mapi in tears after her final sub off and hearing the crowd chant her name
seen from Netherlands
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from Hungary
seen from Hungary
seen from South Africa
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Taiwan
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Türkiye
seen from Germany
seen from Romania
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from China
seen from Poland
mapi in tears after her final sub off and hearing the crowd chant her name
Got bored and made this:
Let's Play A Game
Part 2
You thought your initiation into the Barcelona team was complete with that humiliating singing performance. But at the first team bonding night, you find yourself roped into a game of Fuck, Marry, Kill.
Wordcount: 3.3k
Warnings: 18+ for some vulgar language and references to sex
Masterlist
Part 1 -> Part 2 -> Part 3
You pull up in front of Mapi and Ingrid’s apartment building for the latest team bonding night, Lucy in the seat next to you.
“Do you think Mapi will shut the door in my face? Or just avoid letting me in all together?”
Lucy chuckles. “I’ll stand in front of the peephole. You hide behind me and sneak in before she can slam the door shut.”
You roll your eyes at Lucy. “She should really be over this by now. I have not actually attempted to kill her. It was just a hypothetical answer in a game!”
“Yeah, but you did choose to kill her twice, mate.”
“Okay, oh wise one, you tell me who you would have picked between Jenni, Alexia, and Mapi then.”
Lucy rubs her chin with a hand in thought. “Hmmm, tough one.”
“Really?” you ask in disbelief. “How?”
“I feel like Mapi might be more my type in bed, easier to submit, ya know? But I am curious about Jenni. So do I go for the guaranteed good lay where I get to be in charge or take a risk and maybe it ends up a bust? Or maybe it ends up really fucking good?”
“You never play it safe,” you deadpan.
“You’re right. Okay. Fuck Jenni, Marry Alexia - easy, and Kill Mapi.”
“See,” you argue, pointing a finger at the defender. “You would kill her too!”
“Yeah, but that is once. You did it twice.”
“Fucking fine! Fuck, Marry, Kill - Mapi, Ingrid, and me in place of you.”
“Another tricky one,” she muses.
“How??” you ask incredulously. “The answer is so easy. Fuck me, Marry Ingrid, Kill Mapi.”
Lucy chuckles. “A little overconfident, no?”
You glare at her. “Are you saying you wouldn’t fuck me again?”
“Definitely not saying that,” Lucy states with a grin. “Fuck Mapi–”
Your mouth drops in disbelief.
“Marry you,” Lucy continues, using a finger to press your chin up to close your mouth. “And Kill Ingrid.”
“Kill Ingrid?” you screech. “She’s so nice and pretty and kind. How can you kill her?”
“Well I’d fuck Mapi over Ingrid, again just based on preference. I think Ingrid might be a little too pretty and a little too nice for me, if you know what I mean,” she states with a grin. “And I’d choose to marry you over her because we’d rock the marriage thing I think. Plus all the sex,” Lucy adds with an eyebrow wiggle. “So that leaves her to have to be killed. Luck of the draw.”
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I can’t believe you’d kill Ingrid. I’m going to tell Mapi,” you state with a sigh as you step out of your vehicle.
Lucy pauses before slamming your door shut, causing you to glare at her.
“Hey! Treat Georgia with more care, you hear?”
“It’s fucking weird that you name your cars,” Lucy states, shrugging on her jacket as you make towards the apartment lobby.
“It’s perfectly normal, thank you,” you reply.
“And don’t you dare bring up the Fuck, Marry, Kill game to Mapi. She will definitely kick you out of her building,” Lucy responds as you ride the lift up to the 5th floor.
You contemplate it but eventually nod in acceptance as the lift doors open and you both walk towards apartment 517. “Your answers are still atrocious.”
“Thanks, love,” Lucy replies unaffected as she knocks on the door to Mapi and Ingrid’s apartment.
Thankfully Ingrid is the one to open the door. You let out an audible sigh, and she smirks at you.
“Ah, our troublemaker has arrived!”
You frown. “I didn’t cause any of the trouble. You should be pointing that statement at Pina and Jana and Salma.”
Ingrid grins at your response. “Testy. I like,” she says with a wink.
Well, that was something. Unexpected. Confusing. Kind of hot.
You follow Lucy through the threshold and into the open layout apartment. Teammates are mingling in the kitchen and sitting room and even the large outdoor balcony.
You see Jenni give you a glance up and down before she quirks an eyebrow suggestively.
You huff out a laugh and head into the kitchen to find yourself a drink.
Alexia stands there pouring herself a cup of lemonade. It’s a red color this time, which has you on alert.
“Homemade limonada again, Ale?” you question lightly, standing shoulder to shoulder with the captain.
“Sí,” she says softly, honey eyes turning to look at yours. “I made it.”
“Did you really?” you tease. “Will Jenni agree with that statement?”
You see her cheeks flush slightly. “Yes, I made it. Jenni directed from the couch.”
“Ah, quite the duo,” you flirt. “But, um, why’s it red?”
“Strawberries,” the brunette states. “You said you liked the strawberry kind.”
Huh. You did. A few weeks back in practice. And she remembered? She crafted the lemonade for the night around your preference? “That might be the nicest thing anyone has done for me since I’ve arrived here,” you state honestly. “Thank you,” you offer with sincere eyes and a hand squeeze.
The midfielder pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “De nada.”
“Sounds nice when you speak it,” you mutter as you pour yourself a cup of the beverage.
“Spanish?” she asks with a laugh
“Sí,” you mimic her earlier pronunciation. “When I speak it, it comes out sounding like a cat being tortured.”
“Good thing we all speak a little bit of English,” she says, indicating a small space between her thumb and pointer finger. “You helpless English players would be so lost otherwise.”
“We would,” you agree. “My life would be full of only Keira and Lucy. What a tragedy,” you joke. “Nobody needs that much time with Lucy Bronze in a day,” you add, looking over at your friend who is leaning against the wall with Ona, one forearm pressing into the plaster near the smaller defender’s head, looking like a very flirty and suggestive pose. “Well, except maybe Ona,” you add with a chuckle.
“Oh, yes,” Alexia murmurs into the shell of your ear. “She hasn’t shut up about Lucy since we signed her. I think she has a crush.”
“I think they both do,” you whisper back, watching these two idiots flirt from afar. “Think Ona will keep Lucy on her toes?”
“Sí,’ Alexia mutters around her straw, going back to her drink. “She might eat Lucy. Very fierce that one.”
“More like might eat Lucy out,” you crack without thought, watching as Ona pulls Lucy’s hips towards her own by her belt loops. “Uhh,” you state, brain finally catching up to your traitorous mouth. “Sorry,” you hastily add, glancing at Alexia.
“No sorry,” Alexia chuckles. “Is true. We Spanish are known for our talented tongues,” she states quietly, intense eyes focused on yours. The catalana glides past you to head back outside, fingers just faintly teasing across your lower back.
You gather your cup, suck in a steadying breath, and eventually follow. Jenni sits at the head of the table as if she’s holding court. Alexia lounges across her lap, long, tan legs dangled over the side of the deck chair and on display in her white denim shorts.
Mapi sits there glowering at you from the other end of the table, across from Jenni. Her platinum blonde hair is in a messy bun, hair fraying out all around. She looks like a cross between a rabid pomeranian and malnourished, sickly lion. And all her ire is directed at you. Greatttt.
Mario flanks Jenni’s right side, greeting you with a smile as you settle into the open seat on the striker’s left.
“Hola,” you greet the table.
Mario returns your greeting. Alexia whispers in Jenni’s ear, the striker grinning at you in a predatory way. Mapi snorts in your direction.
“Fun crowd,” you murmur to yourself.
Mariona starts up a conversation about which country has better food: Spain or England. She visits your country frequently, or as often as her packed football schedule allows, as her girlfriend resides in London and plays for Arsenal.
At least she has experience with your home cuisine. More than Mapi who blurts out, “Spain of course! Their food is just soggy beans. Eeuck!” she finishes pointing at you.
Now you’re affronted. How dare she condense the entirety of English food down to soggy beans! The woman has absolutely no sense of culture.
By the time the rest of the team wanders out onto the large patio, bodies claiming the outdoor couch as Ingrid and others bring the dining room chairs outside too for seating, you and Mapi are in a full blown heated debate.
“We have more than beans!” you exclaim loudly, hands flailing for emphasis. “That is like saying all Spainsh food has is paella.”
“Yes, but paella beats out beans 1000% of the time!” Mapi yells, hands on her hips. “Paella is a delicately crafted meal of intent and beauty. Beans are the literal fartbags of the food community.”
“You take that back! Spanish cuisine uses beans too, María!”
You hear Pina and Jana “ooooohh she first named her” from behind you.
Mapi hears it too, teeth bared in their direction until a squeak from Jana lets you know they’ve been cowed into submission by her feral glare.
“We have so much more than beans,” you passionately defend. “Sunday roast, bangers and mash, savory pies, Yorkshire pudding for fucks sake!
“Fish & chips,” Lucy yells out, a hand cupped around her mouth to amplify the sound.
“Yes!! Fish & chips. Fish & chips, María! We have fish & chips.”
“Ooo,” Mapi sarcastically goads. “You have unseasoned fish and soggy fries.”
You, Keira, and Lucy all gasp in unison. And surprisingly Keira is the one to speak up first, an edge to her voice. “Do.not.insult.our.chips.”
Mapi looks a little stunned but offers a small nod to mollify the midfielder who is staring her down, hard.
“We have fish and patates here too,” Patri chimes in with a mischievous grin. “Really fresh, really tasty.”
She just loves to stir the pot.
“Not the same,” you and Lucy say in sync. You turn and give her an appreciative nod.
The English defender chimes in and with backup firmly here to prevent Mapi from continuing to slander English food, you sit back down in your seat. You are only slightly embarrassed that the team watched you and Mapi shouting at each other about food as you both stood, chairs pushed back hastily in your escalation of debate across the patio table.
Alexia leans towards you, voice low. “You are very passionate about food, eh?”
Your ears pink slightly. “No!” you defend.
Jenni chuckles.
“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s the Mapi effect. I had to debate her. Because her opinion is so wrong. Doing it for humankind really.”
“Thank you for your service,” Jenni snickers.
Your eyes meet Alexia’s and clock the small smirk on her lips. “You’re welcome,” you reply, eyes dropping to her lips for a second before they glance back up. She saw it, of course. And lets you know with a singular raised eyebrow. Fuck, she is even hotter gazing at you like that.
You clock back into the discussion just in time to hear Vicky make the claim that desserts in England are too sweet. The gall! These Spanish girls are ridiculous.
“They are not!” you jump back in, defending England’s honor. “We own the rest of the world when it comes to pastries and desserts,” you boldly claim.
“Think France might have something to say about that,” Irene states plainly, having spent many years playing in the country known for its culinary abilities (and pastries).
“Nope,” you reject. “We have cakes and puddin’ and Spotted Dick.”
Jenni chokes. “Uh, what?”
The Spanish girls all chortle at your defense including a seemingly not-dessert item. And why would said piece of anatomy being spotted be seen as a good thing?
Lucy comes to the rescue. “Get yer heads outta the gutter,” she rebukes. “It’s a steamed puddin’ with raisins.”
You shudder at the thought. You hate raisins. But even so, you’ll defend England’s honor until the cows come home, terrible raisin desserts and all.
“English desserts are better,” you state with finality as most of the Spaniards scoff.
Alexia just stares. “Maybe we need to treat you to some Spanish desserts then,” she offers quietly. “For research,” she adds.
It feels like a loaded statement. Her eyes raking down your body lets you know it is a loaded statement. One meant just for you.
Jenni grins from behind Alexia’s shoulder, hearing her comment. “We have the best dessert place near ours, you know,” the madrileña adds quietly as conversation around you moves on.
“Is that so?” you ask, tone taking on a breathy quality as you valiantly try to keep your heart steady at what you think they’re implying. You and them. Together. At theirs. To research “dessert”.
“Hmm,” Jenni confirms, bottom lip bitten by her teeth as her mismatched irises stare you down. You feel like prey. Slightly flighty, adrenaline spiking. Your eyes land on the striker’s tattooed hand trailing up and down the exposed skin on Alexia’s thigh and you find your own legs clenching at the memory of what fingers trailing over your skin feels like.
You spend the rest of team bonding night on edge. Jenni’s gaze hardly leaves yours. Her fingers trail teasingly over Alexia as she does so, turning you on mightily as you imagine her hands doing the same to you.
Alexia sits amused, enjoying the feeling on her body but equally watching your reaction to her girlfriend arousing you without even laying a finger on yours. It’s a talent. It’s a tease. It’s a show just for her. And she has the best seat in the house, draped across her girlfriend’s lap and facing directly towards you while everyone else’s attention is pulled to the competitive game of Uno that Vicky has roped most of the team into.
“How do you have so many Draw 4 cards!” Mapi exclaims in irritation at Keira laying yet another one on her pile, the fourth round in a row. That draws your gaze for a second.
Just enough time to see Lucy and Ingrid slipping the English midfielder cards under the table, undoubtedly Draw 4 cards. Maybe Ingrid isn’t as sweet as first glance entails.
You watch Lucy grin at the Norwegian whose only tell is a slight quirk of her lips before it disappears into her wine glass. Lucy turns and gives you a shrug of contemplation. You just know her brain is recalculating her earlier Fuck, Marry, Kill declaration.
No reason to kill Ingrid when Mapi offers herself up as the perfect murder victim, all loud mouth and abrasive personality. And insulting English food to boot.
Alexia’s bare foot trailing up your shin draws your attention back to the duo that are absolutely wrecking your night.
You’re sitting in a puddle at this point, well aware that it’s a little desperate just how turned on you’ve gotten without even being touched. Just the promise of it has you flooded. Embarrassing if you weren’t so bloody aroused.
Alexia slides off Jenni’s lap, the striker’s hands falling to her hips and staying there possessively until the distance between their bodies causes them to drop. The midfielder crouches next to your chair, lips finding your ear, intent on nobody hearing her words but you.
“We’re going to head out,” she murmurs.
Your mood drops. Well shit, there goes the fun.
“We do have the best bakery in town just down the block from us,” she adds, leaning back for a second to search your eyes.
You can feel your arousal rush back and just know your pupils are blown at her proposal.
“Yeah?” you mutter, words barely making their way out of your lips.
“Sí,” Alexia states, thumb brushing circles into your jeans where her hand sits on your thigh, steadying herself. “Want to come with?”
You gulp, eyes closing at the wave of desire flowing down our spine. “Yes” you breathe out.
Alexia nods minutely, taps your thigh twice with her fingers, and then pushes back up to stand.
Jenni and her share a look, and the striker turns to you with a small grin. “I’m going to get our things,” she quietly states, standing up and pulling Alexia in for a quick kiss.
“Meet you at the front door?” Alexia asks softly.
You nod. Silence is all you can manage, mouth dry as reality sets in.
It takes a minute but you stand on somewhat shaky feet. Mariona smirks at you from across the table. She’s quiet, an observer. She doesn’t miss much but knows how to keep her mouth to herself. You appreciate that.
“Say hi to Lia for me,” you state as a goodbye greeting.
“Enjoy ‘dessert’,” she quips back, smirk growing as you blush.
It’s as you walk back inside that you remember you drove Lucy today. You need to discreetly get your car keys to her so she can get herself home, without her alerting the rest of the team as to why your nightly plans have changed.
You find the English defender in the kitchen, picking her way through the food left out. You pop an olive in your mouth and wait until Ona slips back outside before turning to the woman.
“Here are me keys. Can ya get yourself home?”
Her hands still where they were grabbing for a piece of cheese. “Ditching me?” she asks casually, eyes turning to you.
Your gaze is fixed at the front door where Alexia and Jenni are slipping on their shoes.
A wide grin splits across Lucy’s face as she catches onto why you’re bailing.
The two Spaniards finish and wait patiently for you at the front instead of exiting the apartment, further solidifying for the defender that what she thinks is happening is reality.
“Oooh, I get it,” Lucy teases, voice light but quiet.
Your gaze snaps back to her, only slightly apologetic.
She grabs the keys from your hand, slipping them into her trousers. “I can get myself home just fine.”
“Good,” you state, gaze already back on Jenni and Alexia and feet starting to move you in their direction.
“Enjoy your cake,” Lucy teases.
You still for a second. Such a cocky woman. But you love her humor. You smirk back over your shoulder. “Oh you know I will,” you reply with a smirk.
“Luce,” you state before you completely leave the kitchen.
“Mhm?”
“Maybe grab a Spaniard of your own for the night, eh?”
She looks contemplatively at you. “I think I want more than a night,” she states quietly.
“Marvelous - she does too,” you reply, sharing a tidbit from your conversation earlier with Alexia.
Lucy’s eyes trail to Ona outside on the patio who is mid laugh. And you know she’s already down bad for the smaller defender.
Good. Lucy deserves it.
You pad over to the front entrance, slipping into your shoes. The three of you are the only ones left inside, the rest of the team on the patio. The silence is weighty.
Jenni breaks it by opening the front door and holding it for you and Alexia to pass through first.
In the hallway the striker throws an arm over your shoulders as the three of you head for the lift.
“Hope you’re ready for dessert, cari. Because I’m famished,” she states boldly.
“I am known for my sweet tooth,” you reply, smirking.
Alexia snorts, walking slightly ahead of you two in the narrowed hallway.
“Ale too,” Jenni whispers into your ear as her gaze falls to her girlfriend’s ass in her white shorts. “She can’t get enough of the sweet things in life.”
You’re not sure you will either.
Part 3
This feels like a fever dream
𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 // 𝑴𝒂𝒑𝒊 𝑳𝒆𝒐𝒏
Mapi was many things. Strong willed, confident, loving. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for someone. She was always there when you needed her. No matter the issue, the circumstance, the time of day. She was always, always there.
Except when she wasn’t.
You see…you knew Mapi was a busy woman. Being a pro footballer, that’s just how it was. There was training, travelling, matches, media, and so many other things. During the season, she had about one day off a week. That day would mostly consist of sleeping, eating, and hanging out with friends she rarely gets to see.
It meant that her free time was rare. So extremely rare that spending more than an hour with her a day was a rare occurrence. You understood. Really, you did. But there was only so long you could pretend being okay with rarely seeing her before you just…couldn’t anymore.
Things hand been different at the start. Not entirely so, but enough. She made more of an effort, communicated with you. Kept you updated with the ins and outs of everything and rarely left you hanging. On her day off, she’d make the effort to spend it all with you, doing all the things she’d missed out on during the week no matter how exhausted she was.
You’d spend hours in bed in the morning, making love, cuddling, talking. She’d cook breakfast, you’d clean up, and then you’d follow wherever the day takes you whether that be spending the day inside watching movies or going out and exploring.
But it had been a year, and things had…changed.
She was still the same loving woman you’d met a year ago. Well, mostly. The love was still there, that’s for sure. When she did see you, she’d litter your face with kisses, love on you, and for a second it was almost like you could pretend everything was like it was before.
But the communication was gone. Your phone rarely lit up with her name anymore. And her days off were spent sleeping, as you’d said, and little you said or did would get her out of bed.
It was like…now she had you, there was no need to make an effort to try and keep you.
You look at her from your place in bed next to her, watching the way her chest rises as she breaths, as her eyes flutter and nose twitches. She was completely out for the count, and you’d bet money on her being like that for at least a couple more hours, and it was already past lunchtime.
You were up, dressed and ready for the day, and had been for at least four hours. You’d made breakfast for her, and lunch, both in the microwave where the would probably remain until dinner, which would probably join it too.
She’d just gotten back from an away match last night, and she’d barely done more than shower and eat before collapsing into bed. She hadn’t even kissed you hello, or goodnight even, a new edition to this whole barely seeing her thing.
You got it, she was tired, but it takes less than a minute for her to kiss you hello and ask how your day was and listen to your answer. You’d attempted conversation, but you’d gotten no more than a tired smile before she’d disappeared into the shower. By the time you’d locked up and cleaned up from dinner and joined her in the bedroom, she’d was already in bed and asleep.
Another hour passes, and she was no closer to waking than she was a couple hours ago. Not wanting to waste any more of your day than you already had, you give her one last look before climbing out of bed and leaving the room.
You stand aimlessly in the middle of the living room for a second before deciding to get out of the house for a little while. You grab your phone and purse, and figuring Mapi would be asleep for who knows how long, you don’t bother leaving a note. The door closes behind you with a soft click, and you let out a loud sigh as you start walking.
*
It was nearing five in the afternoon when you finally get home. You’d not really done much, just walked wherever your feet took you. Your phone had gone off multiple times, but you hadn’t really checked it even know you knew it was probably Mapi wondering where you were.
You’d barely gotten the door closed behind you when she appears, looking tired, rumpled, and very much worried. You grunt as she throws herself into your arms, arms tight around your neck, legs hooked around your waist. Your arms instinctively circle her waist, holding her to you, and you feel more than hear the sigh that escapes her lips.
“I did not know where you were.” She murmurs against your shoulder, and you sigh lightly as you let go of her, silently coaxing her feet back to the floor. She steps back, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I just went out for a walk.” You shrug off your jacket and hang it up on the hook by the door. Your shoulder brushes against hers as you make your way through to the kitchen, grabbing things out of the pantry to make a start on dinner.
“A walk?” She follows you into the kitchen, crossing her arms absent her chest as she leans against the counter.
“Sí.” You confirm.
It was silent for a few moments before she speaks again.
“¿Estás bien?” Her voice was quiet, unsure, even.
You glance up. Mapi’s eyebrows were furrowed, lips turned down into a frown.
You weren’t one to lie. Not to anyone, and definitely not Mapi. But telling her everything right now seemed impossible. Especially when it seemed stupid and irrelevant. Mapi was busy, you missed her. That was it.
“I’m okay. Stir fry for dinner alright?” You force a small smile onto your lips.
Mapi was quiet for a second before nodding, stepping away from the counter and glancing toward the bedroom. “Sí. Is okay. I will…get dressed?”
“Okay baby.” You say without looking up from slicing up the chicken.
Mapi doesn’t say anything else, but you do hear her leave the room. You release a quiet breath at being alone again, knowing you had about a minute before Mapi would return and be full of yet more questions. Questions you didn’t really know the answer to.
Just as you suspected, Mapi appears again in less than a minute. She was dressed now, in a pair of loose grey shorts and a hoodie. She hesitates in the kitchen doorway for a second before stepping up behind you and circling your arms around your waist. Despite everything, you lean back into her touch, and you feel her sigh in relief as she tightens her arms around you.
“Te he echado de menos.” She murmurs into your neck, and it makes your chest hurt all over again.
You don’t say anything, and you feel her pause in confusion.
“No me echaste de menos?” She sounds confused, and a little hurt.
You hesitate for a second. “I miss you all the time.” You admit.
The ulterior meaning behind your words doesn’t seem to click for her, because she simply hums and presses her lips against your neck in a chaste kiss.
“Mis amigos y yo vamos a salir a tomar algo esta noche.” she murmurs into your skin.
You sigh internally. Of course. You should have seen this one coming.
“Okay.” You state simply, your voice indifferent.
“¿Quieres venir?” She offers, and you shake your head, lightly pushing her away from you as you head to the sink to go wash your hands. The last thing you want was a pity invite.
“No, thanks. You go have fun.”
Mapi hesitates in the middle of the kitchen, suddenly unsure. It was like she could sense something was up, but couldn’t place her finger on what it was. You were still by the sink, and your body language was screaming don’t touch me.
“I…” she trails off, seemingly not knowing what to say.
You glance back at her, expression undecipherable. “It’s fine, Mapi. Go out with your friends. Again.”
The last word was uttered so quietly she barely hears it, but she does.
“No sé qué significa eso”.
You shrug, drying your hands off with a tea towel. “It means nothing.”
“Sí, it does. Porque-“
“Because nothing, Mapi. Just go out with your friends. I’ll be here, waiting, as always.” You grab a knife from the knife block and start chopping the vegetables, rather aggressively actually. And it makes Mapi a little nervous.
“What you mean, always? I do not-”
You cut her off again. “Yes, you do.”
“Que?”
You sigh. “Just…don’t worry, okay?”
Mapi frowns. “I am worry. I do not-”
You sigh heavily, yet again cutting her off. “Look, Mapi. I get it, okay? You’re busy. I knew this when we first got together. But it kind of hurts my feelings when you say you’re too busy for me, but not too busy for your friends. You have such limited free time that I thought you’d choose to spend at least some of what you have with your girlfriend.”
Mapi tucks her hands into her pockets. “I do spend time with you.”
You freeze in the midst of chopping, looking up at her with a look of disbelief on your face.
“When?”
“Que?”
“When do you spend time with me?” you laugh humourlessly. “Last week? No, you had that extra training session. The week before that? No, your friends wanted you for drinks. The week before that? Again, no, because something came up. Something always comes up and I’m sick of rationalising to myself that maybe next time will be the time you’ll want to spend time with me, that maybe next time, I’ll be the important thing you can’t miss.”
Mapi stares at you, eyes wide.
“I don’t even remember the last time we spent more than an hour together before something came up. An extra training session here, an interview there, friends wanting to go out for drinks. To be honest Mapi, I don’t even know how much longer I can take it. How much longer I can pretend that things are okay when they clearly aren’t.”
Silence. You look up at her, and you hate the way your throat tightens at the tears in her eyes.
“I…I am busy. You know this.” She chokes out.
“Yeah…” you breathe, dropping the knife and rubbing your hands over your face. “I do know this. But knowing it and liking it are two different things Mapi. And when I’m constantly number two on your list of priorities, it starts to take a toll. Just once I want to be the one you pick. Just once I want you to prioritise me. I haven’t seen you properly in weeks and the one night we have together you choose to spend it with the friends you see every day at training. How am I supposed to be okay with that?”
Mapi’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again before she sighs and wipes her eyes.
“Tú... lo siento. Yo... estaba estípido. Yo...”
You don’t say anything.
“I am…I am sorry. I just thought…”
“Thought what? That I’m okay with barely seeing you just because I have the label of girlfriend?”
“No, I…”
“What Mapi? There’s nothing you can tell me what I haven’t already told myself.”
“No lo entiendo.”
“Of course you don’t.” You mutter, running a hand through your hair.
Mapi shifts on her feet. “I…te amo.” She whispers, a tear falling down her cheek.
You tear up. “And I love you. But sometimes love just isn’t enough.”
“¿Estás... estás diciendo que esto se acabó?” She looks dangerously close to sobbing, and you’re very much close to joining her.
“I don’t know.” You admit as a tear falls down your cheek, and Mapi lets out a quiet sob as she turns away from you, legs giving up on her as she slides down the wall. You bite your bottom lip to stop it from quivering, a sick feeling building in your stomach as you abandon the barely started dinner. You definitely weren’t hungry anymore.
As you pass, you briefly rest a hand on top of her head. “I need some space, okay?” You whisper, voice strained, and Mapi chokes out another sob. Your hand lingers on her head for a second before you head up to your room to pack a bag.
I knew it, you knew it, we all knew it but it still hurts
The Elevator Theory (Mapi León x Lionesses!reader)
When England's YN and Spain's Mapi León meet again at a Nations League fixture, four years of silence and unfinished business come flooding back. What started as a secret summer fling during a Nike campaign ended when Mapi disappeared without explanation — and now she's back, tattooed and transformed, standing four doors down in the same hotel. Between matches, old inside jokes, and the weight of everything left unsaid, they'll have to decide if some things are worth the risk of a second chance.
Chapter One: Hypothesis (other parts)
The ice bath was a mistake.
YN knew it forty seconds in, when her physiotherapist—a cheerful sadist named Marcus who believed in the healing power of suffering—added another bag of ice with the enthusiasm of a bartender pouring a double. Her legs had gone from screaming to numb to something beyond pain, some transcendent state where her nerve endings simply gave up and filed for early retirement.
"Two more minutes," Marcus said, the liar.
"You said that five minutes ago."
"Did I?" He checked his stopwatch with performative surprise. "How time flies."
"I hate you."
"Yes, but your hamstrings will thank me tomorrow." He dumped in another bag. "Big match. Spain. You'll want to be sharp."
YN sank deeper into the bath, let the cold water hit her shoulders, and tried very hard not to think about Spain. About the fixture list that had been announced three weeks ago. About the roster release that came two days later.
Spain's squad for November internationals: M. León (Barcelona)...
She'd read the name seventeen times before Leah physically removed the phone from her hand.
"Right then," Marcus said, checking his watch with the air of a man who enjoyed his job far too much. "Time's up. Let's get you vertical before you go hypothermic."
The hotel lobby was the kind of aggressively beige that all FA-mandated accommodations seemed to aspire to: neutral carpet, neutral walls, a front desk staffed by neutral people who'd seen it all and cared about none of it. YN nodded at the receptionist—Sandra? Sarah?—who was deeply invested in her computer screen and didn't look up.
YN's hair dripped steadily onto her England jacket. She should've dried it properly. Should've stayed for the optional film session Leah tried to drag her to. Should've done a lot of things that weren't currently standing in this lobby at half-ten at night, exhausted and anxious and trying to convince herself that the tightness in her chest was just lingering cold from the ice bath.
Her phone buzzed.
Leah: Team bonding in Rach's room. Bronzy's doing impressions of Sarina. You're missing art.
YN: Headache. Rain check?
Leah: You've had a headache for three weeks
YN: It's a very persistent headache
Leah: Right.
The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Finally:
Leah: You know where I am if you need me yeah?
YN's throat did something complicated. Leah knew. Of course Leah knew—they'd been at Arsenal together for six years, had come through the academy as teenagers, shared flats and post-match debriefs and the kind of late-night conversations that happened after too much wine and too little sleep. Leah had been there for the Summer YN Didn't Talk About. Had never asked for details, but had somehow known exactly when to show up with takeaway and when to leave her alone.
YN: Yeah. Love you.
Leah: Love you too. Drink water. Sleep. Try not to overthink.
YN pocketed her phone and headed for the elevators, already catastrophically failing at the third instruction.
The doors opened immediately—small mercies—and she stepped into the empty car with the relief of an introvert who'd survived a social gauntlet. Hit the button for eight. Let her head fall back against the mirrored wall and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow. Wembley. Eighty-thousand people. Spain.
Don't think about it don't think about it don't—
The doors started to slide shut.
A hand shot through the gap.
Tattooed. Geometric patterns spiraling up the forearm, disappearing under the sleeve of a black hoodie.
YN's stomach didn't drop. It evacuated. Abandoned ship. Left her body entirely.
She knew that hand.
The doors slid back open and Mapi León stepped into the elevator.
Time did something funny.
Slowed down and sped up simultaneously, like a video buffering and skipping frames. YN saw everything in fractured hyperdetail: the new silver hoop in Mapi's right nostril. The sharper angle of her cheekbones. The way her hair was pulled back into a low bun, a few shorter pieces escaping around her temples. Barcelona training kit—the joggers YN had seen in approximately eight hundred Instagram posts she absolutely had not been looking at.
Mapi stepped in. Turned to face the doors. Didn't look at her.
The elevator closed.
The silence was so loud YN could hear the mechanical hum of the car, the distant sound of someone's TV through the walls, her own heartbeat doing something arrhythmic and concerning in her chest.
Mapi didn't press a button.
Floor three lit up on the display.
YN stared at it like it might save her. Focused on the numbers with the intensity of a woman trying to decode the universe. Four. The elevator rose. She could see Mapi in her peripheral vision, in the reflection on the metal doors—could see her grip the handrail mounted on the wall, knuckles going pale.
There was a swallow tattooed on her wrist. Mid-flight.
YN dragged her eyes back to the numbers.
Floor five.
She was not thinking about the last time they'd been in an elevator together. The W Hotel, Barcelona, 2 AM, YN's back against the mirror and Mapi's mouth on her neck and the doors opening on the seventh floor to a very startled elderly couple who'd tactfully pretended not to see anything—
Floor six.
"Still biting your nails before big matches?"
Mapi's voice hit like a gut punch. Lower than YN remembered, raspier, with that slight Zaragoza accent that rounded her vowels and did something to YN's equilibrium.
YN's hand—which had somehow migrated to her mouth completely without her permission, thumbnail caught between her teeth—dropped like she'd been burned.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Kept her eyes fixed on the display as seven appeared.
"That's not—" The words came out defensive, sharp. YN cut herself off. Regrouped. Found something like composure in the wreckage of her nervous system. "Don't."
Floor eight appeared on the display.
"Don't what?" Mapi's voice was quieter now. Careful.
"You know what."
The elevator dinged. Cheerful. Oblivious. The doors slid open onto the eighth floor hallway with its terrible geometric carpet and warm lighting that was trying very hard to be calming and failing spectacularly.
Neither of them moved.
YN could hear everything. The hum of the ice machine down the hall. Muffled laughter from one of the rooms. The sound of her own breathing, too fast, too shallow. And Mapi—she could feel Mapi standing there, two feet away, close enough that YN could smell her soap. Different now. Woodsy, cedar maybe, not the citrus body wash she'd used that summer, the one that had smelled like Spanish oranges and sunshine and—
"You don't get to do that," YN said. Her voice came out quieter than she intended. She was still staring straight ahead, at freedom, at the open doors, at her escape route. "Pretend you know me."
"I don't have to pretend."
The words landed like a physical thing. YN's head turned before her brain could stop it—some betrayal of muscle memory, of four years of training herself not to look and failing in the first thirty seconds—and then they were looking at each other.
Properly looking.
For the first time in four years.
Mapi's eyes were exactly the same. That specific shade of brown that looked amber in certain light, darker in others. YN had spent an entire summer cataloguing those variations. Honey-colored in morning sun. Almost black at night. Golden in the hours before dawn when they'd finally run out of words and just looked at each other across rumpled hotel sheets.
"Yeah?" YN heard herself say. Her voice sounded foreign. "Tell me one thing, then. One real thing you know about me now."
Something complicated moved across Mapi's face. Her grip on the handrail tightened—YN tracked the movement, saw the flex of tendon and muscle under skin and ink.
"You changed your boots."
YN blinked. "What?"
"Mercurials to Phantoms. Two seasons ago." Mapi's eyes dropped, just for a second, to YN's feet in their team-issue slides. When they came back up, there was something raw in them. "You always said you never would. Said the Mercurials were perfect for your play style, that you'd wear them until they stopped making them."
The elevator started beeping. Aggressive little chirps because they were holding the doors, because the universe was insisting they move, make a choice, do something.
YN stepped out into the hallway.
Made it three steps before her body staged a coup and stopped moving. She turned halfway, and Mapi was still there—hand still holding the door sensor, that same unreadable expression on her face, and YN wanted to scream. Wanted to demand answers. Wanted to ask why Mapi remembered her boot preference but couldn't be bothered to return a single text message.
"Why are you here?" It came out more plaintive than she meant. She was asking about the hotel, but also the hallway, the country, her life again after four years of surgical absence.
"Away team," Mapi said simply. "We flew in this afternoon."
"Right." YN felt stupid. "Obviously. I meant—"
"I know what you meant."
The beeping intensified. Mapi stepped out, let the doors close behind her, and suddenly they were both in the hallway. Ten feet of terrible carpet between them. At least the elevator had rules, boundaries, an endpoint. This was undefined territory.
"I'm four doors down," Mapi said, nodding left.
Of course. Of course she was.
"Great," YN managed. "That's... yeah. Great."
Mapi's mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile. "Still say 'great' when you're uncomfortable."
"I'm not—" YN stopped. Pressed her lips together. Tried again. "Good luck tomorrow."
It came out sincere. She hadn't meant it to, but it did anyway, and Mapi's expression did something that made YN's chest hurt.
"You too." Mapi's voice was soft. "You're starting, yeah? I saw the probable lineup."
YN shouldn't answer. Shouldn't engage. Shouldn't give Mapi a single piece of information, a single foothold back into her life.
"Yeah," she said.
Mapi nodded once. Her eyes did something complicated—warm and sad and something else YN couldn't name. "I'll try not to break your ankles, then."
The words hit like a time machine. Pre-season friendly, five years ago, Barcelona vs Arsenal. YN had been nineteen and cocky, fresh off a good season, and Mapi had nutmegged her twice in the first ten minutes. Had jogged past afterward and said exactly that: Don't worry, inglesa, I'll try not to break your ankles. YN had been furious. Had also been slightly in awe. Had definitely not been expecting to kiss her three months later in a Barcelona nightclub, but that was a different story.
YN laughed. Couldn't help it. Short, startled, quickly smothered, but Mapi heard it. YN saw her register it, saw something like relief flash across her face.
"Goodnight, YN."
She said it like that—the Spanish soft 'Y', turning it into something gentler than the English pronunciation. She'd always said it like that.
Mapi turned and walked to her door—804—and disappeared inside without looking back.
YN stood in the hallway.
Counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty.
Finally made herself walk to 808. Got her key card out with hands that were definitely not shaking. Went inside.
Closed the door and leaned against it.
Looked at her hands.
They were shaking.
She showered on autopilot. Hot water, too hot probably, until her skin was pink and the bathroom was full of steam. Dried her hair properly this time, brushed her teeth, went through the motions of her pre-match routine even though the match was tomorrow and her brain was stuck in an elevator, in a hallway, four doors down.
Her phone buzzed.
Leah: You alive? Need me to bring you food?
YN: I'm good. See you at breakfast.
She got into bed. Turned off the light. Stared at the ceiling.
The hotel was quiet. She could hear the hum of the air conditioning. Someone's TV, muffled through the walls. Footsteps in the hallway. A door closing.
804 was four doors down.
Mapi was four doors down.
YN turned over. Closed her eyes. Tried every meditation technique Marcus had ever taught her. Counted backwards from a hundred in Spanish, then French, then gave up and just lay there.
At 2 AM, her phone lit up the ceiling.
Unknown number.
Unknown: I should've called.
YN stared at it. Read it once. Twice. Three times. Watched the screen go dark. Lit it up again.
She should delete it. Block the number. Throw her phone into the Thames.
She picked it up.
YN: Yeah. You should have.
Send.
She put the phone face-down on the nightstand. Pulled the duvet over her head like she was twelve and hiding from monsters under the bed.
The phone buzzed.
She counted to ten before looking.
Unknown: I know. I'm sorry.
YN's chest hurt. Proper hurt, like she'd taken an elbow to the ribs and forgotten how to breathe around it.
She wanted to type a hundred things. Wanted to ask why—why the silence, why now, why this hotel, this hallway, this specific arrangement of the universe that put them four doors apart. Wanted to be angry. Was angry. But was also something else, something more complicated, something that felt dangerously like hope.
She typed nothing.
Put the phone back face-down.
Stared at the ceiling.
At 2:17, the phone buzzed again.
Unknown: For what it's worth, I never forgot. Any of it.
YN read it six times.
Didn't reply.
At 4 AM, she finally fell asleep, and dreamed about elevators that never reached their destination.
❤️