Okay, that's literally cannibalism."
"Some cultures see cannibalism as an ultimate act of love and adoration," Alexia countered immediately.
She said it with the most profound, soft, tender and deadpan face. She was completely serious, looking at you like a proud cat that had just caught a dead bird and was offering it as a sign of love.
"Oh, okay," you said, as you reached up and patted both her cheeks. "Thanks, my love. I'm feeling much better now. I would absolutely let you eat me whole if it wouldn't result in the complete ceasing of my existence."
"Really?" Alexia asked happily, her eyes lighting up. "Would you do the same to me?"
What the hell kind of sweet talk even was that?
"Oh... yes," you said with fake enthusiasm. "Of course."
Alexia beamed, looking incredibly happy and touched that her (bizarre) feelings were being fully reciprocated.
Relationships, however, and as sad as it seems, were not built entirely on sex and body image conversations that somehow end up in discussions of cannibalism, you see. Most often, they were not; there were arguments. Petty and ridiculous arguments.
Like the shower.
"Okay… we really need to clean up and get dressed," you said, glancing towards the bathroom. "The bus is leaving soon."
Alexia wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder. "Let's take a shower together then," she murmured against your skin, her voice dropping to a seductive cadence.
You let out a dry laugh. "Nice try, Ale."
Alexia stepped in front of you, her face collapsing into a (guess what?) pout.
"Mi sol, please?" she pleaded, yes, pleaded. "I love you and your body, and we love taking showers together, sí? Come on, please? Pretty please? You say I'm your champion, no? Don't I deserve to take a shower with mi amor?!"
You stared at her for two full seconds before you folded.
You always fold. It was entirely Eli's fault for creating a woman with the prettier, most stupidly devastating puppy face ever made in the world. Nobody could say no to those eyes.
"Ugh, fine," you sighed, letting her take your hand and lead you to the bathroom. "You do deserve it."
Slowly, the reality of what she had accomplished began to settle over you, a warm feeling took over your torso, a smile appeared on your face, and Alexia noticed it.
She grinned too, pushing you gently against her, one hand sliding to your robe as she backed you against the tiled wall.
She was all over you, kissing you until your knees felt weak.
You caught her jaw in your hand, and she leaned into the touch. "You really won, huh, bebé?" you whispered again, "yeah, yeah... you really do deserve it."
"Your girlfriend is a European champion," she whispered back.
She grinned again before she stole another kiss, her hips drifting a little to yours.
"Ale, no," you gasped, pushing lightly on her shoulder. "We seriously cannot have sex again. We'll actually miss the bus, and I'm not taking an Uber to the club. That would be a proper walk of shame."
"No sex, no," she dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand. "Just a little kissing," she bargained, punctuating the statement by nipping at your chin.
"Okaaay," you said slowly. "Kissing, yes, but under the shower."
You both stepped into the shower stall. You reached over and turned the knob, settling the temperature to your preference. You waited a bit till the water completely heated up and then walked under the water, feeling it soak over you.
So warm. So perfect.
Alexia, still wearing that confident and romantic smile of hers, stepped directly behind you. Okay, maybe too could fit in a quickie and-
Alexia went completely silent behind you. Then… her eyes flew wide open.
Before you could even register what was happening, a hand clamped around your waist, and she yanked you backwaters out of the stream of water.
"Joder! Estás loca?!!" She said, frantically wiping stray droplets of water from her face as though she had just been splashed with HCl. "The water is burning my skin! It's melting me!" [Fuck, are you crazy?!]
"That's the temperature I like to shower at!" You protested, completely bewildered by her reaction. "What is wr–"
"You are making a soup out of yourself!!" Alexia looked so genuinely horrified, you were starting to wonder if the water was really that hot. "You are a doctor, you, of all people, should know how bad this is for your skin! It's gonna fall off!"
You cautiously stuck a hand back under the stream.
It felt oh so lovely… warm, comforting. Exactly how a shower should feel.
"You are being dramatic again, Alexia!"
"I'm not!" she said. "You want us to stand in boiling water!"
"You and Clara," you said, shaking your head. "Dramatic as hell. That's why you get along so well. Exactly the same personality."
Alexia opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it shut. Apparently, she did not appreciate the comparison to her teenage protege, and got deeply wounded by it.
In the end, the romantic shared shower never happened.
Alexia kept her robe on and sat on the closed toilet lid while you showered, her arm crossed, pout deep in her lips. She watched you through the steam the entire time, her eyes fixed on you, refusing to look away for even a second.
When you finished, the two of you switched places.
Alexia then proceeded to shower at a temperature that, according to her, had been specifically designed for people who weren't actively trying to cook themselves alive.
Not everything is as romantic as it seems.
You were halfway through putting on your shirt when Alexia's voice drifted out from the bathroom, muffled by the glass door and the rushing water.
"You know I gained weight, too, right?"
You paused, confused, with your arms caught awkwardly in the fabric. "Uh?"
After a second, the sound of the shower cut off.
Alexia emerged wrapped in her hotel robe, her damp hair dripping down her shoulders and right onto the wooden floor. Unlike you, she actually had to wash her hair after being on the pitch for so long.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
You silently counted every single drop that fell.
"You said disciplined athletes don't gain weight," she explained, pulling at the collar on her robe, which seemed too tight on her; her skin was red and irritated. "I gained two kilos this season."
You stared, still confused, but then the realisation finally set in. She was still thinking about what you had said earlier.
"Bebé," you sighed, your arms dropping to your sides ."You don't need to do that."
"Do what?' She frowned.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about,' you said, turning away from her toward the small vanity to start doing your hair. "I'm fine, Ale. Really."
"Well," she began, stepping closer. "And you don't need to do that – saying you are fine just because you don't want to talk about something."
You rolled your eyes, focusing on the mirror and and how your hair was completely inconsiderate of the fact that you had places to be tonight.
Alexia didn't like to be ignored.
Predictably, she appeared behind you a second later. For a brief moment, the angry dog in you wanted to snap her, tell her to back off because her wet hair was soaking through your dried clothes.
But then she rested her chin on your shoulder. In the mirror, you noticed how her cheeks were still pink from the shower. She smelled overwhelmingly like generic hotel shampoo because she forgot to pack her own, and the lightning made her hazel eyes look somehow greener.
The anger completely dissipated. You let her stay.
"I love your body," she said quietly, her eyes on yours through the reflection.
You softened even more. "I know you do, Ale."
She pressed a soft kiss against your neck, and you continued. "I never worried about that. You have never given me a single reason to, okay?" you said.
It was the truth. Alexia had always looked at you like you were the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Always. From the very first day back at her house until now.
"You always make a point of showing it, ale," you murmured, feeling a deep need to reassure her.
"Okay, good," she said, pleased with herself.
For a moment, you genuinely thought the conversation was over, and you could go back to fighting with your hair. But then her expression shifted, turning serious again. "So… where is this coming from, then?"
You looked away from her reflection, or tried to. A million different reasons passed through your mind, but none of them seemed serious enough or logical enough to be the actual reason behind it.
Maybe it was the junction of it all. Maybe it wasn't just one thing. Or maybe it was just you, fighting with that universal human flaw, that dangerous voice that made it hard to feel fully satisfied with yourself.
You shrugged, choosing the simplest answer you could find. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Oh, but we are talking about it," she said, delivering with certainty as if a conversation didn't always need to be bidirectional.
You rolled your eyes again. "Alexia, the bus–"
"The bus can wait."
"It literally cannot."
She pressed a firm kiss to your cheek, then finally released her hold on you. She let the robe fall carelessly to the floor, leaving her beautiful naked body entirely free for you to look at.
She was really an unfairly pretty woman. Then, killing your fun, she grabbed a fresh towel to dry her body off.
"Okay," she said, drying herself and then beginning to brush her wet hair. "We'll talk while we get ready, that way we wont miss the bus."
"Oh Jesus Christ," you groaned, letting your forehead rest against the glass of the mirror.
"The faster you talk," she sang out, completely cheerful. "The faster we leave."
"You are so annoying," you sighed. "And incredibly stubborn."
"And excellent at time management," she countered, clearly proud of herself.
"And insistent," you mumbled, though you couldn't help but smile. "So annoyingly insistent."
"I prefer the word tenacious."
You rolled your eyes at that.
You were quiet for a moment, desperately hoping she would let the silence take over and drop it. But Of course, she didn't. She was tenacious, unfortunately for you.
"It' just…" You hesitated, thinking of ways to put it. "Everyone around you is so... fit. You know?"
Alexia paused her brushing, looking at you. "What? Everyone?"
"The girls on the team," you explained, your voice dropping a bit. "Their girlfriend, your other friends… Everyone in that circle is so into the gym and everyone is so athletic and they all look a certain way."
"And what does that have to do with you and your body, amor?" she asked softly. "They are them; you are you."
You opened your mouth to give a very sharp and pragmatic answer, but the words never came. You couldn't think of a single thing to say.
Yeah, what exactly did that have to do with you?
For once in your life, you didn't have an answer, and you absolutely hated that. You were witty, rapid thinking, you always knew what to say, but right now, you were empty of logic and words.
Alexia instantly sensed your distress, as always, she saw right through the quiet.
"Eres guapísima," she said tenderly, putting her brush aside and walking back over to you and gently cupping your face.
You felt your cheeks warm, but she didn't stop. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead and then your chin.
"Hermosa, preciosa," she murmured against your skin. "Perfecta. Mía."
You laughed, weakly trying to push her shoulder to hide your face. "Okay, okay, got it. You are like, super, hopelessly in love with me."
Alexia just grinned. "Something like that, si."
She locked her arms around your waist, pulling you against her and bringing her mouth close to your ear. "You will always be the prettiest woman in every room – or pitch – that I ever walk in, okay? Don't forget that."
You rolled your eyes, trying your absolutely best to look unimpressed, but unfortunately, your smile completely gave away.
☆ A/n: I really really wanted to write something "realistic" and domestic about the final, so why not with our keeping score babies? Someone asked me once what shirt reader would wear to a game, so this is the answer hehe. I got an ask a few months ago about reader feeling a bit insecure because everyone around Alexia was so fit, so I decided to add it to this fic. I'm sorry if it was too random, but I feel that keeping score reader would be a bit upset and try to hide it and I didn't want to write a whole blurb around it.
This fic was so fluffy and warm, I loved it. R going down to the field so Clara wouldn’t be alone made my heart hurt in the best of ways. But that didnt last long since R and Ale were so sweet together. The shower scene killed me!
Beyond the Badge | Alexia Putellas x reader - Part 3
Part 3
Summary : You're Real Madrid Femenino personified, the captain, the one who joined the day the club was born. A 15-2 agreggate against Barça makes you wonder if loyalty is enough, and the Spanish camp that follows only make it worse. You've known Alexia Putellas for years but have never been close. This camp has other ideas for you both.
Pairing : Alexia Putellas x Real Madrid! Reader
Word count : 7.2k
A/n : Firstly, note that this was written before the game against England happened irl. Secondly, I thought about it a lot, and Ale will stay at Barça in this fic. Both because I'm still coping and because a lot of the fic is already written and it would require me to change a lot of the plot.
Masterlist
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Revenge is a dish best served cold, and the weather is bad in London.
Games against England always go beyond the game itself. The last scar dates from less than 12 months ago. Basel is still on everyone’s minds. You were supposed to take the fifth penalty, but never got the chance to shoot it.
After Alexia was subbed out, you were the one with the armband, the one that made the motivation speech before the shoot-out. You almost asked Pau Quesada to remove you from the captain position in Madrid when he took over the team, but chickened out. The wound stayed wide open for months.
England at home is never easy, you and part of the team know it better than the others. 2022, Brighton, first competition you captained for Spain.
Fuck, you really hate England.
Even the youngsters are quieter during breakfast, you miss their noise a little bit. These idiots are starting to get to you, it seems.
You start the day with a press conference, because they’re dying to hear your refreshing and illuminating opinion about the game. Alexia’s closed expression tells you she’s thinking the same thing.
The conference room is packed with media. You know the two Euros wins earned the Lionesses a lot of coverage. Coverage can be a double-edged sword, your team knows it better than any other national team in the world.
Still, it’s always great to see so many media covering a simple qualification game.
Questions are the boring kind, “how do you feel your strengths and weaknesses match against England”, “what does it feel like to play in a stadium like Wembley”. You get so many of them about last Euro that at one point the mediator intervenes to redirect the conference toward today’s game.
One journalist from Mundo Deportivo asks you about playing alongside so many Barça players just a few days after the three Clásicos defeats. You briefly consider telling him to get lost, but the media training kicks in, biting your tongue to swallow the answer you want to give. What comes out is boring, easy. It’s about unity, how the national team will always be more important than club level football.
Once you’re out of the conference and walking toward the locker room, Alexia clears her throat, putting on a falsely serious face. “Excuse me,” she starts in her heavily accented English, shoving her fist near your mouth like a microphone. “Miss, what would you say is the most important to you : a win against England or a win against the great Barcelona ?”
You push her a few feet away from you but can’t help the laugh that comes out of your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”
She smiles at your reaction and puts her left arm around your shoulders, bringing you closer to her. “I know which one is the most likely,” she teases in your ear.
You push her face away from you. “Fuck off Putellas.” Her laughter intensifies. You don’t know why she’s smiling as if she just won a game. She drops her arm once you’ve arrived at the locker room entrance.
When you step on the pitch to train, you can see the eyes of some of the young players shine. Some of them barely allowed themselves to dream about playing in such a big stadium. It wasn’t even a possibility for your generation when you grew up.
Big stadiums don’t faze you anymore. You absolutely love playing in them, even if they’re behind the opposite team.
“Welcome to my home,” Mariona says next to you.
“Not too bad,” you say looking around the stadium. You push her back. “Come on, time to train.”
“Always so serious,” she complains. You shrug in response.
Training goes well. The team works great together, instructions are being followed, everyone feels ready for the game tonight.
The pressure grows during the afternoon. Some work with physios for those who need it, then a last tactical meeting where the starting XI is announced.
It’s pretty clear it’s what the staff considers the best XI for this game : Coll, Carmona, Y/L/N, Paredes, Battle, Putellas, Caldentey, Patri, Vicky, Esther, Pina.
It always surprises people when you tell them, but you don’t have a matchday routine. You’ve always liked to be flexible. You and Olga are discussing the game tactics in the bus, it reminds you of old times.
The atmosphere in Wembley is already buzzing when your team arrives. Everybody puts their stuff in the locker room before going to do some recognition on the pitch. The grass feels, unsurprisingly, the exact same as it did this morning during training. But you know it makes good social media content for them to post how the team has arrived and the greetings with the English players.
You look around the team. Everybody is talking in groups, likely some comments about how alive this stadium will feel when it’s full. You’re sure Mariona is boasting about it again.
You join Alexia and Vicky. “How come you always wear sunglasses ?” You point at said object that’s sitting on Alexia’s nose. “Right now it’s cold and cloudy, you don’t need them.”
Vicky beats Alexia to answering. “It’s for her Instagram dump, she needs to be stylish.”
You can feel Alexia eyeroll even if you can’t see it. “Don’t listen to Stitch,” she waves her hand in dismissal, “They make me feel more mysterious. I don’t like it when people look in my eyes.”
Why ? They’re so pretty. You want to say. You kick yourself mentally the next instant. You settle for something safe instead. “Mysterious, really captain ?”
“That’s my middle name,” she jokes. Vicky seems to start getting bored because she tries to take the sunglasses from Alexia, who pushes her away. “Do I need to remind you that you’re on very thin ice.” She scolds her.
Vicky has the decency to look remorseful. In your opinion, Alexia gives them too long of a leash. She’s strict about football, not as much about off-the-pitch behavior. You will let her handle her problem how she wants. “I’ve apologized like a hundred times since yesterday.” Then there’s a certain glint in her eyes, the one she has when she’s about to make you regret things, you’ve discovered. “You know Capi, there’s nothing to be ashamed of –”
“Dios mío Vicky. If you finish this sentence, I’m making our club transfer you to Russia.” Pink starts coloring Alexia’s cheeks. “Keep all your energy to annoy me and redirect it toward England.”
“Don’t worry, I will be running everywhere during the game.” Then Vicky directs her attention to you. “I mean, I want us to win considering our pact.”
Alexia furrows her brows, they disappear under her sunglasses. “What pact ?”
“It’s a secret,” you answer, wanting to rile her up a little.
Alexia puts her sunglasses on top of her head. Her eyes search yours, then they travel between you and Vicky as if it will give her an answer. You can see the worry in her expression. To be fair, anything with “Vicky” and “secret” in the same sentence would worry you too. “I don’t like that,” she states.
Vicky rubs Alexia’s shoulder patronizingly. “Don’t worry about it Ale, focus on the game.” Then she leaves the two of you to go badger Mapi.
Alexia looks at you. “Tell me what this whole thing is about.” She uses her stern voice or, as everyone on the team calls it, the captain’s voice. It has no effect on you.
You shrug. “You will know soon enough. Vicky won’t be able to keep her mouth shut anyway. Well, it’s only if we win. If we don’t I will tell you what that pact, like Vicky calls it, was about.”
Alexia pouts, genuinely pouts. “Come on tell me.” She’s adorable, you might break, yet somehow you manage to hold your ground. “Does anyone else know ?”
“Jana does.” Alexia opens her mouth in indignation, her brows are even more furrowed than before.
“How the hell are these two keeping it silent ?” To be fair, you wonder that too, but you just shrug.
“Come on Ale we have a game to win. Let’s go to the locker room.” She groans but follows you there anyway.
You’re in the tunnel before entering the pitch. The little girl with you seems way more excited from seeing the players standing to your right. She can’t help but look toward Lauren James and Alessia Russo at the end of the tunnel. Not a future defender then.
The signal comes for the teams to enter the pitch. Considering Williamson isn’t starting, it’s Keira Walsh who’s leading the way for England, while Alexia is obviously doing that for Spain.
The noise is deafening when the teams step on the grass. As you line up for the hymns, you look around the full stadium. The kind of crowd that makes the sacrifices to be a professional footballer worth it.
After the hymns, you shake hands with the Lionesses, exchanging some polite “have a good game.” You’ve never played with any of them, so you’re not close to them. You only know Georgia Stanway in passing from her being there when you hung out with your past Bayern teammates. Meanwhile Walsh and Bronze are hugging half the Spanish team.
As the teams get in position, Irene pats your shoulder. “Ready ?” she asks. “Always,” you answer. It’s a tradition between the two of you.
You’ve always enjoyed the pressure of these kinds of games. You know some players have trouble with it. You can’t be a great player if you don’t thrive under pressure. You let out a deep breath when Alexia and Walsh position themselves on the pitch after the coin toss.
Let the game begin.
From the start, it doesn’t feel like a simple qualification game. Challenges are rough, nerves are high.
5 minutes in, there’s a fastbreak for England and Russo gets the ball in an interesting position. You check her with your shoulder to stop the play. She falls to the ground, a bit theatrical in your opinion. The referee whistles for the foul and the English players are calling for a yellow card. Thankfully your challenge is light enough that the ref doesn’t give you one. The free kick leads to nothing, Irene taps in your hand. “Good foul.”
The first half is hell. England manages to stop the team from playing their game, passes are sloppy, runs lead to nothing. It feels like the Spanish block is sitting lower and lower each passing minute. Alexia is playing so low she’s almost at your level.
You weren’t expecting to have so much work, but you handle it well. Russo is getting more and more frustrated with you. The referee already had to tell her to calm down twice.
You’re trying to reposition everyone while holding it together yourself. The whole team is getting frustrated with each other. You point out to Mariona that you can’t even clear the ball because you have no one to pass to, and she bites back that you should just improve your passing.
The fans are chanting, they know they have the upper hand right now. But the defense holds it together, and the Lionesses never get a great chance. It must be a boring game for the fans.
Your jersey is clinging to your skin when halftime comes, you’re feeling the exhaustion of 90 minutes already. Alexia comes to you while you’re walking toward the locker room. Her jaw is set, she’s frustrated. “Irene and you are saving us. Right now we can’t make a fucking pass.” You don’t say anything, you don’t see the need to. “Who’s making the halftime speech between us ?”
“Do it.” You don’t hesitate, you don’t like making them. “I’ll add things if I feel like it’s necessary.”
The team is welcomed into the locker room by a very angry Sonia. Some adjustments are made, the midfield is sitting too low, which is cutting the attackers from the rest of the team. She orders them to be higher. It’s a dangerous play, it means more work for you in the defense, but it’s the only way you will score a goal. Your team doesn’t know how to park the bus and play counter attacks.
Sonia clearly wants some young legs that can run on offense. She changes Esther for Paralluelo, Pina switching to striker. Sonia says a few more words about honor and self-respect before leaving the locker room, closing the door loudly on her way out. The sound echoes in the heavy silence.
Some heads are down. You prepared the game well, trained successfully, only to deliver a terrible first half. You haven’t lost any hope, you know how two halves can be totally different games.
Alexia gets up, everyone looks up at the action. Her motivation speech works well, you can see that a lot of backs are standing up straighter now. You think back to your motivation speech before the penalty shootout, that led to so many misses. It’s what will fuel you, you decide.
In the time you have before coming back on the pitch, you tell Ona to be more careful of Stanway’s movements. She’s too focused on Hemp and it’s causing leaks. She nods, taking it in, and thanks you.
Then you go sit next to Vicky to tell her to use the gaps between Hinds and Wubben-Moy more, instead of only trying to beat Hinds on her left. You know she hasn’t had a lot of touches, but she needs to focus on what she will do when she gets them.
The second half starts with Spain showing some more promises. The attackers are still struggling to get interesting touches. When there is a stop of play, you go toward Alexia, who’s too close to you. “You need to play higher. We can’t build up plays if you’re next to me and Irene.”
She looks unconvinced. “We’re getting split open if I do that.” It’s only the 60th minute, and she looks exhausted. She’s been trying to be everywhere today.
“Trust your backline. Patri is already there to support us. We’re not here to get a draw.” You push her in the back to signal her to go higher, the ball is about to be in play again.
She doesn’t answer, but she plays a bit higher, enough that the wingers finally have some balls they can exploit. It does also mean that England has more space to attack.
Walsh sends a ball that cuts through Irene toward Russo. There’s a flash of Basel, your bad positioning that let her score the equalizing header. You know you’re too late to get it, but go for it anyway. Your cleats meet the side of her ankle. She screams in pain.
You get an immediate yellow card you don’t complain about. It was needed to avoid the one-on-one against Cata. It’s worth it. You still apologize and help Russo get up. You will not become best friends because of this game, that’s for sure.
As the game goes on, you start to run on fumes more than anything else. Olga has to grab you to tell you to stop being everywhere before you collapse on the pitch. You make worse decisions, Patri is frustrated when you open the backline to make a bad tackle on Walsh while she already had that zone covered, you’re lucky it doesn’t lead to anything.
Spain almost gets crucified in the 88th minute. A corner that comes from a missed clearance from you. The ball gets cleared by Irene, but it falls at Stanway’s feet just out of the box. She shoots it immediately, it’s a clean one. Cata isn’t able to stop it because she already tried to make the stop during the corner and is on the other side of the goal. It’s a miracle you have the reflexes to make an acrobatic move with your foot, catching it on the line. It goes out of play shortly after.
The whole team exhales.
90+3’, England are attacking too much because they don’t want a draw from a game where they dominated. You catch an overambitious pass from Bronze. You immediately pass it to Alexia, who’s standing high on the pitch. Vicky makes a run between Hinds and Wubben-Moy. Alexia weighs her pass perfectly and it lands with the right timing for her run. Vicky puts it past Hampton with ease.
Goal for Spain. 0-1.
The silence in Wembley is deafening. You’re so exhausted you don’t even run toward Vicky, while most of the team does. The English players all look like they wanna jump off a bridge.
The final whistle is given as soon as England kicks off. Boos come from the stands, likely to signal to your team that you didn’t deserve the win. Well, not your fault England couldn’t convert. Actually it was a bit your fault, but you’re proud of it.
Adrenaline crashes and you lie on the grass, breathing heavily. Vicky comes running at full speed towards you, you don’t know how she still has legs. She crouches next to you. “Great goal, kid.” You say as you stand up, hugging her side.
You break the embrace and she goes straight to Alexia. To either thank her for the assists or to annoy, you’re not sure which one, likely both.
You go shake the hands of the Lionesses. You don’t talk with them besides the polite “good game”. You do apologize to Russo about the foul and she’s nice about it, saying she isn’t injured and that you played a great game.
Georgia Stanway asks you to exchange jerseys which you agree to easily, even if you don’t really care about it. Usually you give out the jerseys to your friends or family after because you don’t do anything with them. You both put on each other’s jerseys after.
Then you’re pulled over to collect the “player of the game” trophy. You’re surprised it doesn’t go to Vicky. The English TV journalists ask you about the strategy before the game. You say that being this defensive was the plan (it absolutely wasn’t). They joke about you exchanging jerseys with Stanway after stopping her shot late in the game. You give a polite laugh and they release you.
As you’re walking in the tunnel, you feel arms wrapping around your shoulders from behind. You recognize the 11 on the outside of her wrist. “You were amazing today,” she says.
You stop moving, and her chest presses against your back, she wraps her arms tighter. “The whole backline was.” You know she’s rolling her eyes at your deflection. “Can’t say the same for the midfield,” you tease her.
“Asshole.” She whispers in your ear. There’s a certain edge to it, it was maybe a bit too much on your part. You turn around in her arms. You hug her properly with your arms around her waist while hers stay around your shoulders. She only has her sports bra, she must have exchanged her jersey with an England player too, but contrary to you, hers is just put carelessly on one of her shoulders.
You wonder how things changed so quickly between you two. You wouldn’t have considered the idea of hugging a sweaty Alexia and enjoying it three days ago.
She smells like she had just played for 90 minutes, but you don’t really care. Her face is tucked into the side of your neck, you can feel her breath against your skin. “I played like shit,” she complains. You almost argue automatically, then stop yourself.
“Take that as a way to improve without consequences. We know way more about the weaknesses of our team, but it still counts as a win.” She hums, unconvinced by your answer. Your hand that doesn’t have the POTG trophy caresses her back in reassurance. You can feel the muscles and the sweat there.
You can think about another context where you would love to feel Alexia’s muscles and sweat—
You’re absolutely fucked.
You break the embrace. “Come on, let’s go to the media zone. I’m sure we will have some great and insightful questions there.” She groans but she does follow you.
After the media and Sonia’s speech in the locker room, one that wasn’t really complimentary, the team is left alone in the locker room. You’re happy to finally be able to shower. Vicky comes to sit beside you. “So, about our pact…” She’s smiling from ear to ear. To be fair, she earned it.
“Later tonight. I won’t answer in front of the entire locker room.” That would be one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. Likely Top 3, and not third.
“Fair.” Vicky shrugs. “Can Jana be there also ?” You throw your head back, it’s gonna be such a terrible moment for you.
The shower is nice and relaxing before the fateful moment. On the bus, you sit next to Esther who tells you a bit more about life in the US, while you catch her up with the last Real news.
There’s a small breakdown happening in the back of your mind, anticipating what Vicky and Jana are hoping to be a revelation.
Before you know it, you’re sitting on your bed with Jana and Vicky looking straight at you from Vicky’s bed. It feels like the Last Judgment.
“A bet is a bet,” says Vicky. She’s gleeful, you wonder if she’s happier right now than when she scored the winning goal. “So, who is it ?”
You take a moment to think. The truth is obvious to you. It has hazel and green eyes, high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, a shy smile and a lot of back tattoos. Saying to Vicky (and to the whole team by extension) would be mortifying. You spent so much time preparing for the game, then you were absolutely exhausted, and now you have to give an answer you can’t give.
You must find a name, quickly so it doesn’t sound too calculated. Why are you suddenly forgetting everyone on the team ? You finally manage to grasp a name, the one you’re the closest to on the team. “Misa.” You blurt out, fighting against a wince. There’s silence, you feel the need to fill it. “And like, it’s awkward cause she’s my teammate and we’re close, even friends and– You start rambling. You’re already deep in the lie, so you’d better make it believable.
“Oh my god, I knew it !” Vicky exclaims. What ?
“No, no, not like that,” you try to interrupt. You’re realizing just now that it might have some unforeseen consequences.
“The way you two always hover close to each other, hang out while you’re already on the same team all year round. You’d be cute together,” Jana adds.
Vicky and Jana look like it’s Christmas and there are even more gifts than expected. You’re mortified by the situation. It will certainly reach Misa’s ears, twisted and amplified by the two demons in front of you, and you don’t know how to handle that.
“Just to be clear, I didn’t say I had a crush on Misa, just that I think she’s the prettiest on the team.” You don’t want it to get too far. It might already be too late for that.
“No, but it’s obvious from the look on your face.” Jana is too happy. Fuck, you’ve played it too much. “And I do think it’s reciprocated.”
“No it’s not. There’s no way,” you say. You’re praying you’re right. “I don’t have a crush on Misa,” you repeat. The kids are unconvinced. You’re an idiot. You get up from your bed. “I’m gonna grab some air outside.”
“Oh, are you going to Misa’s room ?” Vicky winks at you, you wanna die from embarrassment. You can’t even imagine what it would have been like if you told the truth. Likely a lot of shock and then the worst teasing you’ve ever received in your life.
They let you get out in peace, at least. Likely because they want to be able to joke about it with each other. When you’re out of the room, you realize you don’t really know where to go. The room you’re the friendliest with is the one with Misa and Mariona, but you definitely don’t wanna go there right now. You feel bad dragging Misa into this.
You take a few deep breaths, wandering in the corridors of the hotel aimlessly. You think about rooms you could go to, ones that contain teammates or ex-teammates, but they’re always rooming with someone you don’t want to see.
There’s only one viable solution.
You : Your kids are bullying me rn. Plz help
You’re surprised that she answers very quickly.
Alexia : Are you sure I can help with that ?
You : Can I come hang out in your room for a bit ?
Alexia : Yeah of course, room 317
You knock and she opens the door seconds later, in cotton shorts and a Spain hoodie. She opens the door wide and you enter the room. It’s smaller than the shared room, but it still has a big double bed in the middle of it, and she doesn’t have to deal with annoying younger roommates like you do. It’s not a big mess like your room with Vicky, but there’s still some stuff here and there.
“From having been in your room, I figured you wouldn’t judge me for the mess here,” Alexia teases. She knows it’s barely a mess, she just wants a free shot at you. “Come on, sit on the bed.” You do as she says, and she lies next to you. “I could ask you what’s wrong but it’s already in the Barça group chat.”
“There’s no way,” you groan. These kids are way too quick with their phones. “Why is it even in the Barça group chat anyway ?”
Alexia shrugs, unbothered. “You must admit that Madrid captain and vice-captain potentially getting together is great gossip.” Well, said like that it’s indeed great gossip, fuck. “I have huge doubts about it being true gossip.” You raise your head at that. Alexia isn’t looking at you but at the London roofs you can see through the window.
“Why do you say that ?” you ask. She’s right, obviously. You still want to know why she’s so sure she is.
Alexia turns her head to look at you. “From the way you are around each other. You’re too comfortable around her.”
Funny when Vicky and Jana had the opposite conclusion. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“So you do think Misa is the hottest on the team ?” You forgot Alexia is a gossip too. She looks delighted to have you in her room right now to interrogate you.
You weigh it between lying and telling the truth. Alexia is too close to Misa, and you don’t think she’s gonna rat you out to Vicky. “No I don’t, it just seemed like a safe answer.” You can see the way Alexia is about to ask another question. “No, you won’t know the true answer.”
She clicks her tongue in annoyance, but doesn’t complain. “You’re lucky it’s already late, and I’m exhausted after the game. We will talk about that again.” She promises, you hope she won’t keep it. “Do you wanna sleep here ? Vicky won’t let you sleep.”
You hesitate a bit, your brain is fried from tiredness. Alexia asks it so casually that you don’t overthink it. There’s only one bed, but it’s a big one. You’ve slept in beds way smaller with friends of yours. Frankly, you also really don’t want to go back to your room, and you’re starting to feel the game in your body too. “Yes, thanks a lot. That would be nice.”
“I’m just a good captain,” Alexia says casually. “You would have done the same for any player.” It’s the truth, it doesn’t mean it’s not a nice gesture from her still. She lends you some clothes to sleep in and before you know it, you’re both under the covers. Everything smells like Alexia, it makes you feel warm inside. There isn’t an awkward silence, just a polite goodnight. You’re both tired enough that sleep finds you easily.
You’re woken up by Alexia’s alarm, Her groan and the movement as she silences it tell you she’s awake too. You open your eyes with difficulty, a bit of light is coming into the room at the bottom of the curtains. You look at Alexia’s form to be sure you didn’t blanket hog, but it doesn’t seem like you did. “Hola,” you say, your voice is hoarse. You drink some water on the bedside table.
You only get a hum in response. You look at your phone on the bedside table, it’s 8:30. The staff let the team sleep-in, you just have a recovery session at 11 before travelling back to Madrid in the afternoon.
You get up from the bed and stretch, your hands above your head, you can feel your back crack, and it feels good. Your shirt rides up at the movement, Alexia’s gaze drifts up briefly before she rolls onto her back again. “It’s too easy for you to get up,” she complains. Her voice is lower than usual. She’s still in bed, tucked under the sheets, hair messy and eyes half-open. It feels almost domestic, she still looks great, it’s unfair.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for the lazy morning type,” you tease while looking around the room to find your clothes from last night.
“I’m not,” she rebuffs. “I’m just not running everywhere 2 minutes after waking up. 10 minutes in bed feels great.” You shrug, you prefer just sleeping 10 more minutes in that case. You finally find your clothes and go get changed in the bathroom.
When you get out, Alexia is still in the bed, this time on her phone, laughing. Your perplexed look seems to amuse her even more. “I won’t tell you, I will let you go back to your room with Vicky and the mess will happen.” You’re kinda terrified by these words, you’re kinda over the mess too, Alexia seems to realize it. “Hey, if Vicky bothers you too much tell me. I know she can be a lot, so I will tell her to tone it down.”
“Don’t worry about it.” If a talk needs to be had, you’re grown enough to have it yourself. And you’re the one that entertained the kid a bit too much. “Thanks for letting me stay here for the night, it was nice from you.”
Alexia dismisses it, saying it’s nothing. Closing the door behind you feels oddly disappointing.
As soon as you enter your room, Vicky speak up. “Where were you last night ?” It seems like she’s wide awake.
“I don’t see how that’s your business.” It’s not like going to Alexia’s room is a huge secret, even if it feels a bit like one to you. You want to mess with Vicky too.
“I’ve asked Mariona, but apparently Misa slept the whole night in their room. If you had a booty call in London, you wouldn’t have waited for the game, it’s not our first night in London.” Vicky is talking with her hands worse than an Italian, you can almost see the gears turning in her head. Then it looks like she has a eureka moment, you highly doubt it’s the case. “Oh my god is that a Lioness ? Wait, you exchanged jersey with one of them last night. I think it was Stanway ! And you two played for Bayern. It makes so much sense ! I’m gonna ask Keira and Lucy.”
During all her rambling, you’re too stunned to interrupt her. You have no idea how the kid made all these wrong connections in her head. You and Stanway didn’t even play together for Bayern for fuck’s sake. Saying just now you slept in Alexia’s room would seem like you were hiding something by not telling sooner.
You come back to your senses. “No don’t ask them !” You try to take the phone from her hands but she’s too fast. For a defender, your reflexes are lacking.
Vicky looks at her screen. “Oh Lucy already answered !” Then her brows furrow. “Apparently Stanway is in a relationship, you’re not a homewrecker, right ? Lucy is also confused about where Misa stands in all of that.” Will anyone hold a grudge if you throw Vicky off the plane later ? Alexia might, and you don’t want that.
“Oh my god, once again I don’t have a crush on Misa,” you exclaim. You don’t even comment on her telling Lucy that, you think the whole football world knows by now. What a shit show.
“Well yes, I realize that now !” Vicky says, as if she’s frustrated with you. The nerves of this kid. She’s still typing on her phone, likely talking with Lucy, then a smile breaks on her face. Oh no.
“Apparently Lauren James left the hotel late and came back early in the morning, anything to admit ?” She looks smug, the little shit. You’ve never spoken a single word except “good game” to her. “Oh my god you’re turning red. We figured it out !” You’re just red with embarrassment, about the whole thing. Society can be thankful Vicky never joined the police.
“You know what ? I’m just in a bad dream. I’m gonna take a shower and everything is gonna be back to normal after that.” Vicky looks at you as if you’ve lost your mind. You might have, but because of her.
“Or maybe you just need hot water to wake you up after a looong night.” You don’t grace her with an answer. You slept well, actually. Alexia doesn’t snore loudly and doesn’t move too much, which is enough for you to have a great night.
Breakfast is a mess, news travels too fast on this team. Everyone is already in a good mood because of the win against England, but your misfortune is the cherry on the cake. You want to dig a hole and hide in it. Everyone seems to think you’re fucking Lauren James, and that you have something for Misa. They don’t seem to care that these two facts contradict themselves.
Alexia seems torn between making fun of you and sympathizing considering she knows it’s all bullshit. You’re seriously considering saying you actually slept in Alexia’s bed just to bring her in this mess with you. You won’t, because you’re nice to her.
Breakfast is followed by a very awkward chat with Misa where you have to explain the situation to her. She does seem a little hurt when you say she was just the safe-ish answer, but right now you have bigger fish to fry. You’re grateful it was Misa at the end of the day, she won’t escalate it.
By the time you escape Misa and the breakfast room, your phone is vibrating nonstop. You ignore most of them, but do look at what Aitana sent you.
Aitana : I was gonna make fun of the Misa answer
Aitana : But now I’m really confused about this Lauren James thing
Aitana : Like when did it happen ??
Aitana : I need so many explanations for things that happened in the last 24h
Aitana : Congrats on the win against England btw, you were fantastic
Aitana rarely sends so many texts at once, but you can admit it’s a special situation.
You : Can I call you right now ?
Aitana : Yeah, just finished training.
It’s 9h45, recovery is at 11, so you have some time. You negotiate with Vicky for her to leave the room. She seems to accept you’ve been going through a lot this morning and heads off to hang out in another room. You call Aitana on FaceTime, she answers almost immediately.
“You’re back to training with the team ?” You ask her happily, forgetting about your own mess for a few instants.
Her face instantly brightens. “Yes ! It feels so good to be back, you have no idea. But it’s not today’s subject.” You roll your eyes, she looks at you through the screen. “Why do you have Vicky’s Stitch plushie in your arms ?”
The true answer is that it reminds you of Alexia, and you’re stressed right now. “It’s fluffy.” You shrug.
She doesn’t seem to think much of it. “So now, explanations. I feel like I just started the fourth season of a TV show after missing the whole third one.” You’ve weighed it before calling, what you were gonna tell Aitana. You’re just so confused right now, about everything, and Aitana is your closest friend that’s a footballer. Talking about it to one of your friends outside of football would require so much additional context you don’t feel like giving right now.
You trust Aitana. She already knows lots of things about your personal life, as you do about hers. It involves her teammate, but you know she’s not that close to Alexia anyway. So you tell her everything about this week. About the contract, the getting closer to Alexia, and the whole mess that Vicky created. She listens, she jokes, she comments, tells you that you’re an idiot a few times.
“I have no fucking idea what I’m doing right now.” You conclude. Aitana takes some time to weigh all the mess she’s been told.
“You know what, yeah, I can see Alexia being your type.” You want to strangle her, is that what she’s focusing on ?
“That’s the only advice you have to give ? Lauren James literally sent me a DM this morning on Insta to ask me why the whole England team thinks we’re fucking.”
Aitana bursts out laughing, you have already given her a full workout with your story. “Oh you didn’t even tell me that. What did you answer ?”
“I told her it was Lucy Bronze’s fault, and she told me fair enough.” Aitana nods, she’s used to Bronze’s antics too. “How did my life get so messy while I’m not dating footballers ?” You complain.
“The Barcelona girls have a special talent for creating lesbian drama,” Aitana answers seriously. “What do you plan to do regarding Alexia ?”
You furrow your brows. “Absolutely nothing.” You answer as if it was obvious. “I will hangout around her like normal and then we won’t talk outside of camp and I will get back to my senses.”
Aitana seems unconvinced, maybe she knows you too much. You usually have a hard time getting crushes, but when you do, you’re not known to have the best self-control. “Don’t create too much of a mess. Alexia isn’t a bad or a messy person, but it can still end badly considering your positions.” You nod. You know that very well, that’s why nothing is happening. “And if anything does, you see how gossip travels. Be careful that no one finds out.” These are obvious, you sigh.
“Do you want to talk about the contract thing ?” You say no immediately, she nods in understanding. “Update me if it gets messier, I will be here for moral support.”
You roll your eyes. “You just want the gossip.” If you were in her place, you would too. Who knew the Spanish camp would get so interesting ? You’ll have a word with the staff member that makes the room assignments.
“I don’t plan to take another bad decision.” You sure hope you’ll keep your word.
“I’ve heard that so many times from you. It usually ends pretty badly.” You know she’s right. You don’t like that she’s right. That’s why you like to keep football separate, your flings rarely end well.
There’s a knock at the door, you look at the time, it’s almost time for recovery so it must be Vicky. You say your goodbyes to Aitana and let Vicky in. She’s disappointed when you tell her who you were on the phone with.
Your whole day consists of way too much teasing. Even the ones that know you enough to know you wouldn’t have done that, like Olga and Esther, poke fun at you. Alexia is softer with it, so you end up hovering around her most of the day. She doesn’t complain about it.
Coming back to your city feels good, the sun is back and your mood is immediately better. Alexia lets you take her sunglasses, even if she complains about the sun in her eyes. She only puts them back on for the social media video before giving them to you again.
When dinner comes, everyone has eased up on the teasing. They know the fine line between annoying and unbearable. You’re eating the last bites of your fruit salad when your agent calls. You quickly excuse yourself and get up to take the call in a more private space.
The call doesn’t go well. You know the clock is ticking, that you should come closer to a decision. It doesn’t mean you take it well when you’re told that. He tries to get at least some idea of what you want to do but you fucking don’t know. You want to scream, not at him but at the universe. Making decisions is already hard but it feels like the biggest decision of your life.
The call ends up with him frustrated at you. You’re not even mad at him, you’re mad at yourself because you know you’re being unreasonable, but you still can’t fight it.
Every conversation about the contract leaves you feeling trapped in your own life. You try to take a deep breath, it doesn’t work. Your whole body is shaking. You don’t want to come back to your room. Vicky will be there and she’s gonna tease you and you have no problem with it most of the time. Right now, you know you might snap at her and say things you will deeply regret. You like the kid too much for that.
You open Aitana’s contact, but she’s not here physically and that’s what you need right now. You shove your phone in your pocket, then immediately take it back out again. Your hands won’t stay still. The hallway suddenly feels too narrow, you lean against the wall because your legs feel weak. Your thumbs type before your mind can think about it.
You : Can I come hang out in your room ?
You : Please
Alexia : Still at dinner. Give me 10 minutes?
Alexia : Room 119 btw
Alexia : You okay ?
You don’t answer. You’re not even sure how to. You walk in circles waiting for Alexia to send you another text. It comes seven minutes later.
Alexia : I’m in my room, come
You’re not sure you’re in the right state of mind to avoid bad decisions.
Chapter Fourteen (Last One!)
After your breakout season with London City Lionesses, Alexia Putellas becomes an unexpected presence in your life, offering advice, analysing your games, and quietly mentoring you from Barcelona.
To you, she’s helping you improve.
To Jana Fernandez, you're definitely right for her and if she has anything to do with it, those tactical conversations might not stay professional for long.
Masterlist
in light of recent news - the end of this story will be quick and painful🫶🏼 We may revisit these two in the future, but given I've somehow been able to see in the future when planning this, I'm just condensing what would be the final two chapters into one 🤍
🦁
The next few months blurred together in the best possible way, football, flights, recovery sessions, late night food runs, stolen mornings tangled in bedsheets and between all of that you and Alexia became inseparable.
Not officially or publicly, but privately everyone close to you both knew, because Alexia started orbiting around you naturally. At training her eyes found you first on buses she sat beside you automatically.
If you disappeared after matches, she’d eventually appear looking for you with that little annoyed crease between her eyebrows like your absence personally offended her.
At home she was entirely different, you discovered quickly that the terrifying captain of Barcelona was actually unbelievably affectionate in private, clingy, even.
There were nights you barely slept because the two of you stayed awake laughing about stupid things until four in the morning.
Mostly her English, occasionally your attempts at Catalan she was trying to teach you. Once you laughed so hard at Alexia falling off the bed trying to dramatically re-enact one of Patri’s training tantrums.
Another time she became so offended by your coffee making process she physically removed the mug from your hands and banned you from touching her kettle ever again.
“You make coffee like criminal,” she informed you seriously.
“You’re deeply xenophobic about beverages.”
“Yes.”
Then there were quieter nights too, the kind neither of you spoke about, Alexia half asleep with her head in your lap while you watched some terrible reality show she pretended to hate, her hand lazily tracing shapes against your thigh.
Or mornings where sunlight spilled through the apartment while she stood in one of your shirts making coffee barefoot and sleepy.
Domestic in ways neither of you acknowledged out loud, because from the start there had been an agreement hanging over everything.
A deadline, your loan, that was the deal, enjoy this and don’t overcomplicate it. No promises, no future planning.
Just six months, but somewhere along the way it stopped feeling temporary and that terrified both of you a little.
Especially after the trophies kept coming, inching you closer and closer to the end of the season.
First came the Copa de la Reina, a brutal final that ended with Barcelona celebrating again beneath another storm of confetti and cameras.
Alexia assisted twice, you scored once and afterward during celebrations she grabbed your medal between her fingers while the two of you stood slightly away from the chaos.
“You collecting these quickly,” she murmured teasingly.
You smiled faintly, “You make it easy.”
Her eyes held yours for a second longer than necessary, “No,” she said quietly, “You just fit here.” That one stayed with you.
Then came the league title, Liga F secured with four matches left after another ridiculous Barcelona performance.
The celebrations that night were chaos, music blasting through the dressing room, Patri dancing terribly on benches, Cata fully drenched in sports drink.
Aitana trying unsuccessfully to maintain some dignity and Alexia spent most of the night touching you somehow.
A hand against your back, fingers brushing your wrist, her mouth near your ear whenever she spoke like she physically couldn’t help herself anymore.
At one point during the celebrations you caught Vicky watching the two and she smirked immediately, “Oh you two are not subtle at all.”
Alexia pointed accusingly at her, “No negativity today.”
“You’re literally in love with her.”
Alexia nearly choked on her drink, you went bright red instantly whilst Vicky looked unbearably pleased with herself, neither of you denied it. Because by then what was the point, it was there in everything.
In the way Alexia always slept better with one hand under your shirt.
In how she memorised your coffee order despite pretending she didn’t care about details like that.
In how your body relaxed every single time you saw her after matches.
In the way she looked for you first during every celebration and still neither of you spoke too much about the ending coming, even though it hovered there constantly beneath everything else, London waiting for you eventually, your loan ticking down week by week.
Sometimes you’d catch Alexia looking at your suitcases tucked beside the wardrobe with this distant expression before forcing herself to look away.
Other times you’d wake up in the middle of the night and find her awake beside you already watching you quietly, like she was trying to memorise you.
Neither of you knew what would happen after this and maybe that was why you held onto each other so tightly in the meantime, because whatever this was it had become far too real to pretend otherwise anymore.
🦁
The apartment was quiet, rarely quiet, these days, no football on the television, no teammates blowing up the group chat, no music humming softly from the kitchen because one of you had decided cooking required a soundtrack. Just darkness, warmth and the soft sound of breathing.
You lay on your stomach while Alexia lay beside you beneath the sheets, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, the other resting lazily across your waist.
Your fingertips drifted absentmindedly over the bare skin of her back, slow patterns, mindless touches, tracing her spine lightly while the city glowed dimly through the curtains outside.
Alexia had been quieter tonight, you’d noticed it all evening in the way she kept drifting off mid conversation, the way her eyes lingered on things longer than usual.
You felt her exhale softly against your shoulder, “I think maybe… I thought this year would be my last.”
Your fingers stilled briefly against her skin, you turned your head slightly toward her, “What?”
Alexia kept her eyes on the wall past you, her voice calm, too calm, "When season start,” she murmured, “I already think maybe enough.”
Your chest tightened slightly hearing it spoken aloud, because even though the rumours had floated around all season hearing her say it felt different.
She shifted slightly onto her back now, hair messy against the pillow while you watched her carefully, “It wasn’t just…” she searched for the words. “Personal things. Team also.”
You stayed quiet letting her talk.
“Barça changing,” she continued softly. “New girls. New generation. It normal. It should happen.”
Your thumb brushed lightly against her shoulder, “You don’t have to disappear for that to happen.”
Alexia smiled faintly at that, “But maybe I no want become problem, be in the way,” she admitted. “I never want stay too long. Never want club feel stuck because of me.”
You frowned slightly immediately, “No one thinks that.”
“I know,” she said softly, “But I think it.”
Silence settled briefly between you, you looked at her properly then, at the woman who carried Barcelona like it was stitched into her bones. Who still showed up every day acting like she had something to prove despite already becoming one of the greatest players the sport had ever seen, somehow this season she’d become even better, she’d stripped herself down to the purest version of who she was as a footballer.
“You’ve been unbelievable this year,” you said quietly.
Alexia huffed softly through her nose, “You sound like interviews.”
“I’m serious.”
She finally looked at you and there was something vulnerable in her expression now. “I think…” she paused. “Maybe because I thought it was ending.”
That hurt a little to hear, you shifted closer automatically until your chin rested lightly against her shoulder.
“You know the game against Madrid?” she asked after a moment.
“The tribute one?”
She nodded slowly, her eyes drifted away again, “Five hundred games,” she murmured quietly. “Camp Nou full. Family there. Everyone crying.”
You smiled faintly “You cried.”
“A little.”
“You cried a lot.”
She ignored that, “I walk out there and…” she exhaled slowly. “It feel like goodbye.”
Your hand moved slowly along her arm now listening.
“It scared me,” she admitted quietly, “Because I realise maybe I am ready.”
“But?”
Her jaw tightened slightly, “Then Bayern happened.”
You remembered it instantly, the semi-final, the substitution, the tears she’d tried so hard to hide walking off the pitch, the entire stadium standing for her.
Alexia swallowed slightly now staring up at the ceiling, “When they take me off…” she said quietly, “I look around and suddenly I think” Her voice cracked slightly and she stopped, “I don’t know how leave this.”
That one landed deep, because this wasn’t just a club to her, it was childhood. Identity. Family. Home, every version of herself existed somewhere inside Barcelona. You reached up gently brushing hair back from her face, “You don’t have to decide right now.”
Alexia laughed softly at that, “Yes I do.”
“No you don’t.”
“I’m old.”
“You’re thirty-two, not eighty.”
She looked offended, “In football they have you basically dead.”
You smiled despite yourself leaning down to kiss her shoulder lightly, “You’re still the best player on the pitch most weeks.”
“That not helping my plans.”
“Good.”
That got a proper small smile out of her finally, but it faded again quickly, “You know what worst part is?” she asked quietly, you shook your head slightly, “I still love it,” she admitted.
There it was the real problem, she still loved football too much to walk away from it, still loved leading, still loved those big nights beneath the lights where the whole stadium held its breath waiting for her to do something impossible and still very much loved Barcelona.
Your fingers intertwined gently with hers beneath the sheets, “You know,” you said quietly, “I think the really scary part isn’t leaving when you’re finished. Alexia looked at you, “It’s leaving while you still matter.”
She went very still at that, because she understood exactly what you meant there was no perfect ending for someone like her, no clean goodbye. No moment where Barcelona would stop needing her completely and maybe that was why she’d been unable to walk away.
Because every time she stepped onto the pitch she was still decisive, still loved, it was all still hers.
Alexia’s eyes held yours for a long moment in the dark, “What if I stay too long?”
You moved closer until your forehead rested lightly against hers, “What if you leave too early?”
You stayed close to Alexia beneath the sheets, foreheads touching while the city lights painted soft shadows across her face, for a while neither of you spoke.
Alexia leaned forward quietly and kissed you, softly and slowly, not desperate like she usually kissed you when emotions got too big. This was gentler than that, almost sad, her lips lingered against yours for a second before she shifted onto her side fully to face you, one hand sliding lightly along your waist beneath the sheets.
You watched her carefully, because there was something else there, something she hadn’t said yet you could feel it.
Alexia swallowed slightly, “London City send offer…” Your stomach tightened immediately, her eyes searched your face nervously now, “My first thought…” she paused briefly, almost embarrassed by it. “Was I still get every day with you.”
You felt something crack open painfully inside your chest, because no. No no no. Your face changed instantly and Alexia saw it.
Her brows pulled together immediately, “Hey—”
“No.” Your voice broke on the word, you pushed yourself upright too quickly, tears already burning unexpectedly behind your eyes as panic bloomed hard in your chest, “Ale, no.”
She sat up too now, confused immediately by your reaction, “What?”
“You can’t do that.”
Her expression tightened. “I’m just saying—”
“No,” you repeated harder this time, shaking your head quickly. “No, Alexia.”
Emotion climbed so fast it made your throat ache, because this was the exact thing you’d been terrified of without even realising it.
You climbed out of the warmth of the bed slightly, dragging your hands through your hair while trying unsuccessfully to steady your breathing, “You cannot make a decision like that because of me.”
Alexia frowned immediately, “It not just because of you”
“But it’s part of it,” you interrupted.
Your eyes burned now and you hated that you were crying, but the thought of her leaving Barcelona, leaving her entire life, because of you it made something inside you feel sick.
“Ale…” your voice cracked badly now, “You can’t put that on me.”
Her face softened immediately hearing the panic in your voice, she moved toward you instantly, “Cariño—”
“No, listen to me,” you said desperately, tears finally spilling over now “You are Barcelona.” The words came out broken emotional, too honest, “You are Barcelona, Alexia.” She stared at you silently. “You can’t wake up one day five years from now and realise you left the club you love because of some situationship that happened during my loan.”
Her face flinched slightly at that word, but you barely noticed, because emotion was spilling out too fast now.
“I would never forgive myself,” you admitted shakily, there was the real truth, your chest physically hurt saying it aloud, “You’d resent me eventually.”
Alexia shook her head immediately, “No.”
“Yes you would!”
“I wouldn’t!”
“You don’t know that!”
Your voice cracked loudly enough that both of you froze slightly afterward, tears ran hot down your face now as you looked at her, because you loved her. You loved her so much it terrified you sometimes, which was exactly why you couldn’t let this happen.
“You belong here,” you whispered brokenly, “At Barcelona. At Camp Nou. With your family and your people and your whole life here.”
Alexia’s eyes were glossy now too, “You think you not part of my life?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what you mean?” she demanded emotionally.
You wiped angrily at your face, “I mean I’m temporary!” The words hit the room hard, Alexia went completely still, your breathing shook, “You had a whole life before I got here,” you whispered, “And you’ll have one after I leave.”
“Stop.”
“You will.”
“Stop saying that.”
“You think this is fair on me?” you cried softly now. “Knowing one of the greatest players in the world might leave the club she loves because she met me for six months?”
Alexia looked genuinely hurt now, “It not six months.”
“That’s literally what it was supposed to be!”
“But it changed!”
Silence crashed down afterward, because she’d finally said it out loud. Your face crumpled slightly hearing it, Alexia moved toward you again more carefully this time.
“You think I don’t know what Barça means to me?” she asked quietly, tears finally slipping down her own cheeks now, “You think I forget?”
You shook your head immediately, “No.”
“Then why you act like I stupid?”
“I’m not!”
“You are!”
She pressed a hand hard against her chest frustrated now, “I can love Barça and still think about another life!”
Your eyes squeezed shut briefly, “But what if you hate it?”
“I won’t.”
“What if football there isn’t the same? What if you miss this place? What if you stop being happy?”
Alexia moved close enough to hold your face, forcing you to look at her, “And what if I stay,” she whispered emotionally, “and lose you anyway?”
That one shattered something in you, because neither of you had really said it before, not properly. The tears came harder after that, you shook your head desperately, “You won’t lose me.”
“But I already am,” she admitted quietly.
Your chest caved inward hearing the pain in her voice, because underneath all of this was the simple awful truth that the season was ending. Your loan was ending, time was running out.
Alexia rested her forehead against yours both of you crying quietly now in the dark. “I don’t know what right decision is anymore,” she admitted brokenly.
That hurt most of all, because the fearless captain of Barcelona suddenly sounded completely lost. Alexia held your face carefully while you cried, not trying to stop it or trying to fix it immediately.
Thumbs brushing tears away almost helplessly because every time she wiped one away another followed.
Your breathing shook badly, you hated how emotional this had become, how terrified you suddenly felt, because this wasn’t just flirting anymore. Wasn’t just stolen nights and secret kisses and pretending there was an expiry date you could both survive.
Alexia pulled you into her chest when another broken sob left you and you let her, your forehead pressed beneath her chin while her arms wrapped tightly around you beneath the sheets.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered immediately. “Hey… no, cariño, no. Don’t cry like this.”
“You can’t leave Barcelona for me,” you cried against her shoulder. “You just can’t.”
Her hand slid slowly through your hair soothingly, “I need you listen,” she murmured softly.
You shook your head immediately, “No”
“Yes.”
Her voice stayed gentle, “I need you hear whole thing.”
You were still crying hard when she eased you back enough to look at you properly again. Her own eyes were red now too, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw from her, because Alexia was usually so controlled, so composed, but not tonight, tonight she looked cracked open too.
“When season start…” she said quietly, “I was already maybe eighty percent sure I leave.” You stilled slightly hearing that, Alexia nodded faintly, “I wanted another league,” she admitted softly, “Another challenge. I wanted know if I could still be best somewhere else.”
Her thumb brushed lightly beneath your eye catching another tear.
“I love Barça,” she whispered. “Always. But sometimes I think… maybe I only know how be Alexia here.”
You listened quietly now, still crying, but listening.
“I wanted prove to myself I could survive outside this system. Outside club that made me.” Her mouth pulled into a sad little smile, “And then you arrive.”
You let out a weak broken laugh through tears at the way she said it, like you’d personally ruined her life, Alexia smiled faintly too.
“You completely knock me sideways.”
Your eyes squeezed shut briefly, “Ale…”
“No, listen.” Her hand cupped your jaw carefully. “You were never supposed happen.”
That hurt a little even though you knew what she meant, she saw it immediately.
“Not like that,” she said quickly. “I mean… I think you beautiful girl, younger girl, fun girl”
Despite everything you made a wet little laugh, “Wow. Romance.”
She huffed softly, emotional and exasperated all at once, “You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Alexia’s forehead rested against yours again, “I thought we have amazing sex for six months,” she admitted honestly, “Then you go home. I stay here. We smile when we see each other maybe someday because of Jana.” Your chest tightened painfully, “But then…” her voice softened completely now. “You become my favourite part of every day.”
That one broke you all over again, tears slipped harder down your face while Alexia kissed them away helplessly.
“You make this place different,” she whispered, “You make me different.”
You shook your head weakly still overwhelmed by all of this, “But what if you regret it?”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Her voice was firmer now, certain, because this part she believed completely.
“I was already leaving in my head before you,” she told you carefully, “You didn’t create this thought. You just…” she smiled shakily, “changed why it stopped being scary.”
Your breathing faltered slightly at that, Alexia brushed her nose lightly against yours.
“You think it accident you come here?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” you laughed weakly through tears, “That’s literally how loans work.”
She smiled properly then despite everything, “No.” Her fingers threaded through yours tightly. “I think maybe fate.”
You looked at her helplessly, emotionally exhausted already, but she kept going softly.
“I think maybe I was meant meet you.”
Your face crumpled again immediately, “Ale…”
“I do.”
Tears slid down her cheeks too now but she didn’t look away from you once.
“I think maybe whole point was you come here exactly when I need someone brave enough love me through changing.”
You cried harder at that, because hearing Alexia, this untouchable, iconic, impossible woman talk like this about you felt overwhelming.
“I love you,” she whispered finally, the words landed softly, “I love you,” she said again quieter this time when you couldn’t answer, “And maybe that scary, but it still true.”
You covered your face briefly crying hard now while Alexia immediately pulled you fully into her arms again, she held you tightly against her chest beneath the blankets while your emotions finally completely overflowed. “You don’t understand,” you whispered brokenly against her skin, “If you leave Barça and it ruins your happiness I would never forgive myself knowing I helped cause that.”
Alexia kissed the top of your head immediately, “You don’t ruin my life,” she whispered fiercely, “You make it bigger.”
You cried quietly against her for a long time after that, and Alexia stayed there through every second of it, holding you, rocking you slightly when your breathing got shaky. Kissing your hair, your forehead, your tears, like she was trying to love the fear out of you slowly.
In the darkness she whispered softly against your hair, “Maybe first time in my life… I want unknown future.”
You were curled against Alexia Putellas now beneath the sheets, your cheek pressed against her chest while her fingers moved slowly through your hair.
Every now and then she’d kiss the top of your head absentmindedly, like she needed the reassurance you were still there too.
Your crying had eased eventually into shaky breathing and tired silence, but your chest still hurt. After everything she’d said you still couldn’t carry the weight of being a reason she left Barcelona.
You lifted your head slightly after a long while, “Ale?”
“Mhm?” Her voice sounded sleepy now, softened by emotion.
You swallowed hard, “If you leave…”
You already felt her body tense slightly beneath you, you pushed yourself up enough to look at her properly.
“I need you promise me something.”
Alexia’s eyes searched your face immediately, “What?”
You hesitated, because even saying this felt dangerous somehow, like you were opening the door to losing her before you’d even had the chance to keep her, but you forced yourself to say it anyway, “If you decide to leave Barça…” your voice wavered slightly, “I need you to actually explore everything.”
Her brows pulled together faintly, “I don’t understand.”
You wiped lightly beneath your eyes before continuing, “I’m not asking you to stay here if you've made your mind up on that,” you said quietly, “I’m not.” Alexia stayed silent listening carefully, “But if you’re serious about leaving… then don’t just pick London City because I’m there.”
The words hurt to say, you watched it hurt her hearing them too.
“Ale, I mean it.”
She opened her mouth immediately, “You are there”
“No,” you interrupted gently this time, “Listen to me.” Your fingers found hers beneath the blanket. “You’ve earned the right to choose whatever life you want.”
Alexia looked down briefly at your joined hands, “And if that’s London?” she asked quietly.
“Then okay.” Your throat tightened badly, “But if there’s another club that excites you more, a better offer, then you have to let yourself want that too.”
Alexia’s jaw flexed slightly, you could practically see the conflict in her face, because she didn’t like you pushing her away from the idea of following you.
“I don’t want to be…” you stopped briefly emotion catching again. “I don’t want to become something you gave things up for.”
Her expression softened instantly, “You aren’t.”
“But I could become that.” You shifted closer again until your forehead rested lightly against hers, “And if one day football ends and you look back and realise you made the wrong choice because you were in love for six months…” your voice cracked slightly, “I’d never forgive myself knowing that.”
Alexia’s eyes closed briefly at the pain in your voice, “You think very little of what we are,” she whispered sadly.
Your face fell immediately, “That’s not true.”
“It sound true.”
You shook your head quickly, “No, Ale, that’s not what I mean.” You cupped her face carefully then, “I think what we have is terrifyingly real,” you admitted softly. “That’s why I’m so scared.” Her eyes opened again slowly, “You’ve built your whole life here,” you whispered. “Your whole identity. And I just…” your voice wobbled again. “I need to know if you leave, it’s because Alexia wants to leave. Not because you’re scared to lose me.”
Alexia looked at you for a long moment in silence, then quietly, “You know what worst thing about you is?”
You huffed a weak laugh through lingering tears, “There’s a list?”
“Yes.” That got the tiniest smile from you, Alexia brushed her thumb beneath your eye gently, “You always make me think about things I try avoid.”
You softened immediately hearing that, “Ale…”
“I mean it.” She sighed quietly. “Before you, decisions easy. Football decisions especially. I just do what feel right.”
“And now?”
Her eyes held yours steadily, “Now every future has you in it.” Your chest tightened painfully, she must’ve seen the panic threaten to return because she kissed you softly before continuing, “But…” she murmured against your lips, “I understand what you asking.”
You looked at her carefully.
“I don’t promise I stop wanting London,” she admitted honestly, “But I promise I don’t choose it only because of you.”
Emotion swelled hard in your chest again relief mixed painfully with sadness. You nodded slightly, “That’s all I’m asking.”
Alexia studied your face quietly afterward, “You know… this is maybe first healthy relationship conversation I ever have.”
You laughed unexpectedly through the remnants of tears, “Ale.”
“It true,” she smiled faintly. “Usually I just avoid feelings until disaster.”
“That tracks actually.”
Her expression softened again as she brushed her nose lightly against yours, “You really would let me go somewhere else?”
Your eyes burned again immediately, but you nodded anyway, “Yeah, if it was what's best for you, it would hurt but I just want the best for you"
Alexia stared at you like that answer both broke her heart and made her love you more simultaneously and maybe it did, because after a long silence she pulled you tightly back against her chest and whispered quietly into your hair, “You make very hard not choose you every time.”
🦁
The next few weeks passed in a blur neither of you were ready for, because once Alexia finally told you her decision, everything suddenly started moving far too fast.
Rumours ramped up the closer to the end of the season it got, every sports outlet in Spain trying to figure out whether the whispers were true.
Whether the captain was actually leaving.
Whether Barcelona were really about to lose the face of an era.
Alexia ignored all of it publicly, but privately you saw what it cost her, the sleepless nights, the quiet moments staring at the ceiling.
The way she’d sometimes walk around her home touching things absentmindedly like she was already grieving them.
Her Barcelona training gear left draped over chairs. Old medals in drawers. Photos. Memories an entire life built inside one club.
Somehow despite all of that, she played the best football of her career, like the closer the ending came, the more unstoppable she became.
The UEFA Women's Champions League Final felt almost unreal, Barcelona dismantled Olympique Lyonnais Féminin 4–0 in a performance people would talk about for years.
You’d never seen Alexia like that, free, ruthless, every touch perfect, every movement controlled. Like she wanted to leave one final permanent mark on European football before she walked away.
When the final whistle blew, she came sprinting onto the pitch, straight to you, like she needed to find you first, then she smiled.
When you reached her she grabbed your face immediately and kissed your forehead hard enough to make you laugh through your own tears.
Later that night after the celebrations finally died down, after the trophy lift, after the champagne, after the endless interviews
You sat with her on the floor of her hotel room at nearly three in the morning eating takeaway still in partial kit.
The Champions League medal hung around her neck still, she kept touching it absentmindedly.
You knew the decision was final.
Three days later the video dropped, you were at her house when it happened, curled together on the sofa in silence while her phone practically exploded every few seconds.
She had announced it first with a video on social media, a montage of her life at FC Barcelona Femení.
Little Alexia arriving at La Masia, debuts, victories, tears, trophies, Camp Nou standing for her, five hundred matches.
Her voice calm and emotional over it, thanking the club that raised her, thanking the fans. Saying this chapter of her life was ending. Saying Barcelona would always be home.
You’d already seen the video once before, weeks earlier.
The first time she showed you the draft you’d cried so hard you could barely breathe, but somehow watching it actually released into the world hurt even more, because now it was real.
Alexia sat beside you completely still while it played on your phone, one hand gripping yours so tightly it almost hurt.
She broke, a quiet broken inhale, then tears, you were crying immediately too. Sliding closer instantly as Alexia covered her face with her free hand trying unsuccessfully to hold herself together.
“Hey,” you whispered shakily, pulling her toward you.
She shook her head hard, “I didn’t think…” her voice cracked badly. “I didn’t think it would hurt this much. I'd made peace with decision”
You held her tightly while she cried against your shoulder, not loud, not dramatic. Just devastated in this quiet heartbreaking way, because she wasn’t just leaving a club, she was grieving versions of herself.
The child who dreamed this life into existence. The teenager who became captain. The woman who rebuilt herself after injury.
Every single version of Alexia existed somewhere inside Barcelona and now the whole world knew she was leaving it behind.
Your own tears ran freely while you held her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered suddenly through tears.
“For what?”
“For making you carry this too.”
That nearly broke you again, you pulled back enough to hold her face carefully, “I want to carry it with you.”
Alexia cried harder after that and eventually both of you ended up tangled together sideways on the sofa crying quietly while the announcement continued replaying endlessly online.
Messages flooded in constantly from, teammates, legends, fans, former coaches. The entire football world mourning the end of an era in real time, but Alexia barely looked at any of it.
She just held onto you tightly like if she let go, the reality of it might finally swallow her whole.
🦁
Six months later, London still didn’t feel entirely real sometimes, not to you and definitely not to Alexia Putellas.
There were mornings where she still woke up disoriented, blinking at the grey skies outside your apartment windows before mumbling sleepy Spanish complaints about English weather into your shoulder.
“There no sun in this country,” she grumbled one morning from beneath the duvet.
You laughed quietly, not looking up from your coffee, “You’ve been here half a year and you still act shocked.”
“Because every day is shocking.”
“You said that in August too.”
“It true in August also.”
But despite all the complaining, despite the rain, the language, the chaos of London traffic making her visibly aggressive she was happy. Truly happy and you could tell in all the little ways that mattered.
The way she laughed more easily now. The way she danced around the kitchen while cooking. The way she no longer carried that constant invisible pressure in her shoulders like she had in Barcelona.
Football still mattered to her, god, it always would, but for the first time in years ot wasn’t crushing her alive underneath it.
The move to London City had shaken the entire football world when it was announced. The greatest player of her generation leaving Barcelona for England. Pundits questioned it. Fans panicked over it. People called it emotional. Reckless. Romantic. Maybe it was all three, but Alexia never regretted it, not once, because she’d kept her promise to you.
She’d explored every option. America, Italy, France, even staying at Barcelona another year. She’d taken every meeting seriously, thought about all of them carefully and in the end London was still the one she chose.
Not just because of you, but because somewhere along the way it had started feeling like possibility instead of fear.
Now the two of you built a life together there, a real one, not stolen months anymore, not a countdown, not borrowed time. Real mornings with real routines, real arguments over whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher.
You learned quickly that Alexia was unbelievably competitive about absolutely everything, including board games, especially board games.
“You cheating,” she accused one evening while glaring at you across the table.
“I’m literally winning fairly.”
“That impossible.”
“You say that every time you lose.”
“I never lose.”
“You are currently losing.”
She pointed aggressively at the board, “This game stupid anyway.”
Then five minutes later she climbed into your lap pouting dramatically until you kissed her, which, annoyingly, worked every single time.
Football stayed beautiful too, different, but beautiful, the English league challenged her exactly the way she’d hoped. It faster, more physical, less controlled than Spain, people waited for her to decline away from Barcelona’s system. Instead she adapted, evolved again somehow, because that was what Alexia did.
You flourished too, the two of you together on the pitch became something people obsessed over almost immediately. Your chemistry impossible to ignore, commentators constantly laughing about how you could apparently find each other blindfolded.
“She still look at you same way,” Jana told you once smugly during a visit to the apartment she once lived in but had moved out when Alexia kept hinting they swap apartments.
You tried to act confused, “Like what?”
“Like she wants fight someone for touching you.”
“She basically does.”
“Yeah,” Jana laughed, “It’s terrifying.”
And maybe Alexia was still a little terrifying sometimes, especially during matches and when referees annoyed her, but at home she softened in ways almost nobody else ever got to see.
You saw the sleepy morning version of her, the clingy emotional versions, who still occasionally got overwhelmed and crawled into your arms silently after difficult games and you loved all of them.
One rainy Sunday evening almost a year after the move you stood in the kitchen making dinner while music played softly from her phone nearby.
Alexia wandered in wearing one of your hoodies and socks sliding slightly on the wooden floor.
She wrapped herself around your back immediately, arms around your waist, face pressed between your shoulder blades.
“Tired?” you asked softly.
“Mhm.”
You smiled stirring the pan lightly, “Training hard today?”
“No.”
You laughed quietly, “Then why are you tired?”
“Sex with you exhausting.”
“Drama queen.”
She kissed your shoulder once, then after a moment, “Marry me.”
You nearly dropped the spoon, you turned so fast she started laughing immediately. “Ale!”
“What?”
“That’s not a casual sentence!”
She shrugged completely unbothered, “I already think it long time.”
You stared at her in disbelief while she looked suspiciously pleased with herself, “You can’t just ask while I’m making dinner!”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m emotionally vulnerable!”
She grinned then, that same stupid beautiful grin that had ruined your life the second she’d first aimed it at you on Jana's laptop all that time ago, “You saying no?”
Your face softened instantly, completely and hopelessly, you turned toward her until your arms slid around her neck, “Unfortunately for me,” you whispered against her lips, “I think I’ve been saying yes to you since I met you.”
Alexia kissed you before you could say anything else, slow, warm, certain. Like home and maybe that was the funny thing in the end, because for years Alexia Putellas thought Barcelona was the only place that could ever truly feel like home.
Until somehow, unexpectedly, she found another one standing in front of her.
She stands where the light has always found her, beneath the vaulted arches of Camp Nou’s ghost, where the air still hums with fourteen years of her name. Alexia Putellas does not move. The wind, soft as memory, lifts strands of her hair the way it once lifted scarves in the stands, and she lets it. Barcelona is leaving her skin the way old skin leaves a serpent; slow, inevitable, sacred.
Fourteen years. A lifetime pressed into the curve of a ball, into the geometry of a pass no one else could see before she drew it in the air. She has won everything the game can offer, yet the trophies feel weightless now, like medals given to a woman who already carried galaxies on her shoulders. What remains is not silver or gold, but the echo: the way the grass once bent beneath her studs as if the pitch itself bowed in recognition. The way daughters in the crowd learned to stand taller simply by watching her run.
She is thirty-two and ancient and newborn all at once.
In the quiet of this leaving, she feels the full weight of legacy—not as a burden, but as a living pulse. There are girls in rural towns across Spain who have never met her but who sleep in shirts bearing her name. There are teammates whose bodies remember the exact timbre of her voice in the tunnel before a final, the way she could make fear dissolve with nothing but calm certainty. She has been more than a captain. She has a been compass. When knees buckled and dreams fractured, she became the reason to stand again. Not with words always, but with the simple, devastating act of showing up again, and again, and again.
Tears come, unbidden, as they must. They are not weak. They are the river that has always run beneath her strength. She thinks of the child she was, arriving here with trembling legs and a heart too large for her small frame. She thinks of the woman she became: forged in injury and glory, in silence and roar, in love and loss. Barcelona has been a lover, mother, mirror, and blade. It has cut her open and healed her in the same breath.
And now, a new era.
The phrase tastes of both honey and salt on her tongue. A new era means the terrifying freedom of unknown mornings. It means stepping away from the only rhythm her body has known since she was a girl. It means trusting that the love she planted here will keep growing without her physical presence on the pitch. She feels the ache of it, the sweet, brutal severance between self and home. Part of her wants to stay forever, to dissolve into these colours, into this soil. Another part, quieter but insistent, already hears the call of different winds.
She closes her eyes and sees it all at once: the night they lifted the first Champions League and the sky itself seemed to celebrate; the sterile rooms where surgeons spoke in careful voices; the laughter in the dressing room that sounded like church bells; the long drives home when exhaustion sat beside her like an old friend. Every scar on her body tells a story in Braille. She reads them now with reverent fingers.
This is not an ending. Endings are small, tidy things. This is a translation from one language of the heart to another. From the roar of ninety thousand voices to the quieter roar inside her own becoming. She carries Barcelona with her the way ancient sailors carried stars: not as possession, but as orientation. Wherever she goes, the Blaugrana will beat beneath her ribs.
She opens her eyes. The sun is setting in that particular Catalan gold that has always felt like a blessing. She places a hand against the wall of the stadium, palm flat, as if pressing her heartbeat into the concrete so it might live here after she is gone. Gratitude swells so large it hurts. Grief and joy hold hands in her chest, dancing the oldest dance.
Alexia Putellas walks forward.
Behind her, the past does not vanish. It simply becomes light, diffuse, everywhere, illuminating the path ahead. Before her, the unknown opens its arms, trembling with possibility. She is no longer only the player. She is the story. She is the inheritance. She is the reason little girls everywhere will believe their feet were made for miracles.
And somewhere, in the soft hush between heartbeats, the stadium whispers her name one last time, tender as a lullaby, fierce as a battle cry:
Alexia.
She smiles through the tears, because she knows leaving is not a loss. It is the next verse of the same beautiful song.
The more things change, the more they stay the same | Alexia Putellas x reader
Summary : You resent her. You resent football, the club, the move, the way she rewrites the same text a hundred times because she needs it to be perfect. But then she kisses you, and you remember why you've spent fourteen years setting yourself on fire.
Pairing : Alexia Putellas x Reader
Word count : 2.7k
A/n : I wrote it after Alexia's video about leaving Barça, so it was entirely to cope. This story assumes she's going to London City.
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You look around your new house near London. Issued by the club because it was part of the contract negotiations. It’s in Keston Park, too showy for your taste but it’s a 3-year rental, not a new life plan. It’s already furnished, lifeless because the walls are white to let its inhabitants personalize them.
Alexia is in another room, doing a video call with Eli to show her around. She’s enthusiastic, maybe to persuade herself she made the better choice, maybe because she’s genuinely happy.
You go lie on the sofa. It’s comfortable, annoyingly so. You look outside, there’s a garden, flowers blooming. There’s no swimming pool, the explanation was that it would be used too little considering the weather. Even Alexia made a face at that.
You throw your head back, closing your eyes. You wouldn't have believed someone who told you this would become your life. Living in a mansion in a gated community after growing up in a small apartment in Girona where you shared a room with your two sisters.
Everything is because of Alexia, like a lot of things in your life. The one responsible for the highest highs and the lowest lows you’ve experienced.
When people talk to you about your wife, the image that first comes to your mind is the reserved kid that sat next to you at university all these years ago because there was no other seat left.
She had that posture, that focused look nobody should have at an 8 AM class about Supply Chain Management. You were fascinated, instantly. Your plan immediately became to discover the ways you could distract her. Childish, you know. To be fair, you were both children at the time.
Teenage Alexia proved herself to be easy to distract when said distraction was a pretty girl. She would protest when you stole her pen and sit next to you anyway every time. You felt empty every time she missed classes because of training or a game.
It didn’t take long for you to learn that football was her whole life, to a worrying degree. You always came to her games because she begged you to. You would let her rant about tactics and why the coaching was wrong about their game plan just because her eyes sparkled a certain way when talking about her sport.
Your fondest memories of this time are when she would come to your tiny apartment under the pretense of studying. You always ended up putting the world to rights instead. It’s where Alexia became Ale for you, where she opened up to you about things she would usually only tell her family. You learnt about every small and big scar, about her father, about her dreams. You shared everything with her too.
It took months for you two to finally do something about what everyone was seeing. You drove to a beach near Barcelona when Alexia had a rare off day with neither class nor football. You always laugh about how people see her as the fearless captain, the one person who will never crumble under pressure. She was a bag of nerves that whole day, only gathered the courage to kiss you at sunset.
You had kissed boys and a girl before that, but nothing compared to Alexia. You understood all these people that talked about butterflies and fireworks. Alexia came home after her curfew that night because you couldn’t stop kissing each other in the back of your car. Alba never let it go once she learned that story years later.
Puppy love.
You’ve been together since that day. People often assume it must be smooth sailing, meeting the love of your life and staying together. You realized quickly that, for an athlete, winning is a short high while losses leave big scars.
Alexia was often unbearable about football. Sometimes you wonder if the injury saved your relationship. That was when your wife realized that football wouldn’t be forever. Your house became full of life, her teammates and your friends invited more often.
That’s why you were floored when she first seriously brought up the idea of leaving. Offers came and went every summer, it’s normal when you are a professional football player of Alexia’s talent. You met her when she had a Barça jersey on her shoulders, you couldn’t imagine her without one.
You were eating strawberries at the edge of the pool, one of the first times this year that you could put your feet in the water without freezing. Alexia had declined, always cold this one. “An offer came in,” she said, her voice low. Your hand stops its movement to bring another fruit to your mouth.
It worried you, instantly, because Alexia was never nervous about bringing up things to you, you were past that. She only did that when she made a mistake. “From whom ?”
“London City.” She’s avoiding your eyes, you don’t like that.
“Jana’s club right ?” She nods. You don’t know much about them, you don’t have any memory about Barça facing them in the Champions League, which is usually how far your football interest goes.
“It’s huge, Barcelona will never match that. And we’re only at the start of negotiations.”
People ask you if fame and money changed Alexia, your answer is always duh. Expectations are crushing when you’re the face of women’s football. When it’s just the two of you, limbs tangled in the bed, Alexia calls it a curse. Can’t kiss your wife on vacation without it being on the frontpages of some low-level tabloid, can barely eat at a restaurant in Mollet because fans are approaching you constantly.
You get it now, why athletes go crazy. Short career, everyone wants a piece of you once you’re at the top, fans are both the reason you’re here and the reason your mental health is at an all-time low.
There's money everywhere when you're Alexia Putellas. Pretty face, two times Ballon d’Or winner, no scandal to her name. Both you and Alexia grew up with enough scarcity and parents’ sacrifices to know its worth.
Money talks.
You’re the first one Alexia told about her decision, after endless talking with everyone she has full trust in. She drove you both to the beach of your first kiss. Her cap and sunglasses were on her face, but she removed them once you’re seated.
“We’re going to London,” she states.
She knows your opinion on the subject. For you, living in Barcelona and not Girona after university was already a compromise. You vetoed any offer from another continent, which Alexia accepted. Accepting to follow her to London required a lot of effort on her part, and persistence. Unfortunately for you, Alexia had plenty of persistence.
You look at the horizon, not offering her an answer for a while. Alexia always respects silence, another thing football has told her, waiting to see the opening instead of making moves that are too optimistic.
“Your mom is gonna be devastated,” you start with, Alexia physically winces. Telling Eli won’t be easy.
“She will understand,” Alexia answers.
“She won’t, she will put on a smile because she loves you.” She doesn’t argue, because she knows you’re right.
“I promise, London will be great.” The tone of her voice doesn’t match the confidence of her words. Alexia had never been great at hiding her emotions from you. She does it so much with everyone else that she gives up once it’s just the two of you.
“Who are you telling it to, amor ?” The last word tastes bitter in your mouth.
Alexia sighs, you look at her and her eyes are shiny. Anger vanishes from you immediately. “Please don’t hate me.”
You grab her chin, turning her toward you. “I couldn’t even if I tried,” you whisper before kissing her. Butterflies died years ago, but kissing Alexia still feels like coming home, no matter where.
To set yourself on fire to keep someone else warm.
Both of you are on the couch of your Barcelona house. You bought it years ago, you were in an apartment before that. The apartment location was better, but the house is in a wealthier part of Barcelona, quieter. You’re the one that insisted on moving out. Your main reason was hypothetical future children. You’re for sure not raising kids in London, far from their grandparents.
You focus on the noise of the crickets outside, while Alexia rewrites for the hundredth time her text for the departure video. It makes you crazy, the sound of her deleting and retyping. Her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, it’s your favorite unconscious gesture.
“Ale, I’m sure it’s great already.” You interrupt her.
She doesn’t even take her gaze away from the screen. “I need it to be perfect.”
You sigh, Alexia was born with perfectionism, Eli always says. It shows in the way she tidies your room or chops her vegetables. The downside is she could spend hours on something when she believes a 99 could become a 100. You know today there’s something else behind it, she’s fidgeting too much, it’s unlike her.
“Let me read it, amor.” Alexia hands you the laptop, because she trusts you more than she trusts herself.
You go through the whole thing with her, patiently, because you know she needs it. She still has one week to send it to her PR team.
She shifts against you. “I’m telling the team tomorrow.” Her voice is fragile. You look into her eyes and are sent back more than a decade.
It was you and Alexia in your car, you had driven her home from your apartment. For once, some real studying was done, because apparently Alexia was suddenly very motivated to write her Corporate Finance essay.
Now she’s fidgeting in the passenger seat, not even unbuckling despite you arriving at the destination. Her fingers are tapping on the dashboard, you grab her hand before you go crazy and interlace your fingers. “I’m coming out to mami and Alba, tonight.” She admits.
You freeze. There have been some informal chats about her coming out before that, but nothing so concrete. “You’re what ?”
“I’m coming out.” She’s avoiding your eyes, as if afraid you’ll be mad.
“Corazón, it’s great !” You say with enthusiasm to get her out of her own head.
She shakes her head. “They will be disappointed, especially mami. She always talks about my future husband and our kids.”
“They’ll take it well, you know. They love you enough for that, even if there is some disappointment.” Your hand rubs her thigh. “I have a feeling they know already anyway.”
You’re back in the present, on an expensive couch worth more than the car you had at the time. You repeat the same words to her.
She thanks you, kissing your shoulder, and takes the laptop back from you. You expect her to close it, but she goes back to the start of the text to perfect it. You sigh.
Running in place.
You’re at the after-party, everyone is drunk beyond reason, both from alcohol and happiness. Alexia is wandering around, because everyone has something to ask her tonight. The gold medal of her fourth Champions League title is hanging around her neck. Likely also her last.
You let her drag you around with her, because you can’t say no to an Alexia in this state of blissfulness. You laugh at her stupid dances for TikToks that you sure as hell hope will stay in her drafts of the kids’ accounts.
This team is your family too, in a certain way. Your stepfamily at least. You will miss the kids that crashed at your house when they wanted a swimming pool and free snacks. You will miss the late-night talks with Irene, Caro and Marta around a glass of wine. You will still be part of this family in London with Jana and Mapi, but it won’t be the same as Barça.
Alexia circles her arms against your waist, getting you out of your thoughts. “Come on, celebrate.” She smiles as she hands you another cocktail, where the bartender likely went heavy-handed as with the others.
You find yourself naked on top of your wife in the late hours of the night or the early hours of the morning depending on your perspective. Alexia always prefers when you take care of things, it’s the only moment where everything is entirely about her enjoyment and not about expectations.
Your fingers are working between her legs while your lips kiss the metal still sitting on her chest, the only thing she insisted stayed on. It’s taking longer than usual because of your shared inhibition, but you don’t care, you could listen to the small noises Alexia makes for your whole life.
It takes both your fingers and your tongue between her legs for her to come. She’s a bit loud but you don’t care, people are either asleep or too drunk to judge. You wipe your fingers on the sheets and lie on your side, tracing the muscles still pulsing, well defined.
“I love you so much, mi amor.” She breathes out when she comes back to her senses. You smile, not stopping the path of your fingers.
Celebrating a title is one of your favorite moment to have sex, because Alexia is present with you and is exhibiting a very rare level of carefreeness for her. You think of her leaving for a club not even playing the Champions League. You don’t even care about football itself, never really did. You just know you will barely see this version of Ale again, and that hope depends a lot on Spain's good results.
“You resent me,” she states in the silence of the room. There’s sadness in her eyes, Alexia isn’t a depressed drunk, it’s entirely your fault.
Your fingers keep mapping her body, as if you don’t know every ridge by heart. “I don’t resent you. I resent football, I resent Barça. I resent the fact I agree with your choice when I’m being rational.” You play with the ribbon of her medal.
“Are you afraid sometimes that it’s gonna break us ?”
Your hand travels to grab the gold in your palm. “I’ve always been afraid of football breaking us, Ale. It hasn’t yet.”
Hollow victory.
It’s been around two weeks since you’ve moved to England. You’re in your study, working on a report for Alexia’s foundation. You’ve been working for it since its creation. You still had your office job at the time, in a soulless corporation. Alexia was making more than enough money for both of you. You know you would have become crazy with nothing to do, it was the perfect occasion.
There’s a faint knock before Alexia comes in. She has some ice around her knee because of training. The weight of the years. She has some paper in her hands.
She sits next to you on your office couch. She has her own office, the house is big enough for that. She still always comes to yours when you’re in there. Her office is only occupied for interviews.
You always get distracted when Alexia does office work. You’ve been together for 14 years, it shouldn’t be possible. You like seeing the way her face moves as she concentrates, the way her brow furrows when she disagrees with something, the way her tongue pokes out as she writes. The sight alone could make you fall in love with her again and again.
Said object of concentration today is a scouting report for their first preseason game against Arsenal. Alexia is annotating the paper with additional inputs she has on opposing players.
You can’t help it, Alexia concentrating only makes you want to distract her so her focus is on you. You grab the pen from her hands just to annoy her, stopping her sentence about Mariona’s positioning. She turns to you, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Really amor ? You haven’t grown in all these years ?” You shake your head, sticking your tongue out to bait her. She laughs fondly and kisses you.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
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A/n : I hope the timeline wasn't too messy to follow. I do love to put a bit of younger Ale
4 + 1 mini series | Alexia x reader | enemies to lovers
4 times Alexia protects you. 1 time she doesn't.
This way to the other parts.
a/n they’re really trying to get their shit together in this one. but they keep hurting each other anyway because neither of them knows how to handle any of it properly.
this is the penultimate part. because of course their whole story somehow turned into a 4+1.
thank you for sticking with them for so long 🫶
wc 14k
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#1
“Cálmate. Todo está bien.” she soothes.
“I am calm,” you murmur. Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. You move your toes against the mattress. Feel the fabric beneath them.
“Mi tobillo está bien,” she says somewhere distant. Her voice shifts to something cooler, directed away from you.
You breathe in slowly. Move your fingers against fabric. Scratch lightly at your hip.
“I know, I was—” There. You were there. Why—
Your eyes snap open. Your heart rate spikes immediately.
“Carmen, ya te lo dije hace dos semanas—”
In front of you the bathroom door of a hotel room is slightly ajar. Light spills through the narrow gap, cutting across the carpet in a thin line. You blink. Your eyes adjust to the dim room.
The memory of last night floods you all at once.
Her injury. The kiss. Your panic.
You close your eyes, breathe deeply. Twice. A third time.
The sheets next to you are twisted, a single hair rests on the pillow. Alexia’s voice comes through the bathroom door, muffled but distinct. “No, Carmen, escúchame—”
Your hoodie is rucked up to your ribs on one side, your skin underneath is ice cold. Your chest tightens. Your heart hammers. Boom. Boom Boom. You suck in some air through your mouth. Every instinct screams at you to move. But you can’t. You want to grab your things. Your legs don’t move. You want to run, to leave before she comes back. Your body doesn’t obey. Your fingers curl into the sheet beneath you.
“No es así,” Alexia continues. “Ya hablamos de esto.”
You breathe in again. And again. More deliberate this time. Again.
You manage to push yourself up slowly.
Your head spins.
You press your palm flat against the mattress to steady yourself and breathe deeply. Through the gap in the door, you can see her reflection in the mirror. She’s leaning against the sink, one hand braced against the counter. Her injured foot is barely touching the ground. Her head is tilted down, eyes closed. Her words don’t really reach your ears, it’s all muffled and blurred and— you breathe in again.
“Carmen, por favor—” she massages her temple. “No, no estoy con—” she pauses, “esto es entre tú y yo.“
You finally manage to throw the covers back and sit up properly, your legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Your feet find the floor.
“Mira,” Alexia says, frustration creeping into her voice, “te tengo que dejar—.“
You hate the feeling of hotel room carpet on your bare feet.
“Sí. Vale. Sí— Nos vamos.”
You stand. Your knees feel weak. You take one step toward your shoes by the door when the bathroom door opens behind you and scratches over the tiles. The light goes out, leaving the room washed in pale morning light. The fabric of her track pants rustles. You hold your breath.
“YN? Where—?” She says into the dimly lit room. Your eyes close, you wait for a second before you say “I’m here,” in a thin voice and turn. Alexia still stands in the doorway, more like leaning in, steadying her weight on one foot. Her hair is a mess, she looks comfy and warm and all you want to do is creep back under the warm covers and into her arms.
“I just thought—. I thought you’d—.” She stops. You see her silhouette shaking her head once. “Nothing.“
“No, I’m still here,” you cut her off. “I’m here.” You hear her breathe in and out.
Your eyes have adjusted to the dim light and you see her shift her weight again, for a moment you think she wants to come toward you. But then she just adjusts her stance to favor her good leg.
The bed between you feels like the whole length of a soccer field. “How are—?” She starts and you begin at the same time “Last night—“. You both stop. “You first,“ you say, your voice a bit shaky. “No, you start,” she says and gestures toward you. You breathe in. “Last night, I was—,” you forgot what you wanted to say. “Last night— it just— it was—“ you try again.
Alexia shakes her head. “It’s okay,” she simply says, voice calm. She looks at you. Then again “it’s okay, YN, you don’t have to explain,” she shakes her head. The room is so very quiet.
“Okay?” you ask, confused.
“Yeah, it—,” she takes a deep breath. “It’s okay, YN. Don’t worry,” she answers.
Confusion rises in you. “Don’t— Don’t worry?” You repeat after her. “I— what do you mean?” You have to swallow against the tightness in your throat. “Don’t worry about what exactly, Alexia?” Your eyes burn.
“I mean,” she gestures into the room, “you don’t have to worry about anything that happened. I won’t—“, she takes a deep breath, “I won’t judge or anything,“ she says.
Your eyes fill with tears “How can you say that,” you ask her, “how can you say that I should not worry?” You shake your head. “About what exactly, Alexia? That I have a responsibility for you, for your health,” you gesture to her foot, scoff, “which I obviously wasn’t able to fulfill because I— I panicked?” Your voice comes out too high. “Or don’t worry that I almost slept with one of my players?” You wipe your eyes. You’re so glad she can’t see it.
You run a hand through your hair, turn to the window. Then back at her, massaging your palm with your other hand to calm yourself. “Or don’t worry that you— that you cheated on your girlfriend with me? You ask, your voice trembling. “Who tried to reach you yesterday, who is worried about you, but who you didn’t respond to until 2 minutes ago?” You ask her as your voice pitches even higher.
The fabric of her track pants rustles again as she shifts. She takes a long breath. “That is my problem,” she says. Her voice is flat. Still calm. Controlled in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“That’s—” You shake your head. “Oh, that’s so you,” you throw at her and snort. You see her frown despite the dim light. “People aren’t a problem to solve, Alexia.” You take a step toward her. “She has feelings, you know. She cares for you.” You throw your hand up in the air. “I talked to her and—“
“What?” She interrupts. “When did you talk to her?” She frowns, still calm.
You scoff again “A few weeks ago.” You shake your head to dismiss it. “Doesn’t matter now— she was waiting for you in the parking lot.”
Alexia just looks at you. “Did you talk to her about us?” She asks, voice flat.
“Us?!” You ask a little too loud. “What do you mean— us?” Your head snaps at her. “There is no us, Ale.”
She flinches.
This—,” you gesture between her and yourself, “cannot happen. Shouldn’t have happened in the first place. It’s— it’s not possible for— for so many reasons.” You gesture and shake your head. Then you look directly into her eyes. “And it will never be.”
She doesn’t say a word. You can’t see her properly.
The room is so quiet.
Then she shifts again. Maybe you imagined it but she stands straighter all of a sudden.
“Right,” she says flatly after a moment, and cuts the silence. You taste something metallic in your mouth.
“Then why—” You stop. Breathe in through your nose. “Why did you ask me to stay?” Her fingers come up to the bridge of her nose, rub there.
“I don’t know,” she says finally. Your chest tightens. “I don’t know is not exactly a reason to destroy your relationship and both of our careers, is it?” You ask dryly.
Her head tilts to the side. “What do you want me to say?” Her voice rises slightly. “That I planned it? That I—” She stops. Shakes her head. Her hand comes up as if trying to reach for you. In her eyes you can see the exact moment she makes a decision.
“Look, I— I shouldn’t have asked you to stay. I—, I was in pain. I didn’t want to be alone. You were there. I just wanted you,“ she hesitates, then corrects herself. “I just wanted someone here. I— I obviously didn’t think straight.” She says and breathes out.
You start picking at the skin around your thumbnail. Your chest loosens a tiny little bit. Your chest falls.
“Right, yeah, it was—,” you continue, “it was a mistake. We both made a mistake.” You rub your eyes with two fingers. Alexia just looks at you as you continue.
“We got both a little carried away by— by the whole injury thing and stranding here and— it was a mistake,” you settle on. Her eyes are steady on yours.
“Right,” she almost whispers. But you can’t hear her properly because you already continue. “Listen, Alexia. It won’t happen again.” You crouch down, grab your sneakers. Your hands shake as you try to shove your foot into the first one.
“This was—” The laces are tangled. You yank at them. “This was stupid. I was stupid. I should have left when—” The knot tightens instead of loosening. “Fuck.”
Her hand appears in your peripheral vision. She must have come over from the bathroom door. She reaches for your shoulder. “YN,” she says and her voice is so warm, so open. And it hurts so much.
You pull back before she makes contact. Stand up too fast. Your shoe falls from your hand.
“Don’t touch me.”
She freezes. Her hand hangs in the air between you for a second before dropping to her side.
The space between you crackles. “I wasn’t—” She starts. Stops. Her fingers curl into a fist. “I wasn’t going to.”
Your breathing turns uneven. “Good.” You can hear your own heartbeat. Hers, too, maybe. Or that’s just your pulse in your ears. She shifts her weight again. Her jaw works once. Twice.
“You’re right,” she says finally. Her voice is quieter now. Flatter. “Last night was a mistake.”
Your stomach drops.
“It won’t happen again.” She settles on.
“No, it won’t,” you agree. She nods once.
Her phone on the desk lights up, you glance over. “It’s—,”you point at it, “it’s José, he’s probably booked a new flight. We should—” you gesture vaguely toward the door.
“Right.” She says and takes a step toward the desk.
“I’ll just—” You gesture toward your room. “I need to shower. Pack.”
“Okay.”
You straighten. She’s watching you. Her expression is carefully blank. You breath stutters once. When she picks up the still ringing phone your hand finds the doorknob. Turns it. The door swings open. The phone dies in her hand.
“YN.”
You stop. Don’t turn around.
“Thank you,” she says to your back. “For staying. Last night.”
Your fingers tighten on the doorknob. “Don’t mention it.”
You step into the hallway. Pull the door closed behind you with a click.
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#2
On a mild evening, just before the Christmas break, you’re still in your office, working late. Adrenaline hasn’t really left your body since Stockholm. Your stomach feels like a tight knot every single moment you’re awake. And you’re awake too often. You feel like the Energizer Bunny, constantly moving, constantly occupied because when you start to rest, you start to think and thinking brings back the panic immediately. So you just keep working and working and working.
The knock at the door is sharp and makes you flinch slightly. “Come in,” you call, not looking up but finishing your sentence
The door opens. Closes. Silence follows. You glance up.
Mapi is standing there, arms crossed, her back pressed against the door. She must be about to head out, wearing jeans and a pullover, a blue blouse peeking out underneath. Her dark hair is pulled into a loose knot. Her expression is unreadable. You raise an eyebrow, waiting.
She inhales slowly. “We need to talk.” She pushes herself off the door and walks toward your desk. Three steps. No hesitation. She drags the chair closer, turns it around before sitting, then folds her arms across the backrest.
You save the document on your laptop. “About what?”
“Stockholm.” She pauses and looks at you. “Alexia. You.”
You shake your head, dismissing it instantly drawing in a breath. “Mapi—”
“Don’t.” She cuts in, sharp and immediate. Her hand comes up. “Don’t ‘Mapi’ me. I’ve been watching the two of you for months now.” She leans forward slightly. “And Ale hasn’t talked to me since Stockholm. Not really. So—” A small, tight smile creeps up. “You get the honor of enlightening me.”
You start gathering your things from the desk, buying yourself time. “Look, it’s late, and there’s really nothing—”
“She’s been avoiding you.” Mapi’s voice cuts clean through the air. It’s more of a statement than a question. “Believe me, I’m pretty good at watching people, analyzing them.” Your hands still on your laptop.
“Two weeks,” Mapi continues, watching you. “Two weeks you’ve both been doing this little dance. She comes in early, you come in late. You’re on the main pitch, she’s in the gym. You stay for evening sessions, she leaves right after recovery.” She tilts her head. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“She’s injured,” you say, not looking up. “She’s doing recovery work, of course we don’t see each other.” She scoffs quietly. “She’s Alexia. She literally is the team. She’s been around the players every day.” She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes, “Just not when you are.”
You close your laptop with more force than necessary. The sound cracks through the small office. “What do you want me to say, Mapi?”
“The truth would be nice.” She stands up, walks to your desk, stops in front of it. Hands on her hips. “What happened in Stockholm?”
Your throat tightens. You reach for your bag, start stuffing things inside. “It’s— complicated,” you settle on, not looking at her.
“Complicated.” She repeats the word slowly. “Hm.“ she waits for you to look up and you fall into her trap. “You know who’s not complicated?” She asks and looks at you curiously. “Carmen.”
You scoff. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means,” she answers, tracing a finger along the edge of your desk,” that Carmen cares about Ale. A lot.” She looks at you for a moment. “She might not care about football or understand it. But she cares about Ale.” Mapi pauses, takes the little rook that’s been sitting on your desk for as long as you can remember. A present from your therapist years ago. Then she continues. “And she isn’t afraid to show her affection. On the contrary, she very much shows her affection, her— love?” She says it as if she’s testing a new word. “And she’s actually a good person, you know? Completely different from our Capi, sure, but sometimes,” she shrugs.
You still don’t know what she’s going for.
“So, naturally—,” Map looks at the rook and puts her index finger on top of it, tilts it to the left side. “—Carmen didn’t understand why Alexia cut her off.“ She raises her eyes to meet yours. “Why she wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t explain—” She pauses. “—when Alexia ended things with her the night of the gala.” She lifts her gaze to you. Your thoughts don’t catch up properly. You open your mouth but no words come out.
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Oh,” she says dryly and somehow bittersweet, raising an eyebrow, “you didn’t know that.” She tilts the rook to the right side.
Your hand goes to the edge of the desk to steady yourself. “What?” The word comes out thin.
Mapi’s eyes narrow slightly. “Alexia broke up with Carmen,” she repeats slower. “The night of the sponsoring gala.”
Heat floods your face, then drains just as fast. Your fingers press into the wood.
“After she left,” mapi continues, “she went to Carmen’s place and told her it wasn’t working. Wouldn’t give her a reason. Just—” She makes a cutting gesture with her hand. “Done.”
Your lungs won’t fill properly. You breathe in. It doesn’t go deep enough. “Carmen kept asking why,” Mapi continues. Her voice is gentler now. “What changed. What she did wrong. But Alexia—,” she shrugs, “wouldn’t tell her.”
She takes the rook into her fist now. “But something did change, YN. Right?” Her eyes hold yours. “I was there, at the gala. You were talking to her on that terrace. And after that—,” a small shake of her head, “Carmen was done.” Your hands curl into fists on the desk.
Mapi studies you. Then she sets the rook down again. “So, when Ale was in Stockholm—“ her mouth curls upwards when she whispers, “she was free as a little bird.” She winks and your stomach twists.
She takes a deep breath. “But naturally, Carmen was still worried. She’s still Carmen, right?” She pulls her phone out, scrolls for a moment, then turns the screen toward you.
Is Ale okay?
She’s not answering.
I know I shouldn’t text you, I’m sorry.
I just have to know she is ok, María.
I read the club's statement saying she is out for a few weeks. Hope she is ok.
The timestamps stretch across days from the evening of Alexia’s injury onwards. The messages are all unanswered.
Mapi slides it into her pocket. “She’s been calling everyone in the days after Ale’s injury. Irene, Patri, me, even slid into the rookies’ DMs.” She watches your face. You focus on her brows.
“Why are you telling me all this?” You manage to ask her not fully understanding where this is going.
“I’m telling you this—,” she tilts the rook again to the left side, “because Carmen was gone,” Mapi says. “For weeks. Completely cut off.” She traces the lines of the rook with her finger. “And I thought okay. Ale is done with that. She’s moving on.”
Something in her tone shifts. You frown, your chest rises and falls.
“But then this morning—” She pauses, watching you. “Carmen showed up at training.” She looks into your eyes. “With Alexia.” Mapi lets the little rook fall to the side. “They walked in together. Alexia introduced her to some of the younger players. They looked like a couple again.”
Your breath goes heavy. “She—” You can’t finish the sentence.
“She’s back with Carmen,” Mapi says quietly. “As of this morning. Like nothing ever happened.”
Your hands start shaking slightly. You press them flat against the desk.
“So let me ask you again,” Mapi says, her voice hardening slightly. “What happened in Stockholm?”
You shake your head. Once. Sharp.
“YN—”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Your voice comes out rough.
“I want you to tell me what changed.” Mapi takes a step closer. “Ale breaks up with Carmen after the gala. Goes to Stockholm with you. Comes back and won’t talk to anyone. And then—” She gestures sharply. “Then she goes back to Carmen like nothing’s ever happened.” Your jaw clenches so hard it aches.
“But something happened, right, YN?”
You can’t answer.
“I’ve known Ale for fifteen years,” Mapi continues. “Fifteen.” She raises a finger in front of your eyes. “I’ve warned you not to mess this up and—.” She pauses. “And right now, it looks very messed up. Very—” She searches for a word. “—not her.” She concludes.
You breathe in, and out. Again. Try to steady. Try not to let it get under your skin. “I have to go.” You tell her and grab your bag.
“Don’t run from this.” Mapi’s voice is firm.
“I’m not running.” You move toward the door.
“Then what are you doing?” Your hand reaches for the door handle as she continues “Because from where I’m standing, both of you are.”
“Stop.” The word comes out sharp. Final. Mapi goes quiet. You turn the handle. Pull the door open.
“YN—” Her voice is softer now.
“Good night, Mapi.” You step into the hallway and don’t look back as you take long strides toward the stairs.
“She’s my best friend,” Mapi calls after you.
━━━━━
The Christmas market in the Barri Gòtic runs along three narrow streets and smells like cinnamon and something fried that makes your stomach growl.
Elena texted you on Sunday.
Tuesday evening. Mercat de Nadal near the cathedral. My treat. No excuses. And then, after a pause: It’s a thank you for Stockholm. Let me do this.
You hadn’t argued. You didn’t have the energy to argue.
She’s already there when you arrive, standing outside the entrance in a red coat you’ve never seen before, a paper cup in each hand. She spots you before you spot her, raises one cup in greeting.
“Vin calent,” she says, pressing it into your hands when you reach her. “You look cold.”
“It’s December.”
“It’s Barcelona. You should be fine.”
You wrap both hands around the cup. The warmth moves through your palms immediately, up your wrists, into your arms. You take a sip. It’s sweet and spiced and slightly too hot. You burn the tip of your tongue.
The market opens in front of you, stalls running the length of the street on both sides, strung overhead with amber lights. People move slowly here, mostly couples and families. The cobblestones are uneven underfoot. A child runs past between two stalls, a ribbon of tinsel trailing from one fist.
“Alejo and Pau say hi by the way,” she smiles at you. You snort and smack her arm “No they’re not, Elena. They’re 17 and surely don’t think of greeting their mom’s thirty-something work-friend slash colleague,“ you laugh out loudly. “I think—”, you look at her pointedly, “their mom wishes for them to say hello politely because she’s fucking proud they won an award and she could be there though she has a time consuming job that almost got her trapped in Sweden.“ You squeeze her arm lightly.
She smiles at the memory, private and warm. “Pau gave a speech. He’d been dreading it for weeks. But he just—” She shakes her head. “He was so good. So composed.”
You look at her. “You would have hated missing that.”
“I would have been inconsolable.” She says it simply, without drama. “So. Thank you.” She glances at you sideways. “Really.”
“It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing.” Her voice is firm but without edge. “You stayed in a foreign hospital in the middle of a snow storm to take care of Barça’s pride so I could watch my kid give a speech.” She nudges your arm lightly with her elbow. “It was something.”
You don’t answer.
A stall to your left has small glass ornaments hanging in rows, catching the light and throwing it in fragments across the stone walls behind. You slow without deciding to. Elena slows with you.
“These are nice,” she says, reaching out to turn one gently, a small sphere with something golden suspended inside. It spins. Throws a slow arc of light across her hand.
“My mother used to collect these,” you say. The information surprises you slightly, out before you’ve approved it. “Not exactly like these. But similar.” Elena looks at you but doesn’t say anything.
The street opens up slightly into a small square. In one corner, a choir of maybe twenty people is arranged. They sing something traditional, slow, the voices are layered in a way that resonates in your chest. People have gathered to watch, a few children in the front row are looking up with their mouths open.
You and Elena find a spot near the edge, and for a few minutes you just stand there, watching and listening. The wine is warm in your hands. And you feel the tight knot in your stomach that’s been sitting there since that morning in Stockholm loosening a bit. You breathe out long. It comes out as a white cloud. Elena looks at you from the side. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah, I—,” you hesitate. “This feels good, lighter than some days have recently.” You tell her and keep your eyes on the singing people. “I—,” you breath in. “I’ve asked my therapist for a renewal of our sessions.” Your eyes dart to the side to scan her reaction. She just nods. “Online, of course, she’s back home in London,” you tell her.
You shiver and pull up your shoulders.
“How long have you been seeing her?” Elena asks, her voice gentle. You inhale deeply. “I’ve been working with her for some years now. Started when I was at university. I—,” you pause and try to find the right words.
“Sometimes I struggle to think clearly in certain moments. When things become too much, you know? When everything is too much.” You gesture vaguely. Elena looks at you. “How does that feel?” She asks with genuine curiosity.
“Like I’m going to suffocate, actually. I can’t breathe in and I can’t breathe out. I’m sweating. It happens all at once.” You draw your mouth into a thin line. “She taught me how to handle it, how to get my focus back. It helps but—. Sometimes it still happens, it’s a bit unpredictable.” You shrug helplessly.
“Did it happen recently?” She asks and puts a hand on your shoulder. “Is that why you reached out to her again?”
You swallow to get rid of the lump building in your throat. You can just nod. She strokes your back. “Hey, YN.” She hugs you, long and warm. “We don’t have to talk about it now,” she soothes into your shoulder. “But you can always talk to me, you know?” You nod again as she strokes your back.
When you look at her, there is so much warmth in her eyes that it makes your chest hurt. “Let’s just enjoy the market for now,” you tell her and smile.
The choir finishes their piece. Applause ripples through the square, as they begin arranging for the next one. You and Elena drift on, back into the narrower street, past a stall selling honey, small jars lined up in rows, amber and gold and dark brown. Elena picks one up. Reads the label. Sets it back down.
“She said you were good. In Stockholm. That you handled everything well.” Elena suddenly says without looking at you. Her finger moves along the row of jars. “Alexia.” She picks up another jar. Turns it in her hands.
“She called me the day of your return. To ask about the boys, about the ceremony.” She pauses. “And then at the end she said—” Elena tilts the jar slightly, watching the light through the glass. “She said that I don’t have to worry I wasn’t there.” She sets the jar down carefully. “That you managed everything. The hospital, the hotel, all of it.”
Your hands tighten around your cup.
The choir starts up again in the square behind you, the sound reaching you in fragments between the stalls, broken and reassembled by distance. You look at the honey. “I just did my job.”
Elena hums softly. A small sound that manages to communicate considerable skepticism without a single word.
You walk on. Past a stall with wooden toys, hand-painted, the colors slightly uneven and better for it. Past someone selling scarves in a color you have no name for. The street narrows again, the overhead lights closer together here, the amber deeper.
“We— had a moment. In Stockholm,” you say. The words come out quiet, half lost in the noise of the market. “Or—” You shake your head. “We started to. I—. It stopped.”
Elena exhales. Slow and measured. “Okay.”
“It was—” Your thumbnail finds the seam on your paper cup. “She was frustrated I guess, because of the injury. And we’d been fighting, and then we weren’t, and it just—” You press your lips together. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“But it did.” She says without judgement. You nod and press your lips together. “Briefly.” Elena watches you. “And then?”
“I don’t—” You stop again. Redirect. “I was tired. It had been a long day.”
Elena’s expression doesn’t change, but something in it softens in a way that’s worse than if she’d reacted. She doesn’t push. You love her for it and resent her for it in equal measure.
“Can I ask you something?” she finally says. “You’re going to anyway.” You try a weak smile. “When it stopped—” She pauses. “Did you tell her why?” Your footsteps slow.
“No.” You say without looking at her.
“Did she ask?”
“She was—” You think of her face. The way she went still. The careful way she pulled back. Her hand in your hair in the dark. “No. She didn’t ask.”
“So she doesn’t know.”
“There’s nothing to know,” you say, and it comes out with more force than you intend, sharp enough that a woman at the nearest stall glances over. You lower your voice. “There’s nothing to know, Elena. I made a decision. It stopped. End of.”
Elena nods slowly. Once. Twice. “Okay,” she says.
She steers you gently left, toward a stall with mulled wine, trades your empty cups for full ones without asking. You accept yours without comment.
“My grandmother used to say,” Elena begins, turning to face the street again, both hands around her new cup, “that the things we refuse to name don’t stop existing. They just stop having words.”
You look at her. “She was very annoying,” Elena adds. “Very wise. Very annoying.”
Despite everything, despite the tightness in your chest and the wine you’re gripping too hard and the choir behind you singing something that sounds like longing, something loosens in you. Just a fraction. Just enough. “Your grandmother sounds exhausting,” you say.
“Completely.” Elena raises her cup. “She was right about almost everything.” You clink cups, the wine is hot and sweet and the lights overhead are warm.
You walk on. You don’t talk about it again. But somehow, not talking about it feels different now than it did an hour ago. Less like avoidance. More like choosing to rest, just for one evening, in the amber light of a market that smells like cinnamon and woodsmoke.
“I suggested to Sara that she’d come along to one of our ladies’ nights.” You tell Elena. “We—. I told her I just want to be friends. And— that’s what friends do, right?”
Elena smiles at you warmly. “I know, YN.” She squeezes your shoulder again. “She’s already told me. She’s a grown up. I think you really respect each other and I appreciate that.”
You just nod and exhale, relieved.
Elena buys two honey jars on the way back. She gives you one without explanation, pressed into your hand at the corner where you separate. You look at it. Small and golden, the light through the glass.
“Buenas noches,” she says.
“Buenas noches.”
Her red coat disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement for a moment, before you walk home.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
#3
The training center is still quiet when you unlock the dressing room. January in Barcelona never really gets cold, but the building always does after a break.
You spent Christmas back in England. Properly back. Friends. Family. Familiar streets, familiar weather, familiar silence. The kind that doesn’t press on your chest.
You talked to your therapist a couple of times. It helped. Your mind feels quieter now. Not fixed. Just less loud. You sleep through most nights again. The nightmares have retreated into something more manageable, showing up every few weeks instead of every time you close your eyes.
You had Christmas dinner with your family three weeks ago. Turkey, roast potatoes, gravy, far too much wine. And for the first time in months, the food actually tasted like something.
The locker room smells faintly stale. You drop your backpack onto the physio table and switch on the lights. Half the lockers are still empty. A few training tops already hang neatly inside them, prepared by the kit staff that morning. You pull your laptop from your bag, balancing it against your hip while searching for the charger.
The door opens behind you. You look up automatically.
Alexia steps inside.
You knew Elena had cleared her for training sessions. You just hadn’t expected to run into her first thing in the morning.
For a second, neither of you moves. She has a black duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the grey Barça hoodie zipped halfway up. Her eyes meet yours, then immediately flick somewhere past your shoulder instead.
“Hi,” she says. The word lands strangely after weeks of silence.
“Hey.” You try a smile. It feels okay.
The door closes softly behind her. You look back down at the charger in your hands, suddenly very focused on untangling the cable. Across the room, you hear the dull metallic click of her locker opening. A hanger scrapes against metal. Fabric rustles.
You can feel her presence anyway.
“How was Christmas?” you finally ask into the silence. The question sounds rehearsed in your own ears. You bite your lip without looking at her.
“Good.” She pauses. “Quiet.” You nod once, even though she probably can’t see it.
“How was yours?” She’s lacing her shoe while you’re still pretending to be occupied with the cable.
“Fine. I—” You stop yourself before you say more. Before you tell her how good it felt to finally breathe again. Because that would also mean admitting how impossible breathing used to become whenever she’s near you.
You shove the charger into the wall too hard. The adapter slips from your fingers and cracks loudly against the bench before hitting the floor.
“Sorry,” you mutter immediately. Alexia looks over. “It’s okay,” she says simply.
You crouch to pick it up before she can move. When you straighten again, she’s still watching you. Just long enough to get caught doing it.
“How’s the ankle?” you ask. “Fine.” She replies and pulls her hoodie over her head. The movement exposes a strip of skin at her waist.
You force your eyes back to the laptop screen, even though it’s still black. “Did Elena send you the updated rehab schedule?” you ask.
“Mm.” She sits down on the bench to change her shoes. “I already looked at it.” “Good,” you reply automatically.
You hear her retie one shoe. Then untie it again almost immediately.
The hallway outside grows louder. Alexia stands and adjusts the sleeves of her training top for no real reason.
Then the dressing room door swings open and Jana storms in carrying three coffees and talking far too loudly.
“Madre mía, traffic today is—” She stops mid-sentence when she notices the two of you. Her eyes flick between you once. “Oh.”
She squints slightly. “Well,” she says slowly, holding up the coffees, “at least the divorce energy seems lower than before Christmas.”
━━━━━
The stadium announcer’s voice echoes through the tunnel. It’s the beginning of March and Alexia’s first game back after the injury.
It’s the eighty-ninth minute. The score is 2–1 to Madrid. Your jaw aches from clenching it. The ball moves across the pitch, white against green. Your eyes follow Alexia as she drops deeper again, trying to collect, trying to organize.
Elena cleared her to compete three days ago. You subbed her on in the sixtieth minute.
Every movement since then has looked tight and controlled, like she’s thinking through every step before taking it. She knows it. You can see it in the set of her shoulders, the way she keeps adjusting her headband between plays.
Madrid’s press is relentless. They’ve targeted her all match, forcing mistakes. In the seventy-seventh minute, she lost the ball in her own half. Madrid scored their second goal thirty seconds later. The stadium erupted.
When the final whistle blows, Alexia stays exactly where she lost possession. Hands on her hips. Head tilted back toward the sky. Her chest rises and falls, rapid and uneven. She doesn’t move for three seconds. Four.
Then she turns and walks toward the tunnel without looking at anyone.
━━━━━
The mixed zone is its usual chaos. You’re standing beside Ana, Barça’s press officer, when she touches your elbow. “We need you both for a quick hit with the federation,” she says, already steering you toward a cordoned-off section. “Just five minutes. They’ll ask about Jona. Just send condolences from the whole team and say he’ll be back in a few days.” You nod and give her a small thumbs-up.
Alexia appears from the player tunnel still wearing her kit. She spots Ana waving and heads over. Her movements are careful. The ankle is definitely bothering her.
Ana positions both of you in front of a simple blue backdrop with the league logo. Two camera operators set up nearby while several people hold phones up in front of you. Miquel from the federation and someone you don’t recognize stand ready with recorders.
“We’ll make it quick,” Ana says. To the waiting crowd. Miquel steps forward.
“Alexia, your first match back. How did you feel physically?” Alexia’s jaw tightens slightly. “I felt… rusty,” she says. Not the polished answer anyone expected. Ana’s frown is almost invisible. “Two months off is significant at this level. I knew it wouldn’t be perfect.”
Miquel presses on. “And the error that led to Madrid’s second goal—” “That was mine,” Alexia cuts in. “No excuses. I didn’t focus for a second and they punished it.”
The journalists nod.
Then Miquel turns to you. “YN, stepping in for Jona on short notice, some might argue you weren’t prepared for a match of this magnitude?”
You swallow. “First of all, condolences to Jona and his family on behalf of the whole team. This is a difficult time for him and we completely understand that his focus is with his family right now.” You nod toward the camera.
“I worked closely with Jona all week to—”
“We both did,” Alexia cuts in. Not loudly. She’s still looking at Miquel, her tone conversational. “She and I reviewed everything before Jona had to step away. The team knew what was happening. We were fully focused on the game.”
Another journalist leans forward. “There’s been discussion online about whether bringing Alexia back was premature. YN, was that your decision?” She asks.
Your stomach tightens. You clear your throat. “Medical clearance came three days ago—”
“I asked to play,” Alexia interrupts again.
This time she glances at you briefly before turning back to the journalists. “You’ve all known me long enough. I become insufferable when I’m not playing.” She states. A few people laugh.
Ana steps forward. “Last question.” Miquel checks his notes. “Did Jona’s situation this week affect team morale?” You inhale slowly.
“Jona had a family emergency. The team understood that. We prepared accordingly.” Your voice stays steady. “That’s the appropriate response.”
Alexia nods once. Small enough that most people would miss it. She’s looking down at her shin guards, but the nod is there.
“Thank you,” Miquel says, lowering his recorder.
Ana guides both of you away from the backdrop. “That’s it. You’re done.” She smiles at you and pats Alexia lightly on the back.
In the corridor outside the mixed zone, Alexia stops to sign a few jerseys. You walk beside her in silence for several steps.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “But you don’t have to manage me, you know?”
She doesn’t slow down. “I answered the question. The goal was my fault. I’ll take responsibility for it.” Then she stops and looks at you.
“They were targeting you the same way the Madrid players targeted me on the pitch.” She shakes her head once. “That’s not how this works.”
You’re not entirely sure what “this” means.
You don’t ask.
━━━━━
The locker room falls silent when the two of you walk in. Players sit slumped on benches. Some are still in full kit. Others are halfway changed.
Alexia looks at you, a silent question in her eyes. You shake your head almost imperceptibly. The nod in your throat is too tight. She nods once.
“Ven aquí,” she calls into the room and claps her hands. The others gather slowly in the middle of the dressing room.
You look at Alexia and can’t help but admire her composure, her calm and measured way to address what’s obvious. The spaces were narrow, especially in midfield, Barça had too many missed opportunities and Madrid overall was simply the better team today. She takes full responsibility for the second goal and you can hear the frustration creeping through. You’ve known that tone of hers by now.
By the time she’s done, all of them are nodding. Patri claps her hands twice. “Vamos! Seguimos juntos.” She starts to high five Alexia, then Lucy and Pina and finally all the others join in. “Un partido no nos define. Lo que nos define es cómo reaccionamos ahora.“ Alexia shouts as she pats Cata on the back.
“Vale, ya está.“ You join in and clap your hands. “A las duchas y luego a casa.” You give each player a high five as they trot to the showers.
Behind you, Elena approaches Alexia and leans down to whisper something into her ear. Her jaw shifts. She nods once, then sits down and starts unlacing her boots with slow, deliberate movements. Her fingers fumble slightly on the left one. She stops and closes her eyes briefly.
“She was selected for doping control,” Elena says quietly as she steps up beside you.
You look at her. “I’ll stay with her,” you say immediately. “We’ll take the driver and the shuttle back. You take the charter with everyone else.”
“YN—” Elena stops herself. “After Stockholm.” You shake your head before she can finish. “No. That’s not the same.” You tell her.
“And—,“ you hesitate. “I’ve been working on that. I’m okay. Really.” Elena touches your arm lightly. “You’re sure?” You nod again. “I just want you to be safe.” She says. Her smile is warm.
━━━━━
It takes forever until Alexia is finally cleared from doping control. By then, the team has already taken the last charter back to Barcelona.
The car waiting for you in the garage is a dark blue BMW with the club logo subtle on the door. The driver nods as you and Alexia approach.
You slide into the back seat first, moving all the way to the left. Alexia gets in on the right hand side and drops her bag between her feet. She smells like shower gel and spring.
As the driver starts the engine you lean your head against the head rest. “How long will it take?” You ask him. “Six hours. Maybe five and a half,” he estimates as the car pulls out of the garage.
Madrid’s lights blur past the window. For the first twenty minutes, neither of you speaks. The driver has the radio on low, some Spanish station is playing pop songs you don’t recognize. Alexia stares out the window. You watch the lights play across her profile, the straight line of her nose, the set of her jaw.
Her reflection in the window shifts slightly. She catches your eyes in the window and looks away immediately. You breathe in, mumbling under your breath. One, two, three, four, five. Then out. One, two, three, four, five
It’s something your therapist taught you years ago and reminded you of over Christmas break. It helps when things start feeling too tight.
“You okay?” Alexia asks into the car, still staring out of the window. Her voice is soft.
You turn your head and look at her. Her shoulders have shifted slightly. Like she’s angled toward you without actually moving.
“Yeah,” you say. “Just— refocusing.” It comes out steadier than you expected. She turns on that.
As her eyes meet yours, you both hold the gaze. Your stomach twists. It’s familiar and— it feels okay. Your mouth curves a tiny little bit. “Are you?” You ask her into the silence between the back seats.
She doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you with an intensity and focus she watches the goalkeeper before a penalty. Then her finger tips once against her thigh. Again.
“My ankle hurts,” she finally says. Her eyes are still on yours. She breaks the gaze after a moment and looks to the floor. “And I played like shit.” She adds in a low voice.
You don’t argue. You don’t tell her that everyone plays poorly sometimes, or that two months off is a lot, or any of the things you’re supposed to say as a coach. Instead you ask, quietly, “Do you need painkillers?”
She shakes her head. Still not looking at you.
The radio plays something quieter now. It’s a woman’s voice, singing in Spanish about something you don’t quite catch.
Alexia takes a deep breath. Then shakes her head barely visible.
You tilt your head down to catch her eyes still glued to the floor. “What?” You ask her. “Say it.”
She takes another breath. “In Stockholm—,” she starts, then stops and rubs her index finger to her thumb.
You feel your own breathing shift and become more controlled.
She turns her head just enough that you can see the edge of her profile and the slight crease between her eyebrows. “When we— when you— ” She stops again. Another rise of her chest. “Does it happen often?” she finally asks.
Your chest tightens immediately.
In. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Out through your mouth. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
You wet your lips as your mouth has become unbearably dry. “Sometimes,” you finally answer and your voice comes out small. “Not often but—,” you stop and move your palm along your thigh. It’s slightly damp. “It’s happened before, yes,” you say quietly.
She nods once. “Was it—,” you see her swallow. “Was it because of something I did?”
Warmth spreads from your chest to your arms and into your fingertips. One corner of your mouth curls up ever so slightly.
You shake your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong that night.“ You whisper. “It’s about me and how I handle things.”
She turns her head up and leans it on the headrest. Closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she turns her head toward you. “I’m sorry I didn’t know how to help,” she says quietly.
You mirror her, lean your head in the headrest and turn to her. Silence sits between you, thick and warm. Lights from oncoming cars flicker across her face. She looks tired. Sharp and soft at the same time.
“You did help,” you say quietly. Her brows furrow.
“You were there.” You hold her gaze. “That’s— enough.”
She breathes in and out slowly and nods. “Okay,” she finally whispers.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
#4
Your office is quiet. The laptop in front of you is loading video footage from this afternoon’s session. A small and unwelcome headache starts to pound behind your eyes. You get up to open the window and cross the room towards the door.
The bathroom is three doors down the hall. You splash cold water in your face and wipe your neck. The Champions League semi final is in three weeks. Until then, two weeks of long preparations, two weeks of intensive training sessions and late nights in front of your laptop. You look at your face in the mirror, your mascara smeared under your eyes you try to adjust the damage with a paper towel.
When you step out into the hall, the door of your office is open. You remember leaving it closed. You frown and take three steps towards it.
Your eyes fall on your desk first. Your laptop sits where you left it, still open and running. Your tablet is there— and next to it sits a takeaway cup of hot and steaming coffee from your favorite shop around the corner.
You frown again, turn around and take a look into the hallway. It’s completely empty.
━━━━━
Some time during the Wednesday training session rain starts slowly enough that nobody reacts at first. Just a fine mist drifting across the pitch while you pause the drill to reposition the mannequins near midfield. The floodlights blur faintly white against the clouds overhead.
You hear Jana complaining about her hair when she jogs past. “You don’t even style it,” Patri calls back immediately. “I style it emotionally.” She says dryly and changes direction. Mapi nearly chokes laughing.
The rain thickens ten minutes later. The training kits are soaked within minutes. Cold wind creeps through your sleeve and collar. You shiver as you whistle sharply and gesture for the line to reset. “Again. Faster this time.” Groans echo across the pitch.
Alexia pushes wet hair back from her forehead and drops deeper into position without saying anything. Her socks are streaked green with wet grass already.
The ball moves quickly for two passes before Aitana plants her foot to turn and immediately loses traction.
“Merda—” she mutters when she gets up again
Lucy snorts and shoves her shoulder playfully. “Very graceful, that should count for another Ballon d’Or.” She says and winks at her.
Elena jogs toward you from the touchline with her hood pulled low over her head. “We’re stopping. Grounds staff already called it.”
You look up toward the sky once, exhale through your nose, then lift both hands toward the players and whistle. “Inside. Now.”
Boots scrape loudly against wet concrete as everyone heads toward the tunnel in a noisy cluster of complaints and overlapping conversations. You stay behind automatically. Half the cones are still scattered near the far side of the pitch. Rainwater drips steadily from the brim of your cap while you bend to collect them one by one, shoving them under your arm.
By the time the groundskeepers start dragging the heavy covers across the turf, your hoodie sleeves are soaked through to your elbows and sticking unpleasantly against your skin.
The corridor beneath the stands feels almost hot after outside. You push through the door with your shoulder.
Alexia sits near the physio table while one of the physios wraps fresh tape around her ankle. She glances up when you walk in. You catch her gaze as it drops briefly to your sleeves where rainwater still drips steadily from the fabric onto the floor.
You cross toward the trainers’ locker and dump the cones into the storage bin beside it with a dull plastic clatter. Your hoodie peels unpleasantly against your skin when you pull it over your head. Cold air rushes over your arms immediately.
“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath. Your spare jacket isn’t there. You stare into the locker for another second, pushing aside training bibs and folders that definitely weren’t going to magically become a jacket.
Behind you, the physio tears tape with his teeth.
You reach for a dry shirt.
Something soft brushes briefly against the back of your hand. You turn slightly. Alexia is walking past behind you toward the sinks, one hand adjusting the tape like she’s focused entirely on that.
Her hoodie hangs loosely from two fingers at her side for half a second before she lets it drop against the bench beside your locker. The movement is so casual it almost disappears inside everything else happening around you.
“You left that in the gym yesterday,” she says. Her voice barely carries over the music. You look down at her hoodie for a moment, then pick it up slowly. It’s still warm. And still smells like her.
You resist the urge to bury your nose in the soft fabric. The sleeves fall over your hands when you pull it on.
Across the room, Alexia dries her hands with a paper towel and catches your reflection in the mirror for less than a second before tossing the towel away and walking toward the showers.
━━━━━
The win in Valencia at the weekend feels ugly but earned. Two goals before halftime. One conceded late enough to make the last fifteen minutes miserable. By the final whistle, everyone is exhausted. The rain starts again while the team boards the bus.
You stay standing near the front, one hand wrapped around your tablet while you scan the rows automatically. Elena catches your eye from halfway down the bus and pats the empty seat beside her.
Alexia sits alone near the rear window with her hood pulled up loosely over damp hair, one leg stretched into the aisle while she scrolls absently through her phone. She looks up briefly when Jana nearly falls into her lap trying to climb over a seat.
By the time the bus pulls onto the motorway, the noise starts fading. Conversations thin into scattered murmurs, the familiar exhaustion after a long game. Mapi is still talking somewhere behind you. But nobody answers her anymore.
You’re halfway through rewatching Valencia’s press structure when you feel your head getting heavy. Pressure gathers slowly behind your eyes from too much screen light and too little sleep.
You rub at one eye absently while dragging the clip backward again. Then again. The same sequence. Same failed passing lane. Same defensive rotation.
A few rows ahead, Jana snores loud enough that Patri throws a hoodie at her head.
Someone stops beside your seat, you see it in your peripheral vision. A hand with two ibuprofen appears in front of you.
You lift your head.
Alexia stands in the aisle holding onto the seatback beside you for balance. Her expression is unreadable in the dim light. For a second, neither of you says anything.
Then she nods at her hand. “Take these,” she says quietly. “For the headache.” You stare at the tablets. Then lift your eyes to meet hers again. “How did you—,”
“You keep rubbing your eyes.” She interrupts and nods once towards her hand another time. “Take it, it’ll help.”
Alexia’s mouth shifts slightly at one corner. Barely there. “You’ve replayed the same clip four times,” she states.
Heat crawls unexpectedly up the back of your neck. “I’m working.” You tell her. She huffs quietly. “You’re giving yourself a migraine.” The bus hits uneven road hard enough that pain flashes sharply behind your temple. You close your eyes for a second.
When you open them again, Alexia is still standing there waiting patiently with the tablets in her hand like she already knew you’d give in eventually. When you take them from her palm, her fingers brush yours briefly. A prickling warmth spreads in your body. “Thanks,” you murmur.
You swallow the tablets while Alexia steadies herself against the seatback again as the bus turns slightly.
From somewhere behind her, Mapi’s sleepy voice cuts through the dark. “Oy, Capi.” She calls. Alexia glances back. “Got some pills for me as well?” Mapi mumbles into her hoodie.
“Go to sleep.” Alexia just says. “I’m just observing things.” She says, raises both hands defensively and cuddles back into her seat.
Alexia closes the tablet in your hand. “You should rest.” Then she taps twice against the top edge of your tablet with two fingers before turning and walking back down the aisle toward her seat. You don’t turn around.
━━━━━
On Thursday a week later you’re sitting cross-legged on your couch with Elena in shorts and an old t-shirt, hair piled messily on top of your head. Sara arrives 20 minutes later with three bottles of alcohol-free beer. She’s become a regular on your ladies’ night with Elena by now. Something you didn’t know you needed. A friend completely separate from football, from the team, from all of it.
“I’m on call tomorrow,” she explains, holding the bottles up apologetically as you let her in. “Well, I’m not.” You wink at her. “So I’ll probably stick to the red wine Elena brought.” You reply as she lets herself in and follows you into the living room.
“So what are we watching?” Sara asks, settling onto your couch and tucking her feet under her. Elena scans through the options. “I’m thinking something mindless. Action. Explosions. Zero emotional investment required.” “Oh please, no explosions,” Sara groans while you pour yourself another glass of red wine.
“How about something less brutal. A romance? A love story?” You ask no one in particular. “My brain is exhausted from thinking today.”
Elena nudges your back with her elbow. “A love story? I didn’t know we were in the mood for that.” She says pointedly, looking to Sara over your shoulder.
You shrug. “Well, sometimes you don’t know if you are until you’ve tried.” You say casually and take a sip of your wine.
“Is that so?” Elena asks and raises an eyebrow.
Sara opens a bottle of beer, you hear a suspicious noise as it fizzes and— the whole content spills over your hoodie.
You squeak. Sara’s hand comes up to her mouth immediately. “Oh, YN, I’m so so sorry!”
Behind you, Elena laughs, loud and dirty. You can’t help but join in, despite your whole hoodie being soaked in beer and already starting to stink.
“I’ll grab a clean one,” you laugh, already pulling the fabric over your head, catching briefly on your elbow before you tug it free “It’s fine, really,” you laugh as Sara makes a guilty face.
You head toward the laundry room, and dump the hoodie into the washing machine. The doorbell rings just as you’re turning the corner to your bedroom.
Your hand is on the knob before you think about it.
Alexia is standing in the hallway.
She wears grey joggers and a simple white shirt, a Nike cap on her head. She holds a paper bag in her left hand. You blink again.
Her eyes are on yours for a moment. Then travel down your upper body for a second. She inhales so quietly you’d almost missed it. “Hi.” She simply says as she lets her eyes travel upwards again. She raises one of her eyebrows a tiny little bit.
You are suddenly very aware of your half naked body standing in front of her. Heat crawls up your face. “Alexia—,” you start, then scratch your neck. “I didn’t—,” you take a breath. “What are you doing here?”
Your heart beats faster and you take half a step behind the open door to cover your upper body. You feel ridiculous immediately.
She holds out her arm with the paper bag. You see small grease stains on the outside. It smells like cinnamon and sugar, slightly buttery.
“I was nearby and thought—,” she interrupts herself.
Her eyes move past you into the apartment.
They land on something and her mouth hardens immediately into a thin line.
You turn around. Sara is standing in the threshold of the living room. “YN, you coming?” she asks and smiles. You turn your head back to Alexia. She looks from Sara to you. And to Sara again.
“I didn’t know you had company.” She says as she lowers the bag again. “Oh we were just—,” Sara points her thumb over her shoulder into the living room. “Alexia, right?” She asks her and steps closer to the door.
“I’m Sara.” She extends her hand. “I was at the bar—“. “I know who you are.” Alexia interrupts.
They look at each other for a second too long as you stand between them shifting from one foot to the other.
“Oh hey, do you want to—,” Sara says into the silence and points behind her again.
Alexia looks at you and squints for just a fraction of a second. Then she shakes her head. “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.”
“You’re not interrupting!” Sara says and steps forward, oblivious. “We’re just watching a movie. You’re welcome to join—”
“No, I don’t think so,” Alexia cuts in, shaking her head. “I can’t.” The words are clipped. “I have— somewhere to be.”
“Oh.” Sara’s smile falters slightly. “Well, it’s sweet of you to bring YN dinner.” She gestures at the bag in her hand and touches your elbow lightly with her other hand. It’s a casual, friendly gesture.
You watch Alexia’s eyes track the movement. See something flash across her face before it goes blank again.
“Here.” She stretches her arm out again, and straightens her back, shakes her head slightly and inhales. You take the bag from her hand.
When your fingers brush, your eyes meet. You feel that sharp and familiar sting in your stomach immediately. Your fingertips prickle. She pulls her hand back as if she burned it.
“I’ll see you at training tomorrow,” she mumbles into the hallway. Then she sprints down the stairs, taking two at once and doesn’t look back.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
+1
You’re on your feet before you realize it. Camp Nou erupts around you. Sixty thousand people rise at once, noise crashing across the stadium. Your arms shoot upward instinctively, goosebumps forming. You tear free a shout you barely hear yourself.
Salma is sprinting toward the corner flag, arms wide open, imitating an airplane. She slides on the grass when Mapi reaches her, slams into her, Patri crashes into both of them a second later. Then it’s just bodies piling together in blue and red.
Jana is jumping beside the bench with both fists raised above her head while someone grabs your shoulders from behind, Elena’s voice screaming into your ear. “We made it! We made it!” Your pulse pounds against the inside of your throat as you look at the scoreboard. Third minute of extra time, 4–3 on aggregate against Chelsea.
You’re going to the CL final.
In the pile of bodies you find her automatically. Her eyes lift as she jogs back to midfield. Her eyes find yours, just for a second. Then Patri grabs her around the shoulders from behind and the moment disappears back into noise and floodlights and bodies moving everywhere at once.
━━━━━
“A la final!” Jona raises his champagne flute to the players and staff around him. Music is turned up again as he jumps off the chair he’d been standing on to address everyone in the fancy rooftop bar.
Keira wraps her arm around you. “Who would have thought it takes a Spanish club to bring us lovely English girls into a Champions League final?” she asks mockingly and beams at you.
You laugh and squeeze her shoulder. She leans in to whisper into your ear. “I’m going back home next season. But don’t tell anybody just yet.”
You rise an eyebrow in surprise but smile at her warmly immediately after, shaking your head. “Missing home?” you ask. “Yeah, that and some other things,” she says and shrugs, waving it away with her hand. You nod at her and don’t press.
“But for now,” she continues, “let’s celebrate!” She hugs you. “Want a beer?” You nod as she already disappears in the direction of the bar.
You shove your hands into your pockets and look around. Everybody is chatting, dancing, shouting. You let your eyes drift over familiar faces and tell yourself you’re not looking for anyone in particular. You know it’s a lie.
Alexia is with Patri and Claudia near the far end of the terrace. She has a drink in one hand and is just shoving a strand of hair behind her ear. You see her muscle flex. Her head turns and she looks directly at you across the room. Her gaze is so open, so blunt, almost raw, that it hits you deep in your stomach.
You try a crooked smile. It must come out alright because her lips curl up. Even from the distance, you see the dark circles under her eyes. She tries to hide them sometimes with a pair of sunglasses, but you’ve been noticing them for a while now.
Suddenly Jana appears next to you. Her phone in one hand, she follows your gaze. Her mouth curls up when she finds Alexia and she raises her hand in greeting. “I’ll catch you later,” she mouths at her. Alexia waves back and nods, then turns back to Patri, who is deep in conversation with Irene, probably analyzing the game.
Jana stands next to you, observing the room for a moment. “Good game,” she says without turning her head. “Very,” you answer and smile at the images of the goal popping up in your head.
She nods slowly but doesn’t say anything else for another moment. Then she takes a deep breath. “You know that nobody would care, right?” she asks, looking into the room. “I mean—” she shrugs, “they would, at the beginning, of course. But everybody already knows anyway, so—”
You raise your eyebrows and look at her. “What?”
She turns her head and squints . “What are you so afraid of?” she asks and holds your gaze. She huffs and shakes her head. “You’ve watched her all night. For weeks, months, for the whole season.”
Your grip tightens on your glass. “I watch the whole team. It’s literally my job,” you laugh. Heat creeps up your neck.
“Sure.” Jana turns her glass in her hands. “You watch the whole team the way I watch my phone. Technically. But there’s one app open.”
You don’t answer.
“Ale is like my big sister, you know.” She says it simply, just a fact. “I know what she looks like when she’s fine. And I know what she looks like the rest of the time.”
Jana looks at you. Something in her expression is very patient and very tired at once. “And right now, she’s really not okay.”
You trace the stem of your champagne flute with your finger. “She doesn’t talk about it,” Jana says. “In case you’re wondering. She’s not the type to open up. But I’ve known her long enough to read the gaps.” She fumbles at the edge of her phone case.
“The whole season. The way she looks at you when you’re not looking. The way she stops looking the second you are.” She tilts her head slightly. “You’re the only person in any room that she works that hard to ignore.”
“She doesn’t ignore me.” You try to cut her off and shake your head.
Jana smiles weakly. “Exactly.”
“I shouldn’t be listening to this,” you retort. “Probably not.” Jana doesn’t move. “But you are.”
You exhale and set your flute down on the table next to you. “What do you want me to say to that?”
“Nothing.” Jana shrugs, easy and honest. “I’m not asking you for anything. I just think someone should say it out loud, since nobody else has done it for a while now.”
She glances at you sideways. “I thought you were all adults, you know. Ale, you, Mapi. I thought adults would finally sort things out. Do the right thing, the—” she waves her hand into the room, “the adult thing.” She shrugs. “But you somehow don’t.”
“Jana, what are you talking about? We haven’t been doing anything,” you say dryly.
Jana smiles at that. It’s not unkind. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it? You’re all just fighting and thinking too hard and avoiding and silently suffering.” She shakes her head slightly. “And I get it, it’s complicated, sure, but it’s also what life is, right?”
You open your mouth but no words come out.
“Look, all I’m saying is that Alexia is not fine, YN. And— sorry, but you’re not okay either. And I want you both to be okay, but this thing you’re doing—” she gestures between the two of you, “it’s not good for either of you.”
You don’t answer.
She’s quiet for a moment. The lights of the port below you move on the water. Behind you someone turns the music up a notch and the bass carries through the soles of your shoes.
“Granada,” she then says.
Your breath hitches.
“The national team camp two years ago.” Her voice is light. “I was seventeen. First senior call-up. I was terrified and trying really hard not to show it.” She laughs softly.
“One night me and some of the rookies went out and broke curfew. I was terrified we’d get caught.” She covers her eyes briefly.
You look at her, your heart pounding in your ears.
“That night, when I wanted to sneak back into my room, I came around a corner on the third floor and—” she meets your eyes, “I ran straight into someone coming out of Ale’s room.”
You hold her gaze.
“You were in such a hurry,” Jana says. “You didn’t really see me. I don’t think you saw much of anything.” She smiles at you and the warmth in her eyes somehow makes your stomach lighter.
“I mean, I was seventeen, but—” she shrugs, “I wasn’t stupid. And I knew when I saw Alexia at breakfast two hours later, sitting very still with her coffee and not eating anything. I knew something was wrong.” Her eyes are direct. Young and not young at once.
“Ale took me under her wing that camp. And it takes time to get to know her, until she opens up.” She spins her phone in her hand. “But I did get to know her over the next two years. We became friends, more like family, and—” she trails off. “When you had your first day with us at the beginning of the season, she acted… off.”
She draws her mouth into a thin line. “I’d never seen her like that before and so I— I did the math and a little research.” She looks at you, almost proud. “Insta, TikTok, you know.” She shrugs.
“I never said anything.” Jana turns back and faces the crowd. “It wasn’t my story. And honestly, I thought maybe it would just—” she gestures vaguely, “—resolve itself. But it doesn’t and— I care for her and somehow I care for you, too.”
She looks into your eyes warmly. “I’ve watched it for a year,” Jana says quietly. “I like you. I want to be clear about that. I think you’re good at your job and I think you’re a decent person.”
She sets her phone down on the table. “But I’ve seen what this year has done to her. And I think someone who isn’t Mapi— Mapi just wants to fight you, which, fair—” she trails off but immediately shakes her head. “But someone who isn’t Mapi should maybe just say: she’s hurting and she shouldn’t be and— just talk to her, okay? Like adults. Just talk to each other.”
You look at her for a long moment. Breathe in and out. And feel the knot loosen.
She touches your arm once, then pulls you into a hug. Your body is stiff against hers.
But then she starts stroking your back. Once, twice. Your whole body goes soft under her touch. And suddenly you feel overwhelmingly tired. Your eyes burn, your legs are heavy, your head hurts. You let yourself lean into her and clench your jaw to stop the tears forming in your eyes.
Jana pats you on the back one last time. When she pulls back, she still holds your shoulders and looks into your eyes.
You nod at her and force a smile, blinking away the tears.
━━━━━
You stand at the railing for a long time. The other side of the terrace is narrower. No furniture, no light except what comes up from the city.
You don’t know exactly when you ended up here or why, only that at some point you stopped being where everyone else was. Your glass is almost empty. The noise of the party comes through the glass doors, muffled and dull.
The door opens.
You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.
Alexia crosses to the railing, a meter to your left, and leans her forearms on the metal. A bottle of beer in her hand, she looks down at the water.
The quiet between you stretches tight. After a while, she turns her head and looks at you. “Beautiful night,” she says. You smile. “It is.”
She takes a sip of her beer. Barcelona is spread out in front of you as you both look at the lights, the boats, somewhere out there at Camp Nou.
“4–3,” you say and raise an eyebrow in appreciation. She nods. “4–3.” Her mouth curls up faintly to herself. “A la final.” She raises her bottle to you.
“Your free kick in the twenty-third—” you start and can still see it in front of your eyes. The moment before she ran up. “How many times did you practice that with Patri?”
“Too many,” she replies and you see in your peripheral vision how she shakes her head in disbelief. You turn your head. She’s still looking at the water. You examine the line of her profile in the low light, the way her hair falls over one shoulder.
“I’m glad you got through,” you say. “It felt like more was at stake tonight than usual. I don’t know why.” Alexia says nothing. “I mean—” You stop. Start again. “It just felt like it mattered in a way that was—”
She turns around. Leans back against the railing and looks at you. “What?” she asks. “That was what?”
Her voice is soft and small. And somehow just very, very still. You open your mouth, close it again. Take a breath. “I just wanted to—” You don’t know how the sentence ends. “It’s over. I mean it’s starting. The final. That’s—”
“YN,” she cuts in quietly. She closes her eyes for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” you say. You don’t know exactly what for.
Alexia looks at you for a moment. Then she turns back toward the water again. She breathes in and you tip your fingernail against the metal of the railing once.
“I’m so tired,” she whispers.
Behind you, laughter comes through the glass. Someone calls for Aitana. Music starts up, something with a bass line that carries through the floor.
Alexia stays at the railing with her eyes on the city. “I am so, so tired,” she says again, sounding very small.
You turn toward her fully now. “Ale—.”
“No.” She shakes her head once. Lets out a quiet laugh, but there is nothing amused in it. Just air leaving her lungs. Her fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“I’m not trying to—.”
“I know,” she says before you can finish. “That’s the problem.” Wind pushes a strand of hair across her face. She leaves it there, staring out over the water. Her jaw tightens.
For a second it almost feels like she might say something else. Instead she just asks quietly, “Do you know what the worst part is?”
You can’t answer.
“I kept thinking eventually it would stop.” Her voice stays calm and flat. “That eventually I would wake up and it would just—” She gestures into the air, searching for the word. “Become manageable.”
You swallow, your throat is dry.
“But it doesn’t.” She looks down at the beer bottle in her hand. “It’s every day.” She peels the label. “Every room.” You lean your elbows on the railing beside her and shift closer. “Ale,” you say softly, “we can figure this out.”
She smiles bitterly. “You still think there is a version of this that ends well.” She says it gently.
You don’t know what to say to that.
Silence stretches between you again.
“We don’t have to keep doing whatever this is,”you say carefully. “We can actually talk about it. We can—” you take a deep breath, “stop pretending nothing happened.” You exhale on that.
Alexia closes her eyes. For one second only. When she opens them again, they look wet in the low light. “You think I haven’t tried?” she asks quietly. “I tried to stay away from you.” Her voice stays even. “I tried to hate you for coming here.” A tiny breath leaves her nose. “I tried to just be normal.”
Your chest aches so badly it almost feels physical.
“And instead,” she says, looking out over the water again, “I spent an entire year feeling like I was losing my mind every time you walked into a room.”
“Ale—.”
“I can’t do this anymore, YN.”
You stare at her profile. She drops her head as you take a step toward her instinctively. “Then don’t,” you whisper. “We’ll fix it.”
That makes her laugh again. She wipes the corners of her mouth with her index finger and thumb.
Then she straightens her shoulders, breathes in.
She turns to you. Holds your gaze. Closes her eyes. Breathes out.
“I want you to leave the club.”
You just stare at her.
Alexia holds your gaze for exactly two seconds before looking away first.
“I mean it.” Her voice stays soft. “At the end of the season. Go somewhere else.” Her chest rises and falls. Her fingers twitch at her side. “I am going to veto your contract extension at the board meeting next month.”
“What?” You look at her with raised eyebrows and shake your head immediately. “No.” A metallic taste fills your mouth. “No.” Your voice cracks around the word. You force it steadier. “You can’t do that.”
She presses her lips together.
You step closer again, your hand hovering in the air between your bodies. “You said you wanted this to stop,” you almost ask her.
“I do,” she replies.
“Then why—?”
“Because this—” She gestures vaguely between the two of you, small and tired. “I can’t do another year of this.” Alexia swallows hard. “And this season’s been hard on you too.”
“No, it’s not.” You cut her off immediately. You feel your chest tightening. You force yourself to breathe.
One, two, three, four, five.
Her eyes flick up to yours. “You look tired all the time,” she observes quietly. “You stop talking when I enter rooms. We argue any second of any day.” She shakes her head. “And sometimes you almost stop breathing.”
Heat rushes into your face immediately.
“Just like now,” she whispers. “I can see it every time.” Alexia almost smiles. You look down at your hands because suddenly you cannot hold her gaze anymore.
For a moment neither of you speaks. Then she says very softly, “I need you to leave.”
You shake your head again. “No, Alexia, you don’t get to decide that for me.” Anger rises in your chest. “This is not your choice to make. Your voice becomes harder with each word.
“No.” She nods once. “I know.” She holds your gaze. “But the board will decide. And they will follow my veto.”
“No, Ale—” You move before thinking. One step closer. Your hand brushing hers at the railing. She freezes instantly. You feel the reaction all the way through your body.
“That’s not fair and you know it,” you say loudly, trying desperately to pull something back from the edge. “Look at me.”
She doesn’t.
She pulls her hand back from yours. “I don’t know how to do this anymore,” she admits. “There is no other way. I’m sorry, YN.”
“Alexia.” It sounds almost like a plea.
She closes her eyes briefly. Then opens them again and gives you one small, unbearably tired smile.
“A la final,” she says softly.
And walks back inside before you can stop her.
omg these two are so frustrating to watch and I feel so sad for them. I loved the scenes with Sara and Jana and am excited to see how you’ll wrap things up!
Summary: You are finally meeting Alexia’s teammates for a night of chatter, drinks, dancing… and some teasing.
Word count: 11,622
Pairing: Alexia x Reader
Warnings: fluff, fun times
For main story: MASTERLIST
A/n: I’ve no idea if this is the case, but let’s assume all of the barça girls are confident speaking English 😂 I hope you enjoy, see end for more notes
———————————————————————————————————————
You’re standing in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of your dress for what has to be the hundredth time. It’s… short. Shorter than you remember when you brought it. Maybe you’ve grown? You know that’s not how that works, but still. You don’t really own dresses like this. You have nice dresses, pretty ones. The kind you wear to work, to the park, out shopping, maybe even to the beach. And sure, technically you could wear them on a night out…
… but not like this.
So you bought something different, something a little bolder. It’s a big night, you wanted to make an effort. Impress, maybe. But now, staring at your reflection, doubt creeps in. Is it too much? Too… sexy?
You tug the hem down slightly, then immediately let it go again. You’re not trying to give off the wrong impression, you just wanted to look nice.
God. What are Alexia’s friends going to think of you?
Buzzzz!
You exhale sharply, grateful for the interruption, and hurry over to the intercom.
“Alexia?”
There’s a pause. Then a quiet laugh.
“No, it’s your other Spanish girlfriend.”
You roll your eyes, smiling. “I hope not. That’d make meeting your friends very awkward. Get upstairs, idiot.”
You hear her chuckle before buzzing her in. It doesn’t take long before there’s a soft knock on the door.
You open it, and Alexia’s smile drops instantly into something else entirely. Her eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, head to toe. Your breath catches, heat rushing to your cheeks.
Then her expression shifts… into a smirk.
“What?” you ask, quickly, nerves creeping back in. “Is it too much? Oh my God, it’s too much isn’t it? I knew I should‘ve—”
She steps forward without a word, cutting you off as her lips meet yours. The kiss is immediate. Certain. You’re caught off guard for half a second before melting into it, her hands finding your waist and pulling you closer.
When you pull back, your breath is a little uneven.
“It’s perfect, bebé,” Alexia murmurs softly.
You search her face. “Are you sure? I don’t want your friends thinking I’m… trying too hard.”
“They won’t,” she says easily. “Trust me, they won’t care what we’re wearing.” A small smile tugs at her lips. “They’ll probably be too busy trying to embarrass me.”
That earns a laugh from you, tension easing just a little. You step back, finally taking her in properly.
And… wow.
She’s in a tan vest, laced loosely at the front, dark blue wide leg jeans, and trainers. Casual, effortless… unfairly attractive. Her biceps are on full display, a sliver of skin visible at her waist, her hair falling in soft waves.
You smirk. “They may not care… but I do.”
She smirks right back. “Te gusta?”
She gives a small twirl, just enough to show off.
You nod, eyes lingering. “Me gusta mucho.”
She chuckles as you step aside to let her in.
“I just need to put my lip gloss on,” you call over your shoulder, heading back toward your room. “Then I’m ready.”
“No worries, we’ve got time,” she says, following you in.
You stop in front of the mirror, swiping on your lip gloss, then without thinking, smooth over your dress again. It’s a deep berry red, with slim straps that sit neatly on your shoulders, the hem grazing somewhere between your knee and mid-thigh, paired with black heels that lengthen you legs just a little more. A far cry from what you usually wear. But it’s nice to try something different, right?
At least, that’s what you’re trying to convince yourself as you stare at your reflection.
Alexia steps in behind, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back against her, her chin resting on your shoulder.
“Are you sure it’s not too much?” you ask quietly.
She shakes her head immediately. “You look beautiful, amor. Same as always.” Then, softer, “But do you like it? I want you to feel comfortable.”
You meet her gaze in the mirror, smiling a little.
“I do. When I saw it, I knew it would be perfect.” You huff lightly. “It just… looks different off the hanger.”
“I guarantee it looks better on you than it ever did on the hanger.”
You glance at her. “You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not,” she murmurs, pressing a light kiss to your neck. “The hanger couldn’t make it look as sexy as you do.”
You sigh softly, titling your head to give her better access as her lips linger.
“In fact…” she continues, voice dropping slightly, “you look so sexy, maybe we should just stay here. Have our own little celebration.”
You laugh under your breath. “We can’t cancel on your friends the first time I’m meeting them.”
She shrugs, entirely unconcerned. “Sure we can.”
You turn in her arms, looping yours around her neck. “That will give them a very specific impression of me.”
She smirks. “We’ll tell them we were too busy swapping shirts.”
You gasp, laughing and nudging her shoulder. “Hey, what makes it worse is that’s exactly what we were doing. They just didn’t believe us.”
She chuckles, her grip tightening slightly at your waist.
“Let them believe what they want,” she murmurs, leaning in.
You meet her halfway, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before pulling back.
“Sorry, lip gloss,” you say, tapping your mouth.
She pouts, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Fine. I better get some later though.”
You smirk. “Oh, you will.”
You step away, grabbing your bag as you both head towards the door. Just as your hand reaches for the handle, Alexia lightly swats your backside.
You gasp, spinning back with a grin. “Cheeky.”
She just shrugs, smug, lacing her fingers through yours and tugging you out of the apartment.
——————————
You walk hand in hand down the street, the sky fading from dusky pink turning into night. The city’s alive, busy, loud, full of energy in that way Friday nights always are. You’d taken a taxi, neither of you willing to gamble on how much you’d drink. The plan was not much, but according to Alexia, plans don’t really exist when her teammates are involved.
Tonight’s for someone’s birthday, Cata, the goalkeeper.
It’s funny, in a way. You’ve seen these women play, in real life and on TV. You recognise faces, names. But you’ve never actually met them.
Well… except Mapi and Patri.
You immediately decide not to think about that.
Apparently they’ve been dying to meet you, and the thought sends a little thrill through you. And nerves. Okay, a lot of nerves. What if they don’t like you? What if you don’t fit in? What if Alexia realises you’re too different from her world and—
“Are you okay, amor?”
You blink, pulled from your spiral.
“Mm? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”
You chew lightly on your bottom lip.
“What’s wrong bebé?” she asks, slowing slightly.
“Nothing,” you start, then sigh. “Okay, maybe not nothing. I’m just… nervous.”
“About what?” she asks softly.
You shrug. “What if they don’t like me?”
Her expression softens instantly, her hand squeezing yours.
“They will. Trust me, they already do. They practically begged me to bring you. Said they’d find you themselves if I didn’t.”
You laugh, tension easing a little.
“Yeah, but… what if they think I’m boring? I don’t know anything about football.”
“I think that’ll impress them more,” she says lightly.
You glance at her. “Are any of their girlfriends coming?”
“Sí.”
“… Do any of them not know anything about football?”
She pauses, just for a second too long. That’s all the answer you need.
“Great,” you mutter.
“Hey,” she says gently, “it’ll be fine, bebé. I promise.”
You hum, trying to sound convinced.
“If you want to leave at any point, we leave.”
“No,” you shake your head quickly. “You deserve to enjoy this. I don’t want to ruin that.”
Her thumb brushes over your hand.
“Okay,” she says softly. “But you’ll tell me if you’re uncomfortable, sí?”
You nod. “I will. But I’ll be fine.”
She gives your hand another squeeze as you reach the bar, a nice one, warm light spilling out onto the street, laughter and clinking glasses carrying through the open space. You both pause just outside.
Your feet shift slightly in your heels, a dull ache already starting to build from walking more than you expected in them. You ignore it at first, telling yourself it’s nothing, just the shoes needing breaking in. You don’t want to curse yourself for not wearing trainers before you’ve even made it inside.
“Ready?” she asks.
You glance at her, then nod.
“Sí, I’m ready.”
She smiles, leaning in for a quick kiss. When she pulls back, there’s that smirk again.
“I’m still waiting for that lip gloss to disappear.”
You laugh, leaning into her as she opens the door and leads you inside.
———————————
The noise hits you first. Laughter, music, voices overlapping, warm and loud and alive. Alexia’s hand tightens around yours as she guides you further in, scanning the room. She spots them before you do. A large group in the corner, spread across a few pushed-together tables. She glances at you and you nod, offering a small smile. She leads you in, as your nerves kick up instantly.
Someone notices first, points, and then, like a ripple, heads turn. All at once. Every pair of eyes land on you. A couple of them even cheer. Mapi’s already halfway out of her seat, ready to pounce, but Patri’s hand shoots out, catching her arm, holding her back just enough to give you a second to breathe. It doesn’t last long. Someone else gets there first.
“Capi! Estas aqui!” you’re here.
Cata is on her feet in seconds, beaming as she pulls Alexia into a quick hug, which Alexia returns with a laugh. Then she turns to you grinning.
“You must be Y/n,” she says, careful but confident in English.
You smile. “Sí, it’s very nice to meet you. Feliz cumpleaños.”
Her face lights up. “Gracias.”
And before you can think about it, she’s hugging you too. You laugh softly, returning it.
“Hey, hands off, she’s ours!”
You glance over just in time to see Mapi finally break free, making a beeline straight for you. She doesn’t even slow down, just pulls you into a hug like she’s known you for years. You’re a little stunned, but you hug her back anyway.
“Ay, sharing is caring, Mapi,” Cata scolds lightly, swatting her arm.
Mapi pulls away, grinning. “Nice to see you again… although, I have to say, it’s a little disappointing you’re wearing clothes this time.”
You choke, cheeks flushing instantly. Alexia doesn’t miss a beat, swatting Mapi’s arm.
“Hey. Not funny,” she warns.
Mapi raises her hands in surrender, barely containing her smile. “Of course, Capi.”
Cata claps her hands once, cutting through the moment. “Come on, come meet everyone.”
Alexia’s fingers find yours again, grounding, steady. She leads you toward the table. Some of them cheer. Some wave. Some just stare at you like you’re a myth that’s suddenly real.
“So she is real!” someone calls.
“I can’t believe it,” another laughs.
“This is amazing!”
You can’t help but smile, a little overwhelmed but… welcomed.
Alexia exhales a laugh, shaking her head.
“Valé, valé, calm down or we’re sitting at our own table,” she teases.
“Well then, introduce us properly” one says, smirking.
Alexia rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. And her hand never leaves yours.
“Valé,” she says, glancing at you with a soft smile before turning to the group. “This is Y/n. Mi novia.”
The reaction is instant, cheers, whistles, a few raised glasses. Alexia ducks her head slightly, cheeks warming, and you can’t help but smile, squeezing her hand. She flicks you a quick, shy look, something soft and knowing, before turning back to them, gesturing as she goes.
“Y/n, this is Claudia, Salma, Kika, Aitana, Marta, Caroline, Irene, Ona, Vicky, Clara, Gemma, Eva, Esmee, Sydney, Aicha, and Carla. And you’ve met Patri.”
It’s a blur of faces and smiles. They wave. You wave back, a little shy, “Hola… it’s really nice to meet you all.”
She gestures toward a few others. “And some of their girlfriends—”
“We’ve been waiting forever,” Claudia cuts in, grinning. “But at least it’s happening now.”
Alexia rolls her eyes, but there’s no bite to it.
“Y/n what would you like to drink?” Cata asks.
“Oh, it’s okay. I can—”
Cata shakes her head immediately. “No, no. You’re our guest.” Then, with a grin. “Besides, Capi’s paying.”
That earns another round of cheers. Alexia just shakes her head, smiling to herself. You laugh along with them, something in your chest loosening. The nerves that had been sitting tight since you walked in finally start to fade.
———————————
A little while later, you find yourself tucked into one end of the table with a smaller group, halfway through your vodka and coke. Alexia sits close beside you, her hand resting on your thigh, warm and steady.
“So let me get this straight,” Kika says, leaning forward. “You didn’t know who Alexia was when you met her?”
You shake your head. “Nope.”
“You’d never seen her before? Or heard of her?” Vicky asks, clearly baffled.
“Nope.”
“She didn’t look… familiar?” Patri adds.
You huff a laugh. “Not a clue.”
There’s a beat, then a ripple of disbelief.
“Wow,” Kika leans back, shaking her head. “That must have been so refreshing for you, Alexia.”
You feel a slight shift beside you before she answers. Alexia shrugs, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at her lips.
“Sí… I have to admit, it was nice. I felt… free, in a way. Like I could just be myself. No expectations.”
A couple of them soften at that. Someone lets out a quiet awww. You glance at her, something warm settling in your chest.
“So what did you think when she told you?” Vicky asks.
Ah.
You guess it was inevitable this question would come up, but you haven’t really prepared an answer. And you’re not sure how much of the truth Alexia has told them. Judging by the way her hand stills slightly your thigh, probably not much.
You hesitate for a second, instinctively glancing at her.
“Erm…” you start, then smile lightly. “Safe to say… I was pretty shocked.”
You nudge her gently with your shoulder, and she relaxes again, her thumb brushing softly against your leg.
Kika and Patri laugh, and a few others join in.
“Did it put you off? Knowing this gorgeous woman was a world-class celebrity?” Ona teases.
You laugh. “Well… the ‘gorgeous’ part definitely worked in her favour.”
That earns a chuckle from Alexia, her shoulders easing.
“It’s still crazy,” Clara says, shaking her head. “She’s everywhere.”
You shrug, smiling. “That’s what my friend said. I just… don’t really pay attention to things that don’t interest me. So I probably saw posters or commercials, I just never… clocked it.”
“You’re telling me you never looked at one and thought, wow, she’s hot?” Patri grins.
The table bursts out laughing. You shake your head, flicking a glance at Alexia, she rolls her eyes, cheeks tinged pink. You hide your smile behind your glass, taking another sip.
———————————
“Okay,” Salma says, leaning forward with a grin that already feels dangerous. “Now that you’re here…”
Alexia’s hand stills slightly on your thigh.
“… no,” she says flatly.
Salma ignores her completely.
“… you deserve to know the truth about her.”
A ripple of excitement goes around the table.
You blink, immediately intrigued. “Oh?”
“Sí, Capi here isn’t always so in control.”
“Ooh, yes,” Ona says, pointing across the table. “Tell her about the coffee.”
Alexia straightens. “No.”
“Yes,” Kika insists. “It’s my favourite.”
You glance between them. “The coffee?”
Salma leans in, delighted. “She didn’t sleep before a big match once, like not at all. So she turns up with this massive coffee—”
“It was normal sized—” Alexia mutters.
“—and acting all calm,” Salma continues, waving her off. “Says she’s ‘completely in control.’”
“That sounds believable,” you say, glancing at Alexia.
“Exactly!” Kika nods. “That’s what we thought.”
Salma snorts. “Until she trips.”
You blink. “Trips?”
Alexia points at her. “I did not—”
You did,” Mapi cuts in. “On absolutely nothing.”
“There was a bag—”
“There was air,” Kika says.
The table is already starting to laugh.
“And then,” Salma continues, barely holding it together, “the coffee just—” she mimes it tipping, “everywhere.”
You gasp, half-laughing. “No—”
“All over her top,” Kika adds. “Like soaked.”
“And she just stands there,” Mapi says, “frozen. Covered in coffee. Five minutes before we go out.”
Alexia exhales through her nose, shaking her head. “It’s exaggerated.”
“What did you do?” you ask, leaning in now.
Kika beams. “She tried to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Oh! Oh, tell her the tunnel story,” Cata says suddenly.
Alexia drops her head into her hand. “Please don’t.”
Now you’re leaning forward properly.
“The tunnel story?” you repeat.
Eva grins. “She walked into the wrong tunnel once.”
You blink. “What do you mean, the wrong tunnel?”
Cata is already laughing. “Like… wrong team wrong.”
You turn to Alexia, eyes wide. “No.”
“It was one time,” she mutters.
“She fully lined up with the other team,” Eva says, barely holding it together.
“They were staring at her like ‘why is she here?’” Cata says.
You’re laughing now. “Did you not notice?”
Alexia finally looks at you, defensive but smiling.
“I was focused.”
“On the wrong team,” Eva shoots back.
You shake your head, laughing, your shoulder bumping lightly into hers.
“I can’t believe this is the same person who looks so serious on the pitch.”
“I am serious,” Alexia insists.
“Baby,” you say, still smiling, “you joined the opposition.”
The table erupts again.
Alexia shakes her head, leaning closer to you. “Told you they’d embarrass me.”
You huff a laugh, covering the hand on your thigh with yours.
“Don’t worry… I still think you’re cute.”
A small smirk tugs at her lips as she takes a sip of her drink.
———————————
You somehow end up with a different group of the team, casually pulled over on your way back from the bathroom. Alexia’s across the room with another cluster of girls, but every so often her gaze flicks back to you, checking in. Each time, you smile, a quiet reassurance. You had been nervous earlier, but it surprises you how quickly that feeling has eased. How easily you’ve settled.
You’re sitting with Irene, Gemma, Marta, Caroline and Aitana. You’ve noticed they’re a little more chilled than the others, quieter, calmer, and you’re quietly grateful for the change of pace.
“You work with the environment, no?” Aitana asks, smiling.
You nod, returning it. “Yeah, I do. I work for a non-profit in the city. We focus on promoting the wellbeing of the world around us. The smaller things, like recycling, protecting green spaces, creating areas for wildlife. Just… trying to make a positive difference where we can.”
You stop yourself before you start rambling or preaching.
Aitana’s smile softens. “That’s really impressive. It’s important. Barcelona is a beautiful city, and we have to do everything we can to preserve it.”
A flicker of pride warms your chest.
“How have you found the city so far?” Marta asks.
You smile. “I love it. It’s… different to what I expected. I thought it’d feel like London, and I guess in some ways it is, busy, fast. But it’s also… different. It’s more relaxed. And I like how proud the city is of it’s Catalan culture.”
They nod, understanding.
“Do you miss London?” Gemma asks.
You shrug lightly. “Not really. I miss my family, of course. But not London. It’s a great city. But Barcelona is… special.”
“And the weather helps,” Caro adds with a grin.
You laugh. “That definitely helps.”
Your eyes drift back to Alexia. She’s laughing at something, head tipped back, completely at ease. It makes something in you soften. Irene follows your gaze.
“You know,” she says, “I remember when she first told us about you.”
You blink, a little caught off guard. “She… talked about me?”
Irene smiles. “Of course.”
You feel your cheeks warm.
“A few of us noticed something first,” she continues. “She seemed lighter. Happier. Always on her phone.” She gives a small, knowing smile. “We asked her. She tried to play it cool… but not for long.”
You can’t help it, you lean in slightly.
“What did she say?”
Irene’s smile turns softer.
“She was completely head over heels. She didn’t say it like that, but we could see it. In her eyes. The way her face lit up whenever she spoke about you. She kept saying she couldn’t believe how lucky she was.”
That lands, warmth immediately settling in your chest.
Your gaze drifts to Alexia again, still laughing, still glowing in that easy way.
Aitana, Gemma, Marta and Caro slip into another conversation, and Irene takes the moment to lean in a little closer.
“She told me everything,” she says quietly. “About the secret. About how she wanted to tell you, but didn’t know how.”
You look back at her, softer now.
“She felt guilty. More than she let on. And the longer it went on, the harder it became.”
Irene pauses. “But she never enjoyed hiding it. And when she found out you knew…” she exhales lightly, “she was beside herself. She never wanted you to find out like that. She never wanted to hurt you.”
You nod gently.
“I know,” you say. “It was a shock… and maybe I was a little annoyed. But once she explained everything, I understood.”
“I told her,” Irene continues, “if this girl is as amazing as you say she is, she’ll understand.” A small smile. “I don’t like saying I was right, but in this case, I’m glad I was.”
You let out a soft laugh.
“She knows how lucky she is, to have you. That you gave her another chance.”
You shake your head smiling.
“I’m the lucky one. I mean, look at her.” Your eyes flick back again. “I still can’t quite believe I get to know her. Let alone call her mine. That I get to love her… and that she loves me.”
Irene’s expression softens. “She does. Very much. I can’t remember the last time I saw her this happy.”
That settles somewhere deep in your chest, warm and a little overwhelming.
She glances at her phone, then sighs softly.
“I should get going. I promised my wife I’d be home in time for the night feeds.”
You smile warmly. “It was really lovely meeting you. Thank you for… being so kind.”
She shakes her head, gentle.
“No need to thank me. You’re one of us now.”
The words linger, settling somewhere warm, and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.
“I honestly thought I’d get the whole ‘if you hurt her, we hurt you’ speech,” you admit lightly. “So I’m very happy to hear that instead.”
That earns a soft laugh from her.
“I think we all know we can trust you,” she says. Then with a hint of warning, “Can’t promise nobody else will threaten you, though.”
You laugh, even if you’re slightly concerned about what that might mean.
She leans in then, pulling you into a quick, gentle hug that you return instantly. When she pulls back, she gives your arm a light squeeze before standing. Then she waves toward the others and heads off to say goodbye to the rest of the group.
Aitana turns back to you, a soft smile returning.
“So, Y/n… what do you think about football so far?”
You chuckle, about to answer—
“Oh look at you,” Mapi cuts in, appearing out of nowhere. “From one GOAT to another. You don’t waste any time.”
You blink, your brows knitting together. “… sorry?”
“Oh shush, Mapi,” Aitana says, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.
Mapi just laughs, dropping into a seat beside Marta like she’s done her job.
You glance back at Aitana. “What was that about?”
Aitana shakes her head, bemused. “She means Alexia and I being called… GOATs.”
You lift a brow slowly. “Oh? So Alexia has competition?” you tease.
Aitana laughs softly. “There’s no competition. The world likes to think so. But no, we’re good.” She shrugs lightly. “We’re just two very determined people. We want the best for the team, that’s all.”
You nod, smiling. That sounds very Alexia.
The seat beside you dips. Speak of the devil.
Alexia slides in, shoulder brushing yours, her presence immediate and grounding.
“Is Bonmati boring you?” she asks, a playful edge to her voice.
Aitana gasps dramatically. “Careful, Putellas. We both know who the boring one is.”
Alexia huffs a quiet laugh, shrugging.
You glance between them, a smile tugging at your lips.
“Hey,” you murmur, teasing, “don’t be mean… or I might have a new favourite GOAT.”
Aitana chuckles at that.
Alexia turns to you, scandalised. “Already? It’s been, what, two hours?”
You grin, pressing a light kiss to her cheek.
She shifts closer, eyes dropping briefly to your lips.
“You’ve still got lip gloss on,” she murmurs. “Did you top up on purpose?”
You smirk. “Maybe.”
Her eyes narrow playfully, something knowing in her expression.
Before she can respond, Cata appears at the table.
“We‘re heading to the club down the street. You guys in?”
Alexia glances at you immediately, giving you the choice.
“Up to you, bebé.”
You pause for a second, just long enough to check in with yourself. Then you smile.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Why not?”
You’re relaxed. You’re having fun.
No reason to stop now.
———————————
The club is a completely different atmosphere entirely. Music pulses though the room, heavy and constant, the bass thudding beneath your feet. Bodies press close, shoulders brushing as people move past. The group had split briefly, some opting for the bar, but most of you have ended up gathered around a large booth tucked into a corner.
Cata and Claudia reappear, each carrying trays lined with colourful shots.
Oh… dear.
You’re already pleasantly buzzed, not drunk, not yet, but warm, loose, aware of everything in that slightly softened way. Alexia is pressed against your side, her arm draped over your shoulders now, her body angled into yours. Every so often she leans in, murmuring something in your ear, her breath warm against your skin.
“Shots!” Cata announces, grinning. “Pick your poison.”
The glasses glow in different colours, red, green, neon blue, something suspiciously bright yellow. Some of the girls dive in immediately. You hesitate for half a second, then grab a yellow one. Alexia picks a blue.
“Salut!” Claudia calls.
Everyone leans in, clinking glasses as best they can without spilling.
You laugh, lifting yours towards Alexia.
“Cheers to surviving tonight,” you tease.
“Barely surviving,” she replies, tapping your glass. You both knock them back… and instantly regret it.
“Yuckkk—” you choke, face scrunching, eyes squeezing shut as the liquid burns down your throat like lava.
Alexia laughs beside you, low and warm, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.
“Dramatica,” she murmurs.
“You’ve lying if you liked that.”
She hums. “I’ve had worse.”
The noise swells again, conversations splintering off. You take a second, glancing around the booth. They’re laughing, shouting over the music, leaning into each other, comfortable, familiar. Alexia’s teammates. But… they’re starting to feel like yours too. At least, you hope so.
Your gaze lands on one in particular.
You nudge Alexia lightly.
“Hey… when were you planning on telling me?” you tease.
She turns to you, brows furrowing. “Tell you what, amor?”
You nod subtly towards Clara.
“That you have a secret daughter?”
She follows your gaze, and huffs a laugh.
“Seriously,” you continue, grinning now, “I’d say that’s a pretty big secret. Bigger than your last one.”
Alexia shakes her head, amused. “Sorry to disappoint, but she’s not my daughter.”
You glance back at the girl, unconvinced.
“She’s literally your twin. You cannot tell me there’s no shared DNA.”
Alexia laughs, leaning in a little closer so you can hear her properly.
“Well, not that I know of.”
Then quieter, near your ear. “The fans say me and Patri are her parents.”
You laugh, nodding. “Okay… yeah, I see that.”
Alexia smiles, eyes softening slightly. “She’s a sweet kid though. A remarkable player for her age.”
You smirk, nudging her arm again. “Must take after her mami.”
She scoffs lightly, lifting her drink to her lips.
You can’t help but watch her. The way her lips catch the light. The faint sheen on her skin. The way she presses into your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It fills you with warmth and… something else.
Something you definitely shouldn’t be thinking about in a room full of people. Especially her teammates.
So you turn to your own drink, taking a sip, but it doesn’t help.
She’s still there. Lingering. Distracting.
———————————
You make your way over to the bar, ending up just beside a small cluster of Alexia’s teammates.
The bartender arrives quickly.
“Me puede dar dos vasos de agua, por favor?” can I have two glasses of water please. You ask carefully, a little proud of yourself for getting through it without hesitation.
Just water. A brief break from everything else.
One of the girls beside you, Aicha, tilts her head.
“Your Spanish is very good for a novice,” she says warmly.
You huff a laugh. “That’s very kind, but trust me it’s not. I had to ask Alexia how to say that.”
Next to her, Esmee chuckles softly. “It gets easier. Practice helps.”
You smile, detecting an accent. “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“The Netherlands,” she says.
Your face brightens slightly. “That’s a beautiful country. The Netherlands is genuinely a global leader in living with water, it’s flood management and climate adaptation strategies are very impressive.”
You stop yourself a second too late.
“…Sorry,” you add quickly, cheeks warming.
Both of them laugh, waving it off.
“It’s okay,” Esmee says. “We like it when people know things about us.”
You grin, relaxing again. “How long did it take you to learn Spanish?”
“I’m still learning,” she admits. “I pick up new things everyday.”
Aicha nods. “Sometimes she slips into Dutch, which is very funny.”
You laugh. “I actually worked with someone Dutch when I was waitressing. He used to teach me random phrases.”
Esmee’s eyes light up. “Oh? Do you remember any?”
You hesitate, then smile.
“Just one. We used to say it when we had difficult customers.” You clear your throat. “Je maakt me gek.”
Esmee laughs immediately. It’s light, harmless, but your tone makes it sound just a little more confident than you intended.
That’s when the presence beside you changes. Alexia slides in close, brushing your side as she leans against the bar. Her brows lift.
“You speak Dutch now?”
You grin. “Hardly. Just the one phrase.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, playful. “Say it again.”
You tilt your head. “Why?”
Her eyes narrow playfully.
“Because you said it to Esmee,” she says, tone light, but there’s something faintly pointed under it. “And not to me.”
You shrug. “Esmee asked nicely.”
Alexia hums, leaning in just a fraction. “I asked nicely.”
And there it is. Not sharp, just… amused. Curious.
You glance at her, smirking. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Mm,” she replies, but her arm slips loosely around your waist now. Less possessive, more lingering. “First you deprive me kisses, now languages?”
Aicha laughs under her breath. “She did say it very well.”
“Yeah,” Esmee adds innocently. “Very natural.”
You feel Alexia glance at you again. You can tell she’s not really annoyed. Just… intrigued.
You lean slightly toward her, brushing your lips close to her ear. “Je maakt me gek.”
Her hand stills for half a second at your waist. When you pull back, her expression has shifted, softer now, gaze lingering on your mouth a beat too long.
“What does it mean?” she asks quietly.
Esmee and Aicha exchange a look, clearly enjoying this.
“It means,” you murmur, “‘you’re driving me crazy’.”
Her eyes flick back to your lips, slower this time. When she meets your gaze again, there’s something warmer there now, something a little deeper, a little harder to ignore.
“You’re driving me crazy.”
You smirk. “Good.”
She hums under her breath, gaze still on you like she’s thinking. Then she leans in slightly, just enough for you to hear her properly over the noise.
“Muy peligroso,” she murmurs.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
Her smile widens a fraction.
“Very dangerous,” she translates lazily, though her tone suggests she didn’t need to.
Then, quieter, closer, “Especially when you look at me like that.”
That makes your expression falter for half a second. You recover quickly, of course.
“Like what?”
Alexia just shrugs, entirely too calm now, taking a slow sip of her drink, eyes still on you over the rim of the glass.
You hold her gaze a second longer than you mean to, then shift your weight, breaking it. The movement is subtle, but the heels are starting to make themselves known now, a dull ache creeping in the longer you stand still.
You try to ignore it. Alexia doesn’t.
Her hand tightens at your waist, not harsh, just certain, pulling you a fraction closer, steading you before you even realise you needed it.
“You okay?” she murmurs, voice lower now, tucked just for you beneath the music.
You nod quickly. “Yeah… just my feet being dramatic.”
That earns you a soft huff of laughter against your shoulder. “Next time, you wear trainers,” she says like it’s final.
———————————
You’re just on your way back into the main club after a quick bathroom break when Mapi and Patri appear out of nowhere. Seriously, what is it with these two and jump scaring you?
And this time, they’ve brought backup. Carla, Sydney and Vicky stand behind them, arms folded, matching smirks firmly in place.
“You,” Mapi says, pointing dramatically at you. “We need to talk.”
She’s clearly trying to sound intimidating, but the slight tipsiness gives her away. It’s hard not to smile.
“Talk?” you echo cautiously. “About what?”
“Your intentions,” Mapi says. The others giggle behind her.
Ah.
This must be what Irene was talking about.
Great. Here we go.
“My intentions?” you repeat, trying to sound more confident than you feel.
“Sí,” Patri adds, stepping forward slightly. “We need to make sure you’re the real deal. That you’re not just messing with our chica.”
Your chest warms a little at how protective they are of her, because honestly… fair. But having five footballers cornering you in a hallway is still mildly terrifying. You shift slightly under their attention, suddenly very aware you’re being evaluated.
“I- I’m not. I would never hurt her,” you assure them quickly.
“Mmm,” Mapi hums, crossing her arms. “And how do we know that?”
“Erm… well, I-I…” You glance between them, suddenly very aware of their presence. “I’d like to think I’m a decent person. I care about people, a-and stuff…”
The moment the words leave your mouth, you know you’re absolutely butchering this. It’s hard to sound convincing when you’re a few drinks in, and have five pairs of eyes on you in a nightclub hallway.
Vicky softens slightly. “We just haven’t seen Alexia this happy in a long time. Like… really happy. We want to make sure you’re good for her.”
You nod immediately. “Of course.”
“She doesn’t always let herself to be happy,” Sydney adds quietly.
That settles somewhere heavy in your chest.
Then Mapi speaks again.
“And she’s never had a British girlfriend before, so…”
The others burst into laughter while Mapi tries to keep a serious expression.
You bite back a smile.
“Okay, fair,” you admit. “But I do try very hard not to colonise people.”
That earns a louder laugh. Even Mapi cracks slightly.
Patri shakes her head fondly before looking back at you.
“Look, what we’re trying to say is… Alexia’s important to us. We all love her, and we all want her to be happy. No one deserves it more than her. And we just want to make sure that you’re not just some random girl looking to take advantage. And we’ve seen plenty of people take advantage before.”
Her voice softens slightly.
“But the way she talks about you… the way she looks at you…” She smiles a little. “She seems lighter around you. Happier. We love seeing that.”
You swallow.
“We just need to know you’re not going to disappear after five minutes,” Sydney adds, “or treat her badly.”
You pause for a second, suddenly overwhelmed by how deeply these women care about her. And by how badly you want them to understand how much you care.
“I would never hurt her,” you say, honestly. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. And yeah, it scared me at first, but not anymore.”
You glance between them.
“She makes me feel safe. Loved. Like I can actually be myself around her.”
Your chest tightens slightly.
“And I know how lucky I am to have her. To have her at all.”
A small breath.
“I love her.”
There’s a pause where all five of them just look at you. You shift, aware of being under their gaze, and then the younger girls all murmur an awww. Patri breaks into a grin, and Mapi nods, proud.
She steps forward, putting a hand on your shoulder.
“You passed.”
“We had no doubt,” Patri says warmly.
You exhale softly, mainly in relief.
“But just in case we weren’t clear,” Mapi says, her expressions turning stern again, “you hurt her, you deal with us. Understood?”
You nod seriously. “Loud and clear.”
Then—
“What’s going on?”
You relax instantly at the sound of her voice.
Alexia appears behind them, brows pulling together slightly as she takes in the scene. She must notice the tension immediately, because she steps straight between you and them, coming to your side without hesitation.
“Are you okay, amor?”
You smile, already calmer with her there. “Sí, I’m okay.”
“We were just giving her ‘the talk’,” Mapi says from behind her.
Alexia rolls her eyes, sliding her arm around your waist protectively as she looks back at them.
“Scaring her, more like.”
You laugh softly, leaning into her side.
“It’s okay. They mean well.”
“And she passed,” Mapi says proudly.
Alexia snorts.
“She doesn’t have to pass anything.”
“We just wanted to make sure,” Patri says, smiling now. “But now we know. This one’s a good one.”
Heat creeps onto your cheeks instantly. Beside you, Alexia’s grip tightens slightly around your waist.
“I know,” she says dryly. “Now go away before I kick all your asses.”
They burst into laughter, finally retreating back toward the club.
Alexia watches them disappear before turning back to you properly, her hand lifting to cup your cheek.
“I’m sorry, amor,” she says softly. “I should’ve been here.”
You shake your head immediately, laughing lightly.
“It’s okay. They care about you.” You grin. “And now you don’t have to worry. I passed.”
She huffs a quiet laugh.
“And apparently,” you add teasingly, “I’m a good one.”
Her thumb brushes slowly across your cheek. The way she’s looking at you, soft, warm, almost a little overwhelmed, makes your chest ache.
“Sí,” she murmurs. “You are.”
Then she leans in to kiss you. You melt into it instantly, smiling against her lips before pulling back slightly and tapping your mouth.
“Lip gloss.”
She groans dramatically, dropping her forehead against yours.
“I’m throwing that thing away the second I get a chance.”
You gasp, nudging her shoulder.
“Rude. It’s my favourite one.”
She smirks, shaking her head.
“And you’re my favourite one.”
It’s clearly meant to be teasing, light and easy. But the way she says it still settles somewhere deep in your chest.
You lace your fingers through hers, tugging her gently.
“Come on,” you tease. “Don’t want them thinking we disappeared to do something inappropriate.”
She smirks immediately, letting you pull her along.
“Not yet, anyway,” she teases.
You laugh softly, warmth blooming in your chest as you lead her back into the club.
———————————
The music is still loud, the booth still full, but the conversation has shifted into something calmer, clusters of smaller chats breaking off around you.
You’re sitting slightly tucked into Alexia’s side, her arm resting loosely behind you now rather than holding you in.
A few of the younger girls lean in across the table, curious, smiling.
“So,” Clara says, “England. What’s it like?”
You think for a second. “Cold,” you say immediately. “Always cold. Even when it’s not meant to be cold, it still feels cold.”
That gets a few laughs.
“And grey,” you add. “A lot of grey skies. Like… permanently, emotionally neutral weather.”
Carla tilts her head.
“No sun?”
“Rarely,” you admit. “When it appears, people act like it’s a national event.”
That earns more laughter.
“What do you miss the most?” Sydney asks.
You don’t even hesitate.
“My family,” you say instantly. “And the food I don’t have to google translate.”
That gets a bigger laugh from the group.
Carla grins. “Is English food really that bad?”
You pretend to think about it seriously. “Well…fish and chips are good.” A pause. “…That’s about it.”
They burst into laughter again. Even Alexia let’s out a quiet chuckle beside you, nudging your shoulder gently.
“Don’t forget baked beans.”
You glance back at the girls, nodding like it’s very important.
“Oh yeah. They’re elite. You should all try them.”
“You shouldn’t,” Alexia cuts in.
That sets them off again.
Clara leans back slightly, studying you with an amused smile. “You’re very different from what I expected.”
You tilt your head. “Oh?”
“Sí,” she says gently. “I thought you would be more… intimidating.”
You laugh. “Me? Why?”
She shrugs. “You’re Alexia’s girlfriend.”
That makes you pause for a second.
Then you laugh again, softer this time. “I didn’t realise that came with a reputation.”
Alexia nudges you lightly with her shoulder.
“Too late,” she murmurs, a hint of a smirk there. “You wear it well.”
You grin, leaning into her without thinking.
And for the first time all night, it doesn’t feel like you’re being observed.
Just… included.
———————————
You have no idea what time it is, but honestly, who cares? The night is still young, in the way nights like this always feel. Maybe it isn’t, not really, but no one seems ready to stop, the energy hasn’t dipped, the laughter still loud, the music still pulling at you.
A few of the girls have peeled off, making the sensible choice to head home. You’d made sure to say your goodbyes properly, thanking them, telling them how lovely it was to meet them, meaning it more than you expected to.
But the rest of you stay. Of course you do.
The music shifts, something heavier now, bass deep enough to feel in your chest. A few of the girls immediately react, already dragging each other toward the dance floor without hesitation.
You and Alexia stay where you are, her body warm against your side. Her lips brush along your cheek, slow and unhurried, while her fingers trace lazy patterns along your bare thigh. Nothing overt, nothing that would draw attention, but intimate enough that it makes your breath catch anyway.
You’re still smiling, still relaxed, but there’s something else there too now. A quiet, growing anticipation. Especially when she leans closer.
“Have I told you how sexy you look in this dress?” she murmurs, lips grazing your ear.
You let out a soft laugh, her breath warm against your skin. “Sí. A few times actually.”
She hums, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes a little hazy now, but still focused. Still intent.
“And how sexy it is when you talk so easily to my friends?”
You tilt your head playing along. “Sí, you’ve mentioned that too.”
Her mouth curves slightly. Then she leans in again, closer this time, her voice lower, meant only for you.
“What about how I can’t wait to have you in my bed, hearing you moan my name while I fuck you senseless?”
You choke on your breath.
Heat floods your chest, your neck, your cheeks, your entire being.
You glance at her, and she’s already watching you, completely aware of what she’s doing.
“N-no, you haven’t told me that yet,” you manage.
“Oh,” she says softly, all too innocent, “Well, I’m telling you now.”
You swallow, trying to recover, but the warmth lingers, low, distracting. You watch her for a second longer… then a small smirk tugs at your lips. You lean in, almost about to kiss her—
“Come on!” someone calls.
You turn, and your hand is suddenly grabbed, Cata again, grinning like she’s been waiting for this.
“You’re dancing,” she declares, tugging you up.
You laugh, stumbling after her, but not before glancing back. Alexia’s watching you. She lifts her drink slightly, amused, giving you a small nod.
Go on.
And something about the look in her eyes tells you… you’re not off the hook. Not even close.
It doesn’t take long for you to get pulled into it. The music is loud, the energy infectious, and between Cata’s drastic spins, and Mapi’s questionable dance moves, you’re laughing more than anything else. At some point, Claudia grabs your hands, twirling you, and you go with it, a little breathless, a little giddy.
Across the room, Alexia watches you, shaking her head to herself, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Careful,” Patri nudges her, dropping into the seat beside her. “Think she’s getting stolen.”
Alexia scoffs, taking a light sip of her drink. “Please.”
But her eyes don’t leave you. And she sees everything.
The way you laugh.
The way someone’s hand lingers a second too long at your waist when they spin you.
The way you don’t notice.
Her jaw tightens, just slightly.
Back on the floor, you catch your breath, still smiling. And then you feel it.
That familiar pull.
You glance up, and find her.
She’s already looking at you. Not angry. Not upset.
Just… something else.
You hold her gaze.
A beat.
Then your lips curve, slower this time, deliberate.
Not shy. Not accidental.
You tilt your head, just slightly, like you’re acknowledging her from across the room, and then you turn back into the moment. But not fully.
Because this time, when someone spins you again, you let yourself fall into it a little easier. Your laugh comes quicker, brighter. Your hand lingers at their shoulder just a second longer than it needs to.
And when you come back around, your eyes find Alexia again.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for her to know.
This time, you don’t look away immediately.
You hold it.
Then you bite your lip, barely there, almost like an afterthought, before letting yourself be pulled back into the music.
Across the room, Alexia stills.
Patri notices first.
“…Oh,” she mutters, glancing between Alexia and you. “You’re in trouble.”
Alexia doesn’t answer.
She just leans back slightly in her seat, one arm draped over the backrest, the other lifting her drink to her lips. Slow. Controlled.
But her eyes never leave you.
Not for a second.
There’s something different in them now.
Darker.
More certain.
She watches as you laugh again, as you let yourself be spun, as you glance back at her like you know exactly what you’re doing.
Her jaw shifts.
A small tell.
Barely there.
Patri huffs a quiet laugh beside her. “You’re not even going to go over there?”
Alexia takes another sip, unbothered on the surface.
“No.”
“Really?”
Her lips twitch, just slightly.
“She’ll come back.”
There’s no doubt in it. No hesitation.
Just quiet certainty.
Across the room, you feel it again.
Stronger this time.
That pull.
Like something’s waiting for you.
You glance over, and she’s still there.
Exactly where you left her.
Watching.
Waiting.
Not chasing.
You let out a soft huff of laughter, shaking her head to yourself.
Of course she isn’t.
And somehow… that’s exactly why you find yourself drifting back toward her. By the time you reach her, your cheeks are warm, hair slightly out of place, a smile still lingering on your lips.
Before you can even sit down, Alexia reaches for you, tugging you gently between her knees.
“Wow,” she says, looking you over like she’s assessing something very serious. “You move fast.”
You blink, confused. “What?”
She tilts her head toward the dance floor. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’ve already got a fan club.”
You laugh, nudging her shoulder. “Oh my God, don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” she shrugs, far to causal. “I saw at least four spins. That’s commitment.”
You grin. “You were watching me?”
She raises a brow, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Hard not to.”
There’s a beat, her hands settling warm on your hips, thumbs brushing lightly.
“…You looked good,” she adds, quieter.
Your smile softens just a little.
“Yeah?” you tease. “Jealous?”
She hums like she’s considering it, eyes flicking toward the dance floor, then back to you.
“Mm… maybe I should be.”
You laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Am I?” she says, leaning in slightly, voice dipping. “Because it looked like you were having a lot of fun without me.”
You tilt your head, stepping closer, your hands sliding up to her shoulders.
“Then come dance with me,” you challenge.
She smirks instantly. “Careful, bebé. You won’t be able to keep up.”
You gasp. “Excuse me?”
She stands then, hands never leaving you, pulling you with her.
“Let’s see,” she murmurs.
Back on the dance floor, it’s different this time.
Less chaotic. More… deliberate.
Her hands find your waist again, firmer now, grounding you, guiding you. There’s a confidence in the way she moves with you, like she knows exactly what she’s doing, and exactly what it does to you.
You laugh at first, but it fades quickly when she pulls you closer, your bodies nearly flush. Her mouth brushing your ear.
“Still think I should be jealous?” she murmurs.
Your breath catches slightly.
“…Maybe,” you whisper back.
She smiles, just a little smug.
“Good.”
Her voice lingers against your ear, confident, controlled, and that’s exactly what does it. You tilt your head slightly, a slow smile forming. Oh, she thinks she’s in control here.
That’s cute.
Your hands slide from her shoulders, down her arms, deliberately slow, until your fingers lace with hers. You let her guide you for a beat longer… then shift.
Subtle. But intentional.
Your hips roll just a little closer into hers, matching her rhythm, but softer, slower. Not resisting.
Inviting.
You feel it instantly, the way her hands tighten at your waist.
There.
You glance up at her through your lashes, expression just shy of innocent.
“Thought I wouldn’t keep up?” you murmur.
She huffs a quiet breath, but doesn’t answer straight away.
You step closer again, closing the last bit of space between you, your bodies brushing properly now. Your fingers tighten slightly in hers, guiding one of her hands just a fraction lower to graze the top of your ass.
Not enough to be obvious.
Enough to be felt.
Her breath catches. Just barely.
But you hear it.
You lean in, lips grazing the edge of her jaw this time, returning the favour, your voice low, warm.
“Or are you just distracted?”
That does it.
Her grip falters for half a second before tightening again, but this time it’s different, less controlled, more reactive.
Her gaze drops to your lips.
You don’t give her a second to recover.
You pull back just enough to meet her eyes, then tilt your head, a soft, knowing smile playing at your mouth.
“Careful, baby,” you echo, voice light, teasing. “Looks like you can’t keep up.”
She exhales a quiet laugh, but it’s not as steady as before.
And that? That’s new.
Her hands shift again, pulling you closer, like she’s trying to regain control, but you’re already there, already moving with her, already setting the pace.
For once.
She studies you for a second, something flickering in her expression, surprise, maybe. Or appreciation.
Then her lips curve.
“Dangerous,” she murmurs.
You shrug lightly, brushing your nose against hers.
“Learned from the best.”
For a second, it’s just the two of you. Close warm, slightly breathless.
And then—
“Ay dios mio.”
You freeze.
Not dramatically. Just… enough. You pull back a fraction, and Alexia’s head turns over your shoulder at the exact same time. A few steps away, is Mapi standing there with her arms crossed, grin wide, very clearly having been watching you for longer than either of you would like.
Beside her, Patri and Kika, are trying and failing, not to laugh.
Mapi shakes her head slowly.
“Unbelievable,” she says, voice full of mock disappointment. “We bring you out to celebrate, and this is what you do?”
You laugh, turning slightly in Alexia’s arms, melting into her warmth, your back resting against her chest. Your fingers rest over hers where they’re wrapped around your waist.
“We’re having fun,” you tease.
Patri snorts beside her. “They’ve been like this all night.”
Kika nods seriously. “Sí, very inconsiderate. We’ve been waiting to dance with you, but Alexia’s been hogging you.”
Alexia let’s out a quiet laugh under her breath, chin resting lightly on your shoulder.
“How I can hog what’s already mine?”
That lands. Something in your chest stutters for a second, warmth spreading slow and low. You’ve heard her say things like that before, but not like this. Not here. Not so casually certain, in front of everyone.
First jealous Alexia. Now possessive Alexia?
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy that.
Mapi claps her hands once. “Right. Enough. Either kiss properly or come take a shot. I can’t watch this slow-burn torture anymore.”
You choke on a laugh. “Mapi—”
“I’m serious!” she says, already turning.
Patri follows, patting her shoulder. “They’re not going to choose the shot.”
“Yeah,” Mapi calls over her shoulder, “we know!”
There’s a beat of silence after they leave. Then you turn back to Alexia. She’s already looking at you. A little flushed. Slightly undone. Definitely not as composed as before.
You tilt your head. “What’s already yours, huh?”
Her smirk returns immediately. “That’s right,” she says simply. “They need to know.”
You step closer again.
“Or what?” you murmur.
Her hand slides back to your waist, pulling you in just enough that there’s no space left to pretend otherwise.
“Or I stop being nice,” she says softly.
You smile.
“Who said I wanted you to be?”
Her gaze drops to your lips for a second, then back up.
“Careful,” she murmurs.
You hum lightly. “I think I’d like to see more of possessive Alexia.”
A brow lifts. “Sí?”
“Mhm,” you nod, softer now. “I like when you stop pretending you’re calm about me.”
That does it.
Her grip tightens slightly, not rough, just certain. Her voice drops.
“Then don’t give me reasons to pretend.”
Mapi’s voice carries over the music as she disappears back toward the booth.
“Shot or kiss!”
Kika laughs. “We’re taking bets!”
A couple of others turn, suddenly very invested. You groan, dropping your head onto Alexia’s shoulder. “Oh my God…”
Alexia huffs a quiet laugh, her hand still warm at your waist.
“They’re not going to let that go,” she murmurs.
There’s a beat. Then you glance at her. She’s already looking at you. Of course she is.
Her brow lifts slightly, amused. “Well?”
You tilt your head. “Well what?”
Her smirk deepens, just a fraction. “What are we choosing?”
You grin, but your gaze drops briefly to her lips before you can stop yourself. She notices. Of course she notices. Her hand shifts at your waist, pulling you a fraction closer.
“Shot,” you say quickly, like you’ve already decided.
“Shot?” she repeats, brows lifting.
“Sí,” you nod, overly confident. “Shot.”
She studies you for a second too long. Then she leans in slightly, voice low.
“Liar.”
Your breath catches. You recover quickly, rolling your eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Are you?” she murmurs. “Because you’ve been denying me kisses all night… and your lip gloss has completely disappeared.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Maybe I should top up again.”
Her grips tightens at your waist, warning.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says softly. “You’ve teased me enough.”
You smirk. “How so, baby?”
She leans in closer, voice even lower. “No kisses, speaking different languages, dancing with my friends.”
You chuckle. “I’m having fun.”
“You’re being dangerous.”
Your breath catches slightly.
You lean in, lips near her ear. “Maybe I want to be dangerous.”
When you pull back, her gaze has darkened.
You glance toward the table, everyone is very obviously watching now, and Mapi has her hands cupped around her mouth like she’s about to announce something to the entire club.
You look back at Alexia. She’s waiting. Calm. Confident. Entirely too sure of herself.
You smirk, stepping in, grabbing the front of her vest lightly and pulling her closer.
Then you kiss her.
Not long. Not over the top. But not shy either. Not anymore.
Because you’ve been waiting for this all night. Even if you were the one holding back.
When you pull away, your lips brushing hers as you do, you murmur. “Happy?”
There’s a split second where Alexia doesn’t respond.
Then…
“Not even a little,” she says quietly.
Before you can react, she leans back in and steals a second kiss, slower this time, lingering just long enough to undo you before she pulls away.
Behind you, the table erupts.
“Called it!” Mapi shouts.
Patri is laughing into her drink. “Not even a question!”
“We’ve been waiting for that!” Kika teases.
You laugh, ducking your head, cheeks warm again.
Alexia just shakes her head, amused, her thumb brushing lightly against your side.
“Worth it,” she murmurs.
You glance up at her, smiling.
“…Yeah,” you admit. “Worth it.”
“Oi, shots anyway!” Mapi calls, already lining them up like your choice meant absolutely nothing.
“Of course,” you mutter, laughing as you’re both dragged back toward the table.
Mapi presses a glass into your hand. “For making us suffer through that,” she says, far too pleased with herself.
“Please,” Alexia says. “That was the highlight of your night.”
Mapi rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
You clink glasses, down the shot, immediately regretting it.
“Why is it always worse the second time,” you choke, face scrunching.
Alexia laughs beside you, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.
“Because you know what’s coming,” she says.
You huff a laugh, shifting your weight, and this time it slips out of you before you can stop it, a small wince as your feet properly complain. The heels, which felt fine earlier, now feel like they’ve turned on you. You try to stand a little straighter, pretend it’s nothing, but it’s obvious in the way you subtly ease weight off one foot.
Alexia notices instantly.
Her expression changes first, softer, quieter. Not teasing this time.
“What is it?” she asks, leaning in slightly so only you can hear her.
You hesitate, then sigh. “My feet are kind of dying.”
Her gaze drops immediately to your heels, then back up to you like she’s reassessing the entire situation.
“…Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want to be dramatic.”
She huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s fond, not mocking. Her hand slides to your waist, steadying you without even thinking about it.
“You’re literally standing on glass in those things,” she murmurs.
“They’re not glass.”
“They might as well be.”
You try to shift again and immediately regret it, your expression tightening.
Alexia sees it, properly this time, and something in her face softens even more.
“Come here,” she says, gentler now, tugging you a fraction closer like she’s anchoring you without making a scene.
“I’m fine,” you insist, though you’re already leaning into her anyway.
“Mm,” she hums, clearly unconvinced, thumb brushing small circles at your waist. “You’re not convincing anyone.”
She sits down in a chair and pulls you with her, settling you onto her lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her arms close around you immediately, firm and grounding, and you don’t hesitate, looping one of your own around her shoulders, exhaling like you’ve been waiting for this all night.
And honestly, your feet are relieved too. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.
“Gracias, baby,” you murmur, lifting your hand to tuck a stand of hair behind her ear.
She smiles at you, one of her soft ones, the kind that sends warmth straight through your chest and makes you forget, for a second, how to breathe properly. It always reminds you how lucky you are to call Alexia yours.
The group dissolves back into laughter and conversation, music swelling again, people drifting between dancing and the table.
But something’s shifted.
You feel it.
The buzz is still there, the noise, the movement, but it’s like you’ve stepped just slightly outside of it. Alexia’s hands tighten around you. Not showy. Not for anyone else.
Just… there.
You glance at her. She’s already looking at you. A little flushed. Hair slightly messy. Eyes softer now. Less smug.
More… real.
You squeeze her hand lightly.
“Having fun?” you ask, quieter this time.
She nods, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Mhm. You?”
You smile. “Yeah. I am.”
And for the first time all evening, you realise you never needed to worry about how tonight was going to go.
———————————
At some point, after more drinks and dancing, the remaining girls decide to call it a night.
You all weave through the crowd toward the exit, Alexia’s hand never leaving yours.
The noise of the club fades behind you the moment you step outside. Cool air hits your face, and it’s almost disorientating, how quickly everything shifts from loud, crowded chaos to this quiet stretch of street.
Everyone looks a little more tired now, but the smiles are still there.
Esmee hugs you first.
“It was lovely to finally meet you, Y/n.”
You laugh softly. “You too. I’m really glad I finally got to meet everyone.”
She smiles, before stepping aside, and you move through the rest, Patri and Kika next.
“Thank you for being so kind to me. Honestly.”
Kika waves it off. “You’re one of us now, whether you like it or not.”
You chuckle.
“And don’t let Capi here forget how lucky she is to have you,” Patri says.
Alexia huffs a quiet laugh, pulling you a little closer. “I already know how lucky I am.”
That makes you blush.
Mapi is next, clingy now, clearly drunk, arms wrapped around you longer than necessary.
“I’ll miss you guys,” she pouts.
You laugh. “We’ll miss you too.”
Alexia rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
You hug Claudia and Cata last.
“Thank you for the invite,” you say. “It’s been a really fun night.”
Cata grins. “Thank you both for coming. You’re pretty cool, you know.”
You smile. “Not as cool as you.”
She laughs. “Obviously.”
“Enjoy the rest of your birthday,” you add with a wave.
The group disperses in different directions. And just like that, it’s just the two of you.
Beside you, Alexia steps closer instantly. Her hand finds yours without looking, grounding you more than anything else.
“You okay?” she murmurs.
You nod, a small smile on your lips. “Yeah.”
Her thumb brushes over your knuckles.
The street is calm, dim lights, distant traffic, the city still alive but no longer overwhelming. It feels like you’ve stepped into a different world.
Alexia shifts closer again, your shoulders brushing. For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s… settling. You glance down at your joined hands, then back up at her. She’s already looking at you. Of course she is.
Her expression is softer now, but there’s still something there, warm, unreadable, completely focused on you.
“Sorry about them,” she says after a beat.
You laugh lightly. “Don’t apologise. They were fun.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “Fun?”
You nod. “Yeah. Loud fun. Slightly chaotic fun. Mapi-threatening-the-entire-club fun.”
That earns a real laugh from her, one that softens something in your chest instantly.
“They like you,” she says, quieter now.
You shrug, a little self-conscious again. “I think they like teasing me more.”
“Same thing,” she replies without hesitation.
You bump her shoulder lightly. “Rude.”
She smiles, squeezing your hand.
“You handled it well,” she adds. “Better than I expected.”
You raise a brow. “You didn’t think I’d survive?”
“I didn’t say that,” she says, amused. “I just… wasn’t sure you’d enjoy it.”
You glance up at her.
“I did,” you admit. “I really like them. They seem like great teammates to have.”
She smiles softly. “They are. They’re the best.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “I liked being with you there,” you murmur.
Her fingers tighten slightly around yours, not possessive, just steady. Anchoring.
“Yeah?” she asks.
You nod. “Yeah. I like seeing you like that. Relaxed. Happy.”
The streetlight catches her face, and for a moment she doesn’t say anything. Then she steps closer, brushing fully against your side.
“Me too,” she says simply.
A beat.
Then, softer, “I like having you there with me.”
Warmth spreads through your chest. You lean into her without thinking, your shoulder resting against hers as you both start walking. No rush. No noise. Just the sound of your steps and her hand in yours, like it belongs there.
After a while, you tilt your head slightly.
“…Are you still jealous?” you tease.
She lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “No.”
You glance at her. She looks back, lips twitching.
“Maybe a little,” she admits.
You smile, satisfied. “Good.”
She squeezes your hand, pulling you a fraction closer.
“Don’t get used to it,” she murmurs.
You hum. “No promises.”
A beat passes as you take another step, and you immediately regret it when your heel catches awkwardly against the pavement.
You huff, stopping short. “Okay, I’m not usually one to waste things, but I’m about ready to throw these shoes in the bin.”
That earns you an instant glance.
“…Que?” she says, amused.
“I’m serious,” you insist, even as your mouth is already curving. “Why did I wear these? Pretty sure my toes are hanging off.”
She laughs under her breath, shaking her head slightly as her gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary.
“You’re very dramatica,” she teases.
You shrug. “Blame the version of me who thought heels were a good idea.”
Her hand lifts to your cheek then, warm and grounding, thumb brushing lightly against your skin.
A small pause.
Then she smirks.
“Do you want me to carry you?”
You blink at her.
“What?” you say, a laugh slipping out. “You can’t carry me.”
“Por que?” she asks, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
You laugh, nudging her shoulder. “You’re very sweet, but you do not need to carry me.”
“But you’re toes are hanging off,” she reminds you solemnly.
You giggle immediately. “Okay, maybe I was being a little dramatic.”
“Ah,” she hums, stepping closer. “So you admit it.”
You shrug, sliding your hands up her arms until they rest loosely around her neck. “No point pretending otherwise now.”
Her smirk deepens slightly.
“What about your other teasing antics tonight?” She asks softly. “Can you admit those too?”
You tilt your head with exaggerated innocence.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“I think you do,” she murmurs, leaning closer until her lips barely ghost yours.
You smile against her. “And what are you going to do about it?”
Her gaze never leaves yours. “I can think of a few things.”
And then she kisses you. Slow. Deep. Unhurried. Like she’s been waiting all night. Your hands tighten at her neck, pulling her closer as you melt into it. When you finally pull back, your breath is a little uneven, your chest rising and falling a little faster.
She smirks, taking your hand again, lacing your fingers together as she starts walking. She nods up ahead. “Taxi’s here.”
“Thank God,” you mumble, trying not to hobble the rest of the way there.
And then, without warning, she slides an arm under your legs and the other behind your back…
“What are you—”
Too late.
She lifts you off the ground with ease, just enough to make you gasp, and immediately laugh. “Alexia!”
She grins, completely unbothered. “Problem solved.”
“You’re showing off.”
“Sí,” she says simply, adjusting her grip like it’s nothing. “And?”
You shake your head, still laughing as you loop your arms around her neck.
“…I might like this version of you a little too much.”
Her smile softens, just for a second.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I’m not putting you down anytime soon.”
You laugh, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “My hero.”
She smiles as she starts walking again.
But she’s keeps looking at you like she’s not quite done with the night yet.
Not quite done with you.
Not even close.
———————————
A/n:
I know this one has been a long time coming so thank you for your patience, and I really hope you enjoyed it. Really enjoyed writing this, the team are a lot of fun 😂
No one has permission to copy, steal, repost or translate this work.
As always, please let me know what you think. Comments, reblogs, and asks all make my day. I love interacting with you all and hearing your thoughts/opinions. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story so far ❤️
summary: You had a lot on your plate: a little sister to raise, two jobs to juggle, and a massive secret. For years, you had been secretly working at a strip club to fund your sister’s needs: from school trips to football kits. Between keeping a secret and making ends meet, there was no room in your life for anything else, especially not romance.
Meeting Alexia Putellas made that a little difficult.
fic tags: stripper!Reader, slight age gap, client!Alexia, angst, smut, secret/forbidden relationship, drama, femme!Reader, minimal use of YN, lap dances, suggestive content, strap r!Receiving, cunnilingus r!Receiving, cursing, use of pet names, tldr: u meet alexia when she attends irene's bachelorette in the club u work at (irene not yet married in this fic haha), view specific chapter tags/warnings in fic index
chapter index | masterlist
please do not repost, plagiarize, or feed to ai!
⋆˙⟡♡ “You won’t believe who’s here tonight,” one of the girls said as they huddled in the one spot backstage where you could see the crowd without being seen, peeking through the heavy stage curtains.
You chuckled at the sight of everyone crowding desperately in that one spot. You shook your head, turning your attention back to the mirror, adjusting the white, bluntly cut bob wig that you were wearing, making sure you looked presentable.
You didn’t understand why everyone seemed so intrigued in who tonight’s guests were. After all those years working at the Somni Lounge, you’ve gotten used to having VIPs and celebrities in your crowd. You were way past the fangirling stage of your career here.
“Madre mia, is that Patri Guijarro?” One of the girls gushed. “Her face is so much prettier in person.”
You paused as soon as you heard the familiar name, turning once more to look at everyone crowding, peeking through. From where you were getting ready, you really couldn’t see much through the small opening of the curtains.
Someone hummed in agreement. “Those shoulders, uh, meow.”
“Is it just the Barça girls,” someone asked, “or is it the whole Spanish team?”
“Just the Barcelona girls,” someone else responded.
Huh, that’s why they’re all so intrigued, you thought as soon as they confirmed who it was. They weren’t your usual clientele.
Your co-worker Sol, whose vanity was right beside yours, noticed your reaction change upon learning who it was. “Oh, if Nana finds out that you were in the same establishment as the Barça girls, she would freak out.” She said, bringing up your little sister.
You sighed. “If I’m lucky, she’ll never find out,” you said with a head shake. This part of your life was something you worked so hard to keep from your sister. To her, you were just a barista and waitress.
Sol sighed. “How is Aina by the way?” She asked as she continued to fix her lashes.
You nodded. “Oh, Nana’s good, still obsessed with football. She’s starting to play better but she’s mad at her coach for assigning her a defensive position,” you chuckled, remembering your little sister’s rant. “She wants to be a midfielder like her idol Aitana.”
Sol chuckled before pausing to look at you earnestly through the mirror. “You’re doing a great job at raising her, chiqui.” She smiled. “Even if you’re purposely withholding from her that you’ll be meeting her idols tonight.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d like her to find out that her idols are visiting a strip club,” you scoffed.
Another co-worker Adriana overheard your conversation as she was returning to the make-up area, coming from the crowd at the curtains, and corrected you, tone jestful. “Don’t you mean premium cabaret?”
“Girl, please, you can add ‘premium cabaret entertainer’ to your CV but everyone knows you just mean stripper,” Sol responded jokingly. You all laughed.
“So, what are those girls doing here anyway?” You asked, genuinely curious. An all-female crowd was rare enough; a crowd of only female celebrities were another thing entirely.
Adriana plopped onto the empty folding chair beside you, looking at herself in the mirror as she readjusted her wig, tucking in any of her stray hair back into her wig cap. “Bachelorette party,” she answered. “I heard that the younger girls from the team organized this to surprise their captain who’s getting married.”
“Oh, Alexia?” Sol asked, raising her eyebrows. “I didn’t know she was getting married. I thought she broke up with her last girlfriend.”
“No, Irene Paredes, the tall one.” Adriana responded. “It’s a nice change on our part. We get to dance for these hot women instead of the usual old men.”
You chuckled and nodded. “Amen to that.”
Another one of your co-workers pranced on to join you three, moving closer to the mirror to check her teeth for any lipstick marks. “YN, Nana is going to be so jealous of you if she finds out that you’re meeting her favorite team.” She said, looking at you through the mirror. “If only we weren’t working, then we could ask them for an autograph or something.”
You nodded and sighed. As much as you hid your job title from the world, you were at least thankful for your co-workers, who were all sweet girls and who all cared about your little sister.
“Is Aitana here too? She’s Nana’s favorite.” You asked.
She shook her head in response. “Nah, but Alexia’s there.”
You hummed. “Which one is Alexia again?”
The other girls laughed. “Aina is gonna be so mad if she heard you ask that,” Sol tutted her tongue.
“I work a million hours a week,” you said. “I don’t exactly have the time to memorize all of these footballers she watches.”
Adriana nudged you. “Don’t worry. You’ll notice which one Alexia is,” she wiggled her eyebrows at you. “She’s exactly your type.”
“I highly doubt that,” you responded. “Cause my type wouldn’t go to a strip club.”
Everyone chuckled, shaking their heads at you.
Just moments later, your stage coordinator started calling everyone over for the opening number of the show. You all got up hastily, calmly getting into formation. You adjusted your tights for one last time before settling into your starting pose, ready for when the curtains would rise.
When you first started working at Somni Lounge, you almost always had mini panic attacks before the show itself. You were always a performer, having been classically trained when you were younger. You were used to performing for a crowd. But it was just different here.
You weren’t just performing; you were seducing.
With your childhood ballet recitals, everyone was focused on the artistry, the dance and the choreography. Here, while the artistry was still present, it always came second because your crowd was always focused on your body and their own carnal desires.
Your goal wasn’t just to entertain them but to arouse them, to satiate their needs.
It freaked you out a lot when you were just starting. You were barely 20 then, wearing costumes that were practically nothing, performing in front of mostly old, sleazy men. Sure, the clientele here was more high-end and elite than your generic strip club, but having more money didn’t exactly mean your clients were less lustful or creepy. It also didn’t make Somni less of a strip club.
At the end of the day, you were there to make men horny. The thought of it alone used to linger and fester in your mind but at some point, all the anxieties and the self-consciousness fizzled into nothing. After all, at the end of the day, it was just a job.
And god, did you need this job.
⋆˙⟡♡“I cannot believe I let you guys rope me into this,” Irene tutted her tongue as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Alexia laughed and shrugged. “I didn’t exactly plan this either. I just pitched in some cash to the bachelorette fund and trusted the kids to plan it.”
Irene exhaled through her nose, eyes drifting around the cabaret. The place gleamed with its deep red velvet seats with gold accents – the type that looked understated instead of gauche and tacky – and dark marble floors. It did seem a bit theatrical in a sense, but not totally kitschy; it still looked elevated.
Irene sighed. “At least this one has floors that aren't sticky.”
“True.” Alexia laughed, shaking her head. “But really, had I known this was their plan, I would have taken over.”
“You should have,” Irene sighed. “This is not my scene.”
Alexia chuckled, leaning back into her seat. “Well, let’s just get through this.”
Suddenly, the lights dimmed, conversation dissolving into anticipation as music rolled through the room. The curtain began to lift.
Alexia was never really the type to attend these types of shows. She’d been in a relationship for years, and even before that, places like these never really were her thing. The idea of sitting in a dark room watching strangers strip and dance in pasties just didn’t do anything for her.
So, when she’d found out the team had arranged this for Irene, she’d resigned herself to just playing along, smiling through it. Besides, it’s been a while since the team blew off some steam together. It would be good for them to have some fun.
⋆˙⟡♡ The first number started minutes after everyone settled into their seats and had their first round of drinks.
As soon as the opening performance started, Alexia felt herself completely engaged. The dancers emerged one-by-one, wearing identical wigs and matching make-up. Their glossy, latex bodysuits caught the light as they moved through the stage. They moved in a straight line, bodies moving with intent. Alexia thought she was getting the typical pole dance and vulgar strip dance choreography but this wasn’t that… at all. The choreography was controlled and elegant, more artistic than she expected.
Without realizing it, Alexia leaned forward in her seat.
All of the dancers were amazing, moving in perfect sync, but there was one dancer that Alexia couldn’t look away from. There was nothing immediately obvious to set her apart; she had the same latex body suit, same bluntly cut wig, and same bold makeup.
But her body moved differently, as if she was one with the music. Her body flirted with the rhythm and each step just flowed naturally with the next. Her expressions were so alive and vivid, eyes bright as they swept the room, making sure to give each person a moment that made it feel like she was dancing just for them.
Then, briefly, her eyes landed on Alexia’s.
Her lips curved into a small smile that widened a beat later, teeth flashing briefly under the lights, practically sparkling. Alexia felt her heart skip a beat, breath catching. If someone was paying close attention to Alexia, they would probably notice how her pupils dilated, practically doubling in size, absolutely taken in by the scene unfolding before her
Before she could even process the opening number, it ended, lights dimming once again and dancers scurrying out. She finally exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath since you two locked eyes. She blinked, a bit embarrassed that she got that into it.
She looked around, trying to see if any of her teammates noticed, only to meet Patri’s playful smirk, eyebrows raised and a teasing glint in her eyes. “Let’s just get through this, huh?” She teased, using Alexia’s own words against her.
Alexia scoffed and rolled her eyes, though she was smiling. “You’re telling me that wasn’t good?”
“Sure,” Patri shrugged. “But I wasn’t as smitten as you were.”
Alexia chuckled, rolling her eyes at Patri, but unable to deny it.
⋆˙⟡♡ Your second performance was a solo.
You stood backstage as the costume settled onto your body — crisp white button-up that was so tight that it could practically pop, short black skirt, and some black-rimmed, prop glasses. You took one breath before stepping into the dark stage, baring yourself for the dance.
This number was the perfect mix of camp and seduction. You were meant to be a business lady in a makeshift office set-up. Projections of stock market graphs flickered behind you, showing stocks in the green as you started, sauntering seductively across the stage, looking through the prop papers on the table. Then, the projections would start the stocks plummeting, supposedly sending you into a panic.
At your cue, you scattered the paper into the air as you spun around in the swivel chair, putting both your hands on your head as you rolled it around, acting in distress. After that, you got up, kicking the swivel chair to the side before sprawling your body on top of the table, letting the remaining paper on it fall onto the floor as you did.
You’d been doing this routine for a year. Every beat practically lived in your muscles. Normally, you could perform it flawlessly in your sleep. But tonight, your focus just kept slipping.
You could feel her gaze again, as intense as they were a while ago. During the first number, you thought it was just nerves that made you think she was staring at you like this. That perhaps it was just your imagination amplified by stage lights and the adrenaline that came with your dance. But even now, with the light dimmer and softer, it was undeniable.
It wasn’t that you weren’t used to people staring at you during shows; that was practically part of the job description. But it felt completely different now because instead of the usual random dude, it was this impossibly beautiful woman with her gorgeously piercing eyes.
You got off the desk swiftly, trying hard not to let her gaze get to you. You walked around to the front of the desk before graciously spinning, presenting your back to the crowd, bending over the desk with practiced fluidity, moving as sensually as you can. The room erupted with cheers and whistles, making you smile a bit, feeling validated that you were doing a good job. You breathed before you got off the table again, spinning around to face the crowd once again.
Your confidence was shaken up a bit once more, seeing those same hazel eyes fixed on you, but you tried to keep your gaze trained on the bride-to-be, Irene.
Perform for the bride, you repeated to yourself. This is her bachelorette.
You bit your lip seductively as you kept your eyes fixated on the tall blonde. You began unbuttoning your top slowly and deliberately, hips swaying with the music. After the first hip pop to the side, you parted your lips, rounding your mouth, simulating the look of pleasure. Irene grimaced, visibly tensing as she looked away, unable to keep eye contact with you.
And with that, you suddenly let your attention go back to the girl beside her, the one with the intense gaze. She was still staring at you, expression unreadable. You gulped, trying not to let it get to you. It was hard not to overthink when you weren’t sure what to make of the way she looked at you.
Was she judging you? Was she drawn to you? Impressed? Disgusted? You couldn’t tell. You took a deep breath.
Might as well lean into it, you thought. I’ll give her something to stare at.
You let your hands drag slowly down your torso, palms flat, unhurried, keeping the distress on your face while the stock projections kept tanking behind you. The crowd was already loud. You let them get louder. Your thumbs hooked into the waistband of your skirt and you eased it down your legs, slow enough to be deliberate, stepping out of it and tossing it offstage without looking where it landed.
Now, you were exposed, just wearing your heels and the lingerie that barely covered anything. You stood tall and let them look, feeling your confidence grow, knowing that the crowd was loving what they were seeing.
Your hips started to move again: a slow roll that built as you sank down into a squat, hands trailing up your own thighs on the way back up. The crowd noise swelled and you rode it, turning, bending forward over the table with your weight on your palms.
The music shifted, softening toward its end. It was your signal to get into your final pose.
And so, you climbed onto the desk and lowered yourself across it slowly, arching your back as you continued to trail your hands on your body. You turned your head to the side, and your eyes found hers in the crowd once again.
You held it a beat longer than necessary. You flashed her one last smile before the lights cut and the curtain dropped. The crowd erupted in cheers.
You exhaled, quickly slid off the table, and walked offstage, pleased with your performance.
Sol met you with a grin as you rushed to the changing area, quickly taking off your current lingerie. “I haven’t seen you dance like that in a while,” she commented. “You looked amazing.”
You smiled, hurriedly taking off your lingerie to get into your next costume. Your hands still shook, buzzing from performance adrenaline. “That’s the kind of energy I can only give a crowd of women.”
“Oh, they loved it,” Adriana said, nodding, as she grabbed her pair of heels set up by the rows of steel racks. “Well, I know for certain that at least one of them did.”
“She was staring so hard at YN that even I felt flustered when I saw it,” Sol commented, helping you clasp the sparkly, pearl-crusted bra for your next performance.
Your eyes widened as you looked at them. “You noticed too? She was staring, right? The girl beside Irene.”
Adriana snorted, adjusting her own bra. “Don’t act like you don’t know Alexia.”
“Oh,” you said, blinking. “Alexia… Alexia Putellas?”
The girls nodded in unison. You hummed, realizing that that was her. You probably weren’t able to process that it was her while you were performing. But you should have known who she was, especially given that your sister Aina had begged you last Christmas to buy a kit with Alexia’s name on it.
Maybe I should be paying more attention whenever Nana watches football, you thought to yourself.
“Her gaze was kind of intense… but she really is kind of cute.” You said, admitting to finding her attractive.
Sol chuckled. “Kind of? She’s gorgeous. If I were a lesbian, I’d have ran off the stage and given her a show she could never forget about.” She nodded. “Especially with how she was staring. Ugh, babe, you should’ve jumped her.”
“Please, I’m not even sure she liked my performance,” you shook your head. “She was just… staring. Who knows? She might have been horrified.”
“Please, she didn’t look horrified,” Adriana said. “If anything, she looked like she was trying to memorize your buttcheek.”
You laughed and rolled your eyes, trying not to let it get to you too much. This was just a job and you were just a stripper. A client staring at you like that shouldn’t be anything to blush about and yet…
You shook your thoughts away, trying to focus on getting ready for your next performance.
⋆˙⟡♡ The last number was a full ensemble piece.
You stood in the wings with the rest of the girls, masks secured over the top half of your faces — sleek, black-lacquered ones with gold trim that curled up at the edges like something out of a Venetian parade. They covered your eyes, your nose, the bridge of your cheeks, leaving your mouth completely bare and painted deep red. You were all wearing matching corsets with short, structured skirts and long, silk gloves.
Compared to your other performances, this was way campier and theatrical. This was one of your favorite numbers because it focused more on the dance aspect rather than the seduction aspect; it was one of the few numbers when you actually had fun.
The dance was a mix of the traditional can-can with a modern twist. With half of your face covered with a mask, you had to animate your expressions even more, which honestly made the dance enjoyable for you.
As you performed, you tried to focus more on the rhythm of the music and on your moves. You kept your chin up, gaze trained just over the heads of the audience the way you always did when you needed to stay in your body and out of your head
But even from your peripheral vision, you could feel her eyes on you from the same position she was in; you practically memorized her location without meaning to. Even if you weren’t looking at her, you were hyperaware of her movements: the way she laughed at the comedic parts of the choreography, the way she would lean over to Patri beside her, whisper something, making the other girl laugh.
You were so aware of her that it was deeply inconvenient given that you were currently in the middle of a performance. It was even more odd, given that you were never like this with anyone. For the past few years, in this job, you were always laser-focused on just nailing the moves.
Focus, you told yourself firmly. You are a professional and she is a client.
You snapped back into the number, hitting the final sequence with everything you had, pouring the nervous energy directly into the performance. By the time the lights cut and the curtain dropped, your heart was hammering and not entirely from dancing.
⋆˙⟡♡ The applause was still rolling when your co-worker Adriana stepped out in front of the curtain with a cordless mic and her most theatrical smile, chandelier light catching the sequins on her bodysuit. Along with the rest of the girls, you were hurriedly getting out of your costumes.
You changed into a sleek black bodysuit, simple and fitted compared to the more elaborate costumes from the earlier numbers, paired with a new mask that was simpler and was just enough to hide your identity up close.
"Ladies," Adriana said with a projected voice, echoing into the backstage area. "On a regular night at Somni, our girls are on that stage and you are in those seats, and that is where the evening ends." She paused, letting the anticipation settle. "But tonight is not a regular night."
The Barcelona girls cheered and whistled.
"Tonight, since we are performing for our nation’s pride," Adriana gestured broadly toward them. "We offer something a little more personal." She smiled. "Tonight, for our bachelorette party…. we have lap dances!”
The team erupted. As soon as you were all made-up, everyone waited by the wings, taking a peek of the crowd. You could catch a glimpse of the bachelorette Irene, shaking her head, with her head in her palm as the other girls practically forced her to be on stage.
"Let’s welcome our bride-to-be on the stage! Irene Paredes,” Adriana said, welcoming Irene to the stage, her teammates clapping and hollering excitedly.
Irene lifted her head, expression caught somewhere between amusement and genuine distress. She held up her hand and reached for the mic.
"I adore all the girls, such amazing performers… really," she said, "but my future wife is going to kill me if I get a lap dance, so… maybe, all my co-captains can go in my place, instead?"
The team cheered. Adriana pointed the mic toward Patri, who had both hands already raised in surrender. "I have a girlfriend," Patri said simply, refusing with huge hand gestures, shaking her head, staying planted in her seat.
Adriana pivoted smoothly to Marta who everyone else was pointing to, seated right beside Caroline Graham Hansen. Marta tilted her head consideringly, then looked sideways. "I'll do it if Caro does it too."
All eyes went to Caro, who was already shaking her head with much fervor. "No, no, absolutely not."
Everyone reacted in disappointment until everyone turned to Alexia who looked caught. Soon, all the other girls started chanting. "Capi-ta-na. Capi-ta-na. Capi-ta-na."
You heard it from backstage and felt something in you tense up. You looked at your co-workers. You were all prepared to dance for more of the girls but now, it seemed like only Alexia was up for a lap dance. The other girls giggled, looking at you pointedly which just made you feel more nervous.
Looks like I’m doing this alone, you thought.
You turned your attention back. Alexia was laughing, shaking her head, the particular expression of someone who knew they had already lost and was deciding how to accept it gracefully. She looked at Irene, who gave her a cheerful, unhelpful shrug. She looked at Patri, who gestured as if to say this is completely out of my hands. Alexia looked over to Marta who was at the far end of the room, already shaking her head with Caro mimicking the same action.
Alexia exhaled, realizing that she was the only captain of the team left who didn’t have to worry about a girlfriend or partner getting mad about a lap dance.
"Fine," she acquiesced, and the crowd lost its mind.
Adriana grinned and lifted the mic again. "Now hold on," she said, drawing it out with practiced showmanship. "For our nation’s capitana, I'm not sending just any of our girls out here." She turned back toward the curtain, expression conspiratorial. "I know someone who really, really wants to give Alexia Putellas a lap dance. Someone who is really going to put on a show for La Reina."
The Barcelona girls wolf-whistled and cheered, excited to see the girl who was so eager to give their captain a lap dance.
“Let’s give it up for… Rubi!”
You barely even processed Adriana calling you by your stage name when everyone backstage began pushing you further towards the stage. You frowned and glared at them. “Oh my god, calm down. I’m going,” you groaned at the girls who were just giggling at you.
Adriana rushed back on stage, stopping just right in front of you. “You owe me,” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows.
"I fucking hate you,” you said, feeling the nerves build inside you. “I didn’t ask you for this.”
She chuckled. “Keep pretending, sweetheart. We know you want to anyway.” Adriana rolled her eyes. “Enjoy.”
⋆˙⟡♡ Soon, the lights dimmed and the red lights covered the room in a deep crimson. The song that rolled in was unhurried and heavy. It had a steady tempo with a slow burn of a bass. In Somni, the lap dances were often not choreographed so you didn’t know what song to expect but this one felt just right. It was the perfect amount of sultry and intimate.
You took one slow breath backstage, rolling your shoulders, shaking out your hands. You closed your eyes, calming yourself, before stepping from out of the wings, meeting the immediate and generous wave of noise and cheering. Just like that, all your nerves dissipated. You let it settle around you, smirking at everyone.
You were used to lap dances, even if they weren't a regular thing at Somni. Pilar reserved them for special occasions and private reservations mostly — bachelor parties, birthdays, the nights a VIP booking came with specific requests attached. It wasn't like you were doing this every shift. But when Pilar did assign them, your name came up more often than not.
You had your theories about why Pilar kept picking you. Maybe it was your dance background. Perhaps it showed in the way you controlled your body or maybe it was that you just had more energy and endurance that by the end of the night, you could still deliver another performance while most of the other girls were just too knackered.
Or maybe it was for humanitarian reasons. She knew the situation with your sister and considering that the girls doing the lap dances got a bonus, she was assigning it to you, knowing you’d be willing to do it for more money.
Whatever the reason, you were just glad the clients never seemed to notice that you weren't really present for any of it. That the smile was just something you put on or the eye contact was something practiced and mechanical. You figured you must have put on a good enough show for them to not realize that while you were grinding on their laps, you were thinking about what groceries you needed to buy or how you were going to budget your salary for the next week.
But tonight, it was different. You were certain that you weren’t going to be thinking about groceries tonight. Not when she was the one on that chair.
Alexia turned her head to catch a glimpse of you. Her smile faltered, just briefly, like she hadn't quite expected you specifically, walking toward her in the low red light. You gave her a small smile, winking as you walked towards her slowly, legs crossing over each other with your heels clicking against the hard floor.
The smile found its way back to her face as you moved closer. Her eyes moved over you unhurriedly, and the lazy confidence of it made your heart slam against your ribs in a way that you hoped absolutely did not show on your face.
You circled her first, taking your time. This was the part of a lap dance that most people didn't expect; they usually expected you to just start grinding on them. But it was better to build up the anticipation, to keep them waiting. It was a sort of foreplay.
You let your fingertips trail across her shoulders barely even touching her, just close enough that she'd feel the proximity. You heard a quiet exhale from her that she probably didn't intend to be audible. In contrast, the Barcelona crowd was incredibly audible, shouting and whistling nonstop.
You tuned them out the way you tuned out everything when you were working. But right now, you were also grateful for the dark red lights because they were able to hide the slight tremble in your hands.
Pull yourself together, you thought to yourself. It was not usual for you to be affected by your clients but then again, this was the first time you were actually attracted to your client.
You came around to face Alexia, moving down slowly onto her lap just until you were just barely hovering above her, hands bracing on the armrests on either side of her hips, bringing your face level with hers. The space between you was small and up close, she was so much more than she had been from across the room. The red light did something extraordinary to her features, sharpening the line of her jaw, catching in her eyes, and you had a half-second of clarity in which you recognized that this was genuinely one of the most beautiful people you had ever been this close to, which was an observation that was neither helpful given the circumstances.
You kept your movements fluid and unhurried, working with the rhythm of the music, rolling through each beat. Your body moved over hers without direct contact, watching her lick her lips unconsciously in anticipation.
Then, deliberately, you reached down and guided her hands off the armrests. You placed them at your waist and covered them with your own. You smiled as you felt her fingers press against your waist. You began to roll your hips, guiding her hands with yours, letting her hands trail up your own sides and back down.
Alexia’s gaze never left yours and the line of her jaw had tightened. Her composed stillness from a moment ago was working a lot harder now and you could see it in the set of her shoulders.
You smirked before abruptly turning, now facing the crowd, giving them a flashy grin. You placed Alexia’s hands back onto your waist, feeling them settle there with a less restrained grip. You placed your hands on the arms of the chair, using them to support you as you lowered yourself slowly onto her lap. You moved against her slowly and deliberately, grinding slowly against her, making sure that you were firm and flush against her as you did.
Her grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer without you prompting it and the crowd must have noticed because they lost their composure, cheering even louder. Your eyes widened and you nearly yelped as Alexia pulled you towards her, causing your weight to fully be on top of her. Her chest pressed firmly against your back as she leaned in, lips brushing against your ear.
"You really, really wanted to give me a lap dance, huh?" Her voice was low and quiet but definitely teasing. You can tell by the tone of her voice that she definitely seemed too pleased with herself.
The corner of your mouth twitched but you stayed composed. You stood once more, facing her again before leaning in, just an inch away from her ear. “Don’t flatter yourself, superstar.”
You felt rather than heard the low laugh in her chest, the vibration of it pressed against you. You pulled away and stood in one smooth motion, turning to face her again. You decided to take her by surprise, strongly planting your hands on both of her legs, parting it abruptly, garnering you a collective noise from the crowd. And, of course, you didn’t miss the way Alexia’s expression flickered: the way her throat moved as she swallowed.
There it is.
"Keep those there," you said, holding her gaze. "Okay, superstar?"
You didn't wait for an answer. You turned and moved toward the crowd, putting your back to them, hips dropping into a slow rolling gyration that made the room erupt. You gave them a few beats of it before sinking down to the floor with an unhurried ease.
You lowered yourself onto your back, still facing Alexia, propping up on your elbows so your chest angled upward. As you settled into it, you found Alexia's eyes immediately. You gave her a slow smirk. Then you raised your legs — straight and crossed over each other — and began moving your legs into a traditional clockwork move. Alexia’s eyes were fixated on your legs, as if hypnotized by the fluid movements. You smirked, legs sweeping in circles in a controlled rotation, tracing the air above you in a precise and deliberate motion before meeting back at the top. On the next beat, you let your legs fall open into a wide split, holding it just long enough for Alexia’s eyes to widen and for the room to react, before swiftly snapping them back shut, heels connecting with a satisfying clack at the top, the sound punctuating the beat of the song.
The crowd cheered in amusement but you barely paid attention to them. Your attention had already locked into Alexia.
You rolled onto your hands and knees, letting the movement flow into the next count as you seductively crawled back towards her. She was still sitting exactly how you had left her, knees apart, hands gripping the arms of the chair like she had decided it was safer than touching you. The sight sent a sharp little thrill through you. There was nothing more that could boost your confident than a girl coming undone just by looking at you.
You took your time crossing the space between you, slow enough to make her watch every inch of it. Her eyes flickered all over your body, following the line of your back, the sway of your hips, the way you moved like you knew exactly what she was looking at at any given moment.
When you reached her, you placed your hands on either side of her thighs and lifted your gaze to hers. You leaned your head closer to in between her legs, sticking your tongue out and tracing the air just above her. You moved it in a line, starting low then dragging it in a path upward from in between her legs, past her stomach, and towards chest. You never touched her. You only came close enough for her to feel the warmth of your mouth, leaving it all to her imagination.
This time, there was no teasing smirk or comment from Alexia. She just looked at you with her mouth slightly parted, eyes dark beneath the red light, and hands gripping the arms of the chair. You smirked.
You straightened up, striking one last strong pose as the final beat of the song landed. The crowd cheered loudly and you gave them a small, cheeky bow before walking back towards the curtain, without looking back at Alexia.
You didn’t need to; you could feel her eyes on you the entire way out.
⋆˙⟡♡ You woke up with a groan, scrubbing the sleep from your eyes as the alarm clock blared mercilessly. It was too loud, too early; it was certainly enough to sour your mood before you were even fully conscious.
You sat up, sighing deeply as you turned the alarm off, feeling your calves and feet ache from the night before. No matter how many nights you performed in heels, it never made the morning-after muscle pain any less annoying.
You turned your head and found your sister Aina beside you, completely unconscious, sprawled diagonally across more than her fair share of the bed. You must have been so tired last night that you didn’t even notice that she had snuck into your room late into the night.
Even if Aina was already seven, she still looked impossibly young to you. It didn’t help that she was tinier than most girls her age.
People often thought that Aina was your daughter given the huge age gap between the two of you; they often assumed you must have had her when you were young. At first, it bothered you, the way they filled in your story without asking. But over time, you stopped correcting them. It was easier that way and, honestly, it was less unusual than trying to explain how two sisters could be separated by more than a decade.
When Aina was born, she came as a pleasant surprise to everyone in your life. She was born when you were already a teenager and your parents were almost in their 40s. You had pretty much accepted your life as an only child by then, which was why you were so pumped to hear the news that you were getting a baby sister.
Even as a baby, Aina was always so sweet and well-behaved. She’d always been an angel but that didn’t mean that raising her was a walk-in-the-park. It was still a lot to handle.
You were left with the responsibility of being Aina’s sole legal guardian when you were in college, just a teenager and barely an adult. The car accident happened on a random Tuesday night. You could still remember answering the phone to the news that your parents had passed, struck by a drunk driver. The next few days felt like a whirlwind.
There was no one else to take care of you and your sister. Your maternal aunt was living in France with her own family. There were no living aunts or uncles on your father’s side. Both sets of grandparents were already gone.
It had just been the four of you for as long as you could remember, and then it was just the two of you, and you had gone from being a teenager with a half-finished art degree and a vague idea of your future to being the legal guardian of a three-year-old.
Your parents were careful people. They'd left the apartment in both your names, and there was money set aside for Aina's schooling through secondary, which was more than a lot of people had and you knew that. But schooling money didn't cover utilities, groceries, health insurance, the football kit Aina had asked for three birthdays in a row or the school trip deposit that came due at the worst possible time every single year.
So, you had to work and work and work. You started doing a bunch of retail and waitressing gigs. You stacked jobs on top of each other until your prospect of an art career became a distant memory and you had to drop out of college. The only artistic thing you did now were the repetitive coffee flowers you made each morning at your barista job.
Even if you were exhausted and drained, it was doable. You just had to manage your time well and take loads of vitamins just so you wouldn’t have to ever be sick and miss a day of work. Unfortunately, just as you were getting used to the flow of it all, the restaurant where you served as a hostess shut down. It was your biggest source of income so with it gone, you were going to suffer a massive financial loss.
That’s where Somni came in.
An old friend of a friend worked in Somni but had quit after she got engaged. Apparently, she needed someone to replace her — someone pretty, with a dance background. Your friend mentioned it, thinking about how you mentioned that you did ballet and jazz as a kid. She knew you were at your lowest, stretching every check, barely making ends meet, and even considering dipping into Aina’s school fund. She said you might as well give it a shot, quit if you ended up not liking it.
At first, you felt ashamed that stripping had become an option. But it felt worse seeing your sister as the only girl on her football team with worn-down shoes, or the only student carrying an old, ratty backpack. You wanted to give Aina a better life. In the end, that meant you didn’t really have a choice.
Your job as a stripper paid decently, way better than any job you had and the hours were better. It meant you could live semi-comfortable lives and that you could drop all your other jobs you were juggling. Now, you were just working at Somni and at the cafe near your apartment. Although, Aina thought you only worked at the cafe as a barista in the morning and as a waitress at night. It took a lot of effort covering up the truth, especially as she had grown up and started asking more questions.
Thankfully, your best friend helped a lot with it. You met Rocío at your first job at the coffee shop after your parents died. She was in a similar situation. She ran away from home as a teenager, wanting more independence, barely able to afford it. You two had bonded a lot over your experiences so much so that when you heard that she needed a new place to stay, you offered her a place in your apartment in exchange for some help with utility bills and taking care of Aina whenever you worked at Somni. At some point, it started to feel like Rocío had become like your sister too.
You looked over to Aina who was still fast asleep, unaware of you staring wistfully at her, reminiscing about your past. Slowly, you eased yourself out of bed, not wanting to wake Aina, and padded out into the hallway. Rocío was already in the kitchen, still in her pajamas, thick brown hair thrown into a messy bun. She stood at the stove with the posture of someone who had just woken up, placing the moka pot on it.
She turned at the sound of your footsteps and gave you a slow nod.
"Did you come home later than usual last night?" she asked.
“Yeah, bachelorette party.” You said, heading to the refrigerator to start preparing breakfast. “And you would not believe who was there.”
The statement woke Rocío up a little. Her thick eyebrows lifted. "Bachelorette? Who?"
You opened your mouth but just as you were about to share your story, Aina came shuffling out of your bedroom, hair messy from sleep. "G'morning," she mumbled, in the direction of no one specifically.
"Good morning, Nana," you and Rocío said, almost in unison.
Aina smiled without fully opening her eyes and disappeared into the bathroom. The shower started a moment later. You looked at Rocío and sighed, deciding it was best to discuss details from your work later on, when you were far from Aina’s earshot. "I'll tell you at work.”
⋆˙⟡♡ "No fucking way," Rocío said, staring at you. The cloth she'd been using to wipe down the counter had stopped moving entirely. "Alexia. Alexia Putellas."
"Yes, Alexia Putellas," you confirmed, mimicking the emphasis she put on the last name.
"You’re telling me that you gave Alexia Putellas a lap dance." Rocío set the cloth down. She seemed to need a moment, shaking her head in disbelief. “How are you so calm about this right now?”
You laughed, leaning against the counter. “I’m not calm. I’m just tired.” You said, with a shrug. “But honestly, at that moment, I guess it was just the adrenaline powering me through. I don’t know how I got through that lap dance alone. We all planned to do a group lap dance for the bride and maybe her other teammates but it just turned out to be me and her. It was…”
“Hot.” Rocío said, nodding.
You laughed. “No, I mean… well, yeah but more so crazy,” you said, stumbling on your words. “Like, I don’t think I ever expected that to happen. We were only told that it was going to be a VIP bachelorette so I really had no way of knowing beforehand that it’d be the Barcelona team.”
“Oh, so, was Aitana there too?” Rocío asked. “Nana would kill you if she finds out that you met her idol and you didn’t get her a signature.”
"No, she wasn't." You shook your head. "And even if she had been… when exactly was I supposed to ask for an autograph? In the middle of the lap dance? That would have been very professional."
Rocío laughed. "I'm just saying. Nana loves Alexia too. You could have at least tried to get something." Rocío shrugged, helping you out with the clean-up. “But I swear, I feel like if you had asked her for a signature during the lap dance, I am sure that she’d give it to you. Heck, if you asked for her number, I’m pretty sure she’d give that too.”
You frowned and rolled your eyes. “Be for real,” You said with a deadpan tone. "Besides, even if I'd wanted to, it wouldn't have been appropriate. They were there as clients."
"Yeah, and she was a client who was very clearly into you and checking you out during your dance," Rocío said pointedly, recalling the details of your story. "And I've heard she just went through a breakup recently, so…"
You gave your best friend a flat look. “I’m a stripper, Rocío. Of course, she was checking me out. That doesn’t mean she wants to date me.” You explained. “I’m not sure I wanna date her anyway. I’m not into girls who go to strip clubs.”
“Please, it was for a bachelorette. It’s not like she was there just to perv out randomly. You can surely understand the nuance of that,” Rocío said, wiping the work table even if it was already spotless, clearly too distracted by your story to do anything else. “Plus, she is totally your type.”
“My type? How would you know my type?” You scoffed. “I’ve been single for ages. I don’t even know if I have a type.”
“Tall, gorgeous, hard-working, a good person… is that not your type?" Rocío prodded. “Rich too.”
“Yeah, sure, but I don’t think we can say she’s a good person just because of her public persona. You know how celebrities are,” you corrected. “Also, being rich doesn’t matter that much to me. Most rich people are actual assholes.”
Rocío hummed before turning to you, giving you a cheeky grin. “You didn’t deny that she’s gorgeous though.”
You paused before chuckling in partial defeat. "That," you said, "I can't deny."
⋆˙⟡♡ Dress rehearsals were your favorite kinds of shift at Somni.
There was no crowd or clients; it was always just you and the girls trying out new costumes, choreographies, looks. Usually, it didn’t require the full energy typically needed for an actual performance night. The best part was you still got paid for it. Sure, there weren’t any tips but you didn’t mind that much. If every shift could be a dress rehearsal, you would have no complaints about this job whatsoever.
You were sitting in your dressing chair, surrounded by the hair and makeup team who were experimenting with a new look for your solo number at the lounge's anniversary event next month. It gave you an excuse to sit still and scroll through your phone while your coffee went lukewarm beside you.
"Who are you stalking?" Sol appeared beside you without warning, peeking between two members of the makeup crew, craning her neck to look at your screen.
Instinctively, you tilted the screen away from her. “Nobody.” You said, looking at her with an innocent look.
"Hmm. Because if I saw correctly, that looked a lot like Alexia Putellas' Instagram account to me." Sol chuckled, dropping into the seat beside you, pulling her long hair into a tight bun so the wig cap would sit flat.
"I was just looking," you said with a small shrug. "I was curious."
“Sure, yeah, curious,” Sol said, tone teasing. She gave you a playful look as she accepted the wig one of the crew handed her and let them settle it into place. "She must have really left an impression on you last night."
The girl doing your eye make-up paused and looked at you. “Wait, you guys met Alexia Putellas?”
You pressed a finger to your lip, as if to gesture that it was a secret. "Her team was here last night. Bachelorette party." You answered in a low voice.
“Yeah, and my good friend here…” Sol trailed off as if building anticipation. “Gave her a lapdance.”
The hair and make-up team looked amused and shocked and you just rolled your eyes. “Guys, it’s a strip club. Why are you all acting so shocked? What else do you think we do here?”
"Was she as good-looking in person?" the makeup girl asked, resuming her work. "I'm a Madridista but even I can admit that Alexia—"
“She was okay,” you responded curtly with a shrug.
Sol rolled her eyes.
“What?” You said.
“She was okay? Yeah, says the girl who had a lady boner while giving her a lap dance.” Sol retorted.
You frowned at Sol. “Excuse me, I think I did pretty well,” you retorted, feeling a bit defensive.
“I’m not saying you sucked,” Sol corrected. “I’m saying you danced a little too well.”
“I was just giving my all that performance,” you defended, crossing your arms. “Is it a crime to be good at my job? That doesn’t mean I like her.”
“Well, Rubi,” your hairstylist said, using your stage name. She met your eyes in the mirror with a look of calm amusement. "You've also been on her Instagram for the last twenty minutes."
You stared at her through the mirror’s reflection with a shocked expression. Sol bursted out laughing.
“God, the betrayal,” you said flatly.
“You can never hide anything from a hair stylist,” Sol joked, garnering a high-five from your hair stylist.
You sighed, slumping slightly. "Fine. Okay, maybe I have a small crush on her." You held a hand up before Sol could open her mouth. "But it’s just that – a small crush. Don’t make it a thing."
Sol made a face that suggested she was absolutely going to make it a thing, but before she could say anything, your club manager Pilar appeared behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, studying your look with a contorted expression.
You caught her eye in the reflection. “What do you think, boss? Cute?”
Pilar frowned, touching one of your teased and curled pigtails, shaking her head. “You look like the guy from the Saw movies,” she commented before turning to the makeup crew. "I said sexy clown. Apparently you all only heard the clown part."
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You understood where she was coming from; the white base they'd applied was too pale, and the blush that sat on your cheeks in two perfect circles was too off-putting. Your hair looked more deranged clown than anything too. The only part that you liked was the sparkly pink eyeshadow and the thick, animated lashes.
Pilar directed the crew, instructing them to change the white foundation to something only a shade or two lighter than your natural tone. The circles of red blush were replaced with a softer, blended-out pink. The eye look stayed thankfully. The difference was immediate and you looked way better now than you did just moments ago.
“And no more of this messy pigtail look,” Pilar said, already moving away toward Sol’s station. “Just give her a pink wig and put on a ton of body shimmer. Then, get her under stage light and see how it reads when she performs her number.”
You watched in the mirror as the crew hurriedly put your hair into a hairnet and placed a pink wig on your head, making adjustments until it sat exactly right. You tilted your head, studying your own reflection.
As cliche as it seemed, it always was unsettling to you just how completely different Rubi looked from yourself. It was crazy how much make-up and a wig could completely transform you, putting distance between you as a performer and you as a person.
But there was some comfort in putting on this costume. It kept you anonymous. It reassured you as if to say that whatever happened here stayed here. Just the way you liked it.
⋆˙⟡♡ You were in the middle of taking off your costume when the energy in the room shifted.
It started with a few girls drifting from their stations towards the wings followed by a few more. After a while, the low chatter picked up into something more animated. After returning your costume onto the racks, you pulled your short, black silk robe over your shoulders, the one with your stage name embroidered across the back in red thread. You knotted the belt loosely as you made your way toward the small group that gathered at the edge of the stage area.
"What's going on?" you asked.
Adriana turned to you with a smirk. "Looks like your girlfriend's paying a visit."
"My what?" You stepped past a few of the girls and looked out toward the floor.
With the house lights fully on, it was easy to see her – tall, cap pulled low perhaps to mask her identity from potential paparazzi, leather jacket on. It was Alexia.
"What is she doing here?" you said in a low tone, more to yourself than anyone.
"Security said she's picking up some things her teammates left behind," one of the girls answered, hearing your question. "Apparently, someone got a bit drunk and forgot their keys and stuff."
"Or…" Adriana said, elbowing you jestfully, "that's just an excuse to see you again."
You gave her a look. “You’re delusional.”
Before Adriana could respond, Pilar’s voice cut through the room. “Girls,” she announced, clapping her hands together once. "Back to your stations. We have to finish figuring out your looks so we can focus on choreography tomorrow. You're all acting like you've never seen a footballer before."
Everyone reluctantly moved back to their stations. You turned and headed back to your station. Sol was already there beside your station, wig off and halfway through removing her stage make-up with a cotton pad. Adriana stood on your other side, carefully plucking out her false lashes.
You sat down, opting to take care of the blister that was forming on your heels over removing your wig and make up; the pain had been bothering you since a while ago. You kicked off your stilettos and examined the back of your heels.
"Your feet okay?" Sol asked, glancing at your heel.
"It's fine," you said, applying a hydrocolloid bandage on the blister. “I’m used to it.”
You were midway through applying the bandage on your other ankle when you heard footsteps and low voices approaching from the corridor. It was your head of security's voice and another beneath it, quieter. You kept your eyes on your heel, growing frustrated at the fact that your hydrocolloid bandages weren’t sticking properly.
Out of nowhere, Adriana was suddenly beside you, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet before you'd fully processed what was happening.
You looked at her in annoyance, noticing that her eyes were not on you, instead were set straight ahead. You followed her gaze to see Alexia passing directly by your stations, seemingly heading towards the admin room where all lost-and-found items were kept.
Without a modicum of subtlety whatsoever, you felt one of your friends firmly push you, propelling you forward. Still barefoot, you stumbled directly into Alexia’s path, blister bandage half-stuck to your heel and silk robe gaping slightly.
Alexia stopped. She looked at you, then at Adriana and Sol behind you, whose expressions were the picture of feigned innocence. The corner of her mouth pulled upward into a sly smirk, realizing the situation.
She looked at you carefully, noticing the contrast between you and your co-workers, how you were still fully wigged and made-up while the others were already practically undone. “Do you stay in costume even when there’s no one watching?” She asked with a tone of amusement, taking in the sight of your wig and the costume lingerie underneath your robe.
“Dress rehearsal,” you said, pulling your robe closed, feeling faintly embarrassed. "I just finished my part. We run everything in full costume so it reads properly under the stage lights."
You weren't sure why you were explaining it so thoroughly, as if she didn't know what a dress rehearsal was. Perhaps it was the adrenaline from practically getting propelled in her direction by your friends.
She nodded slowly then her eyes moved over your face slowly. "I recognize you," she said, fully smiling now. "You're the one who gave me a lap dance.”
Your friends didn’t do a good job concealing their giggling behind you. You rolled your eyes. God, you’d think we’re teenage girls and not actual strippers, you thought to yourself.
“Uh, yeah, that was me,” you nodded, giving her a shy smile. “Thank you, by the way, for the tip that you and your team left. It was very generous.”
After the night, the team left a considerable tip. It wasn’t an extravagant or performative amount; it felt like a genuine token of appreciation. It was certainly more than what a typical bachelor party would ever think to leave. Split between all the girls, it hadn't changed anyone's life but it wasn’t exactly pennies. At least, it had made the night feel worthwhile.
“It was well-deserved,” Alexia said simply, eyes dropping briefly to your robe then to your bare feet, noticing the half-applied bandage that was practically hanging off of your ankle. “Maybe we should have left more so you could get better bandages.”
You blushed lightly at the joke, consciously hiding your ankle behind the other one. You laughed, adjusting your wig as you did. You were thankful that you still had the wig and makeup on. The anonymity helped you from feeling completely vulnerable in front of her.
“Hey,” Adriana stepped forward, noticing that you had gone silent. “By the way, Alexia, this one has a little sister who is absolutely obsessed with you. Any chance you'd sign something for her?"
You turned to Adriana, reprimanding her with your eyes before turning back to Alexia. "That's really not… it's fine, it's not necessary—"
"It's not necessary?" Alexia said, with a look of mild amusement. "What's not necessary is me walking past when apparently your sister is a big fan and not doing anything about it." She looked at you. "Do you have something I can sign?"
You looked around your station. Sol and Adriana immediately began rummaging through the general clutter before Adriana pulled the receipt from beneath your coffee morning, slightly soft at the edges from sitting underneath your cup for the better part of the night.
Alexia looked amused as she was handed it.
“It’s all we have,” you explained, nodding.
She laughed, taking it carefully between two fingers. "It's falling apart."
You shrugged meekly.
"Okay then." She accepted the pen Sol produced from somewhere and looked back at you. "What's your sister's name?"
You hesitated, just briefly. Something in you was instinctively cautious about handing over even something that small about your personal life.
"Nana," Sol said, filling the silence without missing a beat. Deep inside, you seethed a bit, not liking that Sol was giving your sister’s name away to a client.
Alexia nodded and bent over the counter, writing carefully on the damp receipt. She wrote a short note before signing it. She straightened up and examined it for a moment, holding it by ‘the corner as though uncertain it would survive the transfer. "I hope this gets to her in one piece.”
“She’ll love it,” you said, giving her a small smile, looking at the receipt. “She really will.”
Alexia smiled. “Uh, if you want,” she started. “I could drop off one of my kits, sign it properly. That’d be more durable than a damp receipt.”
You chuckled, carefully placing the paper on your station. “No, that really isn't necessary.” You shook your head.
“No, no, come on, just think of it as a gift of gratitude. You made Irene’s bachelorette truly memorable," she said with a smile before lowering her voice, quieter so that the other girls wouldn’t hear. “Also… I’ve just been looking for an excuse to return.”
"Oh," you said, caught off guard. "Thank you."
"Yeah," she said simply, holding your gaze, eyes flickering to look at your body for a half-second. It was barely noticeable but it was enough to make you feel flustered.
Your head of security appeared behind her. "Miss Putellas, I think we identified all the stuff left behind by your party. Maybe you would want to double-check?"
Alexia nodded, then looked back at you one last time. "I'll see you soon, then."
Before you could respond, Adriana popped up at your shoulder. "She'll see you!"
Alexia laughed before walking off.
What the fuck just happened?
⋆˙⟡♡ The night ended earlier than usual. Even after cleaning up and scrubbing off all the make-up and body glitter in the club’s shower, you still reached your apartment at a more godly hour.
As you stepped in, you could see Aina’s attention turn from her iPad to the front door. An instant smile plastered across your sister’s face as soon as she saw you. “YN!” She shouted excitedly, running off to give you a welcoming hug. “I missed you so much.”
You pouted and felt your heart warm at the interaction. Between your work at the cafe and your shift at Somni, you usually barely had any free time to spend with your sister. By the time she got home from school, you were already getting ready to go to work at Somni, and by the time you got home, she was usually fast asleep. You tried really hard to make time for important events – important football games, school performances, holidays – but honestly, to you, it never felt enough.
You hugged her warmly, sniffing the familiar scent of her shampoo. “Nana, have you eaten?” You asked.
“Yeah, I warmed up the meal you prepared for us,” Rocío said, smiling at you from the coach. “Shift at the restaurant ended early?”
You nodded. “Yeah,” you responded, keeping your answer short so as to not raise suspicion about your ‘work at the restaurant.’
Aina and you settled at the coach after you had set aside your coat and bag. “Nana, I actually met someone at the restaurant tonight,” you said, giving your sister a smile. “I didn’t have anything else on me at the time but I think you’d still appreciate it.”
Your sister tilted her head. “What? Who did you meet?” She said, not understanding what you were saying without context.
You giggled, pulling the carefully folded paper from your pocket. “I really wish I had a better piece of paper or a shirt or whatever but this was all I had,” you re-explained, handing her the receipt.
Aina took it, not understanding at first but as soon as it registered, her eyes widened and she gasped. “Alexia? You met Alexia?” She exclaimed. “Oh my god, YN, did you take a selfie? Please tell me you took a selfie with her, please.”
Rocío looked over at the paper before looking at you and raising her eyebrow. You ignored her, looking back at Aina. “Well, she was kinda in a rush so I was only able to ask her for her signature,” you excused.
Aina immediately rushed towards you, wrapping her arms around you once more. “This is so cool, YN,” she gushed. “Thank you so, so much.”
You chuckled, patting her back. “Be careful with it. The paper is kinda flimsy; you wouldn’t wanna rip it.”
Aina pulled away, nodding in agreement. “I’m gonna go to my room and put it in one of my frames,” she said before running off to her room.
You smiled warmly, happy to see your sister excited like that. As soon as Aina was in her room, you turned to Rocío who was already looking at you suspiciously. “Alexia was at the restaurant again tonight, huh?”
You widened your eyes and raised your eyebrows, lips pressed into a thin line, nodding.
Rocío shook her head and chuckled in disbelief. “Did she get another lap dance?” She asked, voice low.
You shook your head. “No, she was just returning because her teammates forgot their keys or whatever.”
Rocío rolled her eyes. “Please, that’s such a flimsy excuse,” she said, voice still hushed, just in case Aina came back any time soon. “I’m willing to bet all of my life savings that she just came back to see you.”
“That’d be, what, 12 euros?” You joked.
Your best friend rolled her eyes. “Shut up. You know I have a point.”
You paused, debating whether or not to mention to your best friend what Alexia had said. Rocío immediately noticed your demeanor, widening her eyes, scooching closer to you on the coach. “What? I know that look,” she prodded.
Carefully, you looked over to Aina’s room, making sure she wasn’t going to suddenly pop out. “Well,” you started, eyes returning to meet Rocío’s expectant gaze. “Where do I even start?”
“Hurry, before Aina returns.” Rocío said, gesturing for you to just spill the news.
You nodded before quietly recounting the details of the night to Rocío, checking constantly to make sure that Aina wasn’t suddenly going to pop out of her room and overhear that one of the women she looked up to was frequenting the strip club her sister performed in. That was certainly too difficult to explain had she overheard.
“And really quietly, she said that she was also just looking for an excuse to return,” you said, finishing off your story.
“Girl,” Rocío grabbed your hands excitedly and practically began bouncing on the couch. “Oh my god. Oh my god. OH MY GOD!”
You chuckled. “Shh,” you reprimanded her. “I mean, I don’t want to think anything of it but at the time, I definitely was blushing a bit. I mean, it really was flattering… but whatever, it’s nothing. It’s silly.”
Rocío groaned. “Why do you do that, YN?”
“Do what?” You asked with a deadpan expression.
“Always undermine your feelings,” she responded. “You know, you’re allowed to feel giddy about a hot footballer being interested in you. It’s not a crime. You don’t have to act like it’s not a big deal.”
You shook your head. “I mean, it’s nothing. It’s just a client liking what I have to offer which is… a fantasy, a sexual fantasy,” you cleared up. “She isn’t really interested in me. She’s interested in my performance. Probably has something to do with her break-up.”
You paused, recalling the news you read about her recent break-up, before continuing. “You know divorced guys are like a huge demographic of our crowd,” you added. “We’re just something to distract them from their heartbreak. It really is nothing.”
“God, you’re such a bummer.” Rocío looked at you, scrunching up her nose. “You know, next time you see her, try not being so guarded. Try to be warmer.”
You scoffed. “Why? For what reason?”
“Girl, just do it for yourself!” Rocío exclaimed, a bit louder than intended. She paused, lowering her voice again. “I mean, you work endlessly and you barely have any time to date anyway. Why not use this as an opportunity to just bring some excitement in your life? It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just… have fun.”
You sighed, nodding. She had a point. You had been so highstrung for so long and you needed something to take the edge off. You weren’t a smoker and you were way too busy to go out and drink. Maybe getting a thrill from having this small crush on your hot, professional footballer client might be the thing you needed to loosen up a bit.
⋆˙⟡♡ On stage, it was easier for you to put on this persona of Rubi, who could seduce everyone so easily and was just constantly oozing with confidence.
But off the stage, you weren’t anything like that. You were mostly quiet; you kept to yourself. You spent most of your free time hanging out with Aina – watching her football games, taking her to the museum, watching whatever cartoon she was interested in. And when Aina was busy, you mostly just stayed in the house, cleaned, and slept. You liked it that way.
Or maybe, you just convinced yourself that you did.
Secretly, a part of you did feel a pang of jealousy whenever you saw couples on dates in the cafe or even when you watched romance movies. You hadn’t dated anyone in ages. Aside from the fact that you had no time, you just worried that you wouldn’t meet anyone who was simultaneously okay with you being a stripper and who was a good enough person for you to want to introduce your sister to. Those two things seemed like impossible traits for any person to have.
Even when you initially rolled your eyes at your best friend, you knew she was right. You needed a little excitement in your life. Hell, you deserved just a little treat of it.
And a gorgeous footballer with a face chiseled by god was the best thing a girl could treat herself to.
So, you internalized Rocio’s advice and decided that the next time you crossed paths with Alexia, you told yourself, you would be different. You would be the girl who just let herself flirt, the one who would enjoy the attention. The one who allowed herself to indulge in a little harmless crush.
The next time you see Alexia, you would be more relaxed and confident, a lot more like the version of yourself that existed under the lights, the one who knew exactly how to hold a room. You wanted to make sure that the next time she saw you, you weren’t barefoot with a bandage hanging onto your foot.
You’d be less YN, and more Rubi.
⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia hadn't exactly given an exact date when she'd said she'd come back, but the vague promise of it gave you something to look forward to in a way you hadn't expected.
Each night, before a show, you would peer out the curtains, trying to find her. Even if you hadn’t seen her in your initial scan, you still gave your all, performing with a renewed energy and a little anticipation, just in case she happened to be in the crowd that night.
Thankfully, it didn't take long. Just a few days after her last visit, Alexia was back.
You weren’t actually able to spot her until your signature solo number. As you were bending over the table, almost towards the end of your performance, your eyes somehow drifted to the side of.
She was there, baseball cap pulled low, dressed down in just a plain shirt and loose pants, tucked in the corner of the room. This time, there were no teammates around her; it was just her, sitting alone in the middle of your regular crowd, obviously looking like someone who didn't want to be recognized.
You smiled as her eyes met yours. Her lips curled into a smirk and you swore your heart skipped a beat.
⋆˙⟡♡ After the show, you sat at your station with your wig still on and your stage makeup still intact. You didn’t take off the black latex bodysuit from the closing performance, which probably caught the attention of Sol who was now looking at you quizzically.
“You good?” She asked. “Normally, you’re the first to get out of the costume and into the shower.”
You pressed your lips together, trying to not make it obvious that you had been watching the entrance to the back stage, waiting for Alexia to be accompanied by Miguel.
A few days ago, you'd quietly briefed Miguel — the head of security — letting him know that Alexia might be coming back. You asked him to signal you if she was there and to usher her backstage, if he could. He had looked at you for a long moment with a weirded out look, as if you were delusional, but he had just agreed, not making a joke about your obvious crush on a client even though he really wanted to tease you about it.
“I, uh,” you stumbled upon your words. “Just… wanted to keep it on, for now.”
Sol widened her eyes, pointing a finger at you. “She’s here, isn’t she?”
Before you could respond, you saw Miguel from the entrance to the backstage, waving over at you before nodding his head once. You tensed a bit. Calm down, You said. Enjoy it. Just have fun.
Sol giggled and you gave her a wide eyed look and a shake of the head to reprimand her. She smiled but obliged and continued to pretend to be focused on wiping off her make-up.
Alexia came through the backstage door with her cap still on, a paper bag in one hand, looking around the room once just to be sure. She pulled the hat off as the door closed behind her, ran a hand through her hair once to fix it. After scanning the room once more, her eyes found yours.
Around you, your work friends were doing an extremely poor job of not staring. You tried not to let it get to you, telling yourself for the nth time to just savour this moment. It was rare that a pretty girl was coming backstage to your job. Actually, not just rare. It never happened before.
She crossed the room toward you and held out the paper bag. "As promised."
You smiled at her, tilting your head in curiosity. “What’s this?”
She raised her eyebrow. “Do you get so many gifts from your clients that you’ve forgotten about what I said?”
You rolled your eyes but felt a flush grow on your cheek. Alexia seemed pleased at your reaction. “Just look inside.”
You peered inside and folded carefully in the bag was a signed armband and a Barça kit with her name and number on the back. Across her number was a signature. You’ve been looking forward to simply seeing her again that you had forgotten that she mentioned that she wanted to bring something for your sister.
"Alexia, thank you so much." You said as you looked at it again. "My sister is going to absolutely lose her mind over this."
"Good," Alexia said simply, with a small smile. “There’s, uh, better bandages there too. For your feet.”
You felt touched at the gesture; she didn’t just remember to give a gift to your sister, she also got you something thoughtful as well. You bit your lip, looking back at her. "Gosh, wow, how can I thank you for this?”
She shook her head, the corner of her mouth pulling up. "Seeing you on stage again was enough.” She said with a playful lilt in her voice. “You did great.”
You held her gaze, feeling the warmth in your chest that you were trying very hard to keep off your face. A part of you found the gesture incredibly touching and sweet. You loved your sister a lot, wanted to give her everything she wanted, and this was certainly something that would have brought more than a smile on her face.
If Nana reacted to the soggy receipt like that, you thought. I cannot imagine how she’d react to this.
On the other hand, on the more practical side, letting a client of yours at the strip club know a crucial part of your life felt a bit… too much. Sure, it was just one small fact – that you had a little sister named Nana who loved football – but even that felt like too much to reveal to a client.
Even if Alexia Putellas was this gorgeous woman who seemed great, and who you definitely wanted to keep coming to watch you, you didn’t really want to give off too much of yourself. You didn’t mind her seeing you naked, bare in front of her. But your personal life… that felt too intimate. You were just glad that she seemed to not remember Aina’s name.
"Anyway," she said, breaking your train of thought, glancing around the room. "I don't want to intrude further since everyone is clearly getting ready to go homel. So, I should go—"
You widened your eyes, setting aside your apprehensions. I barely meet anyone I’m interested in these days, you thought to yourself. I’m not letting this just slip by.
"No, wait," you said, reaching out and touching her arm. She paused, looking at you with quiet interest.
You bit your lip and blurted out the first thing you thought of. "Let me give you a tour. The crowd's gone and the floor's being cleaned up. Maybe you just want to see what the place looks like?”
Alexia looked at you for a moment, something pleased moved through her expression. Truthfully, Alexia had no interest in touring a strip club but she found it endearing that you were finding a way to get her to stay longer.
"Yeah," she said, nodding. "If it's no trouble."
"None at all," you said, setting the paper bag carefully on your station. “Come. I’ll show you around.”
You guided Alexia away from your dressing area. From the corner of your eye, as you were walking towards the side of the room, Sol and Adriana were watching you with matching expressions of barely restrained delight. You shot them a look as if to tell them to play it cool.
But that was too much to ask of your work friends, who were already giggling to themselves.
⋆˙⟡♡ You led Alexia through the door on the far side of the dressing area that opened out onto the main floor which now fully lit and being slowly worked over by the cleaning crew. Without the low lighting and the crowd filling every seat, the place looked different. It looked mostly the same but more ordinary; more like a regular performance venue rather than an actual strip club.
"You already know this side," you said, gesturing out toward the floor.
"I do," Alexia said, nodding while looking around with unhurried curiosity.
"It looks better now than when I first started here, actually." You walked slowly alongside her toward the bar. "It was a bit darker back then and way tackier. My old manager had a thing for neon.”
Alexia hummed, feigning interest in the interior. “Hmm, then this must be an improvement.”
You nodded, awkwardly. You bit your lip, feeling the awkwardness grow inside you. You hyped yourself up for Alexia’s return. You wanted to have fun, explore this sexier side of you beyond performance.
But now, you were awkwardly touring her around the place like a museum guide or whatever.
Just like that, you got an idea.
“Anyway, this shit’s pretty boring, sorry,” you apologized. “But I do know a place here you’d find interesting.”
Alexia raised her eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Come,” you said, reaching for her hand which she gave without hesitation. “Let’s make this tour more interesting.”
⋆˙⟡♡ The private show rooms were tucked in the corner of Somni, just before the dressing room entrance. It was pretty much defunct now. Your club manager Pilar found that the private show rooms gave Somni a less premium feel, and made it feel more like your typical, grimy strip club.
There was an issue of safety too; it was no surprise that the privacy made clients more bold. After the third night in a row where a client got too handsy with a dancer, Pilar closed the operations of the private show rooms permanently, deciding that they were more of a liability than an asset.
These days, these rooms were mostly just used as extra dressing areas and storage for old costumes and props.
Racks and racks of costumes lined the walls now but the room itself hasn't changed much since it was shut down. The dim light revealed the low stage that ran along the far wall and a single chair positioned in front of the stage center unmoved since then. A pole rose from the middle of the stage, floor to ceiling, catching the faint light.
You looked around, struggling to find the other light switches. As you did, Alexia looked around with quiet amusement, taking in the circus-themed private room, looking up at the roof which was painted to look like the ceiling of a circus tent. "This room’s cute. Is this a dressing room?”
Finally, you found the switches which illuminated the small line of bulbed lights on the stage and the scenic red lights of the room, bathing both of you in a soft red hue.
Alexia chuckled, amused. “That’s one way to answer,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Certainly looks less like a dressing room now.”
You smiled, ushering her further in as you closed the door behind you. “Well, it kinda is a dressing-slash-storage room now,” you answered. “But it used to be more than just that. It used to be a private room for, y’know…”
Alexia smiled at the way you trailed off, nodding. “So, you guys don’t use it anymore?”
"Too much effort and risk," you said. "It became more trouble than it was worth. Pilar figured that when we do lap dances, it should be on stage instead of here. So, now this room is mostly just where costumes and props go to retire."
Alexia had drifted further inside, hands in her pockets, taking in the space. She moved toward the chair eventually, examining it with the expression of someone who was finding this more interesting than they expected. Then she looked at you over her shoulder. "Who was the most famous person to use this room?"
"I have no idea," you said honestly. "I've only been here a couple times before it closed." You paused. “So, I guess, in a way, you’re the most famous person to use it.”
She chuckled at the comment, shaking her head. She turned to face you fully, something settled and easy in the way she stood there then she pulled the chair back slightly and sat down, looking at you with a smirk.
“Must have been fun though,” she said. “Seems more… intimate.”
You watched her settle into that chair and felt something shift inside you. It was the same quiet click that happened before every performance, the moment where your usual self stepped back and something more deliberate took its place. You had built that other version of yourself carefully over the years, piece by piece, and for a long time it had been a wall or an armor as much as anything else; it was a way to move through the work without letting too much of it touch you, to perform desire without feeling too exposed by the performance itself.
But standing here now, with Alexia looking at you like that, it felt more than just a barrier between your Somni alter ego and yourself. It almost felt like permission. It was like you were giving yourself — your actual self — permission to experience the performance for yourself, to exist in this space for yourself and not just to be consumed.
You had spent years performing desire for other people. This felt like the first time you were allowing yourself to fully feel and immerse yourself in it.
You moved away from the doorframe, moving closer to Alexia.
"You know," you said, keeping your voice easy, the way she always seemed to be. “Given that you went out of your way to bring my sister a gift," you crossed the room slowly, heels clicking against the floor. "I feel like I owe you something better than just a backstage tour."
Alexia straightened slightly, noticing that your gaze and demeanor had changed, "You don't owe me anything. The kit was a gift,” she said with a nod.
"I know," you said, stopping right in front of her and placing a hand under her chin, making her look up at you. "Which makes me want to give you something in return even more."
Alexia’s mouth parted to say something but she stumbled on her words. She gently took your hand away and shook her head. “No, no, it’s not nece—” she said, beginning to stand up.
You interrupted her by pressing a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back down on the chair. "I insist," you said with a smirk.
She went still, eyes tracking you with an expression that was very carefully composed, and you could see the effort of it — the same quality you'd noticed during the lap dance, the deliberate composure of someone choosing how much to show.
You gestured for her to stay put before walking your way to the music player, turning it on, and thanking your lucky stars that whoever used this room last had a great playlist because the first song that played was a sultry, R&B song. Something perfect for an intimate encounter such as this.
⋆˙⟡♡ You settled into the song slowly, letting it find you rather than chasing it. A breath in, a breath out, and then you turned around.
Alexia's eyes were already on you. Of course they were.
You gave her a small smirk as you got to her. You walked seductively behind her the way you had the first time, one hand trailing along the back of her seat, barely grazing her shoulders before you continued past her, unhurried, deliberate. You heard the quiet exhale she let out when you didn't stop, when you kept walking toward the stage instead of her lap.
As soon as you reached the stage, you wrapped your hand around the pole.
It had been a while since you used it. Pilar had quietly retired the pole from the Somni image sometime around the rebrand. You could not remember the last time you poledanced but thankfully, your body remembered. Your hand closed around the cool metal and something in your hips already knew what to do.
You started slow. There was no reason to rush. You let the music set the pace, moving around the pole with an ease and confidence. You moved gracefully, your body a long unhurried line as you leaned back, one leg extended, letting your upper body dip as low as you could before you pulled yourself back in one controlled and fluid movement.
You still have it, you thought, almost with surprise. You absolutely still have it.
Then you let yourself look at her.
Alexia had shifted forward in the chair. Her feet were apart, elbows on her knees, and she was watching you with an expression that made something low in your stomach pull tight. Her eyes looked darker under the dim light of the room. Right now, what you were seeing was not the distracted, slightly performative yet guarded appreciation she'd had the first time, in the club with her friends around her.
This was different. She was focused and intent in a way that felt almost uncomfortably sincere, like she wasn't just watching the performance but savouring it, committing every single motion to memory.
If she's going to watch, you thought, give her something to watch.
You hooked your knee around the pole and let yourself spin. You spun slowly at first before you tightened your grip and brought both your legs up, lifting yourself higher up the pole, thighs closing around the metal as you inverted in one clean motion, the room turning upside down for a moment, letting the momentum from a while ago spin the pole on its own. After a couple of satisfactory spins, you lifted your torso, hands gripping on the pole as you slid back down in a controlled descent, letting go of the pole after your feet found the floor again. You heard Alexia's breath catch from across the room.
When you finally stepped off the stage and crossed toward her, you watched Alexia sit up slightly, straightening her posture, as if she was trying to prepare for what was about to come. She looked up at you, eyes unsure where to look as they flickered across your face and body. You smiled at her, settling onto her lap, and this time there was nothing tentative about it.
You let her feel your weight, your flesh fully. While the first lap dance had been a performance that felt precise and calibrated, this was more than just that. You weren’t just doing this for an audience. Hell, you weren’t even just doing it for Alexia. You were doing this for you, to experience the intimacy you never wanted to admit that you craved all these years.
You moved against her with the music, slower than you needed to be, and you felt her hands come to your hips. Her touch didn’t feel demanding; it just felt present, settling there with a firm, steady pressure, like she was grounding herself as much as keeping you in place. You rolled your hips down into her lap and heard her exhale sharply through her nose.
You kept your hands on her shoulders, legs on either side of her now, with no arms on the chair hindering you from fully grinding against her. Alexia’s breathing was now heavy as she felt the friction against her, the weight and heat of your body against hers.
You moved against her again, deeper this time, and a sound escaped your own throat before you could stop it and you tipped your head back without thinking, not caring about the wig, not caring about much of anything. You were so deeply entrenched in the moment that you had not noticed that the wig fell off, your hair revealing itself in soft curls from the bun it was in.
When you brought your head back down and met her eyes, you couldn’t help but feel satisfied and a bit proud of yourself. Alexia’s pupils were blown wide and she looked completely undone, breathing heavy and unsteady.
You went still for a moment, just sharing that moment, eyes locked with each other. You looked at her properly. The clean line of her jaw, the way the low light caught the angles of her face and made her look even more beautiful. And her mouth — god, her lips, which you had been pointedly not thinking about for longer than you were willing to admit.
Alexia finally made the first move, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of your hair back behind your ear. A small smile flickered on her face, hand still lingering around your face. Before you knew it, she was taking your face, guiding it until your lips were on hers.
The kiss started out with some hesitation. You felt it was mostly on your part. There was just something so disarming about how soft her lips were, how gentle it seemed. You paused, lips still touching, as if you were still deciding whether or not to continue.
But Alexia seemed to have decided for you. Her hand found the back of your neck, pulling you closer as you continued moving against her, lips locking as you grinded your hips slowly. Her lips parted slightly and she dragged her lips across the bottom in a way that made you grip her face a little harder than you meant to, fingers pressing into her jaw.
The kiss deepened and at some point, Alexia’s hands found its way to your ass, gripping tightly as she pressed your body against hers, guiding your thrusts and gyrations against her. A groan slipping out from her lips to yours as she did.
You had absolutely no idea how long it went on. The song that was playing when you kissed her was not the song that was playing when you finally pulled back, desperate for air.
Her eyes fluttered open, scanning your face as it did. Her thumbs were still moving against your hips in small, absent circles.
She swallowed, eyes now fixed wuth yours again. "What's your name?"
“Rubi," you responded automatically.
She looked at you. Her expression didn't change, but something in it shifted. "No," she said, voice low and soft. "I know your stage name. What's your actual name?"
It took you a moment to process the question. The way Alexia asked it just came off as so simple, and sincere. It was her trying to get to know the person in front of her, beyond just Rubi.
The softness of it, the ease and lack of pressure in the way she asked it… it was just so disarming. Because you had almost done it. You had almost answered, and the realization of how close you'd revealed your identity, how easy it was for you to be lost in the moment startled you. It was rare that you lost control like that.
You got off her lap, running a nervous hand through your hair, realizing that the wig had fallen off at some point, revealing your actual hair. You picked up the wig off the floor, smoothing down your bodysuit right after with unsteady hands, still breathing heavily from the make-out and now from anxiety.
“Sorry,” you said it almost as a reflex, barely audible before you turned toward the stage and headed to the speakers to cut the music.
Alexia looked confused, standing up and straightening herself up as she did. "Did I say something wrong?" Alexia asked from behind you. Again, the sincerity in her voice cut through, which made you feel worse.
You wished that she reacted negatively, got angry and frustrated for leaving her hanging. but there she just stood with a worried expression, genuine concern on her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” she said, stepping hesitantly towards you. “It’s just… I just –”
"No," you said, shaking your head, avoiding her gaze now. Not wanting her to see more of your face. "I just — I can't. I'm sorry. We should go back."
She didn't push. She just watched you with that patient, unhurried expression and said, quietly, "Okay."
You were already moving toward the door before she could say another the word, heels clicking against the floor, not running but walking fast enough to get out of there before Alexia could even make a move. You didn't look back as you did.
You had spent years keeping the line clean: Rubi on one side, yourself on the other. And yet, it felt like that line was erased by just one night, one careless decision to indulge in something you knew you shouldn’t have
The worst part of it all was how you knew, deep inside, a part of you wished you had introduced yourself, allowed yourself to enjoy intimacy beyond just that moment. Just to see if there could be more than just this.
But that privilege was not available to someone like you.
⋆˙⟡♡ next part
a/n: yayyyy posted right before the uwcl finals! this chapter is pretty long but i decided it was better to post it in its entirety because it felt like a more well-rounded first part that way.
special shout-out to @moonystoes and @muffinpink02 who helped me out by giving comments on my initial draft of the initial lap dance scene like... months ago hahah! i finally posted it <3 thank u for all the help
also yn's solo number was heavily inspired by crazy horse's "CRISIS? WHAT CRISIS?" performance. you guys can look it up for better visuals
anyway! comment or reblog to get added to the taglist so u can get notified when the next part is up.
Beyond the Badge | Alexia Putellas x reader - Part 2
Part 2
Summary : You're Real Madrid Femenino personified, the captain, the one who joined the day the club was born. A 15-2 agreggate against Barça makes you wonder if loyalty is enough, and the Spanish camp that follows only make it worse. You've known Alexia Putellas for years but have never been close. This camp has other ideas for you both.
Pairing : Alexia Putellas x Real Madrid! Reader
Word count : 6.5k
A/n : Thanks for the reception on part 1 ! It will be updated every Friday
Masterlist
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The next morning feels like a hangover. The only thing in your mind when you wake up is getting back to your bed at the end of the day.
You’re thankful the morning only includes a video session before travelling to England. You know you’re gonna like the “light” training session in London this evening a lot less. You’re hoping to catch some sleep on the plane.
You can’t believe you talked about your contract situation to Alexia Putellas of all people. Your agent would be fuming if he knew. Not like you’re gonna tell him. You would if the info gets leaked, maybe. Telling him a racoon stole your contract and brought it to Marca headquarters seems like a better alternative.
Your plan is to avoid Alexia all morning, and you’re surprised when it’s shockingly easy. You forgot how few candid interactions you two have. She’s not particularly trying to speak to you either. It’s perfect.
The two-hour flight allows you to get some sleep. You’re thankful to have thought of bringing some earplugs, because the kids are in a very energetic mood. When you wake up a few minutes before landing, you catch Alexia’s gaze. She looks incredibly tired, while Salma and Clara are trying to show her a magic trick they just learnt.
London is grey, as expected, still better than the rain you had when you left Madrid. The London girls go as far as calling it a “great weather”, you get a bit worried for their well-being.
The roommates don’t change during the camp. The Spanish federation does pay for great hotels, so the room is big enough for you and Vicky to just open your suitcases on the floor without having to unpack anything. You don’t think you’re setting a good example.
“Why do we have training later ?” Vicky groans as she jumps on her bed. “Can’t you get us out of it ? You’re the captain.”
“Vice-captain.” You correct. “If I could, I would. But I can’t even get a single room. Try negotiating that with Alexia.”
It seems to activate some part of Vicky’s brain. “Oh, by the way, apparently you had a talk with Ale last night ?”
You visibly tense. You're happy she's not looking at you. “She told you that ?”
“No, she told Jana, who told me.”
You facepalm. “You all talk way too much. I wouldn’t have taken Putellas for a gossip.” In Madrid, people know the power of words, for the most part. It’s pretty clearly not something they’re taught in Barcelona.
“Ale will tell you she isn’t one, but you have no idea of the number of things I’ve learned from her.” Not reassuring. Vicky seems delighted to share this, then her brain cells connect and she realizes why you’re silent. “She hasn’t told Jana any details of the convo, just that she isn’t frustrated with you anymore.”
“She had no reason to be frustrated with me in the first place.” You argue, it was her fault all along. Maybe a bit yours too. A tiny bit.
Vicky holds her hands up, as if to say she’s not getting involved in this conflict. You don’t think she would be on your side. “I’ve just realized I don’t know much gossip about you.” The light in her eyes is dangerous, like an arsonist thinking about lighting a fire.
“Yes, and I intend to keep it that way.” You say quickly. “The only person I’m close to on your disgusting team is Aitana, and she’s not a gossip. Unlike, apparently, everyone else.”
Disappointment flashes across Vicky's face. “It’s not fair. I’m not getting anything out of Aitana.”
You know that, that’s why you confide in her. She might have been a better idea than Alexia, in retrospect. It’s a bit too late to come to this conclusion. You hate late-night conversations.
Vicky gets up from her bed and comes to lie next to you, invading your personal space. “Come on, I want gossip about you. What players have you dated ? Wait, are you in a relationship right now ?” She’s talking too fast, you wonder how you ended up in this situation.
“Dios mío” you mutter under your breath. You decide to humor her. “I’m single, thanks for the reminder. And I’ve never dated another football player.”
She furrows her brows. “I thought you were lesbian.” As if these two facts were mutually exclusive.
“I am. I just don’t wanna date another player. Playing football, with or against my girlfriend, sounds like hell. Even worse if it’s my ex.” You know most of the women’s football world disagrees with you, there is an interactive relationship chart to prove that.
“I get why Aitana likes you.” Vicky pouts. You think Aitana is great, so you’re gonna take this as a compliment. “So like, if you were into another player, you wouldn’t date her ?”
“No.”
“But like a full-on crush, obsessed with her. You still wouldn’t ?”
“I wouldn’t let it get that far.” You shrug. It seems easy to you. You’ve seen it coming in the past, when you got too close to a teammate you always knew how and when to shut the door.
“Let’s take another angle, who’s the hottest girl on this team ?” You ask yourself, once again, how you got there.
“Athenea” You deadpan.
Vicky rolls her eyes. “You just answered someone straight and a Madridista so I wouldn’t bother you. Give me the truth, I won’t use it against you.” It’s like a lion telling a zebra it won’t hurt it. You would only believe that in a cartoon.
“Are you saying that Athenea can’t simply be the girl I find the most beautiful on the team ?” You’re trying to turn the tables to save yourself. It doesn’t work.
She realizes she won’t get what she wants that way, but kids always think they can end up winning. You suppose it’s a quite logical conclusion when they’re playing for Barça. “Let’s make a pact.”
“No.” You interrupt immediately.
She carries on, ignoring you. “If we win against England, you answer my question truthfully.”
“Vicky, you seem to forget we’re not all teenagers here. I’m too old for this shit.” You sigh. She gives you puppy eyes, and your resolve crumbles. If you ever have kids, they’re getting spoiled rotten. “And what do I get, in this pact ?”
Her whole face illuminates, she knows she’s won. “I will give you some great gossip about whoever you want. If I have it, obviously.” You weigh it in, you know you’re drawing the short end of the stick there.
You still get your hand out for her to shake it, she doesn’t hesitate for a single second to shake it back.
The worst part ? You don’t even have an answer to her question. You’ve never thought about it too much.
What have you gotten yourself into ?
Before training, you text Aitana.
You : Why is everyone on your team such a gossip ? How do you deal with that ?
Aitana : Ah, I’ve heard you’re rooming with Vicky
You : See ? How do you even know that ?
Aitana : Trust me, for my team that’s barely level 1 gossip
You : Out of how many levels… ?
Aitana : You don’t wanna know
Aitana : Anyway, give them an inch and they'll take a mile
You : I hate your falsely philosophical quotes
You : Like what am I supposed to do with that ??
Aitana : If you ever give them gossip, they’ll know you’re weak and will expect some again
You : Funny you’re saying that, I may or may not have made a pact with Vicky
Aitana : It was nice knowing you
Aitana : What pact ?
You : Ah, you’re a gossip too ?
Aitana : That’s just basic human curiosity
You : If we win against England, I tell her which girl I find the hottest on the team
Aitana : ???
Aitana : I-
Aitana : How did you get there ?
Aitana : Like genuinely, how ?
You end up having to explain the whole thing to Aitana, who still offers no help with how you could get out of this situation.
You : You haven’t even asked me for my answer, that’s why I like you
Aitana : No, I just know the second you say that to Vicky there is no way I don’t end up knowing in the next 30 minutes
Aitana : You better win against England
You’re the officially biggest idiot in the entire world.
Unfortunately, the chat with Vicky stays in your head. Because now you wonder what the answer is.
It makes the training in the evening… weird. There is no better way to say it.
You’re focused during the drills, but as soon as there’s a break you space out. Worse, Vicky is looking at you smugly as if she knows what’s going on in your mind. Thank God you are the youngest in your family.
You’re looking at the grey sky during your water break when someone sprays water on you.
You look darkly at the culprit, Alexia seems unapologetic. “You okay ? You’ve seemed out of it today.”
“Your kid has been badgering me,” you complain.
“What has Vicky done ?” She doesn’t even need to be told who you’re talking about. She looks for Vicky, finds her easily. She’s talking to Jana, while looking straight at you. She winks when she sees Alexia and you looking at them, making the captain furrow her brows.
Alexia stands up, likely to get to the bottom of the whole thing and reprimand them. It, unsurprisingly, doesn’t seem to have much effect on Vicky’s behavior for the remainder of training.
You hoped you would have some alone time in your room to relax before dinner. Unfortunately, Vicky stays in the room and brings Jana as a bonus.
You wonder if hyperactivity has become a requirement for Barça’s recruitment in recent years. In the span of 30 minutes, you learn a lot of new intel about your teammates. Including lots of things you didn’t need, or want, to know.
They get bored of each other’s stories at one point, which sadly means they now decide to focus on you. They try to get Real Madrid’s gossip out of you, which you wouldn't give up even over your dead body. As the captain, you know some. Both from resolving conflicts and from helping out teammates. You know some deeper ones from being close with some players. It’s not like you will tell any of them.
They change the subject, because silence is not an option for them. Jana seems delighted to talk about the “pact” you have with Vicky.
“Are you planning to tell the whole team ?” You look at Vicky.
“No, because then players would try to win this and convince you to choose them.” You then look at Jana, a silent accusation your words don’t match your actions. “Okay, I did tell Jana because I couldn’t just keep it to myself. But we intend to keep it between the two of us.” If that happens, a champagne bottle will need to be opened in celebration.
“So, do you know the answer to the question, or do you have to figure it out before Monday ?” Jana is as annoying as Vicky, noted.
“You two idiots are gonna make me want to lose against England,” you groan.
They both gasp, even stating that Real Madrid objectively has a prettier logo than Barça wouldn’t have gotten this out of them. “I’m telling Ale that you’re a terrible vice-captain.”
You laugh at the fact that it’s the biggest threat Vicky could think of. “And she’s gonna punish me how ?”
Vicky shrugs. “Once she was so annoyed at me that she locked me in a cupboard for 15 minutes.” She shudders as if the memory still haunts her. You don’t wanna know what annoyed Alexia enough to do that, or you feel like you’re gonna be even more afraid of Vicky than you are now.
You’re saved from them when dinner comes. You make sure to sit with the older players to have some peace. After an hour trapped with Jana and Vicky, Mapi seems pretty chill. You tell her so, it makes her laugh.
You think back to that pact with Vicky. What would your true answer be ? Firstly, anyone younger than 22 is out of the question. Anyone you’re already close to, like Misa or Olga, feels weird. You let your eyes wander around the room, feigning disinterest while you’re actually way too aware of everyone right now.
Why are most of the women on this team hot ? You still wouldn’t hit, but god if –
“You’re eerily quiet tonight.” You jump and turn to your right. You didn't even realize Alexia had sat next to you. You take some time to look at her face, high cheekbones, some dark circles under her eyes, but they don’t take away from her green eyes. Green ? You always thought they were brown. You suppose Alexia is pretty, a treacherous part of your mind even says beautiful, but you don’t listen to it.
I’m gonna kill Vicky for putting these kinds of thoughts in my head.
“I’m just tired,” you answer faintly. You’re not sure she believes you, but she won’t push at team dinner. She must think you’re stressing out about your contract. Stressing out about women being hot feels a lot better than stressing out about your future.
When you’re back in the hotel room, you opt out of the informal team night. You’re almost sure you hear Vicky whisper “grandma” as she closes the door.
You take a deep breath, enjoying the quietness. Frustratingly, the quietness isn’t also there in your head.
You hate your mind, because you know it so well that you know what it’s doing, but you still can’t manage to fight it.
There is the contract. It’s big. It’s terrifying. So you focus on the best distraction life is offering you at the moment. It would be fine if the obsession was revenge against England or whatever. That’s way better than thinking about your teammates’ attractiveness.
That subject would be so much easier to shut down usually, but you’re overwhelmed and that’s the kind of state that leads you to bad conclusions. The kind of state that made you text back your ex to beg her to take you back. The kind of state that led you to not talk to your brother for a full year for some bullshit reason. The kind of state that makes you feel stupid.
You fucking hate it.
There’s a knock at the door. It must be Vicky who has forgotten her keycard and doesn’t want to wake you up when she comes back later.
You drag your feet across the floor and open the door. You’re confused to see Alexia there. She’s slightly awkward, her hands in her sweatpants pockets, her shoulders a bit too high, shifting from one foot to the other. “Can I come in ?” You open the door wider without thinking about it.
She gets settled on Vicky’s bed and grabs the Stitch plushie on it, holding it in her arms. She looks soft right now. Face bare of make-up, hair down, a Spain hoodie a bit oversized. She’s cute. You have no idea why she’s here.
“You didn’t fancy the team night ?” You ask. You’re sitting on your bed, legs crossed, your back against the wall, facing her.
“I’m too tired for that. Especially considering that if I set foot there, I know I’m trapped for at least 2 hours.”
You nod, that makes sense, one part of her decision still doesn’t. “So you decide to come here ?” There’s no accusation in your voice, nothing that could make her think she’s not welcome. Just confusion.
She shrugs, scratches the head of Stitch before answering. “Vicky told me you didn’t feel like coming down either.” She says that as if that explains everything. It explains nothing at all. It does leave you wondering how much these two talk. She looks around “Madre mia, this room is messy, and not only because of Vicky it seems.”
“Are you here to criticize the way I live, Putellas ?” She shrugs again, this time playfully. But it’s followed by heavy silence. “I don’t want to talk about my contract.” You’re not gonna sugarcoat it, you don’t feel like there is a need to. She hums in acknowledgment.
“What do you want to talk about then ?” You have no idea what type of captain intervention she’s trying to do right now.
“You’re the one that came into my room, I don’t know if you remember.” There’s a small smile on her face. She seems younger, right now, it bring back some old memories. “Remember the Netherlands in 2017 ? It feels so long ago.” It comes out of you without thinking.
The football part wasn’t great, but the Euro in the Netherlands was your first international competition with Spain. You will always keep fond memories of it. She smiles, a full one with teeth, eyes sparkling a bit. They must be great memories for her too. “I think it was some of the worst football of my life.” You both laugh.
Then the conversation drifts, to other memories with the Spanish national team, the good ones. Then to life as a whole.
You avoid the “sensible” subjects like contracts and media pressure. Instead, you talk about playing football as kids, making your moms mad when you came back with dirt on your pants, the long trips, the family sacrifices.
You talk about what you love about Madrid and Barcelona, but the non-football parts : the family, the friends, the buildings that saw you grow up, the little convenience store you went to buy candy when you had a bit of money, your favorite bars, your favorite places. For both of you, this is your city. She bleeds Barcelona the same way you bleed Madrid. You talk briefly about Munich, 4 years of your life, you don’t miss them much.
A while ago, you both changed positions to lie on your backs, both staring at the ceiling. Not looking at each other, not close physically, because you don’t need to. Your eyelids grow heavy, but you keep talking. You don’t know which one of you falls asleep first.
Vicky isn’t sure what to do with it when she enters the room, except to put it in the “interesting” folder of her brain. She lets Alexia sleep in her bed, and she steals one of the keycards to her single room from her captain’s stuff before exiting the room in silence.
You’re woken up by the light coming from the window. You panic a bit before looking at the time on your phone. 7 AM. Thank goodness considering you’re almost sure you forgot to put on an alarm last night.
You look at the other bed, expecting to see Vicky still fully asleep. You are clearly not expecting Alexia, still in full Spanish gear, in the bed. She’s fully relaxed, on her side facing you. The Stitch plushie is comfortable in her arms, tucked under her chin. Her hair is a bit messy.
Soft isn’t a word you would usually use to describe Alexia Putellas, right now it fits the bill perfectly.
You decide to let your mind process the whole thing later, you’re not woken up enough for that right now. You take a look again. You open the camera app and snap 2 or 3 pictures and then inspect them. Adorable. You’re not sure if they are gonna be of any use in the future, you still felt like capturing the moment.
You consider leaving her there and going down for breakfast alone, but it makes you feel bad. You have to be down for breakfast in 30 minutes, and you’re quite sure Vicky will come in a few minutes to grab some change of clothes anyway.
“Ale, hey. Ale wake up.” You shake her shoulder gently, not wanting to startle her.
She groans, but her eyes open slowly. They appear brown with the light not directed at them. You can see confusion in them, before she remembers last night. “I fell asleep here ?” Her voice is hoarse, the Catalan accent thicker than usual. She props herself up on her elbow and looks around the room. “Where is Vicky ?”
As if she heard the call, you hear a buzz and the door opening softly. Vicky barely makes a sound, then sees the two of you are already awake. “Ah, the bed stealer !” She exclaims, pointing at Alexia.
It’s too loud for this hour in the morning, but Alexia doesn’t seem faszd. “You should have woken me up. Where did you even sleep ?”
Vicky reaches for her pocket and gets out a keycard proudly. “Your room !”
“No you didn’t !”
“Yes I did. You stole my bed, so it’s logical for me to take your single room privilege in exchange.”
The exchange is rather funny from a third-person perspective. Alexia seems genuinely worried at the idea of having Vicky alone in her room.
“I swear Vicky if you went snooping like last time–.”
“I wasn’t !” The younger one defends herself immediately. “Last time was traumatizing enough.” She shudders as if the memories are coming back.
You interrupt them. “Wait, what did you find last time ?” You’re not into gossip, but you do like an interesting story.
“Nothing !” Alexia says quickly, her voice higher than usual. She seems fully woken up now. You’re sure you can get that info out of Vicky easily enough when you two are alone.
Alexia still looks worried when she leaves the room a few minutes later to go get changed. You’re don’t have time to ask about it to Vicky now, you for sure plan to do it later.
They divide the team into two groups for the morning training. One is doing strength training, while the other is on the pitch, and then the two groups switch. The game against England is in two days, everyone is focused. That training is more focused on intensity than tactics.
They group the goalkeepers and defenders together in one group, and the midfielders and attackers in the other. As a center-back, you end up in the first one.
Your group starts on the pitch. After some warm-ups, the real training begins : sprints, shuttle runs, ladders, running around cones, working on resisting in duels. By the end of the first part of training, you’re drenched, but satisfied. You love this kind of training, the one that makes you feel every muscle in your body. Maybe you’re a masochist.
London’s cold air feels good against your skin. You’re lying on the grass, hands behind your head looking at the grey sky when Eva comes to lie next to you. “You’re the only one smiling right now, I hope you know you’ve got a problem.”
You laugh. “I can’t help if it feels good.”
Eva and you have had this conversation enough times for you to know what her face might be like right now. The younger fullback seems to genuinely not be able to wrap her head around the fact that it’s not hell for everyone.
“I didn’t know you and Putellas were close.” That takes you entirely off guard. Eva has never been one to sugarcoat things. Bluntness can have its advantages in a football team, but right now it’s fucking annoying.
“We’re not close.”
“I overheard Vicky this morning, saying that Alexia fell asleep in her bed while talking to you last night. Both of you decided not to hang out with the team yesterday.” It’s almost an accusation, but not quite. You know she’s trying to go somewhere, you just can’t figure out the direction.
“We have just been talking a bit more this camp. We’re still far from close.” You tell the truth, because there is nothing to hide about it.
“So after years of being together on the national team, you two are suddenly talking ?”
The answer is just yes, you don’t think that will work with Eva, you don’t even know why you owe her any justification. “I usually hang out a lot with Aitana, the same can be said for her and Jenni. They’re both not here. We just talked last night.” She hums, unconvinced. “Just get to your point Eva.”
“Are you joining Barcelona ?” You freeze, your fingers stop playing with the grass, you can feel the tension in your body. That’s not what you were expecting, at all, especially now considering where you are right now. Your upper body rises, so you’re able to look at her. She seems serious.
“What ?” It’s a bit too sharp, a bit too loud. You can see in your peripheral vision that some girls have turned their attention to your conversation, including the ones that just came out of the gym. A whistle blows, the sign that the second part of training is gonna start. You throw a dark look at Eva. “That’s not the kind of chat we’re supposed to have in public. Time and place, you idiot.” You say it low, low enough to be sure nobody else can hear.
Eva looks remorseful, at least. You offer her a hand, mostly because you know people are still watching and you don’t want rumors to start spreading.
It’s great to be in the gym after that chat with Eva. It allows you to focus on the effort even more. You put headphones on with the volume up too high, making sure you can’t hear your own thoughts… and the awful upbeat music Mapi and Jana are putting through the poor speakers.
After that kind of effort, the ice bath feels like relief. Considering your teammates’ complaints, you doubt they all share your opinion.
After lunch, you have one hour until the video session in the afternoon. That hour is free, but most players choose to spend it in their room after this morning session, including you and Vicky.
Vicky is spent, you didn’t know that was possible. She’s lying on her bed, lifeless. You’re scrolling on your phone while your compression boots massage your legs.
Then you remember something about this morning. “Vicky, what’s the story around you snooping through Alexia’s things ?”
Vicky stills. “I’m not telling you that, it’s too personal.”
That piques your interest even more. Maybe you’re a bit of a gossip too. “Come on kid, that has never stopped you before.”
“I will keep silent, for my own well-being.”
You roll your eyes. “I’ll ask Jana then. She’s an even worse blabbermouth than you.”
“Jana doesn’t know.” Vicky sticks out her tongue, what a kid.
“Who does ? Except you and Alexia, obviously.” The more this conversation is carrying on, the more you want to know. Jana not knowing means a lot.
“Claudia, because we went snooping together.” Fuck, you aren’t close at all to her. No way you can go ask her about that, and Vicky knows it.
“What will it cost me ? The info.” Vicky smiles at your words, as if this was what she was waiting for.
“It could be the other half of our pact. The question I must answer you.”
“No, that’s too small piece of info.” You complain.
Vicky shrugs. “Then what do you have to offer ?” She’s smug, the little shit.
You take some time to think. You’re not sure offering her candies will work. You’re not willing to give gossip about your Real Madrid teammates. Then an idea comes. “I have a picture of Alexia hugging your Stitch.” You point at the plushie that’s currently lying on Vicky’s back.
Vicky stands up abruptly, making said plushie fall on the bed. “No, you don’t.” She has a big smile on her face, her eyes are shining. You’re currently winning. “Ale always says she hates plushies and that she won’t be caught dead cuddling one.”
That’s a… very weird thing to lie about. But there are lot of things you don’t understand about their relationship. But you've realized by now that Alexia is more like her big sister than her mother, which means Vicky is actually willing to give out things she shouldn’t share, especially the embarrassing stories. “So, do we have a deal ?”
Vicky thinks about it. “I want to see the photo, just one millisecond to decide. Then I tell you the story, after that you send me the picture.”
You unlock your phone and go to your gallery. You look at the pictures again. She looks so peaceful on it that you almost feel bad. Almost.
You choose the one where Stitch is the most visible and show it to Vicky. It’s quick but enough to make the younger one gasp in delight. Then her face drops. “Fuck, now I really need to tell you the story. I want this picture.”
Vicky grabs her pillow, fidgeting with it on her lap. “Just to preface. It’s not bad or anything, it’s just really awkward.”
She takes a deep breath, as if to ready herself. “Earlier this season, we had an away game against Levante. Easy game, end of afternoon. The kind where you come back not too late to the hotel and still have energy left over after.”
You don’t need that much context, at all, but you don’t interrupt her.
“So yeah, Claudia and I were rooming together. At one point we wonder how we could annoy Ale, because there aren’t a lot of activities to do in a hotel. We came up with the idea of stealing something from her stuff just to see how long it takes her to realize.”
“You do realize that idea was terrible from the start, right ? And I don’t even know the outcome.” You interrupt her.
“I do now ! Anyway. We had dinner all together, and she was next to us. At one point, she gets up to do whatever I don’t remember. The keycards’ case is on the table, and it has two of them. The universe was trying to tell us something !” Vicky is starting to talk faster, remembering her excitement when Alexia’s mistake happened. “So yeah, we took one, thinking that she will just think she left one of them in her room or something.”
“Weren’t there other players that saw you do that ?” You inquire. You have huge doubts that the girls were discreet.
Vicky shrugs, “Yeah but it was like Aïcha, Sidney and Clara. They weren’t gonna snitch on us.”
Alexia has absolutely no power over these kids, you think.
“Then at the end of dinner, Ale says she has to catch up on something with Pere. I’m sorry but the universe was handing it to us. The whole situation was perfect.”
“The universe was trying to test you and you failed, badly”, you deadpan.
Vicky hits you with her pillow and carries on. “So as soon as Ale goes to talk to Pere, Claudia and I go to her room. We knew we didn’t have much time. Ale isn’t the tidy type, surprisingly. She’s not messy like you, but-”
“Hey !”
She ignores you entirely. “But she’s not the kind that empties her suitcase in the hotel’s wardrobe either. They just stay in the suitcase. So you know, we search around the room for anything interesting, don’t really find anything. Then we decide to go to her suitcase, that’s the logical last step.” Vicky is talking so fast all your focus is on following what she’s saying.
“So yeah, we open it and there are some of her clothes. Obvious, you might say.” Can’t Vicky just go to the fucking point ? “And then at the bottom we find…” Vicky suddenly breaks eye contact with you. Her cheeks and the tips of her ears redden.
“Vicky, come on, you can’t tell the whole story and stop there.” If you didn’t have your compression boots on you would stand up and shake her.
She clears her throat. “We find some lube and a strap.” Vicky is fully red now. You’re so shocked you barely process the information. “And you know I’m not sure of what it is at first so I take it in my hands.”
“Vicky. What do you mean you’re not sure of what it is? Girl, are you blind ?”
“Shut up ! I’m still a young innocent child, okay ?” You highly doubt that. “My brain froze so bad it was trying to analyze the situation. So yeah, I have it in my hand, inspecting it, and Claudia is so shocked she doesn’t even talk. And then Ale enters the room. While I’m still holding it in my hand.”
That’s the moment all hell breaks loose. You can’t help yourself and burst out laughing. Full body laughter, the kind that hurts in the abs. Vicky does too, as if retelling the story makes her realize it’s actually a hilarious one.
Once you’ve caught some breath, you’re finally able to ask the questions you want. “Please, I need Alexia’s reaction.”
“I think she stayed frozen for like 5 whole seconds, Claudia and I too. Then she closed the door behind her and said something in Catalan I didn’t understand. Alexia was so red you have no idea. If she was wearing a Spain jersey she would have blended perfectly.”
You both break into another fit of laughter.
“So yeah, she didn’t say another word, took it from my hands and threw it in the trash. After that, she made me and Claudia sit on the bed to talk. I genuinely thought in that moment I was gonna need to transfer in the January transfer window.”
“And what ? She gave you the talk about how babies are made instead ?” You joke.
“I think I would have jumped from the window if she tried that.” Vicky says seriously. “She just said that if we tell the story to anyone else on the team, we’re dead. You’re not a Barça player, so I’ve kept my part of the agreement.” Vicky looks proud of herself for that. You don’t think that’s what Alexia meant.
“Have you talked about it again with Claudia or Alexia ?”
“Claudia, no. I think we have a silent agreement to act like we’ve never seen that. We haven’t talked about it fully with Ale. She just tells me on a regular basis to never snoop in her stuff ever again.”
That makes sense. You have no idea how you would react if a young player of your team did that. You’re thankful Real isn’t a daycare like Barça. On cue, Vicky leaves her bed to jump on you. “Now I want the picture !” The story was so good that you sent Vicky the three pictures you took.
Video session is preceded by a talk with Eva. She starts by apologizing about how she broached the subject, you accept it without question.
You do get why she’s worried. You’re one of the main players of Real, most even say the figurehead. You leaving for anywhere would be seen as a huge setback, leaving for Barcelona would be a disaster for the women’s section. The success of her career, or at least part of it, is linked to Real’s future.
Even if she went about it the wrong way, you feel for the kid. It’s also great to hear what people say. You might need to be more careful around Alexia before these kinds of rumors spread like wildfire.
You reassure her. First, about never, ever, joining Barcelona. It’s easy to do, because it’s the full truth. Then, your contract comes up. You lie. It might bite you in the ass later, but you just don’t feel like explaining it. You say there is one year left, and that Real is likely not letting you go unless a very enticing fee from a foreign club comes.
You’ve always been great at solving conflicts and defusing tensions. You know Eva has full faith in you when you both leave the room.
The next one-to-one isn’t one you planned. After the video session, while everybody goes back to their occupations, Alexia grabs your wrist to stop you in one of the corridors.
“What is it, Capi ?” You ask, surprised.
“First, I had no idea you took pictures of me sleeping.” You feel your face go red without having any way to stop it. “I don’t mind it, really. But why in hell send them to Vicky ?” She’s not mad at you, or at least doesn’t look like she is. She does look confused though.
“It was part of an exchange,” you admit.
“An exchange ? What exchange ?” She’s even more confused now.
“Well, the pictures were exchanged for the story in Levante.” It feels so childish, said like that. You’re spending too much time with this kid. It’s bad for you.
Alexia’s whole body goes rigid the second “Levante” leaves your mouth. Her mouth opens and closes without any words coming out. She’s blushing terribly, sadly not to the extent Vicky described.
“No she didn’t.” She finally settles on. She searches your face. “Please tell me she didn’t.”
You feel almost bad for Alexia right now. Almost. The story is just too good. “She said you became Spanish red, like the color from your hoodie.” You trace the collar of it with your fingers. She reddens even more, most likely from remembering the whole thing. She’s now the Spanish red. Nobody should look this good while being this red. You worry a bit that she’s gonna faint.
“It’s hot in here, isn’t it ?” Alexia says. She removes her hoodie, her t-shirt rises a bit along the way, revealing part of her abs. You’ve seen them in locker rooms more than a few times. Somehow, this feels different. You must be as red as her a few moments ago, she doesn’t comment on that. “You’re not telling anybody, right ?” She seems shy all of a sudden.
You don’t hesitate for a single second before answering. “No Ale, I’m not.”
Her shoulders relax. “It’s still fucking embarrassing, you know that.” She breathes out.
“I mean there’s nothing really embarrassing about the thing itself. It’s Vicky and Claudia that made it embarrassing. I mean holding it to inspect it, really ?”
Alexia groans. “Oh, shut up.” She pushes your shoulder playfully with the palm of her hand. “Anyway, it’s enough of that. Let’s go hang out with the ones playing games.”
You don’t argue, following her without hesitation.
You think you know the answer to the pact with Vicky.
There is no way in hell that kid is ever getting the truth out of you.
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A/n : It is indeed much more enjoyable to think about Alexia's abs than about a contract.
THERE WAS SOMETHING DIFFERENT ABOUT ALEXIA PUTELLAS. You had always known this; everyone knew this. But now being merely feet away from her, you could tell that there was something about her that seemed more than just different, so unlike anything you have seen before.
tags/contains: vampire!Alexia, human!reader, 18+, smut, obsession, mild bloodplay, predator/prey talk, making out, fondling, eventual angst (maybe?), violence, blood, mentions of death, minimal mentions of killing | wc: 7k
masterlist ♡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it!
please do not repost this, plagiarize, or feed to ai!
part one | part two | part three
II. The Turning
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ THE NIGHT ALEXIA’S LIFE CHANGED started as just one of those unassuming, light-hearted night outs when the team gathered in a club just as the winter break had begun.
This time was a bit different because Alexia’s younger teammates insisted on going to this new, trendy bar that had just opened. It was a pretty spacious club with a darker vibe with its black walls and velvet seats. Alexia was convinced that the youngsters only wanted to go to the club because of a viral Tiktok video that claimed that it was owned by vampires.
Alexia thought the whole thing was ridiculous but still agreed to go. She didn’t hate it so much now since the drinks tasted amazing and the vibes were great. The DJ played really good songs that got everyone dancing.
After knocking down more than a few cocktails, Alexia found herself laughing more than usual. She felt loose and carefree. While she was on the dancefloor, she felt someone moving behind her. She turned, expecting to see one of her teammates, but saw a beautiful stranger with curly, layered, dark hair cut that ended just before her collarbones and the most piercing eyes Alexia had ever seen.
She wasn’t the type to feel flustered but suddenly, she was. The taller girl pulled her in, wrapping a hand around Alexia’s waist and dancing with her. Alexia let the tall girl draw her in, feeling absolutely drawn to the stranger despite no words being exchanged.
Later, the two of them found themselves talking in the alleyway. Alexia hadn’t smoked in ages. She was an athlete; she liked to take care of her body and smoking was just one of those things she abstained from.
But it was the international break, she was borderline wasted, and there was just something about this attractive stranger with the choppy dark hair and the impossibly gorgeous face that made it hard for the Catalan to say no.
Alexia put the thin stick in between her lips, letting it hang as the taller girl used a lighter to spark it. Alexia used two fingers to hold it, inhaling deeply, mouth coating with the taste of nicotine and something that vaguely tasted like cocoa.
“Mmm, chocolate cigarettes?” She asked, intrigued.
The girl nodded. “Yeah, I got a thing for foreign cigarettes,” she said, flashing a black box with Japanese text. “Makes drinks taste better too.”
Alexia nodded, inhaling once more, savoring the taste before exhaling.
As they smoked, the two talked about a lot of things – work, hobbies, interests. Until the topic eventually headed to Alexia’s impending retirement and her fear of aging as an athlete. She found herself being vulnerable with the stranger but it didn’t even feel awkward. It just felt natural.
Alexia talked about her ACL injury and the fear of her knees eventually giving up on her again. She talked about how recovering from basic injuries took longer compared to when she was in her 20s, how her mornings began with stiffness she never used to feel. There was a quiet terror in elite sport — not of losing, but of time itself, of waking up one day and realizing your body no longer obeyed you the way it once did.
The stranger listened intently, nodding, looking as if they already knew and understood everything Alexia was saying. Alexia took a long drag of her cigarette.
There was a small pause, silence taking over, with only the sound of the night wind, the thumping from the club, and distant cars filling the space. The stranger hummed, breaking the silence before speaking.
“What if I tell you that you don’t have to feel like that anymore,” the stranger asked, tilting her head and cocking one of her eyebrows up. Alexia looked into the stranger’s eyes and for a moment, she swore they glinted a dark red hue. Something about it gave Alexia goosebumps.
Alexia blinked, mildly unsettled. “What?” She asked, confused.
“There’s a way… to not experience the aches of age, the pain of time passing by you,” she spoke in riddles and yet, it sounded vaguely like a promise.
Alexia gave a short, disbelieving breath of laughter and shook her head. “There’s no way.”
“Yeah? You’d wager everything on that?” The taller girl chuckled melodically.
“Yeah, I’ve tried every legal procedure there is – PRP injections, stem-cell, about a billion sessions with a PT, all the things my club could offer.” Alexia responded, tapping the thin cigarette lightly, letting the ash fall onto the ground, watching it scatter onto the damp concrete. “All it does is delay the inevitable.”
The stranger hummed. “Well, then you’d be wrong.”
Alexia opened her mouth to retort, but the distance between them vanished before she could form the words. The girl was suddenly kissing Alexia, pinning her against the wall of the dark alleyway, strong hands against her waist firmly holding her against the brick wall. Alexia’s cigarette slipped from her fingers, forgotten as it hissed out against the pavement.
Alexia gripped onto the stranger’s jacket, pulling her close, feeling a hunger rise beneath her skin.
The girl held onto Alexia’s hips as her lips travelled from Alexia’s mouth to her neck, planting small kisses until she settled on the warm, sensitive pressure point on Alexia’s neck. As soon as the girl wrapped her warm mouth around it, Alexia couldn’t help but moan. The sensation of the girl’s mouth on hers felt strange; there was a mild pain but there was an overwhelming pleasure that flooded her senses.
In fact, it was so overwhelming that all Alexia could do was close her eyes and melt into the girl’s kiss.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ When Alexia opened her eyes, she was instantly hit with pain all over her body. It was an agonizing pain. It was more painful than any injury she has ever had. It felt as if her entire skeleton had been dismantled and reassembled wrong. Her blood felt absent, almost like her veins and bone marrows were hollowed out. Migraines splintered behind her eyes, throbbing and swelling. Every muscle trembled with something that felt less like pain and more like they were completely shifting inside her.
There was no one part of her that hurt more or less than the other parts. It was her entire body feeling the pain all at once.
She squirmed, feeling the damp pavement beneath her palms, the rough scrape of concrete against her skin as she shifted. The movement sent a violent tremor through her, as if her muscles were relearning their purpose in real time. A fractured gasp tore from her throat. Even breathing felt like a thousand knives puncturing her lungs.
Above her, the sky stretched into a dusty black. All she could see was the brick wall of the building hovering above her and the flickering of a nearby light. The world felt like it was spinning.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Alexia didn’t remember how she returned home.
It felt like she blacked out from pain a second time and woke up in her bed. She blinked away, still feeling a slight ache everywhere in her body. She couldn’t remember what happened but she was convinced that the girl from the bar drugged her.
Perhaps the girl had slipped something into her drink or her cigarettes were laced with some sort of drug. Maybe that was why the cigarettes tasted so different. Being drugged was the only possible explanation for the blackout, the disorientation, the hallucinations.
And yet nothing was missing. Her watch remained on her nightstand. Her wallet sat untouched in her bag. Even the loose change in her pocket was untouched. There were no cuts suggesting a fight and no evidence of assault. Only the memory of the kiss, those hauntingly beautiful eyes, and the excruciating pain that shortly followed.
But still, Alexia could not help but feel convinced that she was drugged because there was just something that felt neurologically wrong with her since the incident. Her head panged as she heard faint sounds, voices and murmurs; it wasn’t coming from her head. Instead, it sounded like she could hear everything.
She could hear her neighbor’s dog pacing, each soft click of nail against the hardwood floor. She could hear the muted rustle of clothing as someone in a nearby apartment changed. She could hear the stray cats outside fighting over scraps three floors below. And the voices… she felt like she could hear voices coming from all directions.
And it wasn’t just her hearing that was heightened. Her sense of smell was also affected. She noticed it first when she smelled her, suddenly feeling everything go silent.
From Alexia’s apartment, she could smell her neighbor stepping out of the elevator to their hallway. Alexia inhaled deeply, catching a scent of faint detergent mixed with a deep, floral perfume and a metallic hint of the wet air from outside clinging onto the girl’s wool coat. But it wasn’t just that, there was something else, something that drew her in.
From the scent alone, Alexia could tell it was Amelia, the brunette next-door, the one with the easy smile and the kind, green eyes. Alexia often saw her during her morning runs when Amelia would also walk her dog. Alexia always had a small, harmless crush on her, drawn by her easy vibe, the way she smiled at Alexia and greeted her in the hallways after Barcelona’s wins.
But now, the attraction Alexia felt different; it felt primal.
And this time, she couldn’t see Amelia so it wasn’t her smile or her delicate features that drew Alexia in. It was the smell of her, beneath the perfume and the detergent. It was the smell of her flesh. It smelled so alive.
Alexia felt her mouth water.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Alexia tried to eat. She forced herself to do it but everything just tasted rotten and dead in the worst way. Even coffee and juice tasted rancid inside her mouth. Her body rejected it violently; she retched until there was nothing left but bile.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Soon, the start of the season came and Alexia had to miss the first days of training. She shot her manager a short text about how she was sick even though the pain had passed and all was left was this devastating hunger.
Part of her knew that she was lying. She knew this wasn’t sickness; she hadn’t gone to the doctor but something about what she felt just told her this wasn’t exactly a medical issue. Besides, the pain had already dulled and passed, and she felt even stronger than she usually did.
The only thing that bothered her was the clawing feeling of hunger.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ When Alexia finally stepped outside of her dark apartment and onto the hallway, the world felt hyperreal: the colors too vivid, air too textured against her skin, sound loud and overwhelming. She winced at all of her senses, overwhelming her as she locked her door.
As she turned abruptly, Alexia nearly collided with her neighbor, unable to notice her pass by since everything else overwhelmed Alexia.
“Oh, sorry.” Alexia muttered automatically.
She turned and saw Amelia. Up close, Amelia was devastatingly beautiful. Brown eyes, soft mouth, pulse fluttering delicately at her throat. The world quieted again and all Alexia could focus on was this girl. The feeling of her mouth watering overwhelmed Alexia again.
“Hey,” Amelia smiled. “Haven’t seen you all week. You okay?”
The sound of her heartbeat erased everything else, drowning everything out. It was the only thing Alexia could focus on as everything else seemed to blur.
Alexia did not remember deciding to move. One moment she was standing still and the next she had Amelia pressed against the wall, hands gripping too tightly, using a strength she didn’t know she possessed.
Her mouth immediately found the place where the pulse beat strongest. Alexia sunk her teeth into Amelia’s flesh. It tasted so good and felt so satisfying that she nearly moaned at the taste of blood. In contrast to everything she ate the past few days, it tasted so decadent and warm and alive. It coated her tongue with a delicious warmth.
The girl screamed, high and sharp, and panic flickered through Alexia’s mind. She tried to quiet the girl, to steady her but Alexia’s strength no longer calibrated itself to intention. There was a sickening crack beneath her hands.
She accidentally snapped the girl’s neck.
For a suspended moment, Alexia simply stood there motionless, her mouth stained, her body humming and throbbing with this new-found energy. She held the girl with one hand, effortlessly despite her entire weight now on Alexia. Her gaze darted down the corridor – empty, thankfully.
The cameras on her floor had been broken for weeks. She knew this. She had complained about it to her landlord but she couldn’t thank the management’s incompetence and negligence enough for still not bothering to fix it now.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ After Alexia effortlessly carried the body back to her bath tub, keeping Amelia there until Alexia found a better way to discard the body, she finally caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Alexia had always known that a lot of people found her attractive. She acknowledged that she was eye-catching but she never really tried to think too much about it. But now, it was undeniable just how beautiful she looked. She felt vain thinking it but she just couldn’t keep her eyes off of herself; she was magnetic.
Her skin was clear – free of lines and wrinkles or any other trace of fatigue. She looked flawless and her skin glowed. She wasn’t pale but there was something about her complexion that just looked smooth and luminous like cold porcelain sculpted by careful hands.
Her hair fell thicker, glossier, each strand catching light as though it had been polished. It framed her face with a deliberate softness that made her features sharper by contrast.
Her eyes had changed the most. The hazel she knew had deepened and the golden flecks within them now vivid and glowing, like sunlight trapped beneath glass. When she leaned closer, she thought she saw a subtle ring of darker color surrounding the iris. It was like looking at an intricate geode or gem and not her eyes.
Her breath caught. She looked magnetic… the same way that beautiful girl at the club looked.
And the word flickered loudly in her head: Vampire.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Alexia spent the following week indoors, conjuring another excuse for her manager and her team, who were already beginning to ask questions she didn't know how to answer.
All she did at this time was research excessively: streaming vampire films back to back, ordering all kinds of books, filling a notebook with what she was learning. None of it mapped perfectly onto her situation but something seemed to be recurring in all of the media and content she consumed.
The first thing was blood.
Every story and encounter agreed on that much, at least. Vampires fed off of humans. She knew that all too well already, feeling guilt whenever she passed by her bathroom, knowing fully well that Amelia’s body was still there, yet to be disposed of.
In movies, most vampires kill; they’d drain their victims, suck them dry, and leave them for dead. Others… were more humane. The Cullens on Twilight hunted animals in the wilderness. In True Blood, some vampires sourced from blood banks, treating donation bags the way a person might pick up groceries. Alexia had winced watching Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire press his mouth to a sewer rat, initially not wanting to feed off of humans. Ultimately, it seemed like the methods varied but the need didn't.
The second thing was that it seemed that vampires don’t die or age.
She wouldn't develop crow's feet or catch a winter cold or even get an injury. She would simply remain, suspended in whatever this was, indefinitely. It should have served her some comfort, maybe, in the abstract way that immortality always sounded appealing. It meant she could play football for as long as she could, not stopped by her body’s limits, never deterred by illness or injury.
But it was also frightening. She was essentially a medical mystery. It was why she hadn't called the club’s medical team or asked for a check-up up until now. She could already anticipate how that appointment would go. Doctors would notice that she wasn't breathing without prompting herself to. They would notice how her skin held no warmth, and that her heart had stopped beating. She would be outed as something other than human.
The third thing was the sun.
She had read enough and watched enough to understand that vampires had a complex relationship with the sun. Most stories talked about burning, disintegration, painful suffering leading to death. It was morbid, to say the least. On the other hand, there were some outliers like how in some stories, more ancient vampires could walk in the sun. Again, Twilight, being the odd man out that it was, detailed that vampires sparkled.
There was really no way of knowing what would have happened to her without actually trying but the memory of pain in that alleyway stopped her. She could still remember that the white-hot sensation that had moved through her like something trying to burn her from the inside out. If stepping out in the sun felt like even a tenth of that pain…
She just didn't want to risk it.
She would stand near the window at dawn, watching light crawl across neighboring rooftops, and feel something akin to a dread coil in her chest. She imagined stepping outside and igniting instantly. She would wince at the recollection of that night in the alleyway: the way her body felt like it was writhing in pain. She wondered if the sun would cause that pain again.
But as the days passed, fear curdled into irritation.
What was eternity if it confined her to darkness? What use was strength, speed, immortality, if she could not step onto a pitch during the day time? Football was what made her crave to be stronger; it was her life. What use did she have for her new powers and immortality if it meant never playing again?
So, with an anger boiling inside her, Alexia stepped out onto her apartment’s rooftop during sunset, half-expecting to burn and half-expecting to immediately turn into dust.
But nothing happened.
She just felt the warmth of the sun, settling against her skin like it always did. After realizing that there was no pain, she inspected her body, checking for blistering or sparkling. But it was nothing. It just felt warm.
The relief nearly brought her to her knees. She could still play.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Before Alexia could return to playing, she knew she had to feed but the guilt of killing Amelia, carrying her body to Alexia’s car, driving off and dumping the rotting flesh into the ocean… it haunted her.
But the clawing hunger in her stomach was overwhelming. It was intense and it dulled her thoughts. Her hunger consumed her every waking thought.
She tried to be like the more altruistic vampires she saw in movies. She hunted rats and stray cats; she even tried to just straight-up eat a raw steak from the local butcher but it all felt so unsatisfying. To a human, the equivalent feeling would be like trying to chew on a stale biscuit dipped in tap water when you haven’t eaten in days. It would take all the cats and rats in Barcelona to satisfy her for longer than a week.
She had no choice.
She lingered outside the same bar she was turned. Part of her reasoning was that it was dark and usually empty, away from prying eyes. Drunks would often stumble out to vomit or to smoke, making it easier for Alexia to prey on them. The sound of the club was enough to cover up the screams of whoever Alexia was hunting. It was practical.
But there was another reason she stayed.
Some small, irrational part of her hoped to see the girl who had started this – her maker. She wanted to ask why. To understand what she had become and to ask what life meant now.
But the girl never showed.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ When she came back to training, everything felt different.
Alexia played football all her life so it came naturally to her; she had always been good. But this time, it was on a whole other level. She was faster, so fast that she had to hold back to not give her actual speed away. She was stronger. She could simply pass by one of her teammates, touch shoulders, and it would send the teammates stumbling onto her feet. She tried to restrain her kick but even then, the ball came flying past everyone with an almost impossible speed.
She moved differently.
She tried not to be obvious or careless about it. She held back, afraid that if she sprinted at her true capacity or if she struck a ball with full force, it would reveal too much.
She calculated every acceleration, every pivot, every challenge so that it appeared merely exceptional instead of impossible. Her recovery between drills was instantaneous, though she feigned breathlessness out of habit. It felt unnatural to her, trying to mimic the way her chest used to rise and fall but she knew that without the theatrics of it all, it would be too noticeable. She was thankful that the weather was still chilly so she didn’t have to worry about explaining why she wasn’t sweating.
Teammates commented on Alexia’s performance, her glow, on how put-together she looked despite rigorous training. They said she seemed… different.
They meant focused but what they could not articulate was this new patience woven into Alexia’s play, the way she played with the steadiness of a predator hunting its prey. She read the field the way she read a pulse — anticipating, closing in, striking at the exact moment weakness surfaced.
It gave Alexia a newfound pride and feeling of satisfaction. It wasn’t just the fact that she was playing at her best every single time but it was the knowledge that she could keep doing this and her body would never betray her.
She just had to worry about her hunger.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ After a couple years, Alexia had gotten used to her new life.
She figured out that if she just fed off of a human an hour before a medical exam that her temperature would appear a bit warmer, her blood results relatively more normal, albeit a bit anemic. She didn’t know the scientific explanation behind it, but she didn’t care.
Feeding also got exponentially easy. While it did take her a ton of mishaps and a near-disaster she didn’t like to think about, she developed a feeding routine. She learned that draining an entire human could keep her sustained for a little over two weeks but the disposal was cumbersome and she didn’t want the constant missing persons report to concern the city. So, she had found a middle ground. She figured that she could return every two to four days, feed off of someone only to the point of slight deliriousness, not draining them to the point of no return.
And so, every few days, she’d return to the same bar, the same alleyway, waiting patiently for stragglers to spill out onto the cold air, loose-limbed and unguarded. It never was hard for her to find someone to attract and lure; the hypnotic energy seemed to come with the vampirism naturally. And, after a couple months of consistent feeding, she mastered her telepathy, now able to single out a person and peer inside their thoughts. She’d wait for them to decide to step out, position herself conveniently and have them approach her. It was always so easy to lure them in; it was like drawing moths to a flame. She’d sweet-talk them for just a couple minutes before finally feeding off of them.
She also found that after she fed off of them, humans became delirious and impressionable, practically taking her word. She'd lean close and say you won't remember this and they would nod with glassy, distant eyes as though she'd simply confirmed something they already knew. They'd wander back into the bar, slightly unsteady. They'd find a small bruise the next morning and they would not wonder about it for long.
This way there was no need to lug a lifeless body across the city, dumping them into the ocean, then worrying about the missing person reports. It was the cleanest solution available to her, a routine that brought her no guilt or worries, and she had made her peace with it.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Tonight, though, she wasn't here to feed.
She wasn't even sure why she was here. She hadn't felt the familiar pang of hunger since she had just fed two days ago. But somehow just when she was in her apartment, fully intending on spending her free evening doing nothing in particular, she found herself putting on her jacket and walking all the way to this very alleyway.
It had been months since she longed to meet her maker. It was something she no longer had any active desire to do and yet here she was, waiting for something.
Just past midnight, Alexia heard the exit door swing open, startling her. Usually, she would have known when someone was heading out to the alley, having heard their thoughts prior, but this time, there was nothing. She pressed harder, trying to penetrate the person’s thoughts, but ended up regretting it because all that came was a sudden flood of everyone else’s thoughts, crashing and overlapping over each other. She was forced to pull back sharply, shaking her head.
She refocused, deciding on watching the person instead.
You had stepped out alone, letting the door fall shut behind you. You stood there for a moment doing nothing, just breathing — a long, slow exhale, almost exasperated. Alexia thought initially that maybe you were a vampire too; it would have explained why she couldn’t penetrate your thoughts but then as she focused, the distinct smell of your blood hit her nose. Human.
You reached up and dragged a hand through your slightly dishevelled hair. Alexia never noticed you before, guessing that you might have been one of the new waitresses, judging by your uniform. She watched you, reaching into your pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes. You drew one out and put it between your lips, then cupped your hands around the lighter against the wind, struggling to light it.
As soon as the cigarette was lit and the smoke wafted to her direction, Alexia froze. It was the same cigarette that her maker offered her that night.
She squinted, confirming it for what it was: the same slim, foreign cigarettes. The same Japanese brand, chocolate-flavored, if she remembered correctly. It was undeniable. She never encountered it again, not until now.
She stared at it then at you.
She already confirmed you were human but there was just too much about you that made her suspicious: the same cigarettes, working at the same club where she was turned, the fact that she could not read your thoughts.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Alexia found you fascinating.
Every night since she first saw you, Alexia waited outside the club, even on days she didn’t have to feed. She learned your name from the thoughts of the other bartenders, heard about how one of the bartenders found you attractive but standoffish, about how private you were about your life, never letting anyone get too close. She learned that you smoked just those cigarettes, spending more than the usual price just to smoke it.
For what reason? She didn’t know.
She told herself she kept coming back to see you because of the potential connection to her maker but even she knew that explanation was flimsy. The honest version was simpler but something that Alexia struggled to admit: she was drawn to you.
She has found people attractive. She's tried to hook-up a couple times after she turned but it was nothing more than a way to satiate her lust. But the way she felt drawn to you... she hasn't felt that way since her maker.
Since the turning, Alexia had quietly let most things go: dinners out, drinks with friends, the typical social routines. It wasn’t all voluntary though; her circumstances just proved it difficult to do it all again.
Eating and drinking in front of people was something she couldn’t do; it was too much of a hassle to pretend that the food did not taste rancid in her mouth. Sitting across from someone at a table when you could already hear exactly what they thought of you before they'd finished deciding how to say it made conversation feel less like connection and more like a formality she was obligated to participate in. She had tried, for a while, to keep up the appearance of a normal social life. But it was all just too cumbersome that she had eventually stopped trying.
And it was mostly fine. She made peace with her solitude and her current routine: play football, feed, linger at the alleyway. It was enough. She didn’t long for any more human interaction outside football or her feeding. In fact, she somewhat repelled it, developing more introverted habits much to the confusion of her peers.
But with you, it was different. She was drawn to you, almost to an obsessive level. Finally, it was her turn to feel like a moth drawn to a flame.
III. The Lingering
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ "No, Lucia, I swear," you said, dropping back onto your best friend's bed as you finished telling her the story.
After the catering event, you couldn’t immediately tell Lucia what happened because your boss made you fill out an incident report, something about insurance or whatever for the glass cups you shattered. It was only a day later that you and your best friend had free time to dish it out, right after both of your respective other jobs.
But even now, talking to Lucia, it all felt surreal, as if it was a dream. If it weren’t for the gash on your arm, you would have thought that the entire thing was just a figment of your imagination. You stared at Lucia’s ceiling where she had tacked on some glow-in-the-dark stars. "It was intense and like… genuinely unsettling. But also kinda like a dream. Like part of me still feels like it was some sort of lucid, acid trip.
Lucia lay on her side beside you, head propped on her hand, furrowing her eyebrows.
"I mean," she said, "she does have that whole intense thing going on. Maybe she's just a bit sexually unusual and unhinged. Famous people usually are a bit freaky.”
“Freaky is one way to put it,” you scoffed. “It was more insane than anything. Like, if she wasn’t that hot, I would have screamed and reported her on the spot.” you said, laughing. "Like, who does that? Who makes out with someone you just met after you lick off your blood?”
Lucia went quiet, pausing to think. “What if she's a vampire?"
Your head turned to look at her, seeing her serious face, before bursting into laughter. "You're such a teenager!” You pushed on your best friend’s arm lightly. “Jesus, how many times have you rewatched Twilight?”
Lucia looked offended. “That… is between me and my Netflix watch history,” she responded. “But seriously, the blood licking then all that kissing your neck… and the whole otherworldly vibe?” Your best friend exclaimed as she pushed herself up to sit again, waving her hand around in an exaggerated manner, like a conspiracy theorist. “Not to mention she looks exactly the same as she did like, what, 10? 15 years ago? She hasn’t aged a bit.”
You continued laughing. “Again, rich people have access to botox and facelifts and all that shit. She probably goes to get that done regularly which is why she still looks so young.”
“Then explain how she’s still so good at the sport, how fast she is.” Lucia said, pointing almost accusatorily at you. “We’re more than a decade younger than she is and she still could probably run circles around us… exactly like a vampire would.”
“Ah yes, the infamous running-around-in-circles vampire thing,” you commented, sarcastically. “Lucia, the woman just retired. Clearly, she isn’t as fit as she was. I mean, still a great player but there are rumors that the reason she actually retired was that she got an injury or something after her last game. I doubt vampires could get injured.”
Lucia shook her head, stubborn. “Chica, did she look injured to you?” She prodded. “You’re just trying to be nice about this because you don’t want me to get jealous. Vampires and hot footballers – those are literally the tags I visit the most on Archive of Our Own.”
You laughed at your best friend. "You’re such a teenager.”
“And… maybe she puts a shit ton of foundation so she wouldn’t sparkle under the sun…” your best friend began to hypothesize.
You put a pillow over your face. "I hate you."
“So, you’re telling me that my theory is completely groundless,” Lucia asked. “Not even a part of you thinks she could be a vampire.
You laughed properly, finding it ridiculous that your best friend would even think that. But then again, what did you expect? Your first encounter with Lucia was her asking you if you wanted to go with her on a ghosthunting tour, just a few minutes into your first catering gig with the company. The event later turned out to be a roleplay gathering attended mostly by university students.
You lowered the pillow. "Lucia, Alexia is just a weirdo," you said. "A famous, extremely attractive weirdo. But still… a weirdo. That's the only explanation I'm accepting."
"Weirdo or vampire." Lucia prodded, as if bargaining.
"Weirdo." You paused, staring back at the ceiling. "Besides, a literal undead creature couldn't play professional football. She's out in the sun every match day. She'd burn."
"Or sparkle." Lucia pushed again.
"Chica.” You gave her a serious look.
She shrugged. "I'm just saying…"
Your alarm cut through the room, and you sat up, blinking. You'd completely lost track of the time; it was later than you'd meant to stay. It was good that you had an alarm or else you would have totally forgotten to return home.
“Oh shit, I totally got carried away with all this talking,” you said, getting up promptly, already reaching for your sweater off of the bean bag. "I have to go give Garfield her meds.”
Lucia frowned. "It's a bit late. I can walk with you and just stay over at yours so I don't have to come back.” She offered, clearly concerned that you would be walking alone at night.
"No, it’s fine. I didn't have time to clean up so my apartment is a fucking mess," you said, pulling the sweater over your head. "That's what working three jobs does to your living space, apparently."
"Three?" Lucia raised her eyebrows. "How do you have three jobs now? Didn’t you get fired from the bar too?"
"I didn't get fired; I quit. I had enough of that hell hole so I looked for another job." You took your coat from the hook on the back of her door. "There's a matcha place that just opened up five minutes from my apartment. It was paying the same amount but it meant that I didn’t have to deal with drunk pervs and shitty coworkers.”
You shook your head putting on your scarf, wrapping it around your neck. “Besides, this new job has better hours. I only work until 6 so I was able to pick up another job as a receptionist in a tattoo parlor.” You shared. “Mostly it’s been easy and I get weekend offs so I’m still free to take any catering gigs with you on weekends.”
Lucia looked at you the way she always did when she thought you were being insane about working yourself. "You know you're allowed to just… not do that to yourself." Lucia shook her head. “You work harder than a single mother of five.”
"Tell that to my fat, old cat and his expensive ass meds," you joked. "Keeping him alive costs more than my rent. Worth every cent, obviously, but still."
You pulled your coat on, checking your pockets for your keys. "Plus, I'm saving up. I want to take six months off next year and just… go. You know I’ve been talking about it for ages – how I’ll work my ass off for half a year then live in a bikini, by the beach, smoking and drinking to my heart’s desire for the other half. Of course, Garfield’s gotta come too.”
“Is he wearing a bikini too?” Lucia chuckled, shaking her head. "You know what, maybe I should pick up a second job and join you in that. It could be the three of us travelling the world: you, me, your clinically obese cat.”
"Oh that’d be fun," you said. "You should definitely come with us."
She walked you to the door of her apartment, leaning against the frame as you stepped into the hallway. "Text me when you're home," she said. “If you don’t text me, I’ll file a missing person report.”
You chuckled, waving her goodbye as you did.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ The cold met you immediately, crawling the small strip of skin at the back of your neck no matter how high you pulled your scarf. You tucked your chin down and walked, hands deep in your pockets, navigating the mostly empty streets with the particular awareness of someone used to walking alone at night.
Lucia's apartment was a comfortable fifteen-minute walk from yours. You knew the route well enough to do it half-asleep, which was sometimes essentially the case. Tonight the streets were quiet save for a few distant car sounds, and the high pitched wiring of the fluorescent light on in a nearby bus stop,
You put your AirPods in and let an upbeat playlist take over, turning the volume up until the cold felt more manageable, humming under your breath as you walked. Music always made walking at night better; it felt less lonely that way.
You were mid-song when you felt it.
There wasn’t a sound and not exactly a movement. It felt more internal, a distinct feeling or sensation of someone following you. You spun quickly, pulling out one of your AirPods as you did but the street behind you was completely empty.
"Hello?"
You stood there for a moment longer than was comfortable, eyes moving over every doorway and parked car within range. But ultimately, there was nothing. You turned back around slowly, jaw tight and muscles clenched and walked faster.
The vampire conversation with Lucia suddenly surfaced in your mind and you pressed it back down with the thought that what you actually needed to worry about was real people, the usual people who lurked in the night, not fictional creatures. You turned the volume back up and didn't let yourself panic, even though deep down inside, a part of you could feel that familiar feeling of the adrenaline and anxiety of being followed.
part one | part two | part three
a/n: didn't want to keep you guys waiting especially since i have written this part ages ago haha, just tweaked it a bit. i cannot give a date for part 3. i'll be a bit busy soon but i'll try to work on it whenever i have time.
