We will smile to end each day in places we won't walk
About the time Alexia tore her ACL and your recovery plan include ragebaiting her into trusting you
》 part 2, Children cry and laugh and play, slowly hair will turn to grey
》 Alexia Putellas x Physio!Reader
》 words count: +16.4k
》 Ein Stück des Weges gemeinsam gehen [German, idiom]: (lit.) To walk a part of the journey together; (id.) To cross paths for a while; (fig.) To share a chapter of life
“I just don’t understand why we’re changing the plan now, like this–”
Alexia’s tone is sharp, arms wrapped tight across her chest. She isn’t simply annoyed, she’s vibrating with a dangerous fury.
The room tenses even more, unspoken words and worries filling the air in a way that is almost suffocating.
Every single person here knows why a change of plan is needed, no one seems too keen to voice it. The most recent scans are passed from hand to hand, like the answers are somehow hidden in the papers scattered on the table.
Jonatan straightens up, his gaze darting around for backup among the men in suits crowding the space. The footballer’s personal trainer doesn’t have any useful insights or significant observations, the medical staff doesn’t offer any idea or suggestion that could explain the situation.
“Because you aren’t recovering the way we hoped”
Everyone turns to you, speaking for the very first time since this disaster of a meeting started.
Someone stiffen, breathing deeply but silently, so as not to trigger the metaphorical bomb. They’re all used to your blunt honesty, they should not be surprised. If anything, the fact you waited until this moment to speak out is unusual. Barcelona’s head coach glances at you, only a second, before moving to the other side of the table, studying the captain.
For the first time since she walked in, Alexia’s eyes found yours.
“Am I wrong?”, you continue, gaze fixed on her, “Or are we all dancing around the real reason we are all here?”
“I couldn’t put it quite that way”, a bold man from management interjects.
“Since when softening the blow has done the players any good?”
“We’re not starting now”, Patricio, the head of the medical team, interrupts, trying to make order before this blows out of proportion.
“An ACL recovery is not a linear path”
“Yeah, but it’s not supposed to be a downfall either”
The voice raising from someone on her team is rigid, mask of professionalism cracking under the pressure of the situation and the reason behind the meeting, “What are you implying?”
It may not be their fault Alexia’s injury is not progressing as well as everyone is hoping, it’s no one’s fault really, but they are definitely not doing enough to improve the situation.
Until now.
“No one is implying anything”, Patricio states once again, too calm. “We’re looking at the scans, the tests, the assessments. We suggest a different approach. Alexia is significantly behind schedule–”
“Stop talking like I’m not here!”
Alexia rises from her seat, the legs of the chair scrape on the floor unpleasantly. She quickly uncrosses her arms to drop her hands on the table, loud.
A sign of irritation, for most.
To you, the movement is a subtle, betraying evidence – her knee failing to support the weight of her own indignation.
If possible, the stiff air tenses even more. An uncomfortable silence cast a veil on any attempt of explanation, any tentative hint of reasoning. There’s no space for understanding when everyone has a different take on the situation, different motivation.
Alexia has never felt so alone in a room full of people there for her.
No one is looking at her, no one is seeing her.
No one is understanding.
They’re all too busy trying to assess the damage, to uncover the reasoning behind this failing approach. To fix her.
What went wrong?
Was it the surgical reconstruction? The treatments? Maybe the entire rehabilitation protocol?
What can be done to fix it?
There’s a voice in Alexia’s head, loud and sharp – What if I am the problem?
Around the table, the discussion rises again in hushed tones and pointless remarks. You’re not talking, the only person you want to listen to you is currently trapped inside her own mind.
What’s the point if she isn’t listening?
After a failed attempt of getting her attention, the midfielder jolts away when her personal trainer puts a hand on her shoulder. She’s suddenly awakened, back in the room she wishes to flee as soon as possible.
“Do I have a say in this?”, she challenges, ignoring their questions.
“She’s one of the best physios we got and her programmes are solid”, Patricio says, pointing at you with a pen and the trace of a tired smile, “She’s also the best rehabilitation physical therapist you could ask for”
“I’m not asking–”
Jonatan cuts off, appearing more firm than she has even seen him. “No, Alexia, you don’t have a say in this–”
“You do”, you interject, speaking directly to her without a care of the other people’s gazes. The resolution in your voice is final, “You have a say. Give me one conversation, once chance. Then you can decide”
And just like that, the meeting is over.
~
The first time your fingers graced her knee is to tape her before yet another interview. You are the only physio already in the facility and she doesn’t want to be in front of the camera with such discomfort.
In between awards for her performances throughout the previous season, the irony of her own body’s betrayal could be funny if not so fucking painful.
“Do you have a favourite colour?”, you ask while she reluctantly hoists herself onto the treatment bed without muttering a response.
She can’t tell if you’re making fun of her or joking around.
“Just whatever, I’m already late”
“As you wish”
Your hands are fast and precise, cutting and stretching the tape as if the motions come naturally – as if you don’t need to think where to put it. The footballer fixes her gaze on the ceiling, taking in the smell of medical cream, while you work on her with a care she’s too stubborn to acknowledge.
You don’t comment about the way her muscles twitch under your fingers, both from pain and from the intrusion in her personal space.
“Done! You like it?”
She scoffs as soon as she notices the colourful pattern covering her knee, definitely not subtle under the shorts. It’s the most stable she felt in a long time, but she’s not going to comment that out.
“You think you’re funny”
“I have plenty more where that came from”, you claim as you leave the room – not before patting her calf with a grin.
~
Three days later, pacing in the treatment room, Alexia is making it impossible for Irene to enjoy her recovery session.
It’s not like she’s hiding, or stopping Carlos to do his job.
She’s simply there.
Relentless, stiff in her movements, yet stubborn. Complaining, muttering under her breath, not making any sense. Not listening. Pacing.
As if someone could call it pacing.
“Can you, at least, stop grumbling?”
“I prefer she sits down”, the older man states, his hands firm on the defender’s calf. “But I agree, the grumbling is quite annoying”
Alexia doesn’t respond, but she sinks into a chair.
It is due to the fatigue more than anything else, her friend and the physio think, but they’re nice enough to not point it out. They all know anyway.
After a couple minutes of just silence and the distinctive smell of sports cream to fill the space, Carlos speaks out without even looking away from his hands working on stiff muscles, “She really is one of the best”
“I don’t doubt that”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Alexia must have spoken with you a handful of times since you joined Barcelona’s medical team a couple of months prior to her injury. Someone said you accepted the job to gather more data for your research, someone else said you’re waiting for a challenge.
All she knows is you never treated her, not even once. And this is a problem for her.
Alexia doesn’t trust you.
She’s used to her routine, she’s comfortable in her own circle. Not trusting easily, the ones close to the midfielder are people she picked herself, people she knows care about her as much as she cares about them.
“Why don’t you have a problem with them dismissing your programme?”, the blonde asks, almost upset.
Carlos has been with Barça since she can remember, by her side from the very first senior team’s call up. He’s a good one, reliable and experienced. Trusted.
But the rehabilitation programme that her personal trainer and the club planned, crafted around her and her needs, is not working. She can feel it, right through tired bones and fucked-up ligaments.
The older man doesn’t answer, he wraps some tape around Irene’s calf, patting her gently to let her know he’s done. The defender cracks a smile, dropping off the massage table and making her way to the door – not before giving an encouraging squeeze at her teammate’s shoulder.
Once they’re alone he admits, “I asked for her to take over”
“What?”
“Alexia, our plan is not working and you deserve a better one”
“I trust yours”
“I know, but it’s not working”
They all know.
It’s clear, loud and easy to read between the lines of the failed tests and poor assessments’ results.
Alexia is suddenly grateful for the chair supporting her weight, her legs once again not able to support the cruel reality of her injury. She feels sick, tired.
But, most of all, hopeless.
“Give her a chance”
~
The next week passes in a blur of meticulous measurements – the movements Alexia is barely able to complete, the portions of a new diet, the data in a progress’ chart she doesn’t understand.
The team is outside, training in full swing after the first matches of the season.
It feels wrong, not being there with them.
On the field.
But she’s here, sidelined. Forced in a gym that smells like someone else’s sweat and cold metal.
Carlos is scribbling on a notepad, shaking his head and avoiding her gaze. Patricio hovers around, like he doesn’t have something more important to do. Even her own personal trainer made the journey, like this new set of tests is some monumental event.
The eyes of the entire group are on her, scrutinizing each single movement and twitch of her body – every time her knee fails to do what suppose to. Pointing out every second more she needs to catch her own breath, every evaluating point she’s missing, every sequence she’s executing with a hint of hesitation.
Alexia hates this, but she’s probably hating herself more.
“Does it take three people to hold a goniometer and two more to count?”, you comment in passing, entering the gym to seek some rubber bands.
It’s clear as the day, bright as just the city towards the end of summer can be, that the midfielder is uncomfortable.
You don’t stop long, but you catch Carlos’ tired hint of a smile and his dismissal of the rest of the party.
~
Barcelona had an amazing season last year.
Winning, breaking records, dominating in all competitions.
Alexia loved every single minute of every single game, even the one when they weren’t winning yet. Every pass, every goal, every loud cheer from the stands. She lived through it all, like a force inside filling her blood.
But now, as she enters the Théâtre du Châtelet for another awards ceremony, she almost resents it.
Not any awards ceremony, this one time.
The Ballon d’Or.
Last year was magical, unbelievable. It felt like an honour she doesn’t deserve and a recognition she fought her entire life for. Humbly accepted, raised with both gratitude and the distinctive emotion that constricts the chest with pride – she earned it.
This year, before separating to be guided to their seats by a nervous usher, Alba jokes about causing a scene to put her out of her misery. Nothing more than a signal and they can flee through a back door. The blonde genuinely thinks about it, then shakes her head, amused by her sister and her loyalty.
The ceremony passes in a blur of polite smiles and well timed applause, rehearsed speeches and some genuine reactions. Time stretches slowly as she smooths nonexistent creases in her dress and holds on fresh memories.
Ada Hegerberg shifts beside her, subtly nudging on her arm as a clip plays out to introduce their category. She’s very nice.
When Alexia hears her own name she rises on her feet, confidently, and blocks everything out. The rhythmic clapping of the crowd, the flashes and strategically placed lights of the stage. The silk of her gown catches on the compression sleeve hidden beneath, the itchy reminder that the woman on the screen isn’t in the room.
She smiles, she lifts the trophy in favor of the camera, she does her speech.
The gold ball is heavy, heavier than the first time. And for a moment, even if just for a brief one, holding the biggest individual recognition in football in front of these people, she thinks she doesn’t deserve it.
*
The office given to you is one of the smallest ones in the facility, but the windows are big and overlook the main training field so you don’t complain. As the last arrived, it’s not like you can be picky.
In the quiet time between the end of the season and the start of the Euros tournament, your sister Cris dragged you to buy more furniture the room can actually fit. She sat on a chair without legs while you tried to build everything, following the instructions word by word. She judged, didn’t lift a finger, and sipped a drink way too loudly.
Despite the lack of support, you managed to do a decent job.
The bookshelves covering an entire wall are filled with manuals, publications, and volumes with penciled notations and folded corners. Some have faded traces of comments back from your university years, others are untouched for you to find the time and willpower to get through them.
Small vases and green plants cover any available surface, meticulously watered every morning by a schedule you follow like religion to make sure they all get the needed attention.
The chairs in front of the desk have all their legs and a stuffed walrus, once belonging to your nephew, is towering over one. The examination bed on the side makes a questionable sound every time someone sits on it, but the poster with an unhinged motivational quote is a good enough distraction.
The door is ajar when you sense someone approaching, still busy answering a few emails with music playing softly in the background. Not loud enough to disturb anyone, but enough to fight the irritating rhythm of your typing.
Alexia’s presence is heavy, the crutches restrict her movements as she hover by the entrance. You’re not sure if she will say anything, not even assuming she is going to take a seat.
Maybe, for now, acknowledging you as a possibility is enough.
“I’m interrupting a session?”, she asks, pointing the toy in front of you with a nod.
It’s her first time in your office.
“He’s my assistant”, you reply, playing along with mock seriousness, “Please, meet Dr. Wallace. He’s a bit of a prick, honestly. Very self-conceited. But he does overtime with me, so I let it slide”
The Catalan woman doesn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitches.
You will take it.
When she fully enters the room you stop the music and close your computer, leaving space for the enthusiastic voices of the B team training outside. She slowly settles into the free chair, almost reaching for the stuffed animal before closing her hand in a fist on her lap.
You pretend not to notice and she ignores your smugness.
“How do you know your plan is going to work?”, she asks after a moment, straight to the point.
“I don’t know”
That makes her hesitate, tensing up under your gaze.
She’d already be out of the office if not for the lingering discomfort in her knee, subsided by the position. The mere thought of getting on her feet is painful enough.
“Alexia, I don’t know you”, you find her eyes, as sincere as possible, “I’ve seen all your exams and all your scans, read over all the assessments and my colleagues notes. I’ve done the math. Twice. But I don’t know yet”
Honesty is better than a lie, at least you’re sure of that.
They are giving her timelines based on sponsor deals and trophies and hopes. It’s dangerous, you tell her as much.
“Then why should I trust you?”
“Because I don’t have assumptions or pretenses to know it all. This is a career-threatening injury, rehab is not like any other. And all ACL tears are different, so every recovery is different”
“You’re saying there’s no plan”
“I’m saying I want to understand it, first. I’m saying I want to map out where we actually are, beyond textbooks and expectations–”
You can tell she’s not reassured, so you try again. “If it makes you feel better, Dr. Wallace and I do have a plan. I’m not a complete fraud, I know what I’m doing. I’m telling you we will adjust on the way, we will find the best path as we go”
The tension in her shoulders loosened a little. It doesn’t disappear, but she doesn’t appear frozen on the spot – helpless.
Alexia doesn’t really trust you yet, not after only a simple conversation and some measured words of commitment. Nevertheless, she stays. She lets you explain, she listens.
It’s a tiny step, but it’s a step forward and that’s already progress.
*
The atmosphere at the Estadi Johan Cruyff is incredible, thousands of supporters waving the Blaugrana colours and signing their hearts out. It’s such a different perspective from the one you’re used to. From your seats, you can even smell the freshly cut grass.
It’s not bad, just different.
“You look like you’ve never watched a football game in your life”
When you turn to her, Alexia’s eyes are fixed on the pitch, but the lips twitch in a smirk. She’s perched on the edge of the seat as if nothing could stop her to sprint on the grass – despite the injured leg stretched out. A signal, a moment of distraction, and she will run to where she truly belongs.
“How does the offside rule work, once again?”, you bait.
It’s still a bit tense between the two of you. It’s not uncomfortable, but she doesn’t trust you yet.
However, her answers don’t consist entirely of grunts and monosyllables anymore. She doesn’t roll her eyes at your questions, scoffing as she repeats the same movements over and over again until you’re satisfied. She still flinches when you touch her knee, subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you see it. You feel it under your fingers.
But you’re moving forward, one step at a time.
“How did you even end up here?”, she asks with a hint of curiosity in the way her gaze shifts on you.
“Well– They begged me to fix the face of women football in Europe”
“And when I start considering the idea you’re not as bad as I thought”
“Bold to you to assume I will not get worst”
The midfielder smiles, despite herself.
For the rest of the game, you let her be herself.
She needs to watch, studying it. She needs her space because she can’t do much besides cheering for her teammates, giving out instructions and pointing out some obvious tactics she is able to spot even from the sideline.
On the pitch, the team’s confidence is growing at each pass. It’s just a matter of time before an idea will spark and a play will change the curse of the events.
The Barça captain spots it before you, obviously.
Probably before everyone else.
Aitana cuts between the opposing squad’s lines, finding Keira with a sharp pass. The ball is back on her feet like nothing, two players out of position to try to block her run. On the stands, Alexia leaps up from her seat as soon as she catches movement on the box. The younger midfielder sees it too, shifting and hitting a lob that sailed over the defenders. Beside you, the blonde cheers even before Pina nudges the ball in the back of the net.
As simple as that, like second nature.
Like it couldn’t be any other way.
You may be not really into the game itself, but even you can tell Alexia belongs in a football pitch.
~
The award season is in full bloom, going as strong as Alexia’s recovery, but a blinding contrast to her rehabilitation’s reality.
She’s progressing in weight-bearing, but her range of motion is still disappointing. The exercises and tests outlined in the previous rehab programme left space for your own observations and insights.
At first, you observed close by – writing on a small, yellow notebook. It’s irritating. The pen danced on paper every time Alexia tried a movement or even hesitated before completing an exercise, like a rhythmic judgment as loud as her own muscles.
Now, notebook fully scribbled with your handwriting, all you do is order her around, talking and teasing.
~
The day following Barcelona’s victory against Bayern Munich in the first match of the season held at Camp Nou, Alexia barges into your office after spending at least ten minutes pacing in the corridor.
As much as she can pace with a swollen knee and bruised ego.
The team is showing up, maintaining their perfect streak and scoring goals as if setting records after records is a normal Thursday.
They are doing everything they can to make the captain feel included. She keeps her turn in choosing the matchday playlist, even if her name is stuck on the list of unavailable players. She travels with the squad when possible and watches training from the sideline if the schedule doesn’t interfere with her own rehabilitation.
But it’s not the same thing.
Alexia wants to get back.
“You can take over”, she states.
“Please, come in and take a seat”, you say back, gesturing to the chair in front of you without even taking your eyes off the laptop.
For a few minutes, the only noise in the room is the rhyming typing. You mutter something under your breath every time the in-box lights up with a new message, trying your best to ignore Alexia’s good leg bouncing under the desk.
It makes your eyes twitch.
“You done?”
“You heard me?”, she retorts, not stopping.
You have to write the next email three times before it starts to sound less passive-aggressive and more professional, gaze still fixed on the screen. You still have to water your plants.
“I heard you– I just not believe you”
“Try me”
The laptop closes firmly in front of you, physically removing the last barrier between your eyes and hers. You study her, silently. Her frown, arms wrapped around her torso, jaw clenched. The leg is still bouncing, as if to challenge your patience.
“You fully in?”
“Yes”
“You trust me?”
Alexia doesn’t answer right away, you know it’s an unfair question.
But she’s here, she’s in front of you, asking for help.
After looking you up, searching online your published medical articles on ACL injuries in female sports. After learning about your studies and other athletes you helped before coming to Barcelona. A world champion skier who won another title three months after coming back, some basketball players with the fastest recovery in the league, footballers who praise you on every given opportunity.
She digs so much she even found your high school final thesis and your personal Instagram account.
“I’m willing to”, she says so honestly you’re almost taken aback.
The silence that fills the room after that is not uncomfortable, but definitely charged. At least her leg stops the annoying bouncing movement, gaze fixed on you as you pick the yellow notebook out of nowhere.
“I will take it”
~
The time when Alexia couldn’t even spare you of a single glance was pivotal in your observation.
She was too focused on her rehab, too focused doing every exercise with commitment, too focused on pushing way too hard during the tests. She didn’t notice how you took everything in – not at first.
The movements, studied and unconscious ones alike. The frown on her face, the grimaces and the discomfort badly hidden. The way her knee reacted against her will, moving on its own commands or not moving at all. The stubbornness, the pushing too much too soon. The disappointing results and the numbers making no sense out of context.
You noticed everything and you noted it.
A pattern forming, a routine outlining right in front of your eyes.
The barriers of ACL injury are usually hidden, the hardest ones buried so well that are almost impossible to uncover. Even after recovery. It’s not just a torn ligament, it’s a disconnection. The brain screams commands that, no matter how loud, the body will not listen – will not obey.
“Make yourself comfortable”, you gesture as soon as Alexia enters the treatment room.
The physiotherapy bed is built to be uncomfortable, she is sure about it, but nothing in the rehabilitation process has been comfortable so far.
“Someone explained to you what Arthrogenic Muscle Inhibition is?”
“I looked it up online”
“I could make you run a few laps for that sentence alone”, you comment, only half-joking. “You’re lucky your knee is so fucked up it could be child abuse or something”
You push a machine closer, working on setting it up before scanning Alexia.
Sometimes showing the problem, making it as real as possible, it’s the only way to really face it.
“The surgery is a trauma. A trauma more severe than the injury itself”
“I definitely feel traumatised”, she retorts, skeptical about your explanation.
“Oh, she has jokes”, you say to no one in particular, slightly amused but used to athletes’ emotional reactions to such situations. “The brain’s response to this kind of trauma is cutting out the connection with the danger zone – the knee, in your case. It’s like your brain is trying to protect your body from more damage”
It’s a defence mechanism, really.
Her quad is not strong enough, making even lifting her leg a challenge. Her left thigh is still significantly smaller than her right one, despite the hard work. And because she couldn’t use her quad to stabilize her knee, she started walking by “locking” her knee or swinging her hip. A limp you noticed immediately, slowing down recovery.
Alexia stares at her leg, as if to rebuild that connection with will force only.
If someone can, it’s probably her.
“It’s a vicious cycle, one of the many someone can fall into in rehab, but we can break it– if I’m annoying enough”
She jolts when you place the cold electrode pads on her thigh and knee, targeting the muscle group you want to stimulate.
“We can’t fix AMI with traditional weightlifting, so we trick your brain”, you say with a grin so open the footballer has to raise an eyebrow.
“Why do I sense you’re gonna enjoy this?”
“I’m gonna enjoy it more than you”
You explain how the NMES machine works as simply as you can.
The device sends an electrical current, basically forcing a contraction without the brain’s permission. The stimulated nerves trigger the muscles to contract and relax, similar to voluntary movement, but controlled externally. The brain sees the muscle moving, sees it can do it without more damage, and starts to trust it again.
“Wanna see something fun?”, you ask her after a few minutes, turning a screen with different graphs in her direction.
“I don’t like your idea of fun”
“Squeeze”
Alexia does, just to prove a point.
The line on the screen barely moves.
“That’s pretty embarrassing”, you comment, “They might want the shiny gold ball back”
“They should take back your medical license”
The machine hums with a low-frequency buzz that feels like energy crawling under the footballer’s skin. You watch her face as the current forces the muscles to jump, forces the brain to remember the leg still belongs to Alexia and Alexia only.
You smirk, “Make the line hit the red zone”
She tries again a few times, fixated more on the muscle and ignoring the indistinctive voices of her teammates coming in for recovery after their training session.
You tap with insistence at a spot on the screen.
Finally, the line spikes.
“It’s alive!”
Alexia looks at you, and, for the first time, there is a genuine smile on her face – despite her frustration.
~
After the first few real sessions, Alexia’s commitments to your rehabilitation programme surprised everyone but you.
The midfielder is still pretty vocal about her complaints and her doubts, skeptics about your methods. She may do the exercises with a frown, but she does them all. She follows your advice, she doesn’t push too hard on her own.
It’s not like you ever questioned her professionalism or her dedication, but you’re not taking her trust for granted.
You are slowly earning it, proving something to her.
And she’s proving something to you too.
Carlos comes to you one afternoon, hands behind his back. The gym session allows the injured players and the team to train together for a few hours. The two of you observe the girls doing their own circuits, sometimes more competitive than required and sometimes missing a beat or two to mess around.
You try to pay attention to everyone, observing all the players. The team is a blur of energy and loud laughter.
Lucy Bronze is close to breaking some personal records, while Claudia and Mariona are balancing each other so well you may start pairing them for physio sessions to save yourself from the younger girl’s enthusiasm. Vicky Lopes, recently promoted from the B team, is trying to prove something or pulling a muscle – you make a mental note to talk with her.
Your eyes, however, shift towards a corner every few minutes.
Alexia is doing her own exercises with precision, pushing her knee enough to feel something. You can tell she’s holding back, she wants to do more, but she is learning to listen when her body is asking to stop – not letting her stubborn mind convince her to keep going.
“I hoped she could let you in”, Carlos says after a while, gaze fixed in the same direction.
"Barely"
“Still means a lot, trust me”
You smile, not doubting it for a second.
~
Before the Christmas lights are rummaged out from basements, you are already checking out presents after presents for all the people in your life.
It may be simply hatred for the season, or a more profound trauma you’re not going to unpack with a therapist, but you can’t be bothered with the holiday spirit. So you plan ahead and make sure you do everything you have to do before everyone else spirals in a limbo of repetitive songs and ugly sweaters.
“You better come home for Christmas”, your sister says, her voice ringing in your head as you try to decide between two pretty much identical decorative ornaments your grandma not-so-subtly have been sending you for weeks now.
Her timing should be studied.
“I’m working that week”
“You work all weeks, even the Pope takes days off”
You shouldn’t have picked the phone.
“I don’t do Christmas, you know that”, you try again, giving up and dropping into the shopping chart both the identical ugly crystal Santa’s hats.
“I know you don’t do Christmas, but you’re going to send nana to the Creator sooner than planned if you skip another one–”
Cris pauses for a moment, barely enough for you to hope she’s dropping the topic, but then you hear the familiar sounds of your nephew’s adventures, commotions, and your efficient clean up.
It’s over before it even starts.
“Teach me your tricks, some of my patients act so much like child I could use them”
“They still work with you too, I’m not that stupid”, she retorts, wise as only a big sister can be. “Your said patients don’t do Christmas?”
“Rehab doesn’t and I have already called nana”
You check out of your mental lists a few more items, heading to the cashier’s desk after a quick run in the sweets’ section. Everyone has their own weakness.
“What did she say?”
“That I’m gonna send her to the Creator too soon”
After a few days of radio silence from your sister you almost believe she dropped the topic.
Wishful thinking.
Cris calls early in the morning, knowing you’re probably getting ready for the day and it’s not so easy to escape her. Plants watered and office set up, her voice fills the room while you’re half-listening to her and throwing together data in some research papers.
“You can send emails from home”
“Not convincing me with remote work”, you fight back, tempted to remind her once again, even if you don’t have patients on Christmas, you still have research papers that could use your focus.
It’s a part of the job you really love, especially the work you’re putting in with some colleagues in England to investigate the causes, consequences, and prevention of ACL injuries in women’s sports.
“It could be grandma’s last Christmas"
“She tries that every year, it’s doesn’t work when she has a better life expectancy than mine”
The gentle knock on your door makes you pause, time bantering with your sister flying faster than you realised. Alexia takes a seat on the treatment bed with a dismissive nod when you gesture an excuse with your free hand, trying to wrap the call.
You love Cris, but she is relentless.
“I have to go, I will call you tomorrow if you stop be annoying”
“Fine, but this is not over”, she concedes before firing off her last shot, “Your nephew likes Christmas and he miss you”
“This is emotional blackmail”
The call ends just like that, with a sentimental whiplash you both know works way too well. The methods can be as brutes as effective.
“Troubles?”, Alexia asks with a smirk, her legs swinging like an impatient child who would really like to be entertained.
“My sister is a pain in my ass”
“Younger?”
“Older”, you correct, motion her to lie down so you can check her knee and assert a few movements, evaluating her range of motion.
“She lives close?”
You usually don’t indulge conversations too personal, but since Alexia seems curious enough to let you do your tests and measurements without the usual grumbles and complaints, you indulge her.
So tell her– some things.
The years apart when you studied or worked abroad, the times your mother disappeared for weeks to some absurd places with a few days notice as soon as you and your sister were old enough to survive on your own. Cris’ presence, even from a far, always warm and always strong. Your nephew, Toby, the one and only man of your life, so wild and unbothered by chipped teeth and scraped knees. The decades-long fight against Christmas.
The session stretches out in a tangle of shared childhood memories, blurred family stories and tradition, ways to survive loud affection from loved ones.
The next day, when you enter your office barely five minutes later than usual, Dr. Wallace is dressed in a tiny Christmas hat waiting for you on the desk.
~
Winter in Barcelona is different from what you’re used to, never quite freezing or biting into the bones. It’s like even the weather is trying to sweeten you, charming you into believing snow can be warm too here.
It’s cold outside when Alexia comes into your office, trying to hide her limp. You can read her body better than her right now, you don’t even need to see her knee to know it is swollen.
Too swollen.
It was fine yesterday, perfectly iced after a few exercises on the treadmill. You didn’t lecture her about not pushing too much, trusting your cautious approach about this amazing progress.
You trusted her to trust you.
You ask her once if she pushed at home, alone.
The session is cancelled even before the lie is completely out of her mouth.
“Take a ride home, we have nothing to do here today. Ice it before and after some stretching exercises, don’t you dare weightlift a single kilogram”, the deafening absence of anger in your voice is worse than any fight she was bracing for. “If you want to do my job, go get the degree. If you want to be Alexia Putellas, stop self-sabotage and trust me”
~
They keep handing Alexia awards, praising her performances and reassuring her she’s going to come back even stronger. She smiles politely, shakes hands and says exactly what they want to hear.
Every time a new trophy is added to the list, she is not sure if she needs to scream so loud they will question her sanity, or if she needs to cry so much to risk dehydration. Maybe she should punch something so hard the ACL couldn’t be the most severe injury.
The brighter side is, every physio session after another title for the previous season is announced, you try to ragebait her into a new milestone.
Questionable tactics, but efficient.
“In the 2022 edition of the International Federation of Football History & Statistics Women's Awards– well, that is mouthful”, you read out loud, looking at the phone while the footballer is fighting against resistance bands under the watchful eye of Dr. Wallace. “Alexia Putellas won the Player of the Year award for a record second time. She also won the Playmaker of the Year award for the second time– what a showoff, with teammates Keira Walsh and Aitana Bonmatí placing third and fourth respectively”
“Are you done?”
“Are you done with your exercise?”
“I did a rep more”
You know, you can multitask.
“Dr. Wallace says your form was questionable”
As a good enough answer, she flinches the band to knock the peluche off the chair carefully placed right in front her. You gasp in pure shock, bringing a hand on your chest for good measure.
She wants to be dramatic? You can put on an Emmy-worthy show.
“You know what? You could use ten minute of heel prop”
“Oh, come on!”
It’s a passive extension exercise, nothing too crazy, but Alexia hates it. She has to sit with her heel propped up on something and with nothing supporting her knee, letting gravity pull it into full extension. And she must sit perfectly still, so there’s nothing to distract her from the dull, grinding ache in the back of the knee joint.
When she’s really annoying, you even stop the music playing softly in the background during your sessions, making her sit in complete silence while you watch her with a sardonic grin.
“If you move your pretty leg by one centimeter, I’m resetting the timer”
“Whatever, I know you never set it right anyway”, she mutters as she places the poor staffed animal under the heel for support.
~
The schedule in January is packed and challenging. The squad travels back and forth, preparing for the Champions League knockout stages while also defending the Supercopa title and messing up the Copa de la Reina one.
After reluctantly overhearing a quite animated phone call about the RFEF being the RFEF, Alexia’s muscles tensing under your hands even if you’re trying your best to do the opposite, you think it is time for a miracle.
“I have a Christmas present for you”, you say out of nowhere as the blonde Catalan finishes with her stretching.
“A bit late”
“Do you want it or not?”
She follows you outside, skeptical. It’s a misty morning at the training ground, empty since the team is away for a game. You stop on the sideline, right in the middle of the pitch, and Alexia almost collides into your back.
“You remember how to jog?”
“Barely”
“I will take it”, you step onto the pitch, pushing up the zip of your jacket and clapping your hands to get her attention. “Straight jog, nothing fancy. Follow the midfield line and don’t die”
At least ten different emotions pass on Alexia’s face, one trembling over the other and mixing together. It looks like relief, before turning into panic, to finally set on pure determination. She braces herself on the sideline like she’s ready to fight an army with bare hands and one good leg.
It definitely feels that monumental.
You’re now used to the Spanish theatrics, “They don’t pay me for my overtime, you know”
The athlete scoffs, shaking her head to hide a smile. She takes a deep breath and then walks in on the grass. She reaches the center of the pitch before actually starting to jog. You push her gently, but firmly, to the other end and follow close behind.
“My grandma can do better than this and they had to amputate her diabetic foot”
“I bet your family is so proud of you”
“I am, indeed, the golden child”, you retort, happy with the few jogs on the line and the growing confidence.
Until you see her immediately stop, face pale and trembling. She drops on the ground a moment after you reach her, taking her hands away from her knee.
“Talk to me”
“It popped”
Oh.
A whisper, genuine fear in her words, “I felt it pop”
You don’t say anything, just hold her gaze long enough for her to focus on your breathing and slow down her panic.
When she’s back on the earth with you, when your hands on her knee don’t feel like a ghost, you perform the Lachman test right there on the grass, pulling the tibia forward to check the ACL’s integrity.
It’s perfect.
The graft is as strong as it could be, firmer than the one she was born with. You tell her as much. Honest, understanding.
“It’s scar tissue snapping. It’s fine, it’s a good thing. It sounds worse than it is– It means the joint is opening up”
A pause.
Then, she exhales.
“If you fucked my knee again– I swear, I’ll kill you”
“First, I could love to see you try with a fucked knee”, you retort with a genuine smile, helping her up with ease. “Second, you still have to do a full lap before we’re done here”
“I almost died”
“I'm going to walk behind you. If you slow down, I’mma trip you. Vamos!”
She doesn’t doubt you for a second.
~
The other girls find out about Alexia’s first jog and it’s a chaotic mess of cheering and hugging. It’s good to see them so happy about their captain’s progress, celebrating a step forward as something monumental.
It warms your heart, even if you don’t really belong there.
It’s difficult to have such a strong bond in such competitive environments. Alexia misses her teammates in a way it’s impossible to hide, despite the professional and detached mask she still puts on sometimes. But you have been watching her for months now, you can tell when a veil of pain covers her eyes.
When the squad’s loud excitement flows from the training ground to the treatment room, when they run around the grass and she’s stuck on the sideline – or worse, on the stands. When they travel for games, she’s learning to move again.
When she feels like she’s not really part of the team because of her injury.
You see it and you can do something about it.
Small, but still something.
So you plot with Patri and a few of the younger girls, involving Irene for a semblance of professionalism.
Alexia comes into the gym for her morning session with the entire team waiting for her, grins on their faces and hands behind their backs.
She senses danger immediately.
“What is this?”
“Team bonding”, you answer, eyes lighting up with a spark she has never seen before. “Please, stand on the foam pad”
She does, because she’s committed to the recovery plan, but when she notices Dr. Wallace on the ground with a tennis ball nearby, she knows she’s in trouble.
Even the stuffed animal is threatening her.
“Now, please, try to survive”
Before the footballer can utter a word out, her own teammates, one by one, start to draw tennis balls at her. Lightly at first, avoiding her bad leg and just being as annoying as possible. When the captain gains confidence on the unstable pad, some balls come faster and she even goes as far as catching a few to throw back.
The room fills with more laughs than ever for such a place, releasing a tension built on more than one person. You let them play for a while, before the girls have to leave for their own training.
“I saw you aiming to my head”, she claims, helping you gather the offending items.
If you manage to fire a ball or two yourself it is to test the progress.
It’s research, really.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about”
“Dr. Wallace has better aiming than you”
As a good enough answer, you throw a ball in her stomach, making her fold dramatically – still smiling.
“Get back on the foam pad”
“Are you actually trying to kill me?”
“I had to make sure your balance is good enough”, you explain, moving your hands around. “Stand on the fucked up leg and close your eyes. Without visual cues, your brain has to rely entirely on internal sensors. Let’s build your instincts back”
Alexia wobbles violently, losing her balance more times than not. She keeps trying. You stand behind her, arms protectively around her without touching.
It gets better, before it gets worse.
It happens so fast you don’t have time to brace yourself.
Her knee gives up and she drops back, falling on your chest and crushing the two of you on the ground. Your arms are still wrapped around the athlete, as if still steading her.
The laughter that erupts from you is full, straight out from the belly. She follows soon after, laughing in a way you haven’t possible.
A sound you will do everything in your power to hear again.
~
“Are you sure about it?”, Jonatan asks.
The men crowding the room are both hesitant and hopeful, not used to hanging on every word of a woman.
It’s irritating and empowering at the same time.
They know they have to listen, they know you’re the only one with the answers to their questions. But that is definitely not stopping them to doubt, to inquire – to just believe they know better.
They don’t.
“Do I look unsure?”, you fight back, too calm for someone who spent the past half hour sharing the reasons behind her choices and her decisions.
“The results–”
“The results are one of the reasons why I’m sure”
“There’s been undeniable progress”, Patricio interject, impressed by the tests and evaluations, “The ones upstairs want to make sure the time is right”
You don’t roll your eyes at the political talks, but the unsaid is loud enough.
The ones who bet on you want to know if taking a leap, trusting you to get one of their most valuable players back on her feet, worth it. They want to know if she’s back on her feet properly – to run, to score, to win.
The ones who care more about the club, the face of football, want to know if their precious Ballon d’Or winner would get back.
They want to know if such a huge symbol of Barça colours would still shine as bright.
They want to know if Alexia Putellas is still a name they like to hear chanted from the stands, if it is still their Alexia Putellas.
The ones who don’t dare to say it out loud want to make sure the injury hasn’t ruined her forever.
The ones who care about Alexia want to know if she’s really ready to be back.
“You have the numbers, the scans, the tests and even my notes, right here to review on your own if you’d like”, you state, final. “This is my professional opinion, and, mind you, I’m the one who actually got the progress we currently discussing”
“We’re not doubting you”
“You’re questioning me, I know the difference”, you retort.
The conversation circles back to the scans and your evaluations, the Catalan’s progress and feelings on her rehabilitation, the team dynamic’s changes and the medical opinions on more than the ACL – even the marketing team’s approach to a possible coming back for the Champions League knockout stage.
“I trust her”, Alexia’s personal trainer adds from his seat on the table, improvements and changes right under his nose for months now.
He’s the last to talk after almost an hour of discussion.
“So, it’s settled?”
Carlos and Patricio nod with conviction, along with a few other coaches and staff members. The club’s representatives seem both happy and relieved by the decision. You stay composed, determination and something deeper firing up your eyes.
You know you’re right.
Alexia is ready to get back.
~
It’s late when you are ready to go home, you expect to be the last one to leave the facility with the backlog of paperwork waiting on top of your desk.
What you do not expect is Alexia Putellas, quietly leaning against the wall outside your office. A smirk you’re getting used to curving her lips, one hand in her pocket and the other holding something by her side.
“You scared the shit out of me”
She dismissed it with a sheepish shrug, handing you a paper bag.
Churros.
“Not exactly a healthy snack”
“I’m celebrating”, she comments, taking one out as she walks by your side to the parking lot. “And last time I checked, you were my physio and jailer, not my nutritionist”
You raise an eyebrow at her words more than the way she chews her dark chocolate-covered churro, “Jailer?”
“You locked me up away from the pitch”
You don’t point out you’re also the one allowing her to get back, “You’re so dramatic”
“It’s fine, I’m a free woman now”, she says, genuine smile on her lips despite the teasing tone.
The two of you reach the parking lot with no real rush, saying goodbye to the few people closing up the facilities for the day.
Alexia keeps her baiting up for the entire walk, almost skipping, unable to physically contain her enthusiasm. You get it, she truly must feel like she served time and she’s now free to be.
The journey is still long thought, you both know.
But there really isn’t a good reason to ruin the moment.
When you reach your car, you steal a few churros from the bag before saying goodbye, “Just don’t make me regret it”
You see the footballer hesitate for a second, calculating something in her head, before taking a step closer and wrapping you into a hug.
It’s warm, different from the brief and half-hearted ones you shared before.
You’re now familiar with the show of affection this team takes pride in, but this one is different.
In the way her arms hold into your body, the sweets’ bag trapped between your jacket and her hand. In the way you can feel her relaxed shoulders, breath hold into a few unsaid words.
In the way her smile grows when you hug her back as tight.
“Oh, you’re definitely gonna regret it”
~
Slowly, one training day at time, Alexia is reintegrating with the group.
Moving around the pitch with her teammates, sharing the same space during gym sessions, even pairing up with someone for light exercises. It’s not much, not really if she stops to think about her life as an athlete hardly a year ago, but it’s something.
It’s progress.
It’s everything.
She’s on time for every physio session prior to her daily work. Not that she was late before being allowed on the grass again, but she has a different light in her eye. And she doesn’t complain that much anymore.
Some mornings, you find a beaming blonde waiting for you by the door before your first coffee of the day kicks in. Teasing, even if you’re early yourself. The younger woman brings breakfast on Wednesdays, to soften you in the middle of the week. On match day you hand her a few packets of figurines for the stamp album you gifted her as a joke. You criticise her pastry’s choices, she grumbles about the duplicates – none of you really mean it.
Sometimes you have to hold her back a bit.
More often than you like to admit, you let her be.
Not because Alexia can’t push, she does anyway, but because you know she will go all over if you’re not as annoying as her.
The footballer’s desire to get back where she belongs is so strong, and quite riveting, that you find yourself dragged into her stubbornness. You close an eye if she does more reps or exercises than allowed, even two if you notice her skipping through her programme.
There are times when you’re the one pushing her.
“Plant that foot!”, you command, shaking your head.
As a good enough answer, Alexia rolls her eyes, turning more sharply around the cones. Still not planting her foot.
The coach next to you annotates something on his pad as the Catalan jogs back, repeating the exercises. It’s a fast linear path with cones to point out the segment where Alexia is supposed to cut direction.
Sprints and cuts, she can do it in her sleep.
Or should.
You walk to the other end of the makeshift obstacle course, waiting for her to finish.
“You literally circled around that cone”
“I did not”, she fights back, catching her breath, “I did what you told me to do”
“I definitely haven’t told you to do– whatever that was”
It’s a classic pattern, compensatory movements to cover the ones her mind doesn’t trust the body enough to do. Alexia is using her hips and lower back to turn instead of the knee. And she knows.
Her face morphs into an unpleasant wince, eyes naturally shifting toward where her teammates are entertained in a pickup game.
You lightly push her shoulder, catching her attention, “Remember my nana? She cuts better than you”
“I really must meet her now”
“Alexia”, your tone is almost condescending, hand firm on her shoulder. “If you don’t plant that foot like you mean it, I will have to explain to club management their precious Ballon d’Or and who-really-knows-how-many awards winner somehow forget how to actually play football. Now, let’s do it all over again without thinking you will die”
“You’re so mean”
“You like it like that”
Alexia shakes her head, amused, fixing her posture and returning to her exercise with a new-found energy. “If my knee explode, you will hear from my lawyer”
Threats aside, the form of her sprints is more clean and her cuts are rapid, confident.
That doesn’t stop you from screaming “Pivot!” every time she approaches a cone.
~
Before you actually realise how late it is, you have filed a dozen reports and updated almost as many physio programmes. You’re glad for the productivity hours, but your stomach is pretty pissed with you for skipping lunch and drinking more coffee than water.
Taking advantage of the surprisingly empty facility, most staff out on the field with the players for a session under the Barcelona sun, you lower your guard in the canteen.
Alexia finds you there, slumped in a chair with questionable stability, chewing on a protein bar.
“This is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life”
“I have seen you trying to sit on a bench a few months ago”, you retort, sipping from a colourful energy drink, “You will be fine”
The younger woman scoffs, but with a genuine smile on her face.
It’s almost a shame your comments do not have quite the same effect on her anymore, ragebaiting her is a fun and effective method.
“I hope that’s a sad snack and not your lunch”
“You have nothing better to do?”, you ask, trying to hide the blushing growing on your cheeks for whatever reason. “Last time I checked, you were my patient and biggest pain in the ass, not my nutritionist”
“It must be your lucky day”, she states, inviting you to follow her to the kitchen in the player lounge. “As a matter of fact, I have nothing better to do so let’s feed you properly”
The space is modest, but well organised. A small but stocked fridge, two microwaves that must belong to a different era, and a surprisingly clean stove. In a few minutes, Alexia has plates and ingredients out for you to replicate a simple recipe.
When you almost burn the eggs while attempting an omelet, she bans you from ever coming close to a fire again.
“You’re a doctor”, she comments from the high barstool across you, eyeing skeptical your cutting technique. “How can you not know how to slice tomatoes?”
You point the knife in her direction before trying to defend yourself, “First of all, I’m not that kind of doctor–”
“Please, slow movements”
“Second, I’m not a chef”
“It’s pa amb tomàquet, there’s literally nothing easier than pa amb tomàquet”
Maybe your cooking skills are not remarkable, but you survived until now so at least your basic life skills are good enough to feed you. You never had the time or the patience to cook a proper meal, why start now that lunch is provided or pre-made and dinner is only a few taps on your phone away?
When you almost slide your hand open trying to cut yet another tomato, Alexia decides to intervene showing how to assemble the simple dish.
Much to your displeasure.
“You know what? Your sister is right. With this attitude, you will never find a good party”
“Introducing the two of you is, to date, the worst decision of my life”
“Good, there’s time for improvement”, she replies, coming closer. “Now, try again and please don’t kill yourself”
~
Match after match, won with Alexia still sidelined but barely contained in her seat, award after award, conferred to a version of Alexia Putellas she is just now learning to mourn; you can tell the excitement of her return is thrumming.
Everyone is waiting for her comeback like the thunder following lighting, the perfect storm waiting to overwhelm everything – or reestablish order.
The draw for the Champions League knockout stages is held at UEFA headquarters in Nyon, stopping a video session in the middle of training. Barcelona topped their group, successfully dodging the more challenging opponents.
Playing the first leg at Stadio Olimpico will not be easy, Alexia told you there aren’t easy games in the Champions League, but with the second leg to be played at Camp Nou you see her eyes sparkle.
Now, however, her troubling leg and loud comments are getting on your nerves.
At the third ignored request to stop, your hand finds her left knee with intent. The gesture is casual enough, your finger gently grazing her scar over the jeans but your irritation is clear. You just really hate that habit of hers.
“We shouldn’t have let them score”, she comments as a good enough explanation, gaze still fixed on the pitch.
The Camp Nou is buzzing, has been for the past hour, and you’re sure will not subside because Roma rallied and scored a consolation goal. Not with waving flags, fan chanting, and Barça playing in complete control of the game.
“You’re winning 6-1 on aggregate, Alexia. You’re fine”
You know it’s really not about this match. The team is handling it with precision and unapologetic dominance, the midfield is commanding every play with ease and goals are coming from all over.
Everyone is doing their part and more.
But you know Alexia feels like she’s failing, herself as much as the team, by not being on the field – by not doing her part.
Making her understand her only job is focusing on recovery, that doing it is how she’s helping herself and her teammates, has been the most challenging part of your job.
So you have an idea.
Sometimes it surprises you how stupid your ideas can be.
Ten minutes before the final whistle, you disappear between the corridors and tunnels of Camp Nou. You have to pull some strings and drop some names, but when half an hour later the stands are mostly empty and the squads are getting ready to leave and celebrate, you can drag Alexia to the sideline.
All you need to do is push her buttons with well placed comments and teasing remarks, her following you more curious than irritated.
On the otherwise empty pitch, maintenance staff reassess the grass with care and let you pass as they notice you with Alexia and the old man who is unofficially in charge of managing the entire stadium.
“You have five minutes”, he tells you, voice softer than necessary.
“It will be more than enough, thank you. Is not like she can really keep up anyway”, you joke.
Alexia doesn’t have the time to retort or fight back, pushed closer to the penalty area.
You produce a ball from behind your back like a magician’s trick. It’s a peace offering and a challenge wrapped in a sphere.
She doesn’t even realise until it’s kicked in her direction.
The athlete stops it like second nature, only recently getting re-used to the feeling of a ball around her feet. It comes naturally, if a bit stiff at first. But it’s too familiar for her to not feel like coming back home.
“What are you waiting for?”, you ask, dragging her back into the pitch and out of her head. “Do I need to whistle? Kick the ball, Alexia!”
She sends the sphere back to you with precision, not sure what you’re actually asking her or why you went out of your way to play catch at Camp Nou.
“Try to score, just– without fucking up your knee and all my precious work”
She complies, nudging the ball into the net before turning to you with a frown, “This is– stupid. I feel like an idiot”
“That shot sure was embarrassing”, you grumble, retrieving the ball and positioning yourself between the posts with a smirk.
Alexia’s brow shifts more, kicking the ball toward the goal as soon as your pass comes close enough. You move fast enough to tip the ball away, mocking the blonde athlete even more.
If you have to poke the bear to have a reaction, you will.
“If that’s the best you can do, they definitely overrate you”
“If I do the best I can, your ego will never recover”
“I put you back on your feet, Putellas”, you quip back, mocking a goalkeeper’s stance. “I think I will survive”
“Try to survive”
“Try not to kill me”
The words are barely out of your mouth when you see the ball flying from her feet to the bottom corner of the goal. Fast, clinical.
She smirks almost as much as you do.
The next minutes are a blur of light-hearted mocking comments, Alexia scoring more times than not even if she’s not really putting much force or commitment into it. You want her to get familiar again with the feeling, controlling the ball – back in control of her body.
If they let you mess around for more than planned, no one beside the few people in the stadium needs to know.
~
Alexia pushes open the heavy door of the treatment room with her shoulder, coming in later than usual for a media commitment. She enters the space with a headache and a stiff knee, bothered by something more than the rain.
She expects witty comments from you and teasing from her teammates, but she only finds Carlos checking the settings on an ultrasound machine and Jana sprawled on a bed with her leg wrapped in a cooling sleeve.
“And she finally arrives!”, the younger girl quips lightly, looking pleased with herself for a reason Alexia doesn’t feel like investigating.
“I’m ten minutes early”
“I've been bored for half an hour”
“And you still have another to go”, Carlos interjects, his gaze swifting from the machine to a tablet, making sure the numbers check out. His tone is easy and familiar when she addresses the blonde, “On the bed, cap. I’m running the show today”
Alexia obeys, but her eyes instinctively scan the room one more time.
The door of your office was open when she passed the corridor, no one inside but Dr. Wallace carefully placed on a chair.
She doesn’t ask, but Jana makes a face that lets Alexia know she has not managed to hide her curiosity as well as she hoped.
“Your favourite doctor is not coming”, Jana chirps, tilting her head back with a growing smirk. “Took the day off. Personal stuff, you know”
“Since when does she take days off?”, she means it as a joke.
“Since when do you care?”
Carlos immediately clocks the joking tone, the mischief in her words. And, from how the midfielder tenses under his hands, it works perfectly. He shakes his head, before saving the situation, “It’s her birthday”
In the next hour, between usual gossip and three different brands of tape, the Catalan finds out you’re actually older than what she thought and a tradition with a childhood friend gets you in Madrid every year on this day, clockwork.
“Don’t worry, she left instructions and notes”
The session with Carlos is light and familiar, Jana narrates in great detail the latest episode of her favourite dating show and the man fakes, poorly, disinterest. Alexia, however, is too distracted to pay attention.
She finds herself tracking the rain pouring outside from the window, wondering why you haven’t mentioned your birthday but ignoring why she cares so much.
A few days later, you enter your office before the sun is even fully up – in the hope of catching up on some work and surviving the Monday morning.
You notice it with the light still out.
Sitting right in the center of your desk, somehow protected by Dr. Wallace as the way is prompted holding it, there is a small box and a neatly wrapped gift.
You close the door behind you as you round the table. The scrapped paper reveals a book, hardcover with questionable graphics, and the laugh that bursts out at you is as loud as amused when you read the title.
“The Art of Being a Nit-Picker: an 11-step program for the most unpleasant person in the room”
On the first page, Alexia’s handwriting fills the white space messily – I know you only read things that come with a bibliography and endless footnotes, but let’s try something new. Dr. Wallace actually suggested this, I just picked the cupcake. We both can’t wait for your notes! Good read and happy birthday.
She signed it with the autograph she usually gives to kids, number 11 clear and without rushing the letters – to be extra annoying, you think.
The box is clear, containing a single, cartoony decorated cupcake. Dark chocolate, the only chocolate you actually like, with a candle on top. You take a bite, way better than the protein bar you usually have for breakfast.
The warmth in your chest definitely comes from the sugar hit.
~
It’s a sunny afternoon when basically half the coaching staff is crowding the sideline with beam smiles and attentive eyes.
Alexia is officially back in training with the team, taking active part in the sessions and getting involved in contact drills.
A few younger players go easy on her, out of respect and maybe a fear someone will have to talk them out to.
However, when Vicky attempts a nutmeg as Jonatan is explaining a play, you can’t contain a laugh at the blonde’s shocked face.
The more experienced players, on the other hand, seem to enjoy the lingering uncertainty.
Irene and Marta follow Alexia like a shadow, as if instructed to be as frustrating as possible. Keira dribbles around her like she’s a training dummy, while Jana, who is barely back from the injury herself, makes fun of the older woman like they are siblings.
It’s clear if Alexia is really bothered by her teammates’ behaviour she could raise an eyebrow and they could stop, but the truth is the teasing is just another sign she’s back.
A trainer turns to you as another attacker-defender drill takes over, “You think she’s ready?”
You don’t have to respond.
On the pitch, the ball is moving fast between Alexia and Patri. The Catalan pivots on her left foot, avoiding Lucy imposing presence, and controlling the ball to shoot. You see Irene approaching with a clean but firm tackle, half aspecting Alexia jumping out of the way and half praying she actually does.
She doesn’t hesitate.
With a quick movement, the ball is on her other foot to fly on goal.
She helps Irene up with a smirk, “Better luck next time”
The entire sideline beams in cheers, coaching staff clapping at the scene with enthusiasm. Pride overflows your body in an unfamiliar but warm way, hands by your side but a soft smile on your face. Your gaze and Alexia’s lock for a brief moment, enough for you to share a grin and maybe something more.
“She is ready”
~
“Are you cheating on me?!”
Unannounced, Alexia’s voice resonates your office with a playful tone and theatrics you’re way used to by now. It’s too early for it.
“Not only you’re not the lone player I am fixing”, you start, wrapping tape around Jana’s knee, “You’re not even my favourite one”
The captain acts so offended, both you and the younger defender have to hold back laughter. You finish your work with gentle hands, letting the two footballers chat the time away with ease.
Jana says goodbye to Dr. Wallace more cheerfully than to you, but you let it slide when you notice the smirk she sends to Alexia as she closes the door behind her.
There’s not real bite into your words, more amusement, “Next time, knock”
“I’m here almost as much as you are, it’s practically my office too”
She entertains herself with the stuffed toy while you prepare the treatment bed for her, cleaning it and making sure it’s ready to welcome a final assessment before the next match.
The team is getting ready for the second leg of the Champions League semifinal. The away game at Stamford Bridge was intense, exciting. The return one at Camp Nou will be even more.
For Alexia?
It will be special in a unique way.
You can feel it on her muscles, working on her with firm, yet oh-so-caring, hands. But you can also see it in her avoiding eyes and hear it in the soft murmurs when you touch a sensitive spot. She jokes, but it’s not as baiting as usual. And she talks, but it’s missing the usual depth note your conversations colours with lately.
“Should I suggest to Jonatan to take you out of the matchday squad?”
“Should I suggest to Laporta to fire you?”, she fights back, frowning at your threat.
You don’t add more, hands still manipulating her knee as a good enough reassurance.
She’s ready, her body is ready. Her mind has been ready even longer. A comfortable silence fills the office after that, you work on her muscles with attention while she ruminates on something you hope she will eventually share.
“My work here is done”, you declare, tapping her calf to signal she can get off the bed.
“Do you have a date with another of your girlfriends after or–?”
“You know you are the only one for me”, you indulge her jokes, shaking your head amused by how ridiculous she can be when comfortable. “But no, I kept the best for last so I can go home with a smile on my face”
She waits a bit before taking the seat in front of you, Dr. Wallace secured between her arms and legs stretched under your desk as if she owns the place.
Before you know, the last reports of the day are completed, the sun is getting down and the last rays cast a beautiful light throughout the window.
“I don’t think I can go back to– I’m not who I was”
Alexia’s voice is barely louder than a whisper when she finally speaks. You hear it only because she means for you, and only you, to hear. She holds onto the stuffed animal before continuing, “I just think I– I can’t be that player anymore”
“Is it a bad thing?”
She raises an eyebrow, recalling your habit of reading out loud critic articles and award motivations she was honored with during her recovery, teasing about new rising talents and accomplished players who deserve more recognition than her.
“That player won two Ballon d’Or”, she says eventually, matter of fact.
“They started giving them to women– when? Yesterday? Does it mean there weren’t great players before the individual trophies? Or that the footballers who have not won are not good enough?”
She roll her eyes at you, “You know it’s not what I mean”
“Do you think your contribution to the sport is solely related to how many Champions League you will win or how good you will do with Spain this summer?”
“I don’t even know if I will be there”, she mutters under her breath, twisting Dr. Wallace’s soft arm between her fingers.
“You will be”
“I don’t know, they expect me to do that and more and–”
“The people who really matter to you are just happy for you to be back”
When she doesn’t fight back, you rise from your seat to cross the distance and find a place on the chair next to her. Before you can hesitate, or think too much, one of your hands is on her arm and the other linger on her face. She holds a deep breath, closing her hazel eyes.
You definitely aren’t thinking – at all.
“You told me you weren’t the same player after Turin, and I bet you weren’t the same who won her first Champions League or the one who wore the Barcelona crest for the first time”, the voice out of your mouth is almost as gentle as your touch. “You are not the same player you were before the ACL, Alexia, you’re right about that”
“It’s not comforting”
“It’s not a bad thing”, you interrupt her with a smile, more used than amused of her stubbornness. “That version was invincible, and she still broke. This version? This version is evolving, growing. Allow yourself to change, Alexia. You may surprise yourself”
You hold her gaze until you feel her finally exhaling, closing her eyes before a single tear can run on her cheek.
“Besides, I prefer the version I’m looking at right now. Still annoying, don’t get me wrong, but–”
“Perfect, you ruined the moment”
The both of you burst into a roar of laughter, loud enough to cover the pounding beat of your hearts.
“You’re welcome”
~
Alexia doesn’t play in the home game at Camp Nou against Chelsea, much to her dismay, but when she makes her entrance at Estadi Johan Cruyff is pure chaos.
You check her knee one last time before nodding in Jonatan’s direction and back to the blonde, “Please don’t die”
“Can’t make any promise”
The supporters are louder than you have ever heard, the players and staff on the bench can’t be contained and, for every single one of the barely twenty minutes played, Alexia’s smile is brighter than the sun – of the last one, you’re sure.
After a comfortable win against Sporting de Huelva, Barcelona is mathematically unbeatable in the league and secures the fourth consecutive title. While the girls run on the pitch to celebrate, unconcerned about possible injuries as they pile on top of each other, Carlos lets you know the team won the league with a perfect record for the second season, and achieved 61st consecutive league victory.
Interesting stats for sure, but, even for a nerd like you, it seems like a moment to commemorate without too much thinking.
And you don’t think at all when later, while president Joan Laporta thanks the team for their tireless effort throughout the season and the staff for the work behind the scenes, you let Alexia kiss you in a hidden corner of a beachside restaurant.
~
The next day you arrive on time and that, for you, is unusual – since you’re always clocking in early. Plants unwatered, despite the beaming Barcelona sun, you hardly manage a cup of coffee before making your presence known in the treatment room.
The girls are coming in waves, some more affected than others by the late celebrations the management encouraged yesterday. But the season is not over, there still are games to play and trophies to win.
Alexia is talking with Jonatan when you busy yourself with Ana-Maria and a sore spot in her outer thigh, not alarming yet definitely something you will pay close attention to. The Swiss player is chatty and usually a conversation you indulge in, but today you can’t summon the energy for small talk.
The one and only thought in your head, flipping back and forth like a bouncing ball beating in your skull, is Alexia.
The kiss.
Kisses, plural.
You may have let her kiss you the first time, her lips barely a brush. Certain, but oh-so-gentle. The hand behind your neck holding on more firmly when you responded, when you kissed her back. When you initiated the second kiss, and the third one. When you couldn’t tell who broke the distance again after that, mind too dazed by the note of wood in her perfume, the buzzing taste of champagne lingering on your tongue, and the bodies so close and so good together it feels wrong to take them apart.
“My turn?”
Alexia’s voice almost startles you, too focused on your work on Ana-Maria to notice her coming closer and patiently waiting for you to finish.
The Catalan midfielder looks nervous as you prepare the treatment bed for her, but you honestly can’t point out the real reason.
Is it because you have to evaluate her knee’s response after the game, checking the reaction?
Is it related to finally being back on the grass, playing?
Is it something else entirely?
When your hands find her knee, she tense immediately
“Does it hurt?”
“No, no–”, she interrupts herself, closing her eyes for a moment before turning to you. “Yes. I mean, it doesn’t hurt. But– it doesn’t feel comfortable”
“It’s normal, it needs to get re-used to the work”, you reassure her, increasing the firmness of your touch when you feel her muscles relax under your hands. “Alexia, you played almost twenty minutes of a really emotional game when I could have let you eleven, just to be poetic”
“Just to piss me off, you mean”
“That too”
Ten minutes are all you need to evaluate the condition of her knee and assess the situation, the bit of swelling is not worrying and you can tell there isn’t fluid. Another thing you make a mental note to pay attention to.
You tell her that much, “Ice and try not to go full all in, today nothing more than lightworkload and all the things you hate”
“You kill my joy”, she jokes.
“And I take pride in it”
A bit passes between the two of you, Alexia stays close as you prepare the treatment bed for the next player – Patri, who is excusing herself to finish a conversation with a coach.
You almost make it out alive.
“About yesterday–”
Almost.
“I’m really happy you’re back”
“Not what I meant”, she quips back, studying your face with an attention and a care you still cannot place.
“It’s the only thing that matters”
You definitely will not make it out alive.
“So– We’re doing this? We’re going to pretend it never happened?”, she asks with a steady voice, her eyes chasing yours.
The footballer’s gaze linger on you for a bit, but when it locks with yours it’s clear she’s not happy with the way you’re dismissing it all.
Yet, without a doubt, you’re sure she will respect whatever decision you’re ready to make for both.
She is not going to like it, she is probably going to try and fight it. However, eventually, she will accept it as it is.
Your choice.
“I would prefer that, yes”
Alexia doesn’t respond, not with words anyway, but she nods and her face morphs in a grimace it’s supposed to resemble a smile.
It will haunt you for days, every time your gazes lock for a brief moment.
~
Patricio requests a meeting at his office while the team is occupied with endless video analysis of Wolfsburg.
You don’t think much of it, it’s not unusual for you to have one on one with the head of the medical team.
Every single day on Ciutat Esportiva you have been nothing but professional, committed to the work and to your patients. Every single match day, travel day, and late hour serves as a testament of how good at your job you are.
The one and only mistake you allowed yourself to indulge in?
You couldn’t even label it as a mistake in the first place.
So you enter the room with a smile and the attitude of someone who will face whatever thrown at them.
“Do you have plans for the summer?”, he asks as soon as you take a seat.
The both of you are not really fond of small talks, but you indulge him, sensing more than curiosity for your vacation.
“Just a few weeks off and then I will be in London to catch up with some colleagues about the research papers we are finalising"
“I have read a few of your papers, I’m sure it will be enlightening”, he comments, genuine in his nice words.
Patricio is a good man, one of few words but almost always well placed. He was the one approaching you, proposing you this position in the Barcelona medical team. He was the one pushing and fighting behind the scene with the management, after Carlos’ request, to suggest the change in Alexia’s recovery programme.
You know you don’t really owe him anything, everything you achieved is the merit of your hard work and commitment, but you’re not too proud to admit he played a role.
“Thank you”
“But I have to be honest”, he continues, small smile growing under his mustache. “I would like the idea of you accepting the updated contract for next season”
“I’m thinking about it, Patricio”, you admit without the hint of a lie in your voice. You have been thinking about their proposal since they put it on the table a few weeks ago. “But I still don’t have an answer”
The contract you signed last year ties you to the club for another season, but they apparently appreciated your work so much they have a different idea of how the business relationship could look after the World Cup.
You exit the man’s office more nervous than when you entered.
~
In the last game of the league’s season, Barcelona's unbeaten run came to an end.
The two goals from the Madrid CFF’s striker came before halftime, enough to secure a victory no one really saw coming. The home side’s game plan is clear, with a well-organised defence and a targeted counter-attack.
It works perfectly.
They capitalise on mistakes by both Barça and the referee’s questionable calls. Not enough to excuse the weak attempts to get the game back on track.
The final whistle decrees the first defeat as team manager for Jonatan and the end of the record run for the team.
But it’s a good thing he’s the one facing the press after the game and not Alexia, who enters the locker room equally kicked and pissed.
You linger in the room for a couple of minutes, assessing the general humor and making sure all players receive attention if needed. The game caused stiffness not only in the morale.
“My professional advice is avoiding the press altogether”, you suggest to Alexia, handing her an ice pack with a small smirk. “Not a PR expert, but that is not the face of someone who just scored for the first time after an ACL injury”
Alexia scored the team’s consolation goal not even two minutes after entering onto the pitch, a loose ball into the penalty area she simply couldn’t miss.
“Yeah, well– it meant nothing”
Her gaze drops on the floor before you can properly study it, before you can find out if she really thinks so. If she really thinks she has not made another huge milestone in her recovery. If it really thinks it means nothing.
You kneel right next to her, seated on the bench with her teammates floating around in different conditions of distress. The ice is cold on her skin, the contrast with your warm hands is evident. You secure it around the knee with ease and care, making sure she can move around and get ready to leave.
“I think it means everything”, you admit in a whisper, loud enough for only her to hear and honest enough for the words to really sink in.
~
The Philips Stadion is crowded with supporters, chants and heated humidity. On the pitch, Irene freezes in the middle of her run and the Blaugrana fans are left speechless – Barcelona now down by two goals.
The rhythm is off, passes are skipping past too soon or too wide and the press is disjointed between defense and midfield lines. They’re not making the most of some good chances, running in circles and missing opportunities. When a good attempt comes, there’s always a better block from Wolfsburg. The frustration is visible in the slumped shoulders of the players, the ghosts from Budapest and Turin traveling all the way to Eindhoven.
Ewa Pajor and Alexandra Popp gave Wolfsburg a strong lead to take into the second half, seeking to win.
On the bench, the silence is even heavier as halftime approaches.
The medical bag is on your feet, you sitting with some members of the staff – usually not the physio assigned on the sideline during games. Your gaze darts across the grass, jaw set so tight to bring headache tomorrow, but your eyes always come back to Alexia.
The Catalan is vibrating with tension, unable to mask her frustration. She is off the bench a lot, raising her arms and encouraging her teammates, but every time she sits back, her hand subconsciously grips her knee.
When the referee finally whistles, Alexia starts her warm up even before all the players are out of the pitch, giving away pats on the back and encouragement. You stay close, paying attention to hers and Geyse Ferreira’s movements.
You look at Alexia after a few minutes, really look at her.
You see the scars, the troubling legs. You see the uncertain steps, the ups and downs. The milestones. The setbacks. The woman who didn’t trust herself, until she could not do it. The old version, the new version, and the version in between.
Alexia in the meeting room.
Alexia in her office, paying more attention to a stuffed toy than you. Alexia on the treatment bed, downplaying her pain. Alexia embracing her pain. Alexia messing around with her teammates, letting them mess with her – letting you mess with her. Alexia complaining, then fully trusting, but never stopping complaining.
Alexia entering in your life like you enter in hers. Slowly, tiptoeing around, while filling the space with care, stretching exercises and teasing comments.
Alexia in the secluded corner of a beachside restaurant.
“Alexia”, you say, voice low and more steady than how you feel, as you step her before she joins her teammates for the halftime’s last minutes. “You earned it, you deserved it. Take it. You will not die today”
Alexia nods once, doesn’t smile, but her eyes are sparkling with a light you only saw a few times. She walks into the tunnel, disappearing under the chanting fans and the prying cameras.
You don’t know what happens in the locker room, what is said and what goes unsaid, but the team that walks back out is unrecognizable.
It’s a tidal wave, crushing on the grass immediately. Patri scores once, then again in a blur of two minutes. The stadium erupts in a completely different passion, pumping blood in your veins as loud as the cheers from the stands. The tension on the bench finally breaks into pure adrenaline, no one able to stay put for more than a few seconds.
It’s everywhere.
The spark is ignited and Barcelona returns to do what they do best – quick passes, combination plays and goals. The momentum is firmly in the team’s favour.
And, because life and football sometimes can be so cruel, Fridolina Rolfo is the one kicking the ball into her former club’s net.
The stadium erupts into an even wilder roar when Alexia walks closer to the sideline. Everyone is on their feet, everyone is celebrating.
Your gaze locks on the blonde woman for the rest of the game, never really drifting apart. Every step, every pass, every cut on the grass. You see everything – you see her.
It passes in a blur, too fast for you to understand anything beside excitement. Too fast and exciting to process it properly.
The feeling Barcelona is laying the foundation for something special, something incredible.
The feeling Alexia is raising from her own ruins to build even stronger foundations.
Draping in sweat and gold medals, the team lifts the Champions League’s trophy for the second time in their history. The players are taking turns celebrating with it, making angels of confetti and hugging each other to hold more than just tired limbs and aching hearts.
In the middle of the chaos, you manage to avoid embarrassing pictures, glory reserved to the athletes as you rather work “behind the scenes”, and to deter Claudia from attempting a backflip.
It’s a victory almost as big as the final.
When you reach the stands, it takes you way too long to find your sister and your nephew, waving widely and pointing to confused security guys. Irene has to have a few words with one of them, but not long after they are as close as they can get.
“You won the Champions League!”, your sister screams, holding you.
“I’m not the one playing”
“She’s being humble, it’s a team win”, Alexia interjects with a grin, way too pleased with herself when you roll your eyes.
Her family is close by, you recognise them from some encounters outside the training facility early on the recovery journey. Her own sister teasing without shame or intent to hurt feelings, her mother smiling with her eyes in a way that reminds you of Alexia.
It makes you glance down at the floor, face warm with a blush you can’t control.
“Did you have fun?”, Alexia asks eventually, focusing on Toby, barely tall enough for his face to pop up from the stands’ railing. He hides behind his mother’s legs, surprisingly shy.
The boy is usually a tornado, jumping around like taking a breath is not required. So you expose him, “He has a crush”
“Who doesn’t?”, your sister retorts and you have to talk yourself out the idea of strangling her with all those cameras around.
Next time she asks for tickets for a sold out Champions League final, she better go to someone else. You know it is more for the kid’s sake than hers, football-obsessed little menace, but you’re going to make her work for it.
“It’s nice to see you again, Cris”, the Catalan woman says, genuine, with a matching blush on her cheeks.
Apparently, your sister is having the time of her life too.
“Congratulation for the gold and your comeback”
“More the team’s comeback, I’m barely–”
Your nephew’s voice raises, quiet but fearless, “You played good”
Alexia doesn’t argue, takes the compliments as she usually reserves to kids’ unquestionable opinions, but she comes closer to the railing to high-five him.
“Don’t get too cozy with the enemy”, you say, chuckling at his failed side-eye’s attempt. “He’s a madridista”
“I’m not a madridista!”, he objects, almost offended by your accusation, then turning to Alexia to defend himself in her eyes. “I am not! Aúpa Atleti!”
The midfielder breaks into a genuine laugh, bothering you for not knowing the basics of football tifo, but it’s enough to make him come out of his shell.
Alexia and Toby eventually find common ground on their hate for Real Madrid – your sister has to placate them before they could start a definitely no-child-approved chant.
When the chaos, the team and the people on the pitch eventually claim back their queen, the captain stares between you and Cris, asking permission to take the boy with her. To feel the grass after a victory, she says.
You don’t know what it means, if it even means anything, but Alexia is allowed to haul him over the railing and encourages him to join a small group of kids. For the next ten minutes, Alexia Putellas and your nephews kick a stray ball around in a confetti covered football field.
Your sister’s eyes burn into the side of your head, but you can’t look away from the scene.
~
Barcelona celebrates for days, the city beaming under the sun and the team’s performance.
For you, however, it’s time to draw a few lines.
Without the pressure of the domestic league’s games and the mission of getting Alexia back on her own feet, you thought it could finally mean obsessing on your research papers and getting a tan.
It is not.
The RFEF is pressing on the club for information about players’ conditions and medical dossiers you rather burn than share with the man pestering your in-box. You worked with other federations in your career, sport at the highest level demands some sort of communication between National and Local, but you don’t trust them to treat those women the way they deserve.
You were not fully aware of how deep and twisted the conflicts behind closed doors are, how messy the situation between the players and the RFEF is – poisoning their lives as bad as their careers.
After a conversation with Patri following the first callup post the Champions League, you spend a few nights reading articles and reports.
A coffee with Alexia and Irene turns into dinner and ends with a plan of action you’re the most pushy to.
A complete dossier for each player, exercises and insights about each own condition and health. You provide your external perspective, your professional opinions and your personal number – you can’t be at training camp, but you can be there for them in some ways.
Vicky calls one afternoon to ask for clarification about an exercise added on her plan to get it right; Irene makes it known to who matters that you’re trusted; while Jana double checks with you every single thing the physios tell her.
Alexia doesn’t call, but she texts.
Confirming follow-up appointments and sessions in between the work she’s doing with her personal trainer and the commitments with the National, sending reminders to eat a real meal instead of surviving on caffeine. Sharing pictures of dogs and sunsets, to “take your head out of the books”, and ignoring your screenshots of unhinged tweets.
It’s light, even if the atmosphere is tense.
The final squad is confirmed early in July, you’re just back from a medical conference in London that mostly took the will to live away from you. It’s probably the exhaustion that makes you text her, that makes you ask her to meet in a cafeteria right outside Barcelona.
Alexia enters the place a few minutes later than planned, wrapped in a hoodie way too warm for the weather.
“Fancy meeting you here”
“You’re late”, you answer, no real bite into it.
“I see– You are not reading the book I gave you”
You don’t talk much. The air is already echoing with friendly conversation and the scent of fresh pastries, the unsaid is a guest you both welcomed long ago.
When you notice Alexia’s hands, steady but tracing the rim of her cup over and over like some sort of prayer, you bite the bullet.
“Try to not overthink it too much”, you say softly, trying to meet her eyes. “You’re managing minutes, it’s fine–”
“I’m not thinking about football”, she admits, finally looking up.
A small, sad smile touches her lips. You don’t answer immediately, but you hold her gaze with honesty. After a moment, you reach into your bag to pull out something.
Dr. Wallace.
The tone of your voice is gentle, mocking seriousness, “I had a very important meeting with Dr. Wallace, we agree on something. Someone must come to New Zealand to make sure you don’t fuck up my amazing work”
“Like I wasn’t the one doing the actual work”
Alexia reaches out, her fingers brushing the soft fabric of the toy. You have to push it toward her, nodding at her questioning gaze.
“Don’t die down there”
The stuffed animal isn’t just a mascot. It’s a comforting presence for anyone coming into your office with stiff muscles and career-threatening injuries, it’s a witness of progress and resilience – of failures, too, but offering a soft edge.
Right there, late afternoon in a cafeteria outside Barcelona, Alexia understands the toy represents more than an inside joke, more than a gift for the most important tournament of her life.
In the last shared hug before saying goodby, she tries to put all her gratitude, every bite of emotion she went through during her time working with you, into it.
Maybe, even something concealed, but never truly hidden.
~
》 part 2, Children cry and laugh and play, slowly hair will turn to grey
