From Tapas to the Podium
Alexia Putellas x Reader
She's won Champions Leagues and World Cups, but nothing has ever terrified her like standing in the snow, helpless, as the woman she loves defies gravity.
Milano–Cortina is a cold that feels vertical. It doesn’t just wrap around you. It descends. The air comes off the mountains in clean, cutting sheets, sliding down the face of the Dolomites and into the stadium bowl. Breathing it is like inhaling glass — crisp, thin, startlingly pure.
Milano Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics stretches across the horizon in polished signage and immaculate scaffolding, but the landscape refuses to be softened by branding.
The ski jump rises above it all. It does not look like a slope. It looks like a decision.
A blade of white cutting into the sky, impossibly steep at the start gate, disappearing into the distance before plunging down toward the outrun far below. From the stands, the top seems detached from the earth entirely — suspended in pale air.
It unsettles her immediately. Alexia has played in stadiums that hold ninety thousand people. She has stood under floodlights that hum and roar.
This is different. This is silent in a way that feels vast.
Her coat is dark against the snow — long, insulated, severe in line but undeniably warm. You insisted on it. Sent her links. Made her promise she would not show up to the Olympics dressed like Barcelona in January. It is the right coat.
Still, she looks carved from somewhere sunnier.
The Norwegian flag rests around her shoulders. Not purchased at the gate. Not handed to her by federation staff. She picked it up herself two days ago, slipping away between media obligations to find a small storefront near the cathedral — colors deep and precise. She checked the stitching before buying it.
Folded it herself. Wrapped in it now with care — red aligned over her left shoulder, blue crossing steady at her back.
Intentional.
Wind moves constantly along the hill. Flags flicker and snap, small bursts of color marking invisible currents that shift without warning. She studies them instinctively — measuring direction, gauging rhythm, watching for patterns.
Height has never frightened her. But distance without intervention does.
Her gaze travels upward again. The start gate looks impossibly far from the landing. You will sit up there alone. The thought lands heavier than the cold.
At the base of the hill, skis rest against the barrier, long and impossibly narrow. From here they look fragile. Technical. Unforgiving.
She inhales slowly. The air stings. She keeps her shoulders squared, hands steady against the flag. Because this is your arena. And for the first time in years, she is stepping into a stadium where control does not belong to her.
The stadium settles as your name is announced.
Italian first. Then English. Then Norwegian.
It sounds different in each language — familiar in one, ceremonial in another.
Beside her, Ingrid leans forward immediately. She is unmistakably official — federation jacket zipped high, Norway crest bright against the red, beanie pulled low, gloves patterned in blue and white. She belongs to this cold. To this flag.
Alexia sits directly beside her. Close enough that their sleeves nearly brush. Her coat is darker than the snow, absorbing light instead of reflecting it. The Norwegian flag rests across her shoulders, folded with care — chosen, not issued.
Issued versus intentional.
Ingrid exhales sharply when you appear at the top of the hill.
Alexia’s breathing stays measured. Her gaze lifts. You are small up there. Not fragile — she would never use that word — but distant. Detached from scale. The start gate looks like it’s pinned to the sky, the outrun impossibly far below.
The space between those two points feels cruel.
Ingrid murmurs something under her breath — not to Alexia, not really. A reflex. A habit of athletes watching athletes. That was how this began after all. A warm night in Barcelona, Ingrid insisting you join them for tapas while you were visiting. You two should meet. Snow and sun colliding between shared plates and clinking glasses on a warm Catalan evening.
Alexia does not answer now. Her eyes do not leave you. Her thumb moves once — rubbing along the stitched seam of the flag where it folds over her shoulder. Not fidgeting. Grounding.
She tracks the wind flags. The official’s posture. The minute shift of your weight as you settle into the gate.
She understands stadium pressure. She understands expectations. What she does not understand — what she does not tolerate easily — is distance she cannot close.
You sit at the edge of the sky. She remains in her seat. Still. Watching. The official steps back.
The wind quiets — or maybe it only feels that way. For a moment, the entire hill compresses into stillness.
You lean forward.
There are no dramatics in it. No hesitation. Just commitment.
The push from the gate is clean. Your skis cut into the inrun, gathering speed with a sound thinner than she expected — steel against packed snow, sharp and accelerating. The slope looks steeper from below. Gravity does not feel theoretical anymore.
Her shoulders square. Her hand tightens once on the flag at her neck.
You reach the table. Launch. And then— Nothing. Not falling. Not landing. Suspended.
Your body angles forward into air that cannot be seen but must be trusted. Skis parallel. Arms steady. Chin level. You are no longer attached to anything solid.
The stadium disappears into white blur beneath you.
This is the moment she was not prepared for. On a football pitch, momentum can be chased. A mistake can be pressed. A line can be reorganized. Here, there is only air.
Her lungs forget their rhythm. Her eyes do not blink.
You are suspended between force and faith.
She cannot step onto this field. Cannot call out. Cannot absorb impact.
All she can do is watch you exist in the space between control and gravity.
It lasts less than two seconds.
It feels endless.
The landing returns everything to earth. Skis meet snow. A clean spray of white lifts behind you — steady, controlled through the outrun. No stumble. No correction.
You glide to a stop.
The stadium inhales. There is always a delay.
Distance. Wind compensation. Style points. Numbers assembling somewhere unseen.
Beside her, Ingrid is already leaning forward, tension wired through her frame. Alexia does not move. Not yet.
Your name appears. The score settles beneath it. A fraction of a second. Then— The number locks. First. Gold.
The stadium explodes. And so does she.
She is on her feet before she registers standing. The Norwegian flag slips from one shoulder entirely as she throws both arms into the air — unguarded, instinctive.
“¡Vamos!”
It tears out of her before she can temper it.
She turns, grabbing Ingrid in a fierce half-embrace, laughing — not the measured kind, but bright and reckless. Her hands come down hard against Ingrid’s shoulders, then back to her own head, disbelief and pride crashing together.
She looks back to the scoreboard.
Still first. Still gold.
Her face breaks open. No calculation. No control.
Pure joy.
She claps once, sharp and decisive, then points toward the hill — toward you — as if the entire stadium needs confirmation of what she already knows.
That’s mine. Not possession. Recognition.
You flew. You conquered gravity. And she does not care who sees how proud she is.
You step onto the highest platform. Snow compresses beneath your boots with a dry, deliberate sound. An official stands in front of you, white gloves stark against the gold medal resting in their hands.
For a moment, everything narrows. The ribbon lifts. Slides over your head. Brushes your collar. The medal settles against your chest. It is heavier than you imagined. Cold at first. Then warming quickly where it rests against you.
The stadium rises in a swell of sound. Then the anthem begins.
The first notes hit harder than the landing did.
Your chin lifts instinctively — not to search the stands, but to keep yourself steady. Your throat tightens almost immediately. You inhale carefully through your nose, measured, controlled. The medal shifts slightly with your breath, the weight grounding and unreal at the same time.
You blink. Once. Twice.
You fix your gaze somewhere above the floodlights, where mountain meets night.
You close your eyes for a brief second — not long enough to lose composure, just long enough to keep from losing it entirely.
When you open them again, you let yourself look.
You find them together. Ingrid stands in full federation colors, singing now — voice steady, proud, unmistakably national. Beside her, Alexia stands with the Norwegian flag slightly crooked across her shoulders from her earlier eruption. She hasn’t fixed it. She isn’t singing, but she is smiling in a way that makes no attempt at restraint.
Bright. Open. Almost disbelieving.
Her eyes shine — not fragile, not spilling — just overwhelmed in a way she rarely allows.
When she sees you looking, her expression softens further. Not smaller. Just deeper.
Her hand lifts briefly, pressing against the flag at her collarbone as if she needs something solid to anchor her to the moment.
No nod. No signal. Just pride.
You don’t hold her gaze long. The anthem swells again and pulls you back into it — into country, into history, into the sound that shaped you.
You face forward. Jaw set. Breathing through it.
Gold hangs heavy at your chest.
And in the stands, she remains there — smiling without apology, celebrating you more fiercely than she ever celebrated herself. Even in stillness.
The anthem fades into applause that echoes against the mountains.
Then the stillness breaks.
Officials step forward. Gloves brush your elbow. A microphone grazes too close to your cheek. Snow churns under boots, turning from pristine white to uneven ridges of gray.
“Look here.” “Just one more.”
You smile because you have to. Lift the medal when prompted.
The gold catches the light again — blinding for a second — before settling back heavy against your sternum. The ribbon presses faintly into the back of your neck, warm now from your skin.
Your pulse hasn’t fully slowed. You can feel it in your fingertips.
In the stands, the cold carries sound strangely — sharp, directional. Applause snaps. Laughter cuts clean through the air.
Alexia is still standing. The Norwegian flag rests unevenly across her shoulders, one corner sliding slightly down her arm where it loosened when she threw her arms up earlier. She hasn’t corrected it. She claps as you step down from the podium — firm, rhythmic, unmistakably proud. The sound of it carries.
A few people nearby hesitate mid-cheer. A murmur travels sideways through the row. A phone lifts. Another. “Is that—” “It is.” La Reina wrapped in Norwegian colors.
Snow dusts the shoulders of her dark coat. Her breath fogs in soft bursts when she laughs — bright, unguarded. Beside her, Ingrid nudges her lightly with an elbow, grin wide, as if to say I told you so.
Alexia barely registers it. Her eyes are locked on you.
When you finally break from the press cluster, boots sinking slightly into churned snow, the noise dulls — not because it fades, but because you’re moving toward her.
She steps forward.
The first thing you feel is fabric — the flag brushing your arm as she reaches you.
Then her hands firm at your shoulders. The medal presses hard between you when she pulls you in. Metal against fabric. Cold edge against warm skin.
Her coat smells faintly of clean wool and winter air.
Her forehead dips to your temple, and her breath is warm where it touches the side of your face, a sharp contrast to the sting of the alpine wind.
“I hated that.”
It’s low enough that only you hear it. The words vibrate against your skin.
She pulls back just slightly, enough to look at you properly. Snow catches in her hair near her temple. Her hands remain at your arms, thumbs pressing into the fabric of your sleeves as if she needs to feel resistance.
“I have never felt that helpless.”
Around you, Norway is still roaring. Cameras are still flashing — white bursts reflecting off the medal at your chest. Somewhere behind you, people are still whispering about the image of her cheering.
But here— There’s only the sound of your breathing. The weight of gold. The warmth of her hands through layers of fabric. And the quiet way she holds you like gravity might try something again.
The hotel room is warmer than it should be. After hours in the alpine cold, the air feels dense, unfamiliar against skin still carrying mountain chill. The door shuts behind you. Silence settles in layers.
She reaches for the Norwegian flag first. It slips from her shoulders, fabric sliding softly against the dark wool of her coat. She holds it for a moment, thumb brushing once along the edge like she’s making sure it’s real.
Then she folds it carefully. Precise. Deliberate. She places it on the desk. Red and blue aligned perfectly. Only then does she remove her coat. She hangs it over the back of a chair, smoothing the lapel once before letting it rest.
You’re still wearing the medal. It presses against your chest, heavy and warm now. You reach up slowly, fingers brushing the ribbon at the back of your neck. Lift it over your head. The absence of weight feels almost stranger than the weight itself.You step toward the desk and place the gold gently on top of the folded flag.
Metal against fabric. No ceremony. Just certainty.
She watches you do it. Something in her expression softens further.
You pace once across the carpet without meaning to — adrenaline still humming faintly in your bloodstream — then stop.
She studies you.
“I keep thinking about Barcelona," Her voice is softer here. “That night Ingrid insisted you come out with us.”
Tapas on a narrow street. Warm air pressing against your shoulders. Glasses clinking. Laughter spilling into the pavement.
“She said we should meet like it was nothing.”
Like snow and sun weren’t about to collide years later.
You remember the heat of that evening. The hum of the city. The way the world felt open and uncomplicated.
She exhales slowly.
“I didn’t think it would look like this.”
You step closer standing between her knees.
Her hands rise to your hips automatically — but instead of stopping there, they slide under your open jacket, palms pressing flat against your sides, warmth through thin fabric. Then she leans forward. Her forehead rests gently against your stomach, just below your ribs.
Closer now. Unarmored.
Her arms wrap more fully around you beneath your jacket, holding you there.
“I don’t like not being able to protect the person I love.”
It isn’t possessive. It isn’t dramatic. It’s almost frustrated.
You rest your hand at the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair.
“That night was a good one.”
It’s simple, but she understands.
You tilt your head down. Press a slow kiss to the crown of her head.
Not hurried. Not celebratory. Just there.
A thank you. An I hear you. An I love you for loving me like that.
“You don’t have to protect me from gravity.”
The words are steady when you say them. Not dismissing. Not teasing. Just certain.
She exhales softly against you. Stays there for a moment longer. Then her cheek settles against your stomach again, arms tightening just slightly.
When she speaks, it's almost against your skin.
"I am so proud of you."
Whispered. Certain.
Outside, snow continues to fall over the Dolomites. Inside, gold rests quietly on red and blue.
She holds you closer than she did in the stands. Not because she’s afraid, but because she doesn’t have to be strong here.
Where Champions Stand (Winter Olympics Series)
