joão drags his hand down his face, already halfway through explaining whichever football rule you asked about.
he’s clearly getting frustrated with the topic itself, words coming out faster and faster. except, every time he looks at you his expression seems to soften.
“listen, meu amor, if the defender is here—“ he points at the screen in front of you two, sighing dramatically. then immediately reaches over to squeeze your knee.
“you’re making me work today.” but despite the complaint, he starts the explanation all over again from the beginning.
his arm around your seat
the movie’s been playing for twenty minutes and joão hasn’t watched a second of it.
his arm is stretched lazily along the sofa behind you, fingers brushing your shoulder whenever you move. it’s not possessive, really, it’s just there.
often, you glance over and catch him already looking at you. his lips twitching into a smile before he looks back over to the television as if he’s been paying attention the whole time.
when he’s tired and keeps saying “mhm”
“and then she said she wasn’t even talking about me, which is absolutely ridiculous because—“
“mhm.”
you look over and see joão sprawled across the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. he’s clearly seconds away from falling asleep from a long day at practice, but he’s somehow still listening.
“did you hear anything i just said?”
“yeah”
“okay… what did i say?”
he shifts his arm just enough to peek at you. “something about someone annoying you.” pause. “come here.”
you laugh softly as he makes room for you besides him right away.
taking his time while kissing you
the conversation somehow seems to fade away between one smile and the next.
joão's hand settles against your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek as he leans in closer. there isn’t any rush to it. no impatience, no urgency.
he pauses for a second, eyes flicking down to your lips before meeting your again—giving you every oppourtunity to pull away. but when he finally kisses you, it’s slow and unhurried. smiling against his mouth.
putting on and taking off your heels
“lift your foot, amor.”
you blink and put your phone down.
joão is already kneeling in front of you, one hand resting on your ankle as he fastens the strap of your heel.
you laugh and ask what he’s doing, but he just shrugs. “helping.”
the entire time, he keeps looking up at you. not at the shoe, not at the buckle, at you.
later that night when the two of you are back home, he crouches down once again to undo the straps. “better?” he asks quietly while sliding the heels off your feet.
you nod with a soft smile and his grin comes immediately.
“good, meu amor.”
first joão fic and i'm a bit nervous that this is going to flop because of how dead football blr is 🙃 but overall i enjoyed writing this because i love joão so freaking much my dada since 2022 💓 i hope you all enjoy this !
Pedri’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through his phone with a grin that can only mean trouble.
You lean over the back of the sofa, towel still wrapped around your wet hair.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he says way too fast. His thumb flicks across the screen. “Just posted a picture.”
You narrow your eyes. “Pedri. What picture?”
He turns the screen toward you, all innocent. It’s a photo of his breakfast spread , pancakes, orange juice, and two mugs of coffee.
Your mug. The pink one with the little chipped heart.
“Pedri!” you gasp. “That’s mine! People will notice!”
He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “So? Maybe I just drink two coffees now. I’m a growing boy.”
You groan and toss your towel at him. “You’re impossible. You promised we’d keep things private.”
He catches the towel mid-air, smirking. “Private, yes. Secret, no. There’s a difference.”
“There’s not a difference when your fans have CSI-level detective skills,” you retort, grabbing your phone. “Wait,oh my god. They’re already talking about it.”
You scroll through Twitter , or, as Pedri calls it, the battlefield.
@pedrilover97: “two mugs?? who’s he having breakfast with 😭😭😭”
@barcagirlx: “that’s definitely a GIRL mug. I recognize the nail polish color from his story last week 👀”
@footballtea: “he’s SOFT LAUNCHING someone I just know it.”
Pedri’s grin widens. “#PedriSoftLaunch? That’s actually a great tag.”
“Don’t encourage them!” you say, swatting his arm.
He leans back, smug and far too calm for someone who’s just sent half the internet into a frenzy. “You have to admit, it’s funny.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe,” he says, biting back a smile. “A little.”
That evening, you find him on the balcony, wearing one of his Barça hoodies and scrolling through fan edits of his own posts.
“They made a whole thread analyzing your kitchen tiles,” you say, holding up your phone.
He laughs. “My kitchen tiles?”
You nod gravely. “Someone zoomed in and matched them to a photo you took last summer. They know everything, Pedri.”
“That’s impressive, actually.” He scrolls again, face glowing from the screen. “Wait,this one says you’re secretly a chef. I like that one.”
“I’m a psychology major, not Gordon Ramsay!”
“Eh,” he says, waving you off. “Close enough. You’ve psychoanalyzed me while I eat your cooking. That’s balance.”
You cross your arms. “You’re impossible.”
Pedri looks up, grin softening. “But you love me.”
You sigh, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Unfortunately.”
He laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple. “Come here, mystery girl.”
The next day, the soft-launching gets worse.
You wake up to another Pedri post , a blurry mirror selfie of him in the hallway. Your reflection is barely visible behind him, holding your phone.
“PEDRI!” you yell from the kitchen.
He yells back, “What? I blurred it!”
You storm into the room, waving your phone. “I can still see my silhouette!”
He peers at the screen. “That could be anyone.”
“It’s me! I’m literally wearing your hoodie!”
He grins, completely unrepentant. “Good. Now they’ll think I have great taste.”
You throw a pillow at his head. “Stop being cute when I’m trying to be mad at you!”
He catches it, laughing. “Sorry, amor. Can’t help it.”
You flop down beside him with a dramatic sigh. “You’re going to break the internet at this rate.”
“That’s fine,” he says, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “As long as they don’t find you.”
You snort. “They already have a spreadsheet of possible candidates. I saw someone saying I’m a makeup artist from Madrid.”
Pedri grins. “Well, you do my eyebrows sometimes.”
“That doesn’t count!”
He shrugs, pulling you closer. “I like keeping them guessing.”
By midweek, the fandom’s gone feral.
People are analyzing his playlists, your nail polish, the background furniture , even the way his smile looks “happier lately.”
You both spend the evening doomscrolling and laughing on the couch.
“Listen to this one,” you say between giggles. “‘The mystery girl has small hands based on reflection physics, probably around 5’3”’.”
Pedri laughs so hard he nearly drops his phone. “Reflection physics? No way.”
“Oh, there’s more. Another one says you’ve been soft-launching for seven months based on the presence of a second toothbrush in your bathroom.”
He wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. “They’re not wrong, though.”
You blink at him. “Wait, are you admitting it?”
He shrugs. “What can I say? I like having my girl’s toothbrush next to mine.”
You groan. “Stop being sweet when I’m trying to yell at you!”
He grins, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Can’t help it.”
But things take a turn when you make a mistake.
It’s late , you’re curled up on the couch in Pedri’s jersey, watching highlights from the last match. You post a quick Instagram story: your legs on the couch, the TV showing Pedri’s goal, and his hoodie draped on the armrest. You don’t even think about it.
Thirty seconds later, your phone explodes.
DMs. Mentions. Notifications.
@barcafangirl: “THE JERSEY. THAT’S PEDRI’S JERSEY. SAME NUMBER. SAME ROOM.”
@pedrilover97: “the couch matches his last pic 😭😭😭”
@footballtea: “SHE SLIPPED. SHE POSTED. CONFIRMED.”
“Oh. My. God.” you whisper, watching it all unfold. “I just soft launched myself.”
Pedri walks in from the kitchen, bowl of cereal in hand. “What happened?”
You look up at him, horrified. “I think I just… hard-launched our relationship.”
He sets the bowl down, eyes widening. “You what?”
“Look!” you shove the phone at him. “They found me! It’s everywhere already!”
Pedri scrolls through the chaos, then bursts out laughing. “You lasted longer than I thought, cariño.”
“This isn’t funny!”
He grins, utterly calm. “It’s kind of funny.”
“Pedri!”
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “What do you want to do?”
You bury your face in your hands. “Delete everything. Move to Antarctica. Change my name.”
He chuckles, tugging your hands away gently. “Or… we could just post a photo.”
You blink. “A real one?”
He nods, smiling softly. “Might as well. You look too pretty to hide.”
Your heart stutters. “You’re serious?”
“Completely.” He scrolls to the camera app, flips it to selfie mode, and pulls you close. “Come here, mystery girl.”
You laugh, cheeks warm, leaning into him. “You’re going to cause chaos.”
“Good chaos,” he says, snapping the photo , both of you smiling, cozy and unfiltered.
Within minutes, he posts it.
Caption: No more soft launch 💙.
Your phone explodes instantly. Comments flood in.
@barcagirlx: “I KNEW IT! SHE’S SO PRETTY 😭”
@footballtea: “soft launch era is over 🫶”
@pedrilover97: “they look so happy together 🥹”
You read a few aloud and glance at Pedri, who’s scrolling too.
He looks up, eyes warm and shining. “See? Not so bad.”
You smile. “You’re right.”
He grins. “I usually am.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully. “Don’t push it.”
He laughs, pulling you closer until your head rests on his shoulder. “For the record,” he murmurs, “I liked the soft launch. But I like this better.”
You look up at him, smiling softly. “Yeah. Me too.”
He tilts his head, lips brushing your forehead. “Told you. Private, not secret.”
You chuckle, closing your eyes. “Whatever you say, influencer.”
He laughs quietly. “Only if you’re my favorite post.”
lamine Yamal seeing not regular edits of reader but FREAKY edits of reader pop up on his fyp
EDITS OF YOU - l. yamal
inwhich! you catch your boyfriend, lamine yamal, watching something and trying to hide it, only for it to be thirst trap edits of you.
frannytalks! based off of this edit here!! this is so very short, didn’t know if you wanted it to be smut or not! also sending love to modric & croatia rn!! ☹️ thank you so much for all the support, i see your messages and comments! don’t forget to join my taglist(s) here!
lamine had always been one to support you and your fans. whenever he’d see anything of you pop up on his fyp or feed that was positive he’d send you it immediately.
today, you were making dinner for lamine after a friendly he had earlier. you were making steak with seasoned veggies on the side, he had tiktok blaring off in the background. although, you didn’t mind because occasionally a funny video or a sound you liked would come on.
you were cutting some carrots into small pieces when you kept hearing the sound “i’m good, i kick it back and i’m good.” play over and over again.
you recognized the sound, knowing it was usually used for thirst traps and provocative videos. you bit your bottom lip, furrowing your eyebrows, not knowing if you should turn around and ask what he’s watching or if you were making a big deal out of nothing.
“lamine, what are you watching baby?” you asked, still turned around and cutting the carrots.
he immediately paused the video, “uh, nothing amor.”
“hm.” you said, not believing him, “show me then.”
“amor.” he sighed, slightly laughing to himself.
“lamine.” you said, turning around, pouting.
“no es nada importante, te lo prometo.” (it’s not anything important, i promise you) he says, sitting up and turning his phone off.
you set the knife down and walk over to him, he grabs both your arms with his hands, “y/n, come on.”
“just show me.” you say, fighting back, but it wasn’t working at all.
“it wasn’t anything!” he says, nervously smiling and you noticed his face getting red.
“lamine, don’t lie.” you say, pushing your body weight onto him, causing him to fall back and let go on your arms, you took the opportunity to snatch his phone.
you got up, running to the island to unlock his phone.
“y/n, porfa.” (y/n, please.) lamine pleaded, chasing you around.
you unlocked it, expecting to see a thirst edit of some other girl, only to see it’s of you and some of your concert clips. you felt your face heat up.
you look up to lamine who’s now sitting on a stool, the opposite side of the island with his head in his hands. “lamine,” you say trying to to smile, but you fail.
“stop laughing, y/n.” lamine sighed once more, sinking deeper into his hands.
“did you like the show?” you grin, walking closer to him, “maybe i can put one on for you right now?”
he instantly snapped his head up, nodding his head up and down. you let out a few giggles, rubbing his arms. “i didn’t know you liked my outfits this much.”
“you look beautiful baby, always.” he says, giving you a kiss on the lips.
“follow me.” you wink, letting go of his arm and walking to your shared bedroom.
Earlier, it had been you, Alexia, Alba, your friends, a boat, and far too much time under the sun.
There had been too much alcohol, too.
By the end of it, you were tanned and drunk, a combination that should probably be illegal for you.
Which was how Alexia finally lost what little patience she had left.
And honestly?
Fair.
Very fair.
She’d warned you.
“You’re going to pass out. Don’t drink too much.”
“Okay, captain.”
Message received.
Message ignored.
Spectacularly ignored.
And now look at you.
Sun-drunk.
Alcohol-drunk.
Alexia-drunk.
Completely limp.
Not a single functioning muscle left.
You should probably get up, because you planned a dinner, a beautiful restaurant by the sea, food you normally love, food you’d probably be excited about under normal circumstances.
But these are not normal circumstances.
You are tired.
The AC is freezing and the room feels like heaven.
You want to stay here. You want Alexia to come back. You want her to get in bed and the two of you to watch something stupid on TV or sleep.
Preferably sleep.
Definitely sleep.
Actually, no.
Not sleep.
Coma.
A nice little vacation coma.
But that’s not happening. You know it’s not happening.
The bathroom door opens.
No.
Fuck. Fuck.
You don’t move.
Maybe if you don’t move she’ll think you’re dead.
Not dead, asleep.
Dead is dramatic.
Although you are suffering, so maybe not that dramatic.
You hear Alexia walking around the room, drawers opening, a bag zipper.
The unmistakable sound of somebody getting ready while you continue your long-term commitment to becoming part of the mattress.
Maybe she’ll leave you here. That would be nice.
Actually, no.
That would be worse.
You want to stay here, but you also want Alexia to stay here.
This is a complicated situation.
You hear her stop moving.
Silence.
Which means she’s looking at you.
You can feel the stare.
The one that says, look at yourself.
Unfortunately for her, you’re not looking at yourself.
You’re looking at a pillow.
A very nice pillow.
“You alive?”
Barely.
“Mm.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all I’ve got.”
Another silence.
You can practically hear her rolling her eyes.
Which is unfair.
You’ve had a difficult day.
You made questionable decisions, repeatedly, and now people expect you to attend dinner.
Honestly, nobody is thinking about your needs.
“You’re taking a bath.”
No.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, Ale. I’m going like this.”
There’s a pause.
A dangerous one.
“Naked?”
You lift your head just enough to look offended.
“What? No. I’ll throw on a dress and we’re done.”
Alexia raises an eyebrow, which is never a good sign.
A raised eyebrow from Alexia is basically a formal warning.
“A dress isn’t the problem.”
You narrow your eyes, or try to, but everything requires too much effort right now.
“Then what is?”
Alexia looks at you for a second.
Then at your hair.
Then back at you.
“You have sand in your hair.”
“Not true.”
“You smell like sunscreen.”
“I was at the beach!”
“And alcohol.”
You stay silent, because it’s expected.
“And poor decision-making.”
Rude.
“That one isn’t a smell.”
“It is on you.”
This relationship lacks respect.
“I’ll survive.”
“You’ll survive. Alba won’t let you.”
Oh.
That’s worse.
Much worse.
You stare at her.
She stares back.
Completely serious.
“Do you want Alba making comments all through dinner?”
A horrible image immediately appears in your head.
Alba noticing.
Alba grinning.
Alba making one comment.
Then another.
Then another.
For two straight hours.
You sit up immediately.
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
Alexia points toward the bathroom.
“Bath.”
You fall back onto the mattress.
Then you feel the bed dip and a hand run through your hair.
Immediately, all your complaints disappear.
Alexia pauses.
Her fingers catch on a knot.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Be nice to me.”
“I am being nice to you.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“I’m touching your hair, aren’t I?”
You smile into the duvet.
“You said one drink.”
You laugh.
“I believed that when I said it.”
“You never believe that when you say it.”
You hate when she’s right.
The room is quiet again.
The bed is comfortable.
Alexia is next to you.
See?
This is nice.
This is exactly what should happen.
Nobody should be going anywhere.
The restaurant will survive without you.
Your friends will survive without you.
Alexia stands.
The mattress shifts.
No.
Come back.
You don’t say it, mostly because that would sound pathetic and also she already knows.
“You have ten minutes.”
You groan, a long, miserable sound.
The sound of a woman being oppressed.
“Five.”
What?
How did it get worse?
“I didn’t even do anything.”
“You were thinking about not doing it.”
As you start to drag yourself out of bed, Alexia walks over to your suitcase.
Opens it.
Pulls out your favorite dress.
Then your earrings.
Then the shoes you were already planning on wearing.
You stare.
“How do you know?”
Alexia stares back.
“You’ve worn that exact outfit three times.”
“Oh.”
“You were always going to wear it.”
“Oh.”
You immediately get up.
Alexia barely has time to react before you’re wrapping your arms around her.
“Te amo. Te amo. Te amo.”
“Mm.”
“Te amo.”
“You said that one already.”
“Te amo.”
Alexia huffs a laugh, one hand settling automatically at your waist.
pairings ━ misa rodriguez x reader, barca femeni x teammate!reader
word count ━ 5.5k
summary ━ you go back to the day you first met real madrid’s goalkeeper
notes ━ this is circa 2016/2017 so a throwback! THIS IS 18+
read more masterlist series masterlist
collab with @maeshoneyles!
You watch as the water in the small pond ripples upon the impact of the rock you skip, relishing in the soft plip-plap echo that reverberates in your ear. It skips once, twice, three times before sinking, and you track each ripple until it disappears completely.
You crouch a little lower at the edge, selecting another stone carefully from the dirt. This one is smoother, making your lips twitch up briefly.
You run your thumb over its rough surface six times. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. You pause for a moment. Seven. Eight.
Your shoulders loosen as you skip it across the water with ease. You watch as it dances longer than the last.
“Oye, nena,” a familiar voice draws you out of your trance.
You blink, startled, turning your head just slightly instead of your whole body.
Jenni stands a few feet away, hands on her hips, a crooked grin on her face. Beside her, a few steps back, Alexia finishes a serious-sounding phone call, her brows knitted tight.
“Las rocas van a contraatacar algún día si sigues lanzándolas,” Jenni teases with grin. [The rocks are going to fight back one day if you keep throwing them.]
You glance back at the pond. “They don’t have arms.”
Jenni snorts. “That’s not the point.”
Alexia ends her call and strides forward, slipping her phone into her pocket. “¿Dónde estabas?” she demands, worry bleeding into irritation. “We’ve been looking for you. This isn’t Barcelona.”
You flinch at her tone, shoulders instinctively tightening. You stand up too quickly and brush invisible dirt off your palms.
“Sorry,” you say, quieter than you meant to.
Alexia exhales sharply. “You can’t just disappear.”
“Ale,” Jenni cuts in gently, stepping closer to you, “she’s an adult.”
“She just turned eighteen!”
“Exactly. An adult.” Jenni rolls her eyes before turning to you and offering her hand. “Come on. It’s almost time to get ready. And if you’re late, Ale will actually combust.”
“I will not combust,” Alexia mutters, though she doesn’t deny it fully.
You take Jenni’s hand and let her pull you up the rest of the way, dusting your jeans off in precise strokes. You glance once more at the water before following them.
The three of you walk in silence for a moment, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You keep your eyes on the ground, counting your steps without meaning to. Eight per breath—inhale, exhale.
“Where did you even find this place?” Jenni asks, bumping her shoulder lightly into yours.
You shrug. “I asked the front desk lady.”
Jenni falters, her smile dropping. “You asked the—” She turns to Alexia. “We could have asked her if she had seen you.”
Alexia’s lips press into a thin line. “We were too busy worrying.”
“She was,” Jenni corrects, nudging you playfully. “I was calm. Completely relaxed. Zen, even.”
“You were not,” Alexia deadpans.
You hum mindlessly at their bickering, the sound low in your throat as you slip into the backseat of the rental car. You sit directly in the middle, despite how uncomfortable it feels. It feels symmetrical that way.
Jenni slides into the driver’s seat. Alexia gets in beside her, twisting slightly to look back at you.
“What’s wrong?” Alexia asks quietly now, her voice softened, stripped of its earlier edge.
You look down at your interlinked fingers. You wiggle them slowly, feeling the familiar stretch between your knuckles. You avoid her eyes at first, focusing instead on the seam of the seat in front of you.
“I guess I’m nervous,” you say. You pause, recalibrating. “I think.”
“You think?” Jenni echoes gently as she starts the car.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “My stomach feels tight. And my head keeps replaying training. I missed two shots yesterday. One should’ve been near post.”
Alexia sighs, turning fully in her seat now. “You scored four.”
You brush it off. “That’s not the point.”
Jenni glances at you in the rearview mirror. “You are going to do great,” she says softly. “You are one of the best forwards I’ve seen developing at this pace.”
You shake your head almost immediately. Your thumb begins tracing the outline of your opposite fingernail. “But it’s not enough.”
“Not enough for who?” Alexia asks.
“For… for this,” you gesture vaguely. “For the expectations.”
Alexia’s jaw tightens. “It is more than enough, nena.”
You swallow. It doesn’t feel like it, you can’t help but think.
Your phone buzzes in your back pocket, and the vibration makes you jump slightly. You pull it out to see notifications from the England group chat, but you lock the screen without reading it fully.
Jenni notices, hearing the custom group chat buzz. “They’re excited for you.”
“They expect things,” you reply.
“They expect you to be good,” Jenni corrects. “Because you are.”
You look out the window as the hotel comes into view, the building looming taller than you remembered.
“I don’t want to mess it up,” you say, barely audible.
Alexia’s expression softens in a way she rarely allows others to see. “You will mess up,” she says simply. “Everyone does.”
You blink at her.
“And then,” she continues, “you will fix it. That’s what makes you different.”
Jenni nods. “You train like the world is ending every day. That’s why you’re here.”
The car jolts as Jenni pulls into the parking lot, parking quite awfully across the line. She doesn’t notice but you stare at the crooked angle.
Jenni turns and pats your knee, pulling you out of your trance. “Mira,” she says firmly, making you lift your shiny eyes to meet hers, even though it feels overwhelming. You hold eye contact for three seconds, almost four before you look at her chin instead.
“You are a generational talent,” she continues. “I know that. Ale knows that. The team knows that. Even the media knows that. Only person that doubts you is you.”
Your throat tightens instantly. Bile rises up your esophagus, leaving a burning trail and a harsh taste in your mouth. Compliments feel like pressure, like a god awful weight you can’t shake. You reach for the door handle, ready to escape.
“Hey,” Alexia calls gently. You pause but don’t look back. “Breathe,” she says.
You inhale for eight counts then exhale for eght counts.
“I am breathing,” you reply quietly.
Jenni sighs as you step out of the car a little too quickly, adjusting your hoodie sleeves over your hands. You smooth your shirt down twice then an extra time when your hands twitched.
Alexia watches you walk toward the hotel entrance, posture straight, shoulders tight.“She’ll understand one day,” Alexia murmurs, resting her hand briefly on Jenni’s arm.
Jenni keeps staring at the space you’d occupied in the backseat, at the perfectly aligned imprint you left behind. “I’m not too sure about that,” she says softly.
Misa sits in her cubby, music booming through the locker room speakers. Someone had connected their phone to the Bluetooth the moment they walked in, and now the bass rattles faintly through the metal benches. Laughter echoes off the wall as boots scrape against tile and tape tears somewhere across the room. But somehow it all fades into the background.
She plays mindlessly with the wraps around her wrists, tightening them, loosening them, smoothing the fabric down with slow, practiced movements. Her fingers are quick, methodical with years of repetition.
Across the room someone shouts about shin guards. Another player complains about the referee from their last match. Someone else starts arguing about whether Barcelona’s midfield is overrated, but noise blends together for Misa.
“Barcelona today,” Ivana, her captain, speaks up from the cubby beside her. Her voice cuts through the rest of the room easily. “Are you nervous?”
Misa snorts softly, not even looking up. “Never,” she replies without a thought.
Ivana glances at her. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“Why would I?” Misa shrugs, still focused on the tape around her wrist. “They’re eleven players. We’re eleven players.”
Ivana hums like she’s not entirely convinced but doesn’t push.
Across the room, someone speaks up. “Have you seen their number eight?”
Several heads lift.
“La niña?” Ivana clarifies, raising an eyebrow. “The English one?”
“That’s the one,” a defender says from the far bench, tying her boots aggressively. “She’s a beast.”
Another player scoffs immediately. “Please. She’s easy to read,” she claims. “She’s not as talented as Barça and England want her to be.”
“Exactly,” someone else chimes in. “Media loves a prodigy story. Especially a foreign one.”
“I know, right?” another voice adds, leaning back against the lockers. “I was watching film the other day and she’s an open book. Makes the same runs. Same body shape before she shoots.”
Misa’s hands pause for a second on the tape. Across the room the conversation keeps rolling.
“And she’s weird,” the defender continues, lowering her voice like she’s sharing something confidential. “Never celebrates her goals.”
A few girls laugh.
“Maybe she thinks she’s above it,” someone says. “Like scoring is just expected.”
“Or maybe she’s trying to look cool,” another teammate shrugs. “You know… mysterious superstar energy.”
Ivana smirks faintly. “You all sound jealous.”
“Jealous?” the defender scoffs. “Of her?”
Ivana just shrugs.
Misa finally lifts her head slightly, her gaze drifting down to the tiled floor between her boots.
Number eight. The English golden girl. She’s seen the clips of all the goals. All the slow-motion analysis on sports shows and commentators talking about “vision” and “instinct” and “generational potential.” You are just another privileged, manufactured forward who thinks they run the game. Exactly the type of player Misa despises.
“Oye,” Ivana says suddenly, leaning slightly toward her. “What are you thinking about?”
Misa’s fingers tighten the tape one last time around her wrist before she presses it flat.
“Number eight,” she replies simply.
Ivana waits for Misa to continue.
Misa finally looks up, her dark eyes sharp now.
“I want to break her down,” she says calmly. “I will break her down.”
Ivana blinks, momentarily rendered speechless by the quiet certainty in the younger goalkeeper’s voice.
Across the room someone overhears. “Ahí! ¡Ese es el espíritu!” a teammate laughs, walking past and clapping Misa hard on the back. [That’s it! That’s the spirit!]
Another girl whistles. “Careful, Misa. Sounds personal.”
“It’s not personal,” Misa mutters. “I don’t knwi the girl.”
But she doesn’t look away from the floor. In her mind she’s already building the game.
The angle of your runs, your body positioning, your foot preference. Where you look before you shoot, where you don’t look.
She wants to win. And if that means crushing you—some system-made, Barça-built prodigy who the football world keeps crowning before she’s earned it—so be it.
Her jaw tightens slightly as across the room - staff member calls for them to start warming up.
Boots slam into lockers and jerseys are pulled on, spiking the energy in the room.
Misa pushes herself to her feet slowly, rolling her shoulders once.
“Hey,” Ivana says quietly as she stands too. “Don’t underestimate her.”
Misa smirks faintly. “I don’t underestimate anyone,” she replies.
Then she grabs her gloves. “But I do enjoy proving people wrong.”
You have an odd pregame routine. It has been the same since you were a kid, with only minimal tweaks over the years.
You sit quietly at your cubby, the stadium noise filtering faintly through the concrete walls. The locker room hums around you—teammates talking, boots knocking against tile, someone laughing too loudly at a joke you didn’t quite catch.But you focus on your process.
First, your hair. You pull it back slowly, carefully collecting it into a tight bun before securing it into a slick back. Not a single flyaway is allowed. You smooth the sides with gel again… and again… then once more for good measure then it’s perfect.
Next come your boots. You place your right boot on first and then your left. But you tie the left boot before the right. You always have. You tried reversing it once when you were thirteen and played terribly that match. Since then, the order has never changed. You tighten the laces firmly, tugging twice on each knot.
After that comes the granola bar, your favorite one. You break it exactly in half. No crumbs scattered and no uneven break. If it is, you have back up ones and Ona usually eats the defects. Half of the bar goes into your mouth while the other half stays wrapped in the foil. You chew slowly, counting each bite without realizing it.
Then you wash it down with orange juice—pulp, no added sugar. The texture settles your stomach in a way nothing else does.
A few lockers down, Jenni watches you with a fond sort of amusement.
“You’re eating half again?” she asks.
“Yes,” you reply simply.
“You know you could just eat the whole thing.”
You glance at her. “That would be incorrect.”
Jenni laughs quietly, shaking her head. “Fair enough, nena.”
Next comes the book. You pull it from your bag carefully, sliding the bookmark back one page. One chapter. No more, no less. Your eyes move steadily across the page, absorbing the words even though your brain keeps drifting back to the film you’ve watched. When the chapter ends, you close the book immediately.
Finally, you slip your headphones on and scroll to the same song you have listened to before every game since you were eight. Get’cha Head in the Game from High School Musical. You know it is strange, but also know it is necessary.
Your teammates never questioned it. At least not seriously. They cared about one thing: your performance on the field.
And when the whistle blows, routine complete, nerves buzzing under your skin, you jog onto the pitch.
The stadium is loud, bright, and alive. But once the ball starts moving, the world narrows.
You receive the ball just outside the box. For a moment, you have a clear view of the goal.
You swing your leg back and propel it forward, striking the ball cleanly. The instant it leaves your foot, something feels wrong.
You know it. The angle paired with the timing was far too rushed. You just didn’t expect it to go straight into Madrid’s goalkeeper’s hands.
Across the box, Misa catches it easily, the ball settling securely into her gloves.
Her eyes snap onto your figure immediately. The intensity of her stare is sharp enough that you feel it before you fully process it.
You look up and for a brief moment your eyes meet. Her gaze is unwavering while yours falters almost instantly, dropping to the grass.
“Better luck next time, superestrella,” Misa says, her voice dripping with condescension, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.
You don’t seem to hear her. Or at least, you don’t react. You reset your position slowly as your thoughts begin spiraling. I should have angled it. Or waited half a second. Or gone near post. Or—
“Hey.” Alexia appears beside you, her voice calm and steady. “It was just one shot,” she says quietly.
You nod, though the words pass through you more than they settle. “I will get the next one.”
Alexia studies your face for a second longer before jogging back into position.
And then, lo and behold, your next opportunity arrives.
From across the field, Leila sends a long pass slicing through the air. The ball drops perfectly at your feet and you don’t waste a second, taking off.
Your defender reacts a beat too late as you accelerate forward, boots digging into the grass as you close the distance to goal.
The world narrows again and you glance up once. Only once this time, then you strike. It was a soft, controlled this time, only striving for accuracy and precision.
You tap the ball into the net, rolling it cleanly past an unprepared Misa who dives a split second too late in an attempt to save it.
The net waves at you just as the Barça crowd explodes. Chants erupt from the stands as your name mixed with the club’s anthem being chanted.
You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You turn away from the goal immediately.
Behind you, Misa remains on the ground, propped up on one elbow, staring at you with burning intensity.
Your teammates swarm you before you make it three steps. Jenni sweeps you up into her arms with a loud laugh.
“¡Vamos!” she shouts, squeezing you tight. “That’s how you do it!”
You let a small smile grow on your face, brief and shy.
“You see?” Alexia says as she pats your head once. “Next one.”
Meanwhile, Misa pushes herself up slowly, jaw clenched. She stays there longer than she needs to just watching you.
You aren’t some lucky, goody two-shoes player. You can actually play. And for some reason, that realization makes her blood boil.
Later, when you score a second time—another precise finish that slips just beyond her reach—Misa feels like her skin is on fire, burning with fury.
How could someone like you score on her twice? And then again, like the superstar everyone claims you are, you don’t celebrate.
You just let your teammates clamber around you, laughing and shouting as they drag you into another group hug.
She hates it.
You single-handedly break through Madrid’s defensive line again and again throughout the match, forcing Misa to throw herself into risky saves just to keep the score from climbing higher.
By the final whistle, her gloves are slick with sweat and grass stains.
Misa rips them off the moment the whistle blows, tossing them down beside the goalpost before turning away.
She’s sweaty, irritated, and, though she’d never admit it out loud—honestly intrigued. You are supposed to be an arrogant pain in the ass. The kind of golden girl she loves knocking down a few pegs. But you are the exact opposite. And somehow, that bothers her even more.
“Just go without me,” you insist, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling like if you stay still enough the night will pass without you.
“Not an option,” Patri, your roommate for the weekend, replies from across the room, already half dressed and fixing her earrings in the mirror. “Everyone is meeting downstairs in twenty minutes. If I don’t come down with you, there are already talks of Jenni coming up here herself and dragging you out.”
You groan loudly, dragging your hands over your face before throwing the duvet off of you.
“She wouldn’t actually do that,” you mutter.
Patri turns, raising an eyebrow. “You want to test that theory?”
You sit up immediately. “…No.”
“There we go!” Patri cheers, clapping once as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and shuffle toward your suitcase.
You unzip it carefully, pulling out something simple and familiar, jeans and a nice top.
Patri watches you for a second. “You know this is a club, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re dressing like we’re going to dinner with Alexia’s family.”
You pause, looking down at your outfit. “This is appropriate.”
Patri snorts. “You’re unbelievable. Don’t worry, we bought you something early and you will be wearing it, or else.”
The next hour or so is a blur with numerous taxis to fit all of you and voices overlapping, including Jenni yelling something from one car to another through an open window.
You sit pressed against the door, counting streetlights as they pass by. Eight… sixteen… twenty-four.
By the time you arrive, the music is already thumping through the walls of the club. You often forget that you are technically celebrities, so it catches you off guard when the bouncer immediately recognizes the team and waves everyone through with a grin.
“Buenas noches, chicas.”
The owner practically beams at the sight of you all, greeting the team like honored guests and ushering you toward a reserved section.
Purple and red lights flash as the bass resonates in your core You sit awkwardly on the couch, shoulders slightly hunched, with Ona and Laia next to you, both deep in an intense debate.
“Stracciatella is objectively the best,” Laia insists.
“No, pistachio,” Ona counters. “And it’s not even close.”
“It tastes like grass.”
“It does not taste like grass!”
You blink between them. “I like mango,” you offer quietly.
They both turn to you, incredulous looks on their faces.
“That’s not even in the conversation,” Laia says as Ona pats your shoulder.
You nod. “Okay.”
“Drink?” a bottle girl asks, leaning close so she can hear your order over the music. You visibly gulp at the proximity, shoulders tensing as you lean back slightly.
“Uh, just a Shirley Temple for me, please,” you say. “Sin alcohol.”
The woman smiles warmly. “Claro,” before turning away.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, shoulders dropping.
“Aww,” Jenni smirks from the side, leaning forward with a teasing glint in her eyes. “El primer pánico gay del bebé.” [Baby’s first gay panic.]
You glare at her. “Quit it.”
Jenni raises her hands in surrender, laughing as she grabs another shot from the table. “I’m just saying, you looked like you were about to combust.”
“I was not.”
“You were,” Ona mutters under her breath.
“I was not,” you repeat, more quietly this time.
“Welcome to the party!” Patri suddenly shouts over the music.
Your head—along with several others—whips toward the source of the commotion. Numerous Real Madrid players filter into the club.
Some of the Barça girls cheer, greeting familiar faces. National team overlaps blur the rivalry just enough for nights like this.
You stay seated, your eyes drift across the group until you accidentally meet hazel eyes that are already on you.
Misa’s gaze is steady and intent, holding something reminiscent of amusement.
You flinch instinctively, looking away too quickly, focusing instead on the condensation forming on the table.
Misa smirks to herself before turning her attention to Patri, slipping into easy conversation like nothing happened.
Later in the night, you realize, with a sinking feeling, that you are going to be babysitting your extremely drunk teammates as you watch Jenni drunkenly sing along to the song playing that didn’t have any lyrics. That alone makes you crave another Shirley Temple.
You slide off the couch and make your way to the bar, weaving through people carefully, avoiding unnecessary contact.
You stand there, hands clasped in front of you, staring at the bottles lined up behind the counter.
The lights are too bright and music is too loud. There’s much too many voices and movements to allow you to feel calm. You focus on your breathing, trying to ground yourself.
“You’re quieter in person, you know.”
The voice from beside you makes you flinch for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
Your head snaps toward her—towards those same hazel eyes, studying you up close now.
“My name is Misa,” she says, extending her hand casually.
You hesitate for half a second before taking it, your grip polite but brief. “Misa?” you repeat, eyebrows furrowing slightly.
After all your years in Spain, nicknames still confuse you. Hell, your own nickname confuses you.
“María Isabel,” she clarifies. “But everyone calls me Misa.”
You nod once. “Nice to meet you, María Isabel.”
“Misa,” she corrects immediately.
You cringe slightly. “No.”
Misa’s eyebrows lift in surprise, a slow grin spreading across her face.
“Alright,” she says. “Keke.”
You squirm almost instantly at the nickname. It’s what the fans chant sometimes—pulling from the first sounds of your middle and last name.
You don’t like it and immediately Misa notices, though she pretends not to.
“You don’t celebrate,” she says instead.
Your face scrunches. “You mean drinking? I don’t drink. I’ve taken the job of making sure everyone gets back safely.”
Misa huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head.
“No, no es de eso de lo que estoy hablando,” she says. “Tus goles. No celebras.” [No that’s not what I am talking about. Your goals. You don’t celebrate.]
You accept your drink from the bartender with a quiet, “Gracias,” before turning back to her.
You shrug, taking a small sip. “Es mi trabajo anotar.” [It’s my job to score.]
Misa hums, watching you carefully. “Parecías bastante decepcionada cuando anotaste,” she says. “¿Sabes?” [You looked rather disappointed when you actually scored, you know.]
Your jaw tightens immediately. “Because I missed the first shot,” you reply, like it’s obvious.
Misa tilts her head slightly, like she’s trying to solve something. Or rather like you’re something to figure out.
“Well,” she says casually, leaning a little closer, “instead of staying here, drinking your very red drink and taking care of your teammates… why don’t you come with me to mine?”
You blink. “It’s called a Shirley Temple,” you say automatically. “This one is ginger ale instead of Sprite, which I don’t mind but—”
You stop yourself. “…Wait. Like your house?”
Misa smirks. “Where else?”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Um—I don’t think—”
“It’s fine,” she interrupts, already straightening up, nodding toward the exit like it’s already decided. “Let’s go.”
You hesitate, glancing back toward your teammates. No one is looking at you, all too distracted in the moment.
You look back at Misa and she’s already walking. For some reason beyond you—you follow.
The drive back is a void, filled with a charge you can’t quite name. Misa is silent, her focus on the road absolute, leaving you to drown in the echo of your own heartbeat. You don’t remember her parking. You don’t remember the walk up to her loft. You don’t remember your dress slipping off, a silky pool on the floor.
All you remember is the weight of Misa on you on the sofa, the heat of her body pinning you into the cushions, and the taste of her her lips was a cooling mint, clashing with your bright, citrus lip gloss. Her hands, rough from years of goalkeeping, find your waist, pulling you flush against her until your hips align, until you could feel the hard line of her thigh pressing into your core.
Misa’s mouth is relentless. It moves from your lips, down your jaw, tracing the frantic pulse in your neck, then lower, across the slope of your breast, her teeth grazing your nipple in a sharp shock. You gasp, your hands fumbling at her shoulders, unsure whether to push or pull. She doesn’t give you time to decide.
Her lips travel down your stomach on a slow, devastating conquest. You are trembling and your mind a blank screen of sensation. And then Misa’s there, between your legs, her breath hot against your damp skin.
She looks up at you, from that intimate vantage, her usual bemused smile replaced by something focused, almost reverent. Then she lowered her head.
The first touch is a soft, open mouthed kiss against your inner thigh, teasing you. Then her tongue finds you with a slow, deliberate stroke, from bottom to top, a flat, wet pressure that makes your entire body jolt. Your back arches off the sofa. Her hands tighten on your hips, holding you down for her.
Misa works with a methodical intensity that steals your breath. Long, languid licks that coat you in her saliva, followed by focused, circling attention on your clit. Misa’s very thorough, intently learning the shape and response of you with each movement. Her tongue flicks, presses, rubs in tiny, devastating circles. The pleasure built in a steady, mounting wave, a tension coiling deep inside your belly.
You are panting, your fingers now tangled in her long, dark hair as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world. Your eyes are shut tight, the dim light of her loft a distant concept to you. All that existed was the wet, slick sound of her, the smell of your own arousal mixed with her perfume, the overwhelming rightness of her mouth on you.
Misa shifted, one hand left your hip and you instantly feel the blunt pressure of a finger, probing, testing your entrance before it slid in without resistance, a smooth, full intrusion that made you cry out.
She doesn’t stop her tongue, and keeps working your clit while her finger pushes deeper, then curls, sending a sharp spark of sensation that ripped a moan from your throat. She curls her finger again, pressing up into that spot, and her tongue presses down on your clit simultaneously.
The duality is unbearable to you. The internal fullness, the external friction. The pleasure wasn’t a wave anymore, but rather a crackling current of electricity inside circling within you. She maintains the rhythm, finger curling, tongue circling, her breath coming hard against your skin.
“Misa—” You manage to choke out something in between a warning and a plea.
She hears it, as her movements became more urgent and more insistent.
You are hit with a white hot burst of release floods out from that curled finger, washing over every nerve. You shudder, your legs clamping around her head, your hips bucking against Misa’s hold as her tongue softening to gentle, soothing strokes as you come down, trembling and spent.
Misa slowly withdraws her finger before rising from her position. Her face glistening, looking utterly satisfied, her cocky smile back on her lips as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Superestrella,” Misa murmurs, her voice rough. “You taste like victory.”
You are still dazed, floating in the aftermath. She airs back on the sofa, legs spread, an open invitation in her posture. The look in her eyes was a challenge. Your turn.
A spike of pure anxiety pierced the haze. You move clumsy, sliding off the sofa to kneel on the floor between her legs. The reality of the moment crashes into you. The musky scent of her arousal, the confident way she watches you.
“I’ve… I’ve never done this before,” You whisper, looking at the floor between her knees.
There’s a beat of silence. Then Misa’s hand comes down, right to the back of your head. Her fingers threads through your curls, a firm, grounding grip. “I know,” she says, simple, direct. “Just follow my lead.”
You press your face against the inside of her thigh first, a mimic of Misa’s own start. Then you look up to meet her heavy, imploring gaze. You find her center, starting tentatively, with a closed mouth kiss. Then you open your lips, let your tongue extend to taste her.
You copy what Misa did to you: a long, slow lick from base to tip. She exhales sharply, a hissed “Fuck.” Her fingers tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding.
You repeat the lick, then focused on her clit, tracing the firm little bud with the tip of your tongue. Misa groans, her hips shifting. You find a rhythm, alternating broad strokes with tight circles, listening to the sounds she makes, feeling the way her thighs tensed.
Her guidance becomes more active. She pushes your head slightly when she wants more pressure, or tilt it to change the angle. “Right there,” she grunts, and you obey, locking onto that spot.
You lose your nervousness in the mechanics of it, in the feedback of her body. You experiment, sucking lightly, then flicking faster. Her breath becomes ragged, her grip in your hair almost painful.
You double your efforts, tongue and lips working in concert, driven by a sudden, fierce desire to win this, to make her fall apart. Her thighs began to shake. A series of short, sharp gasps escape her.
Then she freezes, her whole body locking for a second before a deep, guttural cry tore from her throat. Her back arches off the sofa, her hand still clenched in your hair, holding you firmly against her as she convulses. You feel the pulse of her climax against your mouth, the hot rush of it, and keep gentle, lapping motions until her shuddering subsided.
She collapsed back, breathing heavily. Her hand fell from your hair, sliding down to cup you cheek. You look up, lips wet, and your heart pounding.
She stared at the ceiling, a faint, stunned look on her face. “Estoy corregido,” she breathed. “You are a prodigy.” [I stand corrected.]
You crawl back onto the sofa, lying down beside her. You don’t touch, just breathed in the quiet, dark room. You stare at the ceiling, the textured plaster blur in your vision.
5.3 WC | Fluff, slightly suggestive | GIF not mine
Summary: Alexia and Y/N have a secret, a fitness challenge might just be the thing to catch them out
If there was one thing the FC Barcelona Femení squad loved almost as much as football, it was competition.
"Alright, chicas," Jonatan, the assistant coach, clapped his hands. "Today’s session is about fitness monitoring. New program."
The squad collectively groaned.
Jonatan grinned, holding up his own wrist. "Apple Watches, Oura Rings, whatever you’re wearing; we’ve synced them all into the Barça Fit app. We’ll be tracking movement, calories, sleep, steps. Weekly rankings."
"Weekly rankings?" Patri repeated, deadpan. "Like we’re Pokémon Go characters?"
"It’ll be fun," Mapi smirked, already fiddling with her Apple Watch. "Finally, proof that I’m fitter than Ingrid."
Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Delusional."
Y/N chuckled, sliding her own watch on. She’d bought it mostly for running, but now it seemed it was going to betray her in ways she hadn’t considered. She cast a quick glance at Alexia, who was smirking knowingly, like she’d already predicted how this was going to go.
“Just don’t check the leaderboard too obsessively,” Jonatan warned. “It’s for motivation, not obsession.”
Which, in retrospect, was the beginning of the end.
“Welcome to the Hunger Games,” Patri announced dramatically as she scrolled through her wrist. “Except no one dies. Well, unless Alexia kills us during fitness drills.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Alexia muttered, stretching casually, though her lips twitched like she was holding back a smile.
You were perched on the bench nearby, tying your shoelaces tighter than necessary to keep from laughing. Being around this team was like being thrown into the middle of a sitcom, but you were used to it by now. What they didn’t know, yet, was that you were also Alexia’s girlfriend.
And that was something neither of you had shared with the team.
Not because you were hiding out of shame, far from it, but because you both agreed it was kind of nice having something just yours. Barcelona Femení was a family, but they were also terrible gossips. If one person knew, the whole team would know, and by dinner the entire city of Barcelona might as well.
So, for now, you stayed under the radar.
“Alright, everyone synced?” Mapi clapped her hands together like an evil mastermind. “Ready for a challenge? The rules are simple. Every activity is logged. Whoever has the highest numbers by the end of the month wins. Losers…” her eyes swept over the group with mock menace, “…buy the winners dinner.”
“Plural?” Ingrid raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, plural.” Mapi smirked. “Me and whoever else is worthy of standing next to me at the top.”
“Delusional,” Aitana muttered.
“Competitive,” Mapi shot back.
You leaned against the bench, trying not to smirk too much as you looked at Alexia. She wasn’t saying anything, just scrolling lazily through the app like she wasn’t taking it seriously. But you knew better. If there was one thing your girlfriend hated, it was losing. She’d never admit it, but she was one of the most competitive people you’d ever met.
The first week was chaos.
Aitana got spotted doing yoga in the locker room between drills. Even Irene, who swore she “didn’t care about dumb leaderboards,” started doing pushups in the hall before meetings.
“Patri’s been running laps around her kitchen at midnight,” Mapi announced one day, reading the rankings. “You can’t be that desperate.”
“I wasn’t running laps,” Patri protested. “I was… making tea.”
“Fifty floors of tea?” Mariona snorted.
Everyone laughed, the usual chaos of the locker room. Y/N pretended to check her bag, hiding a smile. She and Alexia had been careful, workouts only logged during normal hours, nothing suspicious.
But then came Wednesday night.
It was 2:43 a.m. Y/N lay flat on Alexia’s bed, chest heaving, sweat sticking to her skin.
“That was…” she panted, “…not yoga.”
Alexia, sprawled next to her, smirked. “It burned calories.”
“Alexia.” Y/N turned her head, glaring weakly. “You know our watches log this stuff.”
“Mm.” Alexia stretched an arm above her head, unbothered. “Let them think I’m committed to midnight Pilates.”
“They’re going to think something,” Y/N muttered, covering her face with her hands.
Alexia only chuckled, rolling over and pressing a kiss to Y/N’s shoulder. “Relax, cariño. They’ll never piece it together.”
Except the next morning, Patri’s voice rang through the training pitch.
“WHO THE HELL IS WORKING OUT AT 2:40 IN THE MORNING?!”
Y/N nearly tripped over the cone she was dribbling around.
The entire squad crowded around their synced app, gasping, laughing, speculating. Two names flashed in the “Completed Workouts” section: Alexia Putellas and Y/N L/N. Both logged exactly 47 minutes. Both at 2 something in the morning.
Mariona’s eyes were wide. “That’s… creepy.”
Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “Coincidence?”
“Coincidence my ass,” Mapi said, smirking. “Who does HIIT at 2:40 a.m.?”
Alexia jogged over, calm as ever. “What’s going on?” she asked, feigning innocence.
“Your watch thinks you’re an insomniac,” Patri accused, waving her phone.
Alexia peered at the screen, lips twitching. “Ah. Yeah, sometimes I can’t sleep. I like to…move.”
Y/N nearly choked on her water. Move. That was one way to put it.
“You too, Y/N?” Mariona teased, glancing at her. “Starting rookie hazing early with 3 a.m. cardio?”
Heat crawled up Y/N’s neck. “I- uh..I couldn’t sleep either.”
Alexia, the devil herself, simply patted Y/N’s back like a supportive captain. “Good habits, eh?”
The squad laughed it off, eventually distracted by training. But Y/N knew it wouldn’t be the last time. Not with Alexia’s cocky grin lingering like a secret weapon.
Sure enough, it happened again.
Friday night. 1:58 a.m. Alexia had pulled Y/N into her home gym after a movie night. "Just ten minutes," she’d promised. Ten minutes turned into thirty of… well, not exactly gym exercises. Y/N had begged her to turn off the watch. Alexia just raised a brow and whispered against her ear, “Where’s the fun in that?”
Saturday morning, locker room chaos.
“Okay no, this is too weird,” Patri said, holding up her phone again. “You two did another workout together at the exact same time? Middle of the night?”
“Do you have like a secret pact?” Mapi asked, grinning. “The Midnight Fitness Club?”
“Maybe they’re vampires,” Mariona suggested.
Y/N sputtered, “It’s… It’s just a coincidence!”
“Twice?” Patri deadpanned.
Alexia smirked, cool as ice. “Some people value discipline.”
Y/N wanted the ground to swallow her whole.
By the third time it happened, there was no saving face.
Monday. 3:12 a.m. 62 minutes logged.
“Okay,” Mapi slammed her hand on the table during breakfast. “Confess. What’s going on between you two?”
The entire squad stared at Y/N and Alexia.
Y/N’s heart pounded so loud she swore it echoed in the cafeteria. Her fork trembled in her hand. Alexia, on the other hand, leaned back casually in her chair, sipping her coffee like she was immune to mortal panic.
“Going on?” she repeated smoothly.
“Yes!” Patri said. “Three nights this week. At ungodly hours. Both of you. For the exact same amount of time. Nobody’s that coordinated without planning it.”
Alexia reached over, calmly plucking a piece of toast from Y/N’s plate, unfazed by the chaos. “You all think too much,” she said with a shrug. But her eyes - oh, her eyes were sparkling with mischief as they flicked to Y/N’s flushed face.
She was enjoying this.
Far too much.
The second week was underway. First thing in the morning, the press room at Ciutat Esportiva was buzzing, as it always did days before a Champions League fixture. Cameras, microphones, questions flying in every direction. Alexia handled it with her usual calm authority, giving clipped but confident answers in that smooth captain’s voice.
Y/N, sitting two seats down, tried to appear equally composed. Except she wasn’t. Because all she could think about was the way Alexia’s hand had brushed against hers under the table, out of view. A feather-light touch, a silent promise.
“Y/N,” one reporter called. “How are you finding your first Champions League campaign with Barça?”
Y/N blinked, forcing a smile. “Um, it’s been incredible. The support from the team makes everything easier.”
Beside her, Alexia gave the tiniest smirk. Y/N sat up straighter, praying no one noticed the warmth creeping up her neck.
The press session ended, players dispersing back toward the training ground. The squad was chattering, joking, debating who gave the most boring answer (Patri, unanimously).
But as soon as the hallway cleared, Alexia caught Y/N’s wrist.
“Five minutes,” she whispered.
Y/N blinked. “Now?”
Alexia’s grin was sinful. “Now.”
The gym was empty. Everyone else had either gone to shower or other media. Alexia closed the door behind them, tugging Y/N into the corner where the mats were laid out.
“This is reckless,” Y/N hissed, though she was already letting herself be pulled down onto the mat.
Alexia leaned in, brushing a stray hair from her face. “This is cardio.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
Twenty-five minutes later, both of their watches buzzed. Workout complete.
Y/N groaned, flopping back onto the mat. “We’re doomed.”
Alexia only laughed, stealing a quick kiss before tugging her up. “Relax, cariño. Nobody checks it immediately.”
She was wrong.
By lunch, the notifications had been spotted.
“WHAT?!” Patri’s voice rang through the cafeteria. “Again?!”
The table erupted in chaos. Phones were whipped out. Screens shoved in faces.
“11:47 a.m.,” Mariona read dramatically, like a courtroom prosecutor. “Right after media. Guess who logged a 25-minute workout together?”
All eyes turned.
Alexia chewed her chicken calmly. Y/N nearly choked on hers.
“Oh come on,” Mapi said, grinning ear to ear. “You guys aren’t even trying to hide it now.”
“Maybe they’ve got a secret training pact,” Ingrid offered, though her smirk betrayed that she didn’t believe it.
“Yeah,” Patri deadpanned. “The Pact of Suspiciously Synced Heart Rates.”
Y/N dropped her fork. “We just… like to… stay active!”
Laughter roared around the table. Even Ona, usually quiet, chuckled into her salad.
Alexia sipped her water, completely unfazed. “Discipline,” she said again, shrugging like it was the simplest answer in the world.
Y/N wanted to scream.
From then on, it became a running joke. Every random moment, the squad checked their app.
After recovery yoga: both Alexia and Y/N logged an “extra” 15 minutes. After team dinner: another 40 minutes mysteriously appeared at 10:55 p.m.
Even after media days, when the entire squad was together; somehow, someway, those two always logged matching sessions within minutes of each other.
“They’re sneaking off,” Mariona announced one day, loud enough for half the locker room to hear.
“They’re definitely sneaking off,” Mapi agreed. “I swear I saw them disappear after physio yesterday.”
“You’re imagining things,” Y/N squeaked, tugging on her boots.
Mapi leaned in, mischievous. “Am I?”
Y/N’s ears burned.
By the third week of suspiciously synced workouts, the Barcelona locker room had shifted from amused curiosity to full-on investigation mode.
“This isn’t normal,” Patri declared one morning, scrolling through the app like it was evidence in a courtroom trial. “Nobody works out this much together unless there’s a secret.”
“Or unless they’re dating,” Mapi added, smirking.
Y/N fumbled with her laces so hard she almost tied her boots together.
Alexia, lounging nearby, looked entirely unbothered. “Or maybe we’re just competitive,” she said smoothly.
“Competitive?” Mariona repeated. “At two in the morning?”
Alexia’s shrug was the picture of captainly calm. “Discipline.”
The squad groaned in unison.
That afternoon, a new plan was hatched.
“Operation Caught-in-the-Act,” Mapi announced proudly in the physio room. “We’re going to prove it once and for all.”
“How?” Ingrid asked, though the twitch of her mouth suggested she already knew she was going to regret asking.
“Stakeout,” Mapi said, like it was obvious.
Mariona grinned. “Like detectives.”
“Exactly.”
Patri crossed her arms. “This is ridiculous.”
“…but brilliant,” Mariona added.
Patri sighed. “Fine. I’m in.”
The first attempt came after training.
Y/N and Alexia had barely slipped out of the locker room, heading toward the side hallway, when whispers echoed behind them.
“Follow them!” Mapi hissed.
Y/N glanced over her shoulder, heart skipping. She could’ve sworn she saw Mariona’s head pop out from behind a vending machine.
Alexia, unfazed, leaned down and murmured, “Don’t look back.”
“I think they’re actually following us,” Y/N whispered.
“They’ll lose interest.”
Spoiler: they didn’t.
The “stakeout squad” trailed them down the hall, ducking behind corners with the subtlety of toddlers playing hide-and-seek.
At one point, Ingrid had to physically pull Mapi back because she was giggling too loudly.
But when Y/N and Alexia slipped into the gym and closed the door, the squad rushed to peek inside, only to find the pair genuinely lifting weights.
“Damn it,” Mapi muttered.
“Told you,” Patri said smugly.
Except twenty minutes later, both watches buzzed, logging an “extra activity” session that didn’t match what they had witnessed.
Mapi stared at her phone in disbelief. “How?!”
“Maybe they’re… multitasking?” Mariona offered.
The group dissolved into wheezing laughter.
The second attempt came after a media day.
Knowing their habit of vanishing after press duties, the squad decided to set a trap.
“We’ll all stay together,” Patri insisted, gathering the team in the tunnel. “No one leaves until we’re dismissed. That way, no sneaking off.”
Y/N’s stomach sank. Alexia, of course, looked like she’d just been handed a puzzle to solve.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, Alexia leaned down, whispering low into Y/N’s ear, “Meet me by the physio room. Two minutes.”
“What? They’re literally watching us!”
“That’s the fun part.”
And somehow, impossibly, Alexia pulled it off. A casual excuse to grab water. A wave at a staff member down the hall. A quick detour.
By the time Y/N nervously slipped away, the squad was still huddled, distracted by Mapi trying to convince Patri to start a TikTok series called Fitness Gate.
Twenty-five minutes later: ding. Both watches buzzed.
Mapi’s jaw dropped. “No. Freaking. Way.”
“They’re magicians,” Mariona whispered, staring at her screen. “Or spies.”
It became a game, the squad versus the secret couple.
During a recovery pool session, Patri and Mariona stationed themselves at opposite exits to “block escape routes.” Somehow, Alexia and Y/N still vanished, logging a suspicious 30 minutes.
At team dinner, Mapi hid behind a menu, watching their every move. The next morning, their watches revealed a perfectly matched midnight “yoga” session anyway.
Even when Ona, usually the quiet observer, joined in, she could only shake her head. “They’re professionals. You won’t catch them like this.”
Mapi gasped. “So you admit there’s something to catch!”
Ona smirked but said nothing.
Y/N, meanwhile, was living in a constant state of near-heart-attack.
“They’re literally hunting us,” she whispered one evening at Alexia’s apartment, clutching a cushion to her chest.
Alexia stretched out on the sofa, scrolling through Netflix like nothing was wrong. “They’re not hunting. They’re playing.”
“They’re scheming! They’re going to corner us one day!”
Alexia finally looked up, grin tugging at her lips. “Then we’ll tell them.”
Y/N squeaked. “You’re not even a little nervous?”
“No.” Alexia reached over, tugging her onto her lap. “You’re mine, and sooner or later they’ll know. Until then…” She brushed her lips against Y/N’s ear. “…I like watching you squirm.”
The next morning, when both of their watches logged a suspicious 3 a.m. “core workout,” the squad went feral in the group chat.
Mapi: THEY DID IT AGAIN.
Patri: At 3 a.m.??? Do they ever sleep?
Mariona: This is insane. I’m making a conspiracy board.
Ingrid: Please don’t.
Mariona: Too late.
One thing was clear: the squad wasn’t giving up.
And Y/N knew it was only a matter of time before one of their schemes actually worked.
It started with Mariona showing up to training with a roll of tape and a stack of printed screenshots.
“Everybody to the meeting room!” she announced dramatically, waving the papers in the air. “It’s time.”
Patri groaned. “Oh no.”
Mapi’s grin spread like wildfire. “YES. The Board.”
Within minutes, the squad had crowded into the unused video-analysis room. The projector was off, the tactical diagrams ignored. Instead, Mariona slapped the first paper onto the whiteboard: a screenshot of the Barça Fit app showing Alexia Putellas and Y/N L/N logging a 52-minute workout at 2:11 a.m.
“Exhibit A,” Mariona declared.
Patri dragged a hand over her face. “This is ridiculous.”
“This is SCIENCE,” Mariona corrected, already taping up more screenshots. “Exhibit B. Exhibit C. Exhibit D. Notice the pattern?”
The board filled up fast: timestamps, matching workout durations, photos of Alexia and Y/N caught sneaking into hallways. Mariona even drew connecting lines with red marker, circling everything like she was solving a true crime case.
Ingrid sat with her arms crossed, watching the chaos. “You all realise you’re insane, right?”
“Insanely observant,” Mapi corrected, grabbing a marker and scribbling Possible Scenarios at the top of the board.
“Okay,” Mariona said, stepping back like a proud professor. “Hypothesis one: they are actually vampires. Nocturnal activity, unexplained energy at training, suspiciously glowing skin-”
“Vampires?” Patri interrupted.
“Don’t dismiss it,” Mariona warned.
“Hypothesis two,” Mapi said, taking over. “Secret training cult. They’ve created their own midnight fitness regime, probably involving sacrifices…”
“Oh my god,” Patri muttered, sinking into her chair.
“Hypothesis three,” Mariona announced with a flourish, “and the most likely: they’re sneaking off for… activities.”
The squad erupted into howls of laughter.
Meanwhile, down the hall, Y/N was tying her boots when she heard the commotion.
“What are they even doing in there?” she asked, side-eyeing the muffled shouts.
Alexia smirked knowingly, adjusting her shin guards. “Scheming.”
“Scheming?”
“Mm.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “They’re obsessed with us, cariño. Can’t stop thinking about what we’re doing.”
Y/N felt her face go hot. “Alexia!”
But Alexia was already strolling toward the pitch, shoulders relaxed, that cocky grin in place.
Back in the meeting room, Patri tried to salvage some sanity.
“Look, you don’t need conspiracy theories. The answer is obvious.”
“Exactly!” Mapi shouted. “They’re hooking up!”
Patri blinked. “…I was going to say they just train together. But sure, let’s go with your theory.”
Ona, who had been quiet as always, finally spoke up. “If they’re hiding something, they won’t slip up in normal situations.”
The room went quiet. Everyone turned to her.
“They’re too careful,” Ona continued, calmly flipping through her phone. “If you really want to catch them, you need to create a scenario where they think they’re safe.”
Mapi gasped, eyes wide. “Like a trap.”
“Yes,” Ona said simply.
Mariona slapped the board. “Operation Honeypot!”
“That’s not what honeypot means,” Ingrid muttered.
But Mapi was already scribbling “TRAP” in huge letters across the board.
The next day, the trap was set.
Jonatan had finished tactical drills early, so the players were gathered in the meeting room. Mariona raised her hand. “Coach, could you excuse us for a second? We just… need to discuss something privately.”
Jonatan raised an eyebrow but left, muttering about dramatic footballers.
The moment the door closed, Patri announced loudly, “Okay, emergency toilet break. Everyone out!”
The squad “casually” filed out, except for the stakeout team, who crouched outside the door like kids at a sleepover.
Inside, Alexia leaned back in her chair, smirking. “You hear that?”
Y/N blinked. “Hear what?”
“They’re setting a trap.”
“What?!” Y/N squeaked, whipping her head toward the door. “Are you serious?”
“Mm.” Alexia stood, tugging her wrist. “Come on. Let’s give them what they want.”
“What do you mean?!”
But Alexia just winked.
Outside, the squad held their breath as the door creaked open. Footsteps echoed down the hall. Then silence.
Mapi whispered, “They took the bait.”
Mariona nearly squealed. “This is it!”
The group crept after them, peeking around corners like cartoon detectives. Finally, they reached the physio corridor, where they found Alexia and Y/N…
…sitting calmly on the bench, scrolling their phones.
“Caught you!” Mapi shouted, bursting out from behind the corner.
Alexia looked up, unimpressed. “Caught us… waiting for physio?”
Y/N blinked, wide-eyed, clutching her phone like it was a lifeline.
Mapi froze. “Wait. But you…we…”
Behind her, Patri groaned. “This is pathetic.”
Ona smirked knowingly.
Later that night, when both watches buzzed with a 1 a.m. “HIIT workout,” the squad group chat exploded.
Mapi: THEY OUTSMARTED US.
Mariona: They KNEW about the trap.
Patri: Maybe because you shouted “Operation Honeypot” in the locker room yesterday.
Ingrid: Clowns. All of you.
Ona: Told you.
Y/N lay tangled in Alexia’s sheets, face buried in her chest. “They’re never going to stop.”
Alexia kissed her hair, chuckling. “Good. I like the entertainment.”
“You’re evil.”
“Evil,” Alexia echoed, grinning. “And still undefeated.”
By now, the team had reached what could only be described as obsession. The “mystery of the midnight workouts” had become a daily fixture of conversation, escalating from casual teasing to full-blown detective work.
“They’re laughing at us,” Mapi muttered one morning, scrolling through her phone like it had personally betrayed her. “Mocking us with their little synced sessions.”
“They’re mocking you,” Ingrid said dryly, tying her boots.
“No, they’re mocking all of us!” Mapi insisted. “Every suspicious workout is a declaration of war.”
First came the GPS trackers; Mapi sneakily slipped an AirTag into Alexia’s gym bag, proudly announcing, “Checkmate.” Except the next morning, the tracker pinged from a perfectly boring location: Alexia’s living room.
“Maybe they really are just doing late-night workouts,” Ingrid suggested.
Then came the hidden cameras; Mariona convinced the kit man to let her “test” a new GoPro setup in the gym. But when they reviewed the footage, all they saw was Alexia calmly riding a stationary bike for twenty minutes, before winking directly at the camera and walking out.
Mariona clutched her head. “She knows. She knows everything.”
Ona, as always, smirked. “Told you.”
Y/N, meanwhile, was living in permanent panic.
“They’re going to catch us,” she hissed one evening in Alexia’s apartment, pacing the floor like it was a crime scene. “Mapi has gone full FBI. Mariona has a board. Patri’s probably running background checks.”
Alexia lounged on the couch, scrolling through her phone like she hadn’t a care in the world. “Let them try.”
“You don’t understand…”
Alexia reached out, snagging Y/N’s wrist, pulling her onto her lap. Her grin was maddeningly smug. “Scared the team will find out just how much stamina their captain has?”
Y/N nearly fell off her lap. “ALEXIA!”
“What?” Alexia teased, brushing a kiss against her neck. “It’s just fitness, no?”
Y/N covered her face with both hands. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you love it.”
The problem, of course, was that Alexia’s cockiness wasn’t unwarranted.
Because that night, for reasons Y/N couldn’t even comprehend, their “session” stretched past an hour. And when their watches buzzed: Longest workout yet: 92 minutes. Y/N nearly cried.
The next morning, the squad erupted.
“NINETY. TWO. MINUTES.” Mapi screamed, slamming her phone onto the breakfast table like it was proof of alien life.
The entire team gathered around, jaws dropping.
“Ninety-two minutes of cardio at three a.m.,” Patri said flatly. “That’s not normal. That’s… borderline superhuman.”
Mariona whistled low. “Stamina.”
Ingrid’s eyebrow shot up. “Impressive.”
Y/N, sitting two seats down, choked so hard on her orange juice that Vicky had to thump her on the back.
Alexia, across the table, just smirked over her coffee. “Discipline,” she said again smoothly, like it explained everything.
Mapi slammed her hands on the table. “NO. This isn’t discipline. This is… this is…” She gestured wildly. “…something ELSE.”
The squad howled with laughter, voices echoing around the cafeteria.
Y/N’s ears burned crimson. Alexia, meanwhile, leaned back in her chair like a cat in the sun, entirely unbothered.
Of course, ninety-two minutes was the spark that lit a new fire under the squad.
“This is it,” Mapi said, pulling out her notebook later that day. “Our white whale. If we can’t catch them after this, we never will.”
Mariona nodded gravely. “We need the ultimate plan.”
Patri muttered, “Or you could just… ask them?”
“No,” Mapi snapped, eyes wild. “We don’t ask. We hunt.”
Ona chuckled under her breath.
Back in Alexia’s apartment, Y/N buried her face in a pillow. “They’re insane. They’re going to put us under surveillance.”
Alexia ran a hand lazily through Y/N’s hair, the smirk still lingering. “Let them. They’ll never win.”
“You’re too cocky.”
“Mm.” Alexia kissed her temple. “Maybe. But admit it, you like watching me win.”
Y/N groaned into the pillow. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Alexia’s laugh was low, soft, and maddeningly smug. “Ninety-two minutes says otherwise.”
By now, the entire Barcelona women’s squad was in too deep.
What had started as harmless teasing had spiraled into a full-blown mission.
Mapi slammed her notebook down onto the cafeteria table like a manifesto.
“Operation Midnight Raid,” she declared.
Patri groaned. “That sounds illegal.”
“It’s not illegal,” Mapi countered. “It’s genius. We’re staying overnight at Ciutat Esportiva. No one leaves, no one sneaks off, no excuses. We’ll all be together; meaning no midnight workouts.”
“And if they still log a workout,” Mariona added dramatically, “then it proves something unholy is happening.”
Y/N nearly dropped her fork. “Overnight? At the training ground?”
“Yes,” Mapi said, narrowing her eyes at her. “A squad bonding sleepover. Everyone in the same place. No chance of… sneaky cardio.”
Across the table, Alexia calmly buttered her toast. “Sounds fun.”
Y/N gaped at her. Fun?!
That night, the squad transformed one of the media rooms into a makeshift dorm. Air mattresses, blankets, snacks, even a projector for movies. It had the chaotic energy of a school trip, players shrieking with laughter and tossing popcorn across the room.
Y/N sat stiffly on her mattress, glancing nervously at Alexia across the room. Alexia was leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching the chaos with that infuriating smirk.
“They’re watching us like hawks,” Y/N whispered when Alexia finally settled beside her.
“I know,” Alexia murmured back. “It’s adorable.”
“Adorable?!”
Alexia’s grin turned wicked. “Scared they’ll find out how much stamina their captain has?”
Y/N nearly smothered herself with her blanket.
The squad was relentless.
Every bathroom trip was monitored. Every trip to the vending machine was tracked. Mapi even set alarms through the night, insisting on “random checks.”
Around midnight, Patri shook everyone awake just to “make sure no one was missing.”
“Still here,” Alexia muttered, voice hoarse with sleep.
“Still here,” Y/N croaked, cheeks burning.
Mapi squinted at them suspiciously. “We’ll see.”
By 2 a.m., the locker room had finally quieted. Snores echoed, someone’s Spotify playlist hummed faintly from a corner, and the squad’s elaborate trap seemed airtight.
Y/N curled into her blanket, eyes heavy. For once, maybe, just maybe, they’d survive the night without suspicion.
Then she felt Alexia’s hand brush hers under the covers.
Her eyes flew open. “No,” she whispered. “Absolutely not.”
Alexia leaned close, her breath tickling Y/N’s ear. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” Y/N whispered back firmly. “Because they’ll actually kill us if we-”
Her watch buzzed.
Y/N froze.
“What the hell?!” she whispered, glancing at the screen. Somehow, inexplicably, it had started tracking a workout.
Alexia’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Guess it knows something you don’t.”
“Alexia!” Y/N squeaked, yanking her wrist away. “Turn it off!”
Too late.
By morning, both watches proudly displayed a synced “low-intensity activity” session logged at 2:17 a.m.
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
Mapi screamed so loudly when she saw the notifications that half the staff came running.
“EXPLAIN THIS!” she demanded, waving her phone in Alexia and Y/N’s faces. “We locked you down! You had guards! You had surveillance! HOW?!”
Mariona collapsed onto the floor, wheezing. “They’re… unstoppable.”
Patri rubbed her temples. “This is insane.”
Ona smirked knowingly. “Told you they couldn’t be caught.”
Y/N wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it. “It must’ve been a glitch,” she babbled, waving her hands. “Like… like, maybe the watches picked up on… tossing and turning in our sleep?”
“Oh sure,” Mapi said, dripping sarcasm. “You both tossed and turned for twenty minutes at the exact same time.”
Y/N made a strangled noise.
Alexia, of course, looked cool as ever. “Maybe we’re just in sync,” she said with a lazy shrug.
The squad erupted.
Later that night, safe in Alexia’s apartment, Y/N groaned into the couch cushion.
“We’re so close to getting caught. If they find out what we’re actually doing-”
“They will,” Alexia cut in calmly, tugging her into her lap.
Y/N blinked. “You want them to?”
Alexia smirked, leaning down until their noses brushed. “Eventually.”
“Why do you look so smug about this?”
“Because.” Alexia kissed her cheek, her grin maddening. “Ninety-two minutes wasn’t even our limit.”
Y/N let out a muffled scream into her hands.
The locker room buzzed with restless energy. The squad had tried everything; trackers, cameras, overnight stakeouts, and every time, Alexia and Y/N slipped through their fingers.
“This is it,” Mapi declared, standing on a bench like a revolutionary leader. “One final challenge. Winner takes all.”
“Winner takes what?” Ingrid asked, unimpressed.
“The truth!” Mapi shouted, pumping her fist.
Patri buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I play for a team of children.”
The “truth challenge” was announced later that morning: a team-wide competition of endurance circuits, balance drills, and strategy games. Partners were chosen at “random,” though everyone knew Mapi and Mariona had pulled the strings.
“Alexia and Y/N,” Jonatan read.
Y/N’s heart plummeted into her stomach. Of course.
Beside her, Alexia smirked as she fastened the resistance band around their waists. “Shall we?”
“They’re setting us up,” Y/N hissed.
“Let them,” Alexia murmured, leaning down to her ear. “We’ll win.”
The day was chaos from start to finish.
First was the endurance gauntlet. With the band tethering them, Y/N struggled to match Alexia’s pace, but her captain never slowed, guiding her with steady hands and smug encouragement.
“Keep up, princesa,” Alexia teased, barely breaking a sweat.
Second was the balance beam relay. Every wobble Y/N made, Alexia’s hand steadied her waist, whispering, “I’ve got you.” The squad hooted from the sidelines, Patri shouting, “This is basically a public date!”
By the time they hit the obstacle course finale, Y/N was exhausted, but Alexia was still running like she’d just started.
Hours later, when the dust settled and the scores were tallied for the first month of the fitness challenge, the inevitable happened.
“And the winners,” Jonatan announced, reading from his clipboard, “by a landslide… Alexia and Y/N.”
The squad erupted. Mapi shrieked, Mariona clutched her head in mock agony, Patri groaned like she’d lost all faith in humanity.
“Unstoppable,” Ingrid muttered.
Y/N, cheeks burning, shuffled awkwardly toward the front. Alexia, on the other hand, strode confidently, arm sliding casually around Y/N’s waist.
Jonatan handed them the prize, a ridiculous golden foam trophy someone had dug out of storage. The squad wolf-whistled, phones out, recording every second.
Alexia raised the trophy high, grin wide. “Gracias.” Then, with a casualness that sent the room into chaos, she added:
“And thank you on behalf of my girlfriend, too.”
Silence.
A beat.
Then absolute pandemonium.
“WHAT?!” Mapi shrieked so loud the windows rattled.
“I knew it!” Mariona screamed, pointing at the ceiling like she’d solved a murder case.
Patri dropped her water bottle. “Oh my god.”
Ona just smirked knowingly.
Y/N hid her face in her hands, mortified. “Alexia…” she groaned.
But Alexia only kissed the top of her head, grinning smugly at her teammates. “You all worked so hard to find out. Consider this your prize.”
The squad went ballistic; cheering, teasing, chanting their names like it was a championship win.
Later, when the locker room had calmed and the team was still buzzing about the reveal, Y/N slumped onto the bench, face bright red.
“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, glaring at Alexia.
Alexia smirked, tugging her close with zero shame. “You’re mine. They were going to find out eventually. Might as well let them know when we’re on top.”
Y/N groaned, but couldn’t stop smiling when Alexia kissed her in front of everyone again, smug as ever.
Because, like always, Alexia had chosen the perfect moment.
Stuck || Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader x Vicky López || Barcelona x teen!reader
Summary:- Vicky and you get stuck in an elevator while the entire team loses its mind trying to find both of you.
Words:- 2.4k
Warnings:- Vicky and Reader being menace to society.
Based on this request
——
The first mistake Barcelona’s staff made was assuming that you and Vicky could navigate the hallway without supervision.
The aftermath is always, you and Vicky emerging unbothered while half the squad is traumatised with what they just witnessed.
If history is any proof, and they have a lot of that, today wasn't going to be any different.
"I’m telling you, the meeting is on the fourth floor." Vicky insisted, pressing the button for the third floor for the third time.
"Vicky, we’ve been in this building for months. The media room is on the second floor. Why are we even going up?" You adjusted your bag, which felt ten times heavier because you’d stuffed it with snacks ‘just in case’ the meeting ran long.
"Because," Vicky said, with the confidence of someone who definitely didn't know where she was going, "I saw Mapi go this way."
“I bet 10 bucks that Mapi had no idea where she was going either.” There is a very good possibility that this was likely true.
“You know I would bet on that, but knowing Mapi that is very much possible.”
The elevator door shut, lifted just an inch before jerking, making them lose their balance a little and then…nothing. Just silence.
No movement, no sound of swish elevators usually have, no soft dings to indicate the floor.
“What did you do?!” You panicked, looking at Vicky as if she planned this on purpose.
“Nothing!” Her hand shot up in defence “I literally just pressed the button.”
“You sure?” You narrowed your eyes, the accusation palpable in them.
“No, I'm an evil witch who cast an ‘abracadabra’ spell to get stuck with you!” She replied with an eye roll.
“Well you being an evil witch does sound believable.” That was met with a smack on your arm by Vicky.
You pressed the emergency button. Nothing. You kicked the door. Also nothing, except a sore toe.
“Looks like we're stuck.” You glared at the door as if it would break it open.
“Oh really? Great detective skills.” Vicky smirked, seemingly calm and unbothered in a situation that highly called for panic.
“What did I do to deserve being stuck with you?” you sighed, shaking your head.
“Definitely some good karma.” Vicky responded immediately, grinning.
——
Alexia entered the meeting room, ten minutes left for the briefing to begin and that still constituted late in her books.
Patri and Ona looked up upon her arrival and their eyes narrowed, as if something wasn't right. There was something different about Alexia, something lacking from the usual.
And that was two teenagers trailing behind her, following her closely after being schooled for being mischievous.
It happened so often, that it had become Alexia’s personality now and what she was known for around the centre. A tired and unofficial mom of two hyperactive kids, in desperate need of more caffeine.
Alexia scanned the room as she usually does and her eyes flew wide when recognition dawned upon her, before her gaze met those of Patri and Ona, who were already on the same page.
“Where are they?” Alexia squeaked. It was barely eight in the morning and she was just on her second dose of coffee. She needed more before dealing with any of your shenanigans.
“We thought they were with you.” Ona replied, equally panicked. You and Vicky left alone was never good news.
“I was on a call with my agent and I figured they were here already!”
Pina chimed in from behind them, finding the entire situation incredibly entertaining. “So let me get this straight. Y/n and Vicky are missing. And there is no apparent adult supervision with them. And no one here has any idea where they are currently. Oh, this is going to be hilarious!”
“I can't wait to see what they're up to now,” Mapi added, turning in her seat to face the group.
Alexia rubbed a hand down her face, already dreading what was coming “This is not funny.”
Mapi, Pina and Cata ignored her completely as they started their bidding.
“10 dollars says they got lost in the hallway.” Pina bid confidently because that had been the case 9 out of 10 times.
“Just like Mapi.” Cata snickered as Mapi smacked her.
“That is not true!” She defended “I was - just exploring.”
“Sure, whatever you say, Maps.” Pina and Cata laughed while in the background the responsible adults collectively lost their minds.
Meanwhile, if someone thought that being stuck in an elevator should be a good enough reason for panic, they clearly hadn't met ‘the trouble duo’ of Barcelona.
Panic was a lost cause. Instead they found an opportunity for something….better.
After barely a few minutes of your attempts to use your elusive telekinesis and convince Vicky that this was the best scenario to use her witch power and bust the door open, you gave up.
Instead you reached for your bag, unzipped the upper compartment and pulled out two hair brushes and two pairs of funky eyewear, which had no business being packed in the first place.
You offered a pair of each to Vicky after discarding your bag to the side again.
“What are these for?” she asked confused but accepted it nonetheless, putting the glasses on as you did yourself.
“You see,” You trailed off, now setting your phone on the handrail opposite to the pair of you, before stepping back and pulling Vicky with you to ensure both were in the frame.
“We can either lose our minds being caged,” you turned to face her, your signature menace grin making an appearance “Or we could give the performance we were born for. The world has waited long enough!”
There was not a single second you thought you'd had to do some convincing to get Vicky on board because before you could even finish, a grin mirroring yours had already been plastered on her face and her eyes sparkled with the same intensity as yours.
You two shared a single braincell and it clearly showed.
With a high five and the song already chosen with just a shared look, the two gremlins were set to deliver a performance in a 6x6 metal box that Barcelona would remember forever.
——
In the room below, after the betting on how much trouble you'd both be in ended by a death stare from Alexia to all, the group had gathered around the large table pitching different ideas.
The tactical briefing was long forgotten and in its place was a ‘find and rescue’ mission that had engrossed them all.
They divided themselves into small groups and decided to search different places you two could have possibly gone.
“Anything?” Alexia asked as she, Ona and Patri met the other trio after checking the hallway.
“Nothing, they weren't in their usual napping spots.” Mapi replied with a shake of the head.
“Maybe we should check the second -” The brunette sighed, worry starting to creep up, suggesting other ideas before she paused mid-sentence, hearing some strange noises building up.
It was faint at first but then heavy thudding could be heard, as if multiple pairs of boots were stomping real hard. Alexia swore she could see the floor above them tremble.
Muffled sounds reached them next. Everyone tilted their head to the side in confusion, trying to make sense of what was happening. But it didn't take them long, as the pitch grew higher and they quickly clocked on what was going on.
AND THE FAKERS GONNA FAKE, FAKE, FAKE, FAKE, FAKE BABY, I’M JUST GONNA SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE I SHAKE IT OFF, I SHAKE IT OFF”
You were standing on top of the handrail, the only time grateful for your small height as you didn't bang your head against the elevator's ceiling while bouncing up and down. 0 on 10 for the balance, 10 on 10 for the commitment.
“SHAKE IT OFF, I SHAKE IT OFF
I, I, I SHAKE IT OFF, I SHAKE IT OFF
I, I, I SHAKE IT OFF, I SHAKE IT OFF
I, I, I SHAKE IT OFF, I SHAKE IT OFF”
Vicky gave her all to this performance. If football ever fell through, she now knew what her backup option would be. On her knees, feeling the song within her soul.
“Lopez, give me the beats!”
Vicky started beatboxing. It was mostly just spitting but the effort was there.
“HEY, HEY, HEY
JUST THINK, WHILE YOU’VE BEEN GETTIN’ DOWN AND OUT ABOUT THE LIARS-”
You belted, off tune was one thing, your voice was another. It hit a note so high, it cracked a mirror back at the Madrid training centre.
“Are they-” Pina started, worried, amused, thoroughly entertained altogether. This day could not get better for her. “- having a concert while being stuck in an elevator?”
“They sure are.” Alexia muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. The absurdity of the situation left her wondering if she should laugh or start pulling her hair out.
Her eyes wandered behind Patri, squinting as it landed on the elevator that had a very clear, very bright yellow signboard ‘DO NOT USE. UNDER SERVICE’ to its right. “What are the chances those crackheads used that particular elevator, ignoring the warning?” she pointed.
“Given the way they are in the middle of their private show with no indication of stopping, I'd say 100 per cent.” Cata crackled, Pina and Patri dissolved in laughter too along with her.
To think Alexia could have one normal day, with one normal meeting session when you two existed, was a far-fetched wish in itself.
——
“Y/n! Vicky!” A muffled sound came through the door.
“Is that -” Vicky jumped, clutching her chest “the ghost of the elevator appreciating our voices?”
“It’s Alexia!” The brunette yelled so it could be heard by you two. “Stop singing. The technician will be here any moment to get you both out.”
“Capí, don't interrupt us!” you yelled back, fully absorbed in whatever illusion you both were in. “We are in the middle of a very important duet!”
There was some more yelling, some snickering, some laughter, some more shouting to drown that laughter but you two paid no mind to it after, which would have its own consequences later.
You were in the middle of, what you would classify as the holy performance that the world could only live once.
“Turn around….” Eyes closed, taking in a deep breath, imagining yourself in front of thousands of people. Your hairbrush, now gracefully accepting its fate of guitar as you strummed its invisible strings.
“Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming around…” Vicky’s hairbrush was now more stuck up to her nose than her actual mouth.
“Turn around….”
“Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears…”
“Turn around bright eyes…”
At this, both turned to face each other, knowing damn well they'll be belting the last segment together.
“EVERY NOW AND THEN I FALL APART. AND I NEED YOU NOW TONIGHT AND I NEED YOU MORE THAN EVER..”
“Is this even a song?” was the comment heard from outside.
“ONCE UPON A TIME I WAS FALLING IN LOVE, NOW I’M ONLY FALLING APART….”
Your voices crossed a threshold it didn't realise it had as you both sang the last line on top of your lungs.
“THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO, IT'S THE TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE HEARTTTTT.”
——
20 minutes later, the technician had finally done its magic and what Alexia liked to call ‘an angelic favour’ to the poor metal box that had the cursed luck to be trapped with you two. God knows she would have given up on life if it had been her for even a minute.
When the doors finally opened, the scene that greeted the team left them speechless. That was the duo’s speciality after all.
Both of you, standing close. In the middle of delivering your Grammy acceptance speech, mustering your best emotional and grateful expression.
The water bottle, your trophy, was held dearly between you and Vicky, like a prized possession.
Blinking back the fake tears, you continued even though the door had opened long ago and the team could clearly make out there was something seriously wrong with the upper section of the skull of the two teens. Because once you commit to something, you see it to the end.
You leaned into the imaginary microphone. “We would like to thank the elevators that gave us the platform when the world turned its back on us.”
“And lastly our fans,” Vicky dabbed her eyes with her training bib, while the whole squad looked around to find the apparent ‘fans’ Vicky was referring to.
Was this the sign of schizophrenia? Should they be worried?
“Thankyou for believing in us. We couldn’t have done it without you.” And with a final, dramatic bow, the show came to an end.
There was a moment of silence before the team lost it entirely. Half of them were on the floor, howling and clutching their stomach, real tears in their eyes from how hard they were laughing. Half stunned from what they just witnessed. There were really no words to describe what had happened.
“You two need serious help.” Mapi said in between trying to catch her breath.
“Don’t we all, Mapi?” you shot back, sniffling and wiping away the airy tears.
“We do. Just not as much as you two.”
You stepped out and turned towards the technician who watched the entire scene unfold wide eyed “Take care of this, Carlos. It is irreplaceable.” You said as you handed him the bottle like a precious heirloom, staring at him seriously and nodding once.
The poor technician was confused beyond words. He didn't even know who Carlos was.
“Right, coffee isn't going to cut it anymore. I’m going to need something stronger.” Alexia muttered after staring at the two intensely, unsure where to even begin to address the situation.
“We know you're just heartbroken you couldn't get front seats to our show capí.” You commented as you passed her on your way out, grinning widely.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you exclusive tickets to our private concert next time.” Vicky assured, patting Alexia’s shoulder and sympathising as if she could understand their captain's pain on missing out their world class performance before joining you.
Alexia’s jaw was left open, but you two had not one ounce of regret on that face, happily skipping ahead and perfectly content with the way your day had turned out.
And just like that, the history persisted and the duo’s legacy thrived.
——
Ps: - This is based on my real experience. I’m not really good with closed spaces. So a year ago, my friend and I were returning to my place for a sleepover when we got stuck in an elevator. And we had two options, either be miserable ourselves or pass on that misery to the world with our extremely off-tune singing and confident wrong lyrics. Guess which option we went with? Safe to say my parents were mortified to address me their blood after lol. (we moved a month after that and I believe my actions contributed greatly to that decision) anyways I hope you like it :)
Please let me know what you think! Your responses mean the world to me💗
Also if no one gets the obvious modern family reference, I'm going to be so disappointed😭
✦ reader is implied female, some crack/silly stuff, I’m new to football
♥️Between the two of you it’s most likely for him to confess before you do (unless you’re really impatient)
♥️When you were both in the crush stage he was really shy around you and sometimes couldn’t even make eye contact with you (Gavi and Pau relentlessly bullied him for this)
♥️He also wouldn’t talk to you much during the crush phase and even ignored you (not on purpose in fact he wasn’t ignoring you he just didn’t know what to say or do so acted like he didn’t hear or see you) poor Hector had to assure you that no, Lamine doesn’t hate you, he’s just an idiot (his words)
♥️He wants to keep your relationship private for your safety and for his since the internet is well the internet
♥️When you first started dating he kept you completely hidden away from the media and from the internet, it’s kind of a mystery how he managed to do it for a few months
♥️He’s clingy in private or just anywhere outside of the public’s view. Like REALLY clingy this guy does not want to let go of you
♥️He calls you babe, bebe, amor, cariño, coraźon, etc
♥️The first time you come to a match as his girlfriend this boy is STRESSING, he won’t leave you’re side until he walks you to your seat (and at this point he just runs down to hop the barrier to get to the locker rooms)
♥️Always hugs you and gives you a little kiss after a match
♥️Cuddles after a win are a must, he’s usually the big spoon
♥️^^^Extra cuddles whenever they lose is also a must, poor boy turns to mush in your hands and just lets you hold him
♥️You both cook together a lot, he loves being your little assistant in the kitchen lol
♥️He loves dancing with you. Any type of dance
♥️^^^If you don’t know how to dance he’ll teach you he just wants to be close to you
♥️He let you put bows in his hair once. And he immediately regretted it cause you posted it on his instagram. “The things I do for love.” (<- his words)
♥️He’s already silly but he’s acting like a straight up clown sometimes to make you laugh
♥️Your dates usually involve going out, whether it be to a restaurant, a park, an amusement park, etc you usually go out for dates
♥️He likes buying you gifts, buying you things and spoiling you is basically his love language (gift giving)
♥️He challenges you to play one on one football with him, you usually say no, but whenever you do say yes he tries going easy on you and letting you score. But sometimes he’ll get really into it so he plays like how he plays for Barça, and he absolutely destroys you💔
