The idea of starting a family had bloomed gently, like something they’d both been tiptoeing around for years. Y/N was the kind of woman who juggled her entire world with one hand on a microphone and the other scribbling match notes. Alexia, the face of Spanish football, carried the weight of a nation on her shoulders while somehow still saving the last slice of pizza for Y/N after late dinners. They were a power couple, no doubt, but underneath all that strength and chaos, there was softness and a quiet desire to grow their love into someone new.
They chose IVF. Science, needles, hope all bundled into a process that made Y/N want to scream and Alexia want to hug her for hours.
The first attempt failed. Y/N didn’t cry at least not publicly. She went to work, wrote columns, smiled through interviews.
But that night, in bed, she held onto Alexia like she was her anchor in a storm she couldn’t name.
Alexia always made it clear that she wanted a girl, even if she said that being healthy as the only thing that matter, she always wished to have a girl
Alexia kissed her forehead and whispered, “She’ll come to us. I know it.”
On the second try, Y/N walked out of the bathroom holding a test with shaking hands and tear-streaked cheeks.
She didn’t say anything at first, just handed it to Alexia. Alexia stared for two seconds, then looked at y/n and cried like she had just won the champions league
“VOY A SER MAMA; I’M BUYING BARCELONA KIT FOR HER RIGHT NOW !".
“You don’t even know if it’s a girl Ale”
“It’s a girl, i know it is”
pregnancy was anything but glamorous. At least not for Y/N.
She loved her work fiercely journalism wasn’t just a job, it was her rhythm, her adrenaline, her pulse .One of the most loved voices in football. Known for her sharp questions and warm charisma but always respectful, her interviews were honest and clever.
She’d once made Messi laugh so hard mid-press conference he spilled water on his notes. Her phone buzzed constantly with match schedules, urgent editor requests, and players sliding into her inbox with exclusive stories.
And she refused to stop that
She kept covering matches as long as her ankles let her fit into shoes.
She interviewed legends with an ice pack on her back and wrote columns propped up on pillows, one hand always resting where Sofía kicked the hardest.
But the symptoms were brutal. Nausea so severe it felt like training camp for Olympians. Mood swings that made even Alba fear for her life. There was one day Y/N cried over a football documentary because someone scored in the last minute and she “just needed people to believe in themselves.”
"I'm fine," she said, nine weeks in, feet propped up in a press box, sipping ginger tea like it was warrior juice.
"You are not," said Alexia via voice note. "You threw up twice in one morning and still went to interview Haaland. IN MANCHESTER ! "
"He gave me a cookie. It was worth it."
Alexia rolled her eyes but never missed a beat.
Through it all, Alexia was her constant. Peppermint tea for nausea.
Handwritten notes slipped into her laptop bag.
Foot massages with low commentary about Sofía’s future playing style.
When Y/N collapsed into tears during a press conference because her blouse no longer buttoned, Alexia left training early, barged into the set, and wrapped her hoodie around Y/N like a cocoon.
Throughout the pregnancy, little Sofia Putellas named with love and intention, was adored even before she had taken her first breath.
“The baby has more fans than I do,” Y/N laughed once during an interview.
Her community of athletes, fellow journalists, and family showered her with love
Players from different teams, some of whom she had interviewed over the years, sent little jerseys and heartfelt messages.
The baby's “tías” were so exited to meet sofia, that they wouldn’t stop asking alexia every training how she was
July 2024 arrived faster than expected.
Alexia had been calledto play for the Spanish national team, deep in preparation for the Women's World Cup in Australia.
Y/N stayed behind, 34 weeks pregnant, not allowed to travel anymore and waddling around the kitchen like a determined penguin, refusing to let go of her laptop.
“Sofia listen to mom, please if you want to be born earlier than expected, at least be born while I'm still here in Spain, okay?” Alexia said as she rubbed the belly the night before going to camp
Sofia's due date was scheduled for 2 days after Alexia returned from Australia, but with that baby, nothing was surprising.
Then came July 5th, 2024.
Alexia was travelling to Australia the day after
and at 2:47 a.m. one muggy July night while she couldn't sleep , Y/N felt a strange sensation.
She was rereading a match preview for the upcoming world qualifiers when a sharp twinge made her gasp, she thought she had peed her pants again.
Her water had broken. Panic and exhilaration flooded her.
Her first reaction was to call alexia
Alexia picked up from Madrid, where she was training with the national team before leaving for the World Cup in Australia.
“Is everything ok?”Alexia asked with a sleepy voice and with worry
“My water broke,” Y/N said, eyes wide, breath shallow.
Alexia stopped breathing.
“You’re serious?” she whispered. “mi amor, are you okay?”
“I’m okay-ish. I’m terrified. It’s happening now.”
Alexia was already throwing on sweatpants. “I’ll be there in three hours. I promise. Don’t worry. Don’t panic. I love you.
By the time Alexia arrived, breathless and flushed from travelling through the night, Y/N had been admitted to the hospital with elli’s company and was already dilated.
The birth was intense Y/N pushed through the pain with the same ferocity she had once used to chase stories across continents.
Alexia held her hand, her forehead pressed against Y/N’s, whispering encouragements in a steady rhythm.
At 8:16 a.m., Sofia Putellas entered the world.
She was perfect. Tiny fingers wrapped around Alexia’s thumb, her cry strong and determined. Y/N sobbed uncontrollably, a mix of relief, joy, and absolute awe. Alexia, still in her training gear, had tears running down her cheeks. They looked at Sofia and knew everything had changed.
“She’s perfect,” Y/N whispered, voice hoarse.
“She’s ours,” Alexia replied.
Alexia smiled, eyes red, still holding Sofia in her arms.
“She has your eyes,” she murmured.
“And your ridiculous stubbornness,” Y/N replied. “She kicked like she was trying to prove she could score.”
Alba appeared with a glitter crown. “She needs it. She’s already got star power.”
Y/N stared at her daughter in the arms of the woman she always loved
She felt all of it every ache, every symptom, every tear she cried at 2AM when she didn’t feel strong.
From press rooms to stadiums, to late-night interviews and broken microphones Y/N had spent her life telling the stories of the game.
But now she had a new story.
The hospital room remained quiet, bathed in soft morning light and hushed voices. Y/N, exhausted but overwhelmed with joy, cradled Sofia against her chest as Alexia gently brushed strands of hair from her forehead. Outside the door, only a small circle knew what had just unfolded.
No public announcements. No press releases. Just intimate messages exchanged with their closest friends and family.
Alexia sent a photo to their private group chat with the caption: “She’s here. She’s perfect.”
Immediate replies came in voice notes filled with emotion, tearful congratulations, and jokes about football boots in baby size.
Their families arrived one by one, teary-eyed and gentle, taking turns holding the newest member with reverence. Y/N’s sister sobbed into a bouquet of tulips, while Alexia’s mother whispered blessings in Catalan, cradling her granddaughter like a precious heirloom.
No one posted anything online.
This wasn’t about headlines or trending hashtags. It was about the quiet miracle of their new life—a moment that belonged only to them.
The hospital staff, discreet and tender, respected their wish for privacy. The nurse on duty, moved by the unspoken warmth in the room, promised not to speak a word outside. When one of the midwives recognized Alexia, she smiled and simply said, “Congratulations, mamá,” before gently closing the door behind her.
Back at home, life adjusted to a slower, sweeter rhythm. Y/N’s laptop remained untouched for days which was a miracle, an unfamiliar sight to everyone who knew her.
Her world had narrowed beautifully to Sofia’s sleepy sighs, late-night feedings, and the feeling of Alexia’s arm around her waist as they watched the sunrise together from their balcony.
Messages from teammates trickled in under nicknames. “La Capitana has a new little teammate 💕,” one text read.
Y/N, never one to stay quiet for long, began scribbling notes again during nap times. Nothing for publication just personal reflections. A draft titled “The Strongest Kick I’ve Ever Felt” sat half-finished in her journal. She wrote not for the world but for Sofia, hoping that one day she’d read about how deeply loved she was before she ever opened her eyes.
Alexia returned briefly to camp with the Spanish national team after a few days, the weight of separation was heavier than expected.
Her heart ached during warm-ups, and during the tactical meetings, she traced the outline of Sofia’s name engraved on a bracelet Y/N had given her the morning she left.
Her teammates noticed, offering quiet support in the form of hugs and late-night talks.
Y/N sent updates sparingly, preferring voice notes to texts. Sofia’s tiny giggles, her hiccups after feedings, even the soundtrack of lullabies that filled the nursery were shared like sacred secrets. They had built their life on discretion, and now it sheltered the most precious chapter of all.
That July became unforgettable in more ways than one.
Just weeks after Sofia's birth, Alexia lifted the Women's World Cup trophy with Spain, her arms outstretched, face radiant, wrapped in triumph and emotion.
Y/N didn’t plan to post anything. She had kept her journey private deliberately so. But in that moment, as tears welled up watching her partner celebrate one of the most historic moments in women's football, she felt compelled to mark it. Not for the media. Not for attention. Just for love.
She took a photo with her phone. In the frame: Sofia’s tiny body wrapped in a soft blanket, her little fingers curled beside Y/N’s. The television in the background showed the Spanish team erupting in celebration, confetti raining down. Alexia was right there, caught in that perfect moment of victory. Sofia’s face was gently turned away, shielded with intention.
The caption was simple: "Your mamá just made history. And you were here to see it begin ."
Sofia’s name didn’t trend. There was no segment on TV.
But the love in their home pulsed brighter than stadium lights. Sofia had been born into a legacy of strength and gentleness—a quiet revolution in a world obsessed with spectacle.
And for Y/N and Alexia, that was everything they had ever hoped for.