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Chapter Text

Barcelona signs a Brazilian.

Nothing fancy, nothing remarkable. A short loan from Levante, some wonderkid. Will play for Barça B in the pre-season and get a shot at the main team.

Alexia Putellas is... uninterested. Which sounds unkind. She makes a point to care about every Barça player; she's their captain. But... this is her after injury. After so much pressure and expectations and... just so much.

She lets Aitana, Mapí and Paredes answer instead. The kids in the group Team Chat are excited as they always are when there's someone new. Alexia wonders when she started thinking about herself as one of the 'old ones' -- she hasn't been a kid in a long time.

She needs to focus, that's what she tells herself. Her family, her girlfriend, her physio and staff, fuck even her nutri, tell her she needs to relax.

Alexia will rest when she's back at the top. Maybe.

She silences the group chat. Brazilian forgotten.

You don't know how the fuck you got to Barcelona. It's okay, you think, you didn't know how the fuck you got to Levante, in València, either.

Suddenly, that's just how your life is now.

You try to think of yourself as one of the lucky ones, especially when you are alone, having a hard time with the language, a hard time with the people. I'm lucky, you tell yourself, I have to believe that.

You remember the girls you played with in the projects back in Rio. Wide-eyed, borrowed cleats, all of them, and you too -- one of them, at the time. Playing in fields that were more dirt and gravel than grass. Playing in courts with leaks, that filled up with water when it rained too much; it always rains too much in Rio, a flood.

You knew what you were doing back then. Dreaming big, working twice as hard, a clear goal in yellow and green -- play for Brazil. Even then, you were lucky, lucky to have a mother who cared, a grandfather who found you a team to play in, lucky to have a baby brother you had to be better for.

You got a team to play, black and red stripes you learned to love. Played so much, played the best that you could (you were lucky, to get a team that was investing in the youth program). 

You were barely 17 when you got lucky again, at the beach of all places.

Sunny day with your friends, a rare moment of freedom. Of no discipline. Even then, football found you, it always did -- it was the driving force of everything in your life.

You played altinha with a bunch of kids you just met, loud boys, and you humbled them just because. Juggling the ball with ease, throwing it over one then two then three. They went crazy, loud kids -- gringo kids, blonde, bright. Their mother took an interest in you, Camila Lozardo.

Camila was married to an important football agent, and she was trying her hand at being a Sports Agent as well, bored out of her mind back in Madrid, Spain. Brazilian married to a Spaniard, eager to prove she was good at something other than organizing kids’ lunchboxes. 

It was fate, probably, or maybe not, because she would eventually visit your team’s academy anyway.

But what happened was that you met her at the beach, and she got interested, and suddenly you had an agent. Too good of an agent. "You have to go to Spain," she said, "up your game, train in a harder league, get you to England eventually. Don’t you want to play in England?That’s where the game is being played.”

You were happy to kick a ball at a drywall, once.

The first offer to go overseas came early, too early. And you were so afraid. And you wanted to say no, why should I leave my family? My mother who works so hard, my grandpa who’s old, my brother who is young. Why should I?

In the end you said yes for the same reasons you wanted to say no. Because your mother worked so hard and yet sometimes you guys still struggled with the bills, because your grandfather was old and couldn't retire yet, because your brother was young and dreamed of being a baller as well -- not because he liked it, but because being a baller could change his life.

"You will get paid, actual euros," Camila said through your phone, your camera showing her your family’s humble 3-bedroom apartment. A room you shared. A place that was home.

"Yes, I will go," you said.

What could a kid say? What could a kid do?

Before Barcelona there was Levante and it was good for you, in a way. The team was hard-working, tight-knit, an old team used to playing long seasons together.

Spanish is harder to speak than you thought, especially when everyone talks too fast for you to follow. Levante is not the kind of team that offers Spanish lessons to new players. Camila takes care of you though, more than she should, again; gets you a teacher that you have to see every week.

But it's not just language. Nobody told you how hard it was, all of it, another country, another city, a different culture, different people, tastes, smells, sounds. València has a beach, which is not the same, but you're grateful for it anyway -- you don't know how to exist away from the beach, never have.

Football is not the same as well: they think you are undisciplined, rebellious, too bold. You learn other styles, other plays, you don't compromise yourself though -- they shouldn’t have signed a Brazilian if that was the case.

You try though, you try harder. Work harder. Give 110%. You know you can't waste this opportunity when you finally manage to send a new videogame to your brother, a birthday gift; a shiny new thing that you two could only see behind glass displays. He cries on the phone and you decide that you will endure whatever you have to endure.

You spend the whole year without going home. You have a hell of a season, low exposure sure, the team doesn’t get much media, but you don’t mind; you aren’t in it for the fame. You save money, train, dedicate. You get a call for Brazil’s U20, shine there too. You even get to meet girls who are playing in Spain as well, that you would only see in passing reference during games -- now, you get to call them friends.

You have your first Christmas ever away from your family, a sacred thing, Christmas is. Spend it with Camila’s family instead, another way in which she takes care of you differently.

Your mother calls you anyway, at night, makes your brother hold the phone on video call like it’s a sacred task. Makes you yell over music and conversations to talk to, what you think, is the whole neighborhood piled inside your childhood apartment. Everyone wants to say congratulations, everyone has questions. You are not even there and you are exhausted.

At some point, your brother takes you to the room you used to share. It is still the same, he tells you proudly, "I kept it just like you left it.”

The bunk bed is pushed to the corner, the two beds made. The small table still looks like it will topple over with all the mess -- two chairs almost touching to fit. You remember elbowing your brother there, trying to do your homework while he pestered you -- it almost makes you choke now, the nostalgia of it.

The lonely shelf where you two used to fight to put the smallest of trinkets is filled up with your trophies, your medals -- your baby brother stopped complaining about it when you started to win so much. He idolizes you, another responsibility on top of the pile you already carry around.

This room, this shrine, it haunts you now. You know that if you ever go back you have failed, cannot go back, simply won’t.

"When will you come back?" your brother asks, turning the phone to his face, a little skewed. He is losing his baby fat, his cheeks hollower now, his eyebrows fuller. He does not look like you, darker, a different father -- no less your brother for it, never. You feel like you are missing parts of him though, it hurts so much that you have to look away.

"Take me back so I can say bye to mom," you say instead, distracting him, giving him something to do. You are not ready to come back yet, not trusting yourself to see all you left behind and not want to stay.

You say your goodbyes and find yourself playing a thousand games with Camila’s boys, trying to compensate for something a thousand miles away. Eventually you go into the kitchen, insist on helping with the dishes while her Spaniard husband puts the kids to bed.

She waves you off, says she likes to do it by hand just by habit, that she has a dishwasher that can probably fit a car inside of it.

A dishwasher. The novelty of it. You decide that’s the next thing you are buying your mom, no more fights about who will wash the dishes in that house.

You help out speaking quietly, shoulder to shoulder, Portuguese words flowing between you two. Camila is not tall, not as tall as you at least. Dark hair, sharp features, commanding, does not need to raise her voice to impose respect. Does not look her age.

"They are a handful, those boys..." she says, fondly, looking over her shoulder to the living room where they were. "They remind me of my brother..." you say, shrugging. Because they do in a way, boys are boys anywhere they are.

"No talent for football, though. But the exercise is good for them, at least, so I let it be. So hard to get them away from that stupid piece of plastic." Camila continues, talking mostly to the sink now. You have a sense this is going somewhere, but only nod along.

"My girl, though, the girl we had, she might have been good at it someday..." she completes, frowning at her soap-filled hands like they had done something to offend her.

A girl, of course there was a girl. Would you even be here in this apartment if there hadn’t been a girl? You saw pictures at the entrance, lots of phases and hallmarks for the boys. But two or three pictures of a girl stilled in time, four years old you would think -- never to grow old. She has a ball under her little arms, a jersey with 13 on her chest.

"I'm sorry," you say because it’s the only thing you can think to say. What anyone can say truly.

Camila says "me too." And you don't talk about it anymore.

You decide you are going to wear the 13 someday, make it lucky like you are lucky. Make it mean bad luck to someone else.

You grow a lot, that year in Levante, more than you will ever know.

Nobody thinks to tell you that people do not speak Spanish in Barcelona.

You take some time to notice it too. The way words are written weirdly, the spelling jumbling your mind. How every time you would ask something to someone they would pause before answering, switching gears inside their heads.

"It’s Catalan," Camila says over the phone, she’s munching on something, always eating in a rush, meeting to meeting. "It sounds like Portuguese, Spanish and French had a child.”

"That sounds horrible," you say, feeling sick. Another language to not be understood in.

"You will pick it up easily, Barça will help you out. Don’t worry." She continues, ignoring your tone. Straight to business when she has to. "How are you liking your new place? Have you explored the city yet?”

You hum on the phone. You are at your bare Barça-issued apartment. A building close to the Ciudad Sportiva, where you will train and eat and live for the next year. You were supposed to share it but no one on the Barça B was from out of the city this year; Catalans through and through.

Camila had sent you sooner to the city, two weeks before the actual beginning of the pre-season so you had time to adapt, learn the bus routes, explore Barcelona before getting sequestered into the insane routine of a footballer - a peek at normalcy.

"Don’t get stuck with yourself again, learn the city, learn the space, go out okay?" Camila commands from Madrid and hangs up. You sigh.

Back in Levante you had been... shy. To go out, to find places you liked, too afraid and too focused to do anything besides football. You were 19 now, would turn 20 soon, would not spend another year looking at walls or inside of the gym.

You spend the next two weeks looking for your community. Brazilians are like pigeons, your grandpa says, they are everywhere. Adaptable.

You find a bar that plays samba, a store that sells something similar to pastel, you go to the beach, scorching hot, and tan. You find a coffee place you don’t detest, you find a park that you enjoy. You find places you can hide for a while. This year will be better, you say.

You get the impression the Barça B girls do not like you. You understand, your situation is...special. Barça B is a development team, not supposed to receive loans; your potential at your age made this the best arrangement though.

You introduce yourself, make the rounds, say your rehearsed phrase: "Soy brasileña, de Río. Sí, de Río de Janeiro.”

Rio, Rio, Rio. That’s your nickname before the end of the first day. Rio.

You don’t know how to make these girls like you besides not playing well, and that you can’t do. So you do the opposite. It’s fitness test day: short runs, jump tests, lift tests; overall fitness profile. You do the same you did at Levante.

You destroy the test. Absolutely crush it. Break all records, win on every station.

Give them something to truly hate about you.

On the second week of pre-season, you meet the senior team. A part of them, actually.

They do that sometimes, the staff of Barça B, it’s a good way to keep the youngest with their goal in mind, dangle the carrot in front of them so to speak. You don’t feel exactly anxious but you are not indifferent to it either -- it’s another way to prove yourself, you think. Another opportunity.

The team is done with most of the morning practice when they arrive, four of them, like gods among mortals. You know their names, of course, have studied the territory where you are stepping; they sent down the 'heavy names', you can tell.

Mapí León is tall, blonde, all smiles, broad shoulders. Classical center-back. She seems the easiest to talk to, approachable.

Aitana Bonmatí, shorter than you expected, shorter than you. Technical brilliance in a small package. Small face, big presence. She frowns, you know she is evaluating everyone on the field and finding them lacking.

Salma, who recently reached the main team, is here to break the ice, to make the dream seem possible. Tall, shiny skin, pretty smile. You stand a little apart from everyone else but you feel like you would want to be close to her, maybe.

And then of course, every kingdom has its Queen. La Reina. You take offense at that alias, football already has a queen, she’s Brazilian don’t you know? You swallow your pride, though, because here she’s clearly the ruler.

Alexia is the last to enter the field, talking with your manager. You have seen the pictures, have seen the videos, but the real thing is... brighter, somehow. Prettier, too. Whisky-colored eyes, almost golden, who even has eyes like that?

You notice her knee wrapped tight, a black thing. Oh, the worst injury a player can have. She survived it, larger than life once again. Maybe a true queen.

Alexia is not in the mood to deal with the kids now. Tired from training, frustrated. She’s having a hard time adjusting; cleared by the medical team to go back to the pitch but not cleared by her mind. She will die before admitting she’s afraid of stepping too hard and hurting herself again, of a shove that would break down her fragile knee.

She takes a deep breath and comes down anyway. Has to set an example to them, these hopeful youths, even if she herself doesn’t feel exactly awe-inspiring right now. Smiles tightly at the eager faces under the sun, flushed youth.

Notices one of the girls standing slightly apart, nothing glaring, just... a body language, leaning afar, hands behind her back. Stands tall, looks leaner than the rest, sleeves of the blaugrana shirt rolled up to her shoulders. The brazilian, perhaps?

Alexia just moves on, unbothered. Will do what she has to do and move on. She needs to get her shit together.

She moves through the stations, exercise after exercise. The girls look at her with big, wide eyes. She smiles blandly back, nods at questions, gives away tips she herself can’t seem to execute - nobody notices, nobody questions a queen.

She gets to the 1v1 run, go right or left, protect the ball and shake off the marker. Does it easily enough, runs shoulder to shoulder with bodies that are too afraid to push her - secretly, she’s grateful. Does it once, twice, third time there’s a pause.

The Brazilian is standing there, last in line, foot over the ball, hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Alexia hadn’t talked to her yet, only nodded, gestured. She keeps it that way, receives the ball and off they go.

Alexia gets well into a jog before she gets a shove. Hard shove. The Brazilian pressing hard to her side, almost at her height, testing her balance and then bumping again, foot closing on the door.

On instinct, Alexia cuts hard to the right, presses her shoulder back -- classic midfield feint, making the opposing girl stumble. La Reina slows down, tapping her knee for injury; nothing, of course. She releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

The Brazilian girl got up, eyes focused on the ball. She seemed to think hard for a moment before pointing at the ball under Alexia's foot.

"Va, tornem-hi." Catalan, the girl said, voice stilted, accent heavy, like she wasn't used to it. "Again." she repeated in Spanish.

Alexia raised her eyebrows, unsure how to respond. There wasn’t anyone in the lineup for this exercise yet, so there shouldn’t be any problem. The thing was, the girl had been... intense, not holding back. Alexia hadn’t even thought before applying pressure on her knee, had to do it to keep upright. Maybe…

They went at it again: sprint, hard shove. The girl was smarter this time, tried to take the bite sooner, relying on speed since Alexia was clearly stronger. Again, sensing the impending crash, she hit the brakes, protecting the ball with her leg this time, the injured leg. She hesitated a moment too long and rotated her body; protecting her knee, using a move she shouldn’t use against such a young player.

The Brazilian crashed directly into her shoulder and fell back hard, rolling quickly though, catching her breath. Her eyes still on the ball.

"Are you ok?" Alexia asked, worried she had come off too strong. A thrill ran through her, undoubtedly, another twist she had been hesitating to do all week, done again... but this girl was reckless, throwing herself like that. They should stop before…

"De nou, ho fem de nou." Again, let’s go again. Catalan, terrible catalan but catalan nonetheless. Alexia looked over her shoulder, some girls already lined up to get their shot. She shook her head, two attempts were good enough.

The girl just grabbed the ball and made her way back to the starting line, getting in position. Some other teammate whispered something to her but she shrugged, looking directly at Alexia.

Intense eyes, dark, hair brushed back with wisps of grass. Young and defiant.

Alexia sighed, these young players…

She made her way back to the starting line, threw a tight-lipped smile to the other girls and got into position. The assistant supervising the station blew the whistle one more time.

They rushed forward, sprinting hard. Shoulder to shoulder, run and run, and when Alexia was ready to shove and win the race: a tackle.

Precise, sideways. Pure ball hit. Alexia could only jump over it, trusting her knee not to give out from under her -- it didn’t, again. She stumbled a bit forward but turned quickly, rage filling her. What the fuck was that?

She wasn’t quick enough to get to the Brazilian before the assistant was already yelling at the girl, whistle loud, a loud man called Ove.

"That was not the drill, Rio, for fuck’s sake, every time..." He got to the girl, pulling on her training bib hard. The girl raised her hands, unapologetic, gesturing to the ball rolling through the field.

"I only hit ball." The girl - Rio, was it? What kind of name is Rio? - muttered in rough Spanish, eyes pleading with Alexia to say something.

The assistant just pushed her to another station, muttering a low "Sorry, Miss Putellas." over his shoulder.

Alexia felt the rage drain from her, fists unclenching. She had jumped. She hadn’t thought about her knee once.

Suddenly, Alexia Putellas wasn’t uninterested anymore.

Chapter Text

Alexia was in a mood. She had been in a mood for quite some time, actually. Almost a whole year of a whole mood about her injury; ACL, any football player’s worst fear.

Her teammates were gentle with her. Ona would throw tight smiles and small pats on the back like they were candy. Mapí would try to joke even if there was no joke to be made. Irene, with her motherly eyes, always hovering. All around her, soft people with soft words. Respectful of an imaginary crown that adorned her head.

It made her sick.

See, Alexia loved the game. She absolutely adored it. To be able to live from it was a dream come true. But you can’t be good at this game and not understand the pressure, and then live under it, and then thrive under it—until one could see the pressure as a privilege.

And if you were really good—legendary good—they gave you a crown. And yes, there was some vanity to it, at first. But overall? She hated the crown that was thrust upon her. The stupid alias that started it all: La Reina. Who started it? Who first said it? Maybe Jenni, she thought—things had a way of coming back to Jenni at some point. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that she had worn the crown. And the crown turned into a gilded cage.

A cage that wouldn’t let Alexia be tired, be rude, be insecure... No, there was no space for that under the crown (and inside the cage).

By the time the last lukewarm practice of the week rolled around, Alexia found herself screaming alone in the shower. Voice raw, frustrated, hurt... spent.

She needed something she couldn’t name. A spark, a push, someone who looked at her without the stare of expectation.

She needed an arrogant Brazilian who would sooner break her other leg than give the ball to her.

It was the tiredness in her bones, more than anything, that made her wake up early on the free Saturday, shove her head under a ballcap, and drag herself to the second friendly game of Barça B’s pre-season. Morning time, unassuming, the kind of game only family would attend.

And Alexia.

Alexia was careful to arrive late, when the ball was already rolling on the field. She found a spot at the back of the stands, looking for shade under the scorching sun.

The heat came off in waves, the grass a little burned out and yellow. Women’s games in general always got the shitty schedules, and a second-league game... well, they were lucky to even have a functional stadium.

The stands were filled with families, proud parents, cousins, friends. All of them hoping against hope that their little girl would make it. Alexia felt a pang somewhere around her heart, at the eagerness of it all—a murky memory of her father doing the same.

Better to focus on the game. Better not to think too much on it.

A master at compartmentalizing, Alexia was. A queen of that, surely.

Observing quietly, she searched for the tall Brazilian. Not on the field yet — surely she’d sub in to make a difference. Alexia waited, hands shoved in the back of her jeans, no brilliance to clap to. The team was neutral, played like Barça should play, sure, but without intensity; no intention behind it. Nobody caught her eye. No one shone.

Well and truly bored, she remained—until the Brazilian subbed in, 30 minutes into the first half. No clapping for her, no family to cheer. Alexia observed. The little bend to touch the grass, hand clutching something under her jersey—a token, probably—and off she went.

It was fire. She was everywhere — no brakes, no thinking. Pure intensity. Pure talent. Raw, yes, but unstoppable.

Alexia could teach finesse. Talent is what’s hard to find—the raw edge. The girl tackled, shoved, dribbled. Oh, how she dribbled, annoyingly so; got a hard shove for it when she tried to overlap the ball over the opponent—got a whistle.

Laughed when she fell. Alexia smirked, too.

At the 44th minute, the girl scored. Her back to the opponent, spin and shoot. Alexia recognized the movement—a crude version of what she had done in training the week before. A beautiful thing, the ball flying, lodging itself in the top corner.

Polite clapping from the stands. Nods and pats on the back down on the grass. No big celebration. The girl didn’t seem to mind—went right back to position.

At any level, football is competitiveness. At this level, it’s worse—because everyone wants to play for the dream team. Everyone wants to move up. And someone who can score like that will make it.

Meaning all the others simply won’t.

The loneliness of having a gift. The solitude of carrying it. The top will be unkind.

Alexia had felt it too, at that age.

By the end of the game, the Brazilian had scored twice and given an assist. A yellow card too.

Made no friends.

Has one admirer now, though.

You had another good game, so you were satisfied.

Your teammates’ indifference didn’t bother you. Their ambivalence was nothing. It didn’t matter in the big scheme of things. As long as they passed the ball and didn’t outright try to sabotage you, you couldn’t care less.

Back in the locker room, you accepted the praise from your coach and the polite clapping of your teammates. No emotion behind it.

You didn’t care. All the emotion you needed was behind your shinguards, a picture you took off with reverence after untying your boots: you, your mother, brother, and grandfather, in front of the old bar where you used to wait around while your grandad worked.

They mattered. They were the reason you had to succeed. Not anyone out on the field. Not anyone in this locker room.

You slipped away quietly, nodding at the assistant coach who congratulated you once more. No family waiting for you outside. No reason to stick around.

Made your way back to the apartment, thinking of home far, far away.

Alexia miscalculated her presence. Again.

It’s a thing she did with surprising frequency—forgot herself, forgot her effect.

All that to say she got stuck attending fans coming down from the stands. Photos, signed shirts. She could already imagine the headlines: Barça’s star graces Barça B with her attendance.

Like she was generous. Like she wasn’t thinking about herself right now. They already had the image of her they wanted, and she could do nothing besides bear it; her crux to carry.

By the time she managed to untangle herself from the fans, the match had ended 25 minutes earlier. She snuck into the locker room, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

The place was almost empty, five or so girls lingering besides the staff. A quick glance told Alexia her Brazilian wasn’t there anymore. Joder.

The remaining girls were excited though, and Alexia dished out good game like candy. Took more pictures. What did people do with so many pictures? Her face must be plastered in thousands of cellphones by now, her lopsided writing adorning a thousand shirts.

The coach stood back, a secret smile on his lips. Glad that one of the gods came down here to see his work. He thought Alexia was here for them, not for herself. She smiled, shook her head, said good game again—even though it wasn’t. The Brazilian had saved them.

“Thought I would get to see your MVP of the day...” Alexia asked casually, eyes glancing around the room.

“Rio?” The coach—Miguel, she thought—wondered out loud, then shrugged like an apology.

“She slips away like that all the time. No family waiting, you know? Does her own thing...” Miguel explained. And when he was met with Alexia’s silence, he sighed and continued: “The team is giving her a hard time, vale? Not on the field—they’re no match for her out there—but outside…they can be mean.”

Alexia nodded. She knew the venom of girls, of teammates. Had suffered through it and come out the other side. She was untouchable now. Survived the envy, like all players must.

“Can’t you say anything?” Alexia asked, though she knew the answer already. Much like school—when the staff meddles, it does no good. Creates more resentment, actually.

“Oh, you know. If I talk, I single her out. If I let it be... it is what it is. I was thinking of sending her up to train with the seniores. Honestly, there’s nothing to learn here, she’s on another level. But there’s no playing time up there, right? So she’d train, then come down to play... the locker room would be a mess.”

The coach babbled on, and Alexia listened. She was used to staff using her as a sounding board, as someone interested in all the grievances of the club. Most of the time, she was. She listened to the coach’s problems and imagined herself a coach.

Never gave much thought to what she would do after football; it seemed impossibly far away. Would she have the patience to deal with bratty women who envied another’s talent? Probably not.

“You have to think what’s best for the club.” Alexia settled on that—neutral. Not much, actually. Because if the girl moved up to train with her then... well, she’d get what she wanted, right? 

Miguel sighed, fiddling with the clipboard in his hands.

“I have a soft spot for her, and joder, moving her up is just painting a big target on her back right now. Things will solve themselves.” He concluded, searching Alexia’s face for approval.

She felt humbled. She was being selfish, pushing for a 19-year-old girl to face her whole squad just for training time. She felt the enormity of what she was asking settle on her shoulders.

Alexia said her goodbyes. The coach said she was welcome down anytime.

She went back to Olympus empty handed.

Alexia wasn’t surprised when she was called into Jonathan’s office, Barça’s coach, in the middle of the next week. How could she be surprised, when it was clear she was so... lacking?

Another round of bad training, bad practices. Passes that didn’t connect, weak shooting, hiding from the game—she was. Not that anyone would say anything; still a queen in that sense.

Maybe her therapist had a point when she said Alexia got stuck inside her own head sometimes, put too much pressure on herself. Alexia would sit in that office and hear it all, nod along, then leave and forget about it.

Pressure is a privilege.

So, she entered Jonathan’s office with her head held high, even if the bags under her eyes told another story. She half-listened as Jonathan mumbled on and on about pre-season, testing new players, new faces. He already knew enough about Alexia, and she could use the time to just train with no pressure. Other girls would be staying behind too, right?

She wasn’t going to Mexico for the pre-season mini-tournament. That was what this was about.

It didn’t come as a surprise. She didn’t visibly react anyway, wouldn’t. Jonathan seemed anxious as he observed her but knew her well enough not to offer words of comfort. Respected her too much to do that. Treated her as she wanted to be treated.

Another footballer.

Alexia fell back into the comfortable chair in the man’s office. It almost swallowed her whole. Comforting. Maybe that’s why he had such a chair here? To act as a hug while he gave away horrible news.

She plastered a smile on her face, shook his hand, said she understood. Would keep an eye on the other girls who weren’t going, would keep up training. Yes, yes, she knew how important she was for the team, of course.

Before leaving, something slips from her mouth. She doesn’t even notice she is saying the words until they’re out in the open.

“There’s a girl in Barça B, a Brazilian. I think she would benefit from training with us during this time.” Alexia’s voice is even, detached—like she hadn’t obsessed over this for the whole weekend. Like she didn’t close her eyes and see the shadow of the girl behind her eyelids.

“Oh.” Jonathan sounds interested, eyebrows raised. “The girl we loaned? That was a good scout, right? You think she’s ready for the main team?”

He trusts Alexia’s opinion, her input. The whole club does, really. Thinks she can do no wrong.

“I can invite her to train, observe. She could be a good option, we’ll see.” Alexia says it casual, a shoulder raised.

Jonathan listens and nods, happy to have something sweet to go with the sour taste of rejection. Eager to please, that man.

“Yeah, of course. I trust your judgment.” He claps her on the back.

He shouldn’t though. Nobody should.

You are creating little challenges for yourself now. Today it was no-scoring day. You could only assist.

Came off the field with three, the third one pure generosity. You could have scored, but chose the pass. Smiled to yourself, happy to win your own secret challenge.

Nobody to celebrate with though. Told yourself it did not matter.

Took your time unlacing your boots, took off your shinguards carefully as well, so as not to wrinkle the photo tucked in there. Took off your sweaty jersey, lounging around only in your sports bra, hoping to cool off your warm body.

Unbearable heat, this Barcelona city, an added challenge to play under the sun here. You would soon be sporting a T-shirt tan, would be called gringa back in Rio de Janeiro.

You don’t notice the commotion at the entry, too focused on the laces of your boots. How did they get so tangled up in the first place?

There are whispers and low conversations now, gossip probably. And then you feel, more than see, someone hovering close by.

“Good game out there.”

Alexia Putellas, just standing in your stinky locker room like she commands the place. Most likely does.

You are not one easily intimidated, something your mother complained about often and your coaches applauded. You are slightly intimidated now though, feel inadequate, too small and disheveled under Barcelona’s finest analytical gaze. Should you bow?

There are the whisky eyes you saw the first time. They seem duller now, dark circles underneath. Maybe the queen is tired? She still is a commanding presence, standing straight as an arrow, hands behind her back, hair slicked back in a tight ponytail. Cool and control, that’s her mantra alright.

“Oh.” You swallow, avoid her eyes. “Thanks... didn’t score though.”

“Because you didn’t want to.” Alexia says, Spanish. No question in her tone. She tilts her head a little. “I saw the last goal, you could’ve scored but you didn’t.”

“Maybe.” You say, fiddling with the laces on your boots. Shrug.

“I talked to your coach.” She looks over her shoulder and you look too. Miguel is at the back talking to some other girls, making a poor attempt to pretend he’s not paying attention to your conversation. He’s a good coach, worries about his charges more than he should. “This week the senior team is making a trip to Mexico to play a pre-season tournament. Some of us are staying behind though. I thought it would be a good opportunity for you to practice with us, get a feel of the... real thing.”

Your eyes widen. A golden opportunity, dropped into your lap just like that. You replay the words in your head, making sure you understood exactly what had been said. She’s not going to Mexico? Your gaze flickers to her leg, quick and instinctive. There’s something under Alexia’s tone you can’t quite pin down; there’s no such thing as a free lunch, your grandfather used to say.

“And what does coach think about it?” You ask, noticing the use of the singular I. Miguel probably doesn’t support this. Knows what you know—that your “teammates” would never move on from it.

Alexia shrugs, unaffected by your inquiry.

“Thinks it’s a great opportunity.” She tastes the words, careful with what she is saying. “But you should decide, really, it’s your call.”

You look back at the locker room. Girls observe your interaction with hawk eyes. You are not recovering from this even if you say no. Have been singled out. Don’t give a fuck.

Fuck them, really.

“Yeah, sure. Of course.” You say, fake nonchalance to which Alexia just smirks. Sees right through you. You extend your hand, she shakes it. Firm grip.

There’s a challenge there somewhere.

“Will I get told off if I tackle you again?” You grin, provocative.

“Not if you hit the ball.” Alexia grins back, lets go of your hand. “See you tomorrow, don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” You say to her back. She has already left.

You ignore the stares. Ignores everything.

Fuck. You have no idea where they train.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Alexia didn’t know what she expected when she invited Rio to training. She had a murky idea of maybe sipping away at the girl’s energy, maybe teaching her something would inspire her somehow. Maybe she would just crash and burn after a hard tackle from the girl and never have to think about football again.

Maybe she was just really fucking crazy and should just schedule an emergency therapist session?

It mattered that she did invite the girl—and the girl had shown up. A little bit late, yes, cheeky grin on a pretty face mumbling about getting lost.

Alexia let it slide. Observed as the Brazilian made her introductions: Soy brasileña, de Río. Sí, de Río de Janeiro.

Oh. That made sense. Rio.

The squad was cut down by just a third: Lucy, Marta, Paños, then Engen, Caro… whoever was hurt or an oldie, slowly coming back from off-season. Alexia included; hated to be included in that particular bundle, but well. 

It was a good group though, enough experience to run drills blindfolded. Good for her, Alexia thought. Convincing herself she was being generous, thinking of the team. Rio could be an option for the middle, why not?

They would be under the watchful eye of assistant coach Rafe, a no-nonsense woman with a short, cropped haircut who viewed each player as more a chess piece and less of a person. Alexia was fine with that too, feeling like a half-person lately.

So, she didn’t know what to expect exactly, but pure chaos hadn’t crossed her mind.

There wasn’t another word to describe how Rio just ran all over the place. Did the bleep test twice for giggles, full of energy, bursting at the seams. A live wire. Ran up and down the field, kicked all the balls to the curb, tried to nutmeg Engen so many times that the Norwegian had to throw her to the ground—almost a karate move.

Rio laughed. Changed targets. Pestered Lucy, who was more forgiving. Ran off to Alexia’s side each time she crossed the line. It vaguely reminded the Catalan player of her little spitz dog, Nala, when it got to go to the park and play with the big dogs.

Alexia was… sighing. Morning, afternoon, every five minutes.

By the end of the first half of training everyone was sweating buckets, Rio more than any other. They had lunch at the club’s cafeteria, where finally Alexia got to make the Brazilian sit still for the first time during the whole day.

Afterwards, it was tactical training for 40 minutes or so. The half-team gathered in the locker room to put on some clean jerseys. Rafe called Alexia to the side with a frown on her face.

“Your Brazilian is… something,” the assistant said, arms crossed.

Alexia ran a hand over her face, feeling for the first time like maybe she was too old for this shit.

“I… she’s excited, that’s all,” Alexia tried, weakly. “If she’s disrupting the training I…”

“Oh, she definitely is. But that’s good, keeps everyone on their toes.” Rafe waved it off. “She has potential, the talent is there, we just need to… pace her out. That’s all.”

Alexia nodded, hands on her hips, secretly glad the coach wasn’t ripping her head off.

“Keep an eye on her, I think she’ll do you some good, trying to keep up.” The assistant added, a meaningful glance at the player’s knee.

And that was that.

Back at the locker room, Alexia had already failed her assignment. Rio was nowhere in sight.

“She said she was late for something and just… well, ran off. Again.” Lucy piped from one of the benches, tying the laces on her trainers.

Caro stood up from the side, a serious expression on her face before saying, with a thick accent:

“Capi, I think that girl may be on drugs.”

Alexia resisted the urge to run off as well.

Later, as she had a quiet dinner with Olga at her place, her girlfriend took a second to look at her face, a soft smile on her lips.

“You look good today,” Olga said, not meaning anything by it. “Well, healthy.”

Alexia startled, then played around a little with her food. Smiled to herself, remembering Caro’s face when Rio rainbow-flicked the ball over the Norwegian during training.

“Just… good training, I guess.” Alexia answered, shrugging.

It had been.

The next day, a little less chaotic, a tiny bit more contained.

(Alexia had to physically hold Rio by her training bib during the warm-up jog around the field, a sharp “Regúlate, Rio.” into the girl’s ear.)

After lunch, again, the girl already had her training bag slung across her body when the capitana intercepted her in the hallway.

“Where do you think you’re going? You still have tactical training in the meeting room.” Alexia said, arms crossed. Rio stood almost as tall as her, shaggy hair tied back in a short ponytail, flushed from training.

The Brazilian had the kind of skin that would tan under the sun, turning golden instead of the usual tomato hue Alexia managed to get.

“Hm.” The girl pulled at the straps across her body, nervous. “I have Catalan classes in the afternoon and the teacher is such a bruixa, you know? I’m always late and she hates me already…”

“Catalan classes?” Alexia uncrossed her arms. “Why?”

“Well, to speak Catalan…”

“No, why… just speak Spanish.”

“But everyone on Barça B speaks Catalan…” Rio mumbled, kicking at invisible dirt on the ground. “And I hate when I don’t understand what’s being said.”

Alexia felt a pang somewhere under her breast, sighed but didn’t let go.

“Well, tactics are more important… even if you’re not on the team yet. You get this one week, make the most of it.” Alexia said with her capitana voice. Serious. Then, met with silence, added: “I’ll teach you Catalan.”

Rio perked up at that, then frowned, confused. “How? When?”

Alexia gestured vaguely, didn’t even know what she was offering. Knew that Rio needed to learn tactics, knew that she didn’t want the girl to worry about whatever bitter things stupid teammates were saying behind her back in another language.

“Just… in the field, while we play. We’ll make it work.” Alexia said, no room for argument. Pulled Rio by the strap, the girl stumbled, then smiled.

“Ok then.” She said, bumping her shoulder lightly with Alexia’s. “Thanks.”

Rio was surprisingly tame sitting in the back of the meeting room, lounging on a chair as the assistant, Rafe, showed some slides of old game situations. Apart from rolling a ball under her feet side to side, the Brazilian was quiet.

Alexia turned to watch her from time to time, to see if she had fallen asleep. Her companions did the same, more out of shock that the girl was actually still than from anything else.

Alexia should have known this wouldn’t last.

“I can make that shot.” Rio said, hand rising. She was pointing at some game on the screen that had gone wrong, a free kick that had resulted in a counter-attack by the opposing team.

Rafe frowned, bothered at being interrupted. Explained slowly:

“But that’s not the point of this, at that game in particular the shooter missed and—”

“But I can make that shot, so that wouldn’t happen.” Rio said again, lazily. She had sprawled over the table now, like a housecat. “It’s the bend. If you do the bend then the ball goes in and there’s no counter…”

“This is not about the free kick, it’s about—”

“I know, I’m just saying.” Rio concluded, stretching. “I could make it.”

The room snickered. Alexia felt like kicking the chair out from under the Brazilian and watching her fall loudly to the ground.

“Oi, the kid is saying she could do your free kick, capitana.” Lucy piped up, amused. Because that had been a game where Alexia had taken the shot… and missed.

“She can’t do it.” Alexia bit out, then turned to Rio. “You can’t do it. Now cállate. Pay attention.”

“I can totally do it.” Rio insisted.

“Oh my God. Out, now. Let’s go. Let’s try this.” Rafe threw her hands in the air. The room collectively laughed, entertained. A reprieve from the dark room. “I don’t want to hear anything else for the rest of the week, okay? Just go.”

They went. Engen and Caro on the barrier. Lucy, Marta and some others out of the box. Paños went to the goal, not even in training gear anymore.

Alexia couldn’t believe what her life had turned into. Was amused at least, by the mess. Distracted from the worries and the pain.

The sun was turning the sky more orange than blue now.

Of course Rio couldn’t make the shot. Tried five times though, to the delight of the girls. Got close on the fourth but couldn’t quite bend the ball to the corner.

Alexia tried as well, got it on the second. Everyone cheered, Rio cheered the loudest.

"So. Say you play against a Brazilian. Not me, another one. You want to offend them? Call them bagre." You explain to Alexia, slow, deliberate. The capitana stretches beside you on the grass.

It’s recovery time, usually indoors. But the day’s too good—clouds shading the sun, breeze over half the field. The squad sprawled, rolling sore muscles, laughing, groaning.

You trail after Alexia again, common now, at least for the last five days or so. She grunts a little by your side, voice low, as she delicately stretches her operated leg over a roll.

Privilege, you think. To watch her like this. La Reina. Beside you. Stretching, vulnerable. Talking to you too, listening to you. Unreal.

It’s a little pathetic to think these last few days have probably been the best you’ve ever had in Spain. A sad realization.

You frown at her; she’s always so careful with that knee of hers. You notice, you’ve got an eye for things like this, for tells; that’s how you get so many assists on the field.

You observe how she always twists the knee away from a play, how she touches it fleetingly after a hard move... like she fears it might give out any second.

It aches in you. For her. Can’t stop it.

You nudge her back a bit, just so she’ll do the exercise with purpose. She glares at you, those intense eyes of hers, but you just glance at the leg and she accepts the gentle push begrudgingly.

"Now, say bagre." You prompt.

"I don’t want to offend anyone," Alexia says, letting out a little noise under her breath at the long stretch. She turns, confused. "Isn’t bagre a type of fish?”

She butchers the word, of course, thick accent. Charming, really. Can’t blame her when you yourself always mix up Catalan and Spanish into a confusing soup of tongues. You could make a trip around the world just speaking with members of Barcelona’s squad.

Alexia hasn’t asked for Portuguese lessons but you give them away freely anyway, happy to share this part of you with someone willing to listen, to appreciate. Maybe she senses that, because she never asks you to stop, even if she isn’t paying attention.

"Well, yes, but it’s also calling someone a bad player," you explain as best as you can. "You gotta say ‘você é um bagre,’ it’ll work.”

"I don’t want to call anyone a fish.”

"Well, how about craque then? It’s the opposite." You continue, undeterred. Point at Alexia’s chest and smile. "Você é uma craque.”

She smiles, pretty dimple on one side of her face.

"That word I know. Gracias," she says, focusing on a particularly hard stretch, trying to reach the toe of her boots with the tips of her fingers, easy. "You will be a crack as well.”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks, avoid her eyes.

"We’ll see... maybe." You mumble. Don’t believe in yourself like that, not yet. Believe a little more when Alexia says it though.

You stay quiet for a while, just the buzzing of the rest of the team flowing over you. You fall back on the grass, enjoying the warmth on your muscles. See Alexia fall back a little too, supported by her elbows, eyes closed to the sun.

"Want me to teach you how to say queen portuguese?" You ask quietly, more a dare than a joke. Want to see her reaction, want to understand her beyond the aura around her; a glimpse, maybe, of that hard-earned arrogance.

Alexia remains quiet, pensive; you almost think she won’t answer.

"You can teach me anything, really." She starts, not looking at you, watching the way the wind makes the Barcelona flag wave on top of one of the buildings. "People can call me whatever they want, doesn’t mean I will say it myself.”

You smile without meaning to. You like her, you decide. Like her as a person, not just a footballer. Took you some time but here it is.

You toe the grass with your foot, then confess, "You know, for me, well... Marta is the queen. Rainha.”

Alexia... chuckles. Grins at you wide. Maybe your heart skips a beat at the glint in her eyes. Today they’re more green than golden.

"Want to know a secret?" She says, cheeky, leaning closer to you. "I think so too.”

You both grin at each other, something unspoken passing by. An understanding.

"I’ll tell her that when I get to play with her," you say.

"You do that.”

Alexia breaks. It’s been coming for a while now, no way to avoid it. Bound to happen ever since she began the long journey back to the pitch.

The team returns from Mexico—winners again. Tested and passed. Alexia does her best not to feel jealous, not to envy their ease on the field; how they take it for granted now.

The head coach brings news: a closed-doors game inside the club’s complex. Another trial before the season. Jonathan smiles at Alexia, hopefully: How do you feel about starting?

Starting. The Catalan hasn’t started a game in almost 13 months. She smiles and accepts it, though it makes her skin crawl. Her teammates congratulate her; those who know her better watch with concern.

She is their leader, cannot say no, has forgotten how to. It’s been ingrained in her ever since she took the captain’s armband.

Rio is not around, back with Barça B. Too small a team for her talent. Alexia promises herself she’ll make time to see her games. She knows it’s an empty promise.

She spends the next day convincing herself she doesn’t care about the girl being gone. A crutch, more emotional than physical these days. Crutches have no place on sacred ground.

The morning of the game is all wrong.

She doesn’t sleep well. Needs ten hours a night, manages five. Tosses, turns. She’s nervous—when was the last time she was nervous for a match? The Champions League? Before her first Ballon d’Or? That was fire. This is fear.

She can’t eat breakfast, forces down a protein shake. Hasn’t told anyone she’ll be starting: not her manager, not her mom, not her girlfriend. A closed-doors game shouldn’t be important.

But her body tells a different story. Hands that shake or grip too hard. A phantom pain in her right calf that lingers even after the warm-up. Not even the injured leg.

She ignores the signs, ignores Mapi’s worried glances, Torrejón’s careful touches, Mariona and Patri’s exchanged looks.

Emotionally constipated, her sister once called her.

She steps onto the field anyway. Sun too bright, air too hot, clinging to skin. A few club staff linger on the sidelines; no outsiders. The referee isn’t even a professional. Everything feels set up as a friendly. Jonathan smiles encouragingly from the other side of the pitch.

No formalities, just a whistle—and it begins. The sharp sound makes Alexia’s adrenaline spike.

She’s had panic attacks once or twice in her life—can you even be a professional athlete without them? But never on the field. Holy ground.

Not anymore.

She plays lazily. Avoids shoves. Makes mistakes. Her teammates are patient. Aitana, not so much—glares at her, never gives anyone a break. It’s what makes her great. Once made Alexia great, too.

Now she only feels the heat, the ghost of pain, the sweat down her back. Her mind running wild. Don’t hurt yourself. Don’t hurt yourself. Don’t…

She goes down around the 30th minute. Clutches her calf. Makes the gesture for a substitution.

Jonathan’s consolation pat on the back is the worst thing she’s felt in a while.

Alexia escapes to the locker room when no one is looking. She knows it’s wrong, knows she should sit on the bench in silence, but she can’t bring herself to.

She slumps down inside instead, lets the darkness engulf her. The silence. Presses her palms to her eyes. Feels like crying, but no tears come. Feels like punching something until her hands bleed.

The door opens. She’s ready to lash out—until she sees who’s crouching in front of her.

Rio. Always fucking Rio.

“Are you hurt?” the girl asks. Cheeks flushed, wisps of hair sticking to her forehead. Training kit on, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in practice?” Alexia croaks, her voice hoarse. She looks at her but doesn’t really see.

“I wanted to see you play,” Rio says, head tilted, eyes searching. “I ran here.”

Alexia doesn’t answer. Drops her head. She doesn’t know how to deal with Rio right now. Fears seeing herself reflected in those dark eyes, how pathetic she looks.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Rio.”

“Did you hurt yourself? Was it your knee?”

“I said drop it.” Alexia bites, teeth clenched. Dangerous now.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Rio says, close enough to touch but not reaching out. “Even you.”

“Rio.”

And Alexia lets the venom slip. Wants to lash out. Wants someone else to hurt like she does.

“Get out. Get out now.”

Rio recoils as if slapped, but still stays, defiant. Alexia twists the knife to see her bleed.

“Whatever you think you are to me… you’re not. So fuck off.”

That does it. Rio opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, leaves then. Leaves Alexia alone with her silent rage.

It drains away quickly. No satisfaction. No victory in it. Just hurting someone because she could.

She regrets it already. Adds it to the pile.

One more for the road.

Chapter Text

You avoid the senior squad grounds like the plague. Know it's juvenile, know they probably don't even notice.

Do it anyway. Take the long way around the fields, have lunch too early or too late. Run off at the first chance you get, every time. Protect your heart.

Overstepped, know your place now.

You imagine that Alexia is no good at apologies. Is that arrogance you have been looking for in her, poking to see it rise out, found it.

Understand a little that she is apologizing in her own way when you are summoned to Jonathan's office. Called up to Olympus after four long days of training with mortals. The man seems kind, if anything, not more intimidating than any other coach you had — men who give out orders blend together inside your mind, so many in the football world.

You stay quiet and respectful, anyway, when he tells you he heard good things from the training week you spent with Barcelona's royalty. Alexia said great things about you, he says like it's a blessing.

The queen has reached out for you.

So, there's your apology right there. You are officially invited to train with the senior squad, starting immediately. Would still have to play Barça B games until they deemed you worthy of the league's matches. It's not perfect, but it is a victory, all yours — will eventually sign fancy papers with fancy words that Camila, your manager, will have to look over.

Shakes Jonathan's hand, grateful and eager.

Calls Camila as soon as you leave his office, body running on adrenaline. She picks up on the third, listens and is properly happy — proud, you can tell.

"You think this is good, right? Even if there's no playing time guaranteed..." you ask, excited but insecure. It's not perfect, this deal, but it feels like progression.

"You will dazzle them, don't worry. Less than a month and you moved squads, by this time next year the captain's armband will be yours," Camila assures you.

"You think too highly of me.”

"Fake humility is very cute, save some for the announcement post." Camila's sarcasm is efficient even all the way from Madrid.

You call your family next, they are equally excited, even if your mom doesn't understand all that much about how football works. Your grandad and little brother put it in simple words and she 'ohs' and 'ahs' at the right moments.

You miss them so much you can't breathe sometimes. Have to breathe though.

Tomorrow you are back against gods.

The week of training you had is nothing like this one. That was vacation, summer camp, pre-season fun.

This is it.

You arrived early, excited more than nervous. Try not to look directly at Alexia in the back, very hard to when she looks like she always looks: perfect.

Jonathan is happy to introduce you to the full squad, pushes you a little to the middle of the pre-training circle. Aitana Bonmatí, Mariona, Rolfö, Mapí, Patri, Walsh... gods, all of them. Elite of football, judging you now.

"Welcome to Barcelona, officially now." Lucy steps up, always kind. You feel relief.

Were admittedly feeling shy.

The girls are welcoming, curious and warm. No time for envy here, all on the same level, everyone at the top. You are the one that has to prove yourself worthy.

Prefer it that way. Know how to thrive.

Jana, Salma and Pina celebrate they get another jovencita to join the squad. Caro warns everyone about how relentless you are about nutmegging everyone, but it's teasing.

It's brief, all of it, but you feel like you belong, a little.

Alexia is the last one to step forward. Has a casual smile on her face but her shoulders are tense, posture stiff. Hands on her hips — it's a tell she is thinking hard.

You hold back too, unwilling to move first.

She sighs, extends a hand. You take it.

"Welcome back, tía." Tone neutral. Her face cracks though, and a gentle tug makes you step forward as she drapes an arm around your shoulder. Light, warm and close.

"Don't disappear again," Alexia murmurs. Not looking at you but not letting you go either.

You duck under, playful.

"Don't push me away then." You toss it over your shoulder before jogging to join the rest of the group.

You’ve already forgiven her. Let her figure it out.

Alexia lets you settle and you are secretly glad. Don’t know how to be close to her under so many eyes, aren’t sure you want to be the golden girl’s pet.

She keeps her distance, watches you from afar. Quiet reassurance while you work harder and harder.

It takes a toll, trying to fit in at this level of football.

You get your ass handed to you more times than you can count. You persist, though.

You are nowhere close to Starting XI status, but can manage your own against the youngsters and that must count for something, right?

Five days in and you are sitting at the back of the meeting room, again. Struggling to stay awake after sweating all day trying to tag Aitana (you failed, again).

You close your eyes just a little and when you open them Alexia is by your side, drops down beside you.

"Don’t sleep, Riozito," she whispers, not looking at you. Pushes a plastic container toward you—orange slices, neatly cut. She knows you steal them, always hungry.

A peace offering that you accept.

Chewing helps you stay awake.

At the end of the first week, Barcelona has another away game before finishing all of the pre-season. A town over.

Alexia is not listed.

You watch her carefully as Jonathan names the squad. Spend too long wondering if you should say something. By the time you decide, the room is empty and your hands feel useless.

The hallway still buzzes with bodies when Irene Paredes catches your eye. Imposing. Tall. Defender carved out of stone. The kind of woman people listen to.

"You should invite Ale to your game this Saturday," she says, arms folded. You have a Barça B game that same weekend, league opener; it surprises you that she knows.

You frown. "She won’t come, will say she’s busy.”

"I can’t force her to go if you don’t invite her. Just… she needs the distraction." A pause, almost a confession. "You seem to take her mind off things.”

You just nod. Don’t know how to answer without revealing too much of yourself. How Alexia showed up as a lifeline while you were drowning in a team that did not care.

You catch the capitana just at the exit. Ask. Of course she deflects. Too busy. Extra physio sessions, Nike shooting, a thing with her mom. A wall between you and everything outside the club.

You try not to take it personally. She seems like that with almost everyone, as far as you can tell. Wouldn’t be different with a foreign kid who just arrived.

Hurts the same.

You score two goals before you notice them in the smallish crowd. Up in the stands, right under the shadow. You squint under the sun to recognize: Engen, Paredes with her cute son attached, and Alexia; ballcaps pulled low to hide their faces. Injured, all of them. Watching.

You grin and wave, feeling giddy. First time in a year you have people in the stands for you aside from Camila and her family.

Score one more goal just to show off, excited. Hat-trick. Easy 4x1 win.

You run off to the side to greet the girls, get two or three pats on the back from the staff and the odd parent who mistakes you for someone else.

Paredes congratulates you on a good game, makes little Matteo wave his chubby hands as well. You pick him up and spin around a little; love kids, always have.

Sweet Ingrid smiles broadly, ruffles your hair like you are a well-behaved dog. "Nice scoring there.”

Alexia frowns, of course, criticizes you.

"Sloppy passes in the second half," she says, a finger raised as she lists what you did wrong. "I already told you to pace yourself, sí? You were tired and made mistakes.”

Irene nudges her. Engen groans, makes a face.

But you do listen, pay attention. You want to be the best at this, and this is Alexia Putellas teaching you something. You won’t take it for granted. Can’t argue with her when you are, in fact, out of breath.

When she’s done, she softens. Offers you a ride. Bribes you with comfort. Forces you towards the showers though.

("It’s the smell of victory!" you protest.

"It’s the smell of sloppy passes. Go shower, you are not going to stink up my car," Alexia retorts.)

You obey. Catch Paredes smiling at you. Mission accomplished.

Nobody needs to know how happy it made you. It’s not the point.

Training settles into rhythm. You start to keep up. Learn little things, branch out to others.

Rolfö is a joker. Fun. Horrible accent that you try hard to understand.

Aitana is the resident genius, won’t think twice about pointing out a mistake. You like to stick closer to her because there’s much to learn about how she manages to stick the ball to her foot.

Patri is perfect at distributing the ball. Mariona too. They play too much reggaeton in the locker room though, drives you crazy.

Walsh has the worst Spanish of all, which makes it so much fun to try to talk to her. Lucy translates when she can, a secret softie.

Jana and Salma make you stick close though, similar ages. It’s against them you measure yourself, find where you are lacking.

Alexia is… getting better. Slowly, she finds her rhythm as well. When she drifts too far inside her head, you trip her focus—stupid tricks, stolen balls, splashes of water.

Never fails to make her look up and sigh, exasperated. Maybe she knows you do it on purpose.

Maybe she is somewhat grateful.

You are getting out of the physio room when you spot Alexia walking the opposite way in the hallway. The building is quiet at this time, training done for, you stuck around because your hip was bothering you a little; the rough-handed physio had you stretch it all until everything else hurt more.

You both meet up in the middle of the silent hallway. She has her hair down for once, already showered from training but not looking relaxed, a pensive stare; she looks younger with her hair like that, softer.

"Everything alright?" you ask, hesitant. Mindful of the space between you two.

Alexia leans against the wall, fiddles with her hands. Sighs. Doesn’t look at you when she opens her mouth.

"Jonathan asked if I’m good to be on the bench this weekend, play 10 minutes or so. Home game, says it would be nice for the crowd to see me. La Reina.”

You hum. Watch as she bites her lip. Nervous tell.

"And are you? Good, I mean.”

"I… want to be." She answers. Swallows. Lets her head hit the wall. "I’m scared… don’t know why I’m telling you that.”

You know.

You know she’s been scared since you met her. Maybe nobody else can tell because they’re so used to her not being anything but perfect. You didn’t get that image, you didn’t live perfection with her. You met a player coming back from the hardest thing a player can come back from; this is who you know.

You know Alexia, you like Alexia. You don’t expect La Reina.

You let your shoulder lean against the wall as well. Side by side but opposites.

"I think you are looking at this wrong. Football is supposed to be the best part in all of this… not the worst. You are forgetting to have fun." It’s all you can think to say. Sounds cliché, the truth usually is.

Her laugh breaks wet in her throat. She stares at the ceiling.

"At this level it stops being fun, it’s a duty. To play well.”

"I always have fun." You frown.

"I’m not you." She finally looks at you. Her eyes are red-rimmed but you don’t know if it’s unshed tears or just… tiredness. "I don’t know how to let go.”

"Pretend to be me then." You say, simply. Because it is. Pretend to be a professional, pretend to be brave, pretend you want to move countries, pretend you can keep together, pretend to know what you are doing until you know what you are doing. "Or pretend everyone else is me. You always play hard against me.”

She shakes her head, a smile threatening to show up on her face.

"And what good does it do? Picturing your silly face out there?”

"Well, if you are me, you are not afraid of getting hurt. And if everyone else is me… you know nothing is going to happen because I would never hurt you.”

She smiles, soft, like she can’t believe the stuff you are saying. You can’t either. Are just putting words together, just want to comfort her. There’s no escaping this injury, there’s just moving forward… and stop hating football for it.

"I hurt myself. That’s the worst part. I… alone, just destroyed everything." She says finally. Low, raw. "I don’t know if I can go through that again and come out on the other side.”

You nod. You’d read about it. Knew what broke a god.

Silence fills the hallway as you crouch to rummage through your backpack, pull a crumpled paper from the front pocket. Hand it to Alexia, who picks it up carefully, tries to make out the letters on it.

"What is this?" Her voice hoarse, like she’s holding in so much.

"Hm. It’s a prayer, my grandma wrote it down for me. For protection." You explain. She shakes her head, tries to give it back. "No, no, you put it inside your shinguard. It’s going to protect you.”

You push it back, make her hand fold around it.

"I’m not particularly religious…" Alexia starts, you don’t let her finish.

"I just think you need something to believe in until you can believe in yourself again." You close your backpack. Stand up. Look her in the eye so the message gets across. "Just go out there and try to nutmeg someone. Have fun. I’ll watch from the stands.”

She clutches the paper tightly close to her heart. Her eyes are glistening.

Doesn’t say anything.

Alexia plays 10 minutes total. Touches the ball maybe five times. One of the touches is a backheel that surprisingly gets to Mariona’s feet. The crowd roars. You think her smile is genuine, can’t really tell from the distance. Doesn’t nutmeg anyone but it’s the little steps that count.

Nutmegs you in training, leaves you on the grass, humiliated.

And you are glad.

Chapter Text

Alexia used to think of herself as someone always in control. Contained, stoic, hardly a yellow card on the field. Reds? Can’t even remember the last one.

Ice in her veins, precise. An armor she wears. If you are always in control, you are always safe. Had to learn to live like that—for herself, for her family, for the sport.

Has lost some of it since she got injured. All the control in the world, and it didn’t save her. Feels erratic now, overly emotional; for her standards, anyway.

Therapy again. It’s been coming; shouldn’t have stopped—humbles herself enough to accept the help. Hates the talking, the exposure, the feeling of being bare.

Goes, a little, because of stubborn Rio. Not for the hallway, but for the locker room.

Doesn’t want to bare her teeth like that again.

The office is clean, but not clinical. Comfortable. Soft browns and muted greens. Away from the club. She knows the middle-aged Señora from the surgery.

She tried once with the appointed psychiatrist from the club, a man. Hated it, could not get two words out.

Alba, her sister, helped her find this one. Likes her better. Hard lines, no beating around the bush but no judgment either. Rosa—not delicate, despite the name.

The couch is huge, soft leather. Alexia sits stiff anyway. Back straight. Hands folded on her legs.

Talks about football, about phantom pains, about family, about expectations. About her recent game, how she is at the same time happy and frustrated when playing.

Feels emotionally exhausted when she inevitably mentions Rio.

“Rio?” The woman looks up from her spectacles. Professional glint. Neat hair. Control—maybe that’s what Alexia likes about her.

“It’s just a nickname. She’s new. Brazilian.”

And Alexia speaks. More emotion than the whole conversation before. Almost six weeks with Rio. Somehow feels like more… like always.

“I know you think I’m projecting,” Alexia says, twisting her hands. Too fast. Too obvious.

Rosa doesn’t answer. Just waits.

Alexia shrugs, uneasy. “It’s what everyone thinks, I guess. They think I see myself in her. That if she plays well, I’m… doing well too.”

“Sounds like a lot of thinking. What do you actually feel?” Rosa asks, leaning back.

“It’s the opposite, really... I don’t see myself in her. I was never that free. I haven’t had fun playing in a long time. She keeps saying I have to enjoy what I’m doing...” Alexia contains a smile at the memory, avoids the knowing eyes of Rosa. “Is it crazy that I try to listen to her?”

“I think she gives great advice for someone so young,” Rosa comments, even. Her lips tilt upwards.

“She’s young. Excited. I like that she keeps the energy up. That’s all.”

“You’re enjoying her presence more than you admit.”

Alexia scoffs, defensive. “It’s professional. She’s a teammate.”

“It’s not a crime, Alexia. I think it’s good that you’re connecting with someone new. Healthy.”

Alexia presses her lips together. Something knots in her chest. “I don’t know why I… look for her. It doesn’t make sense. She’s just a kid.”

“Seems like she is good for you.” The therapist nods, writes something down. Lets Alexia chew on her own words.

Rio was good for her, yeah, but was she any good for Rio?

You feel like you are at the edge of things. Looking in from the outside.

It’s not the training. You love the training. It’s challenging—you imagine it will always be at this level.

It’s the not-playing part that keeps you from… fully stepping into it. Into the team.

A soldier that doesn’t go to war with them. A gladiator that never goes down into the arena.

At Barça B it’s different… but the same. The girls there keep a careful distance now, like you’re a step above them. It’s not as bad as it was, but it’s not good either. They respect you too much. You’re not one of them.

A step above there, a step below here.

Stranded somewhere in between.

There’s a team chat for the Barça senior squad, which every other day lights up with hangouts or outings. You never bring yourself to say yes, never show up. It feels wrong. A farce.

Maybe if Alexia ever went, you’d feel more… inclined. But she’s the busiest woman alive, apparently. Even fresh from injury.

Doesn’t matter. You just have to keep going.

Alexia prides herself on being a good leader. Notices the little things—who lingers too long at physio, who eats quieter, who needs a shove, who needs space. Keeps the threads together. Has to.

Except she didn’t. Not with Rio.

Never answers the group chat. Keeps to herself at lunch. Only sticks close to Alexia, like she’s a safety blanket instead of a captain. And maybe Alexia enjoys having her close, so it clouds her view. Hates herself for not seeing it sooner.

It takes Mapí to point it out.

“Your Brazilian’s shy, eh?” she teases at the water station.

Alexia laughs, automatic. “Shy? Didn’t she just make Jana chase her around for a stolen water bottle?”

Mapí smirks. “Yeah, but that’s here. Outside? She ghosts us.” Mapí takes a sip. “Maybe she prefers the girls in Barça B?”

She doesn’t. Alexia knows she doesn’t.

And it hits, sharp. She’s the one who pulled Rio into this squad. Promised her a place among gods. And now the kid is stranded—above Barça B, below Barça. Alone in the middle. That’s on Alexia.

Her responsibility. Her fault.

So: “How about mandatory team bonding at my place?” she blurts.

Mapí almost squeals, fist in the air.

Alexia almost regrets it.

“Oh, can we use the pool? Pleaseee?”

Definitely regrets it.

You see the message at home, after your shower. The team chat keeps pinging. Team bonding hangout — you fish it out from the flood of messages. Ignore it. You’ll find something else to do.

Then another ping. A private number.

Alexia.

You had her saved but never actually texted. Wasn’t sure she wanted contact outside the club. Now her little photo pops up in the notification (black-and-white vacation shot, hair down. Maybe you zoom in, just a little. Can’t help yourself).

Rio, this is Alexia. Team bonding is mandatory. You better answer the group.

This is Alexia. Really. As if you could confuse her with anyone else. What a dork.

Something flutters in your stomach. Anxiety. Do the girls even want you there? You’re not technically part of the squad. Not fully. Not yet.

Another message drops, I’m waiting. 

You roll your eyes, even though she can’t see. Type a quick OK in the group chat. Hearts flood in reply.

Good. Alexia. Then: Don’t stay up late. Training early tomorrow.

This capitana of yours.

Annoying.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t felt inadequate when you first got into the Cabify headed toward Alexia’s place, clutching a paper bag and your faithful backpack. The feeling only started to creep in when the car rolled into Sarrià-Sant Gervasi—the kind of fancy neighborhood you usually avoided for their overpriced coffees.

It got worse when you reached the actual building and the doorman gave you a casual once-over (you knew you shouldn’t have worn your Havaianas). Then the elevator—climbing and climbing until you lost count of the floors. Too high. Too much.

By the time you were standing at the door—heavy, polished wood—you were ready to bolt. Music pulsed from inside, voices layered over each other, laughter. A whole universe behind that door. Not yours. This wasn’t for the likes of you. None of this was.

Your inner debate must’ve been too loud, because suddenly the door swung open. No escape. A grinning Lucy stood at the entryway, and behind her you could make out the faces and shapes of most of your teammates.

“Rio! They called up saying someone was on the way.” Her accent thick as always, she gestured you in. “Guys, Rio’s here!”

A cheer went up. Warm, loud, overwhelming. The whole Barcelona squad spilling across Alexia’s penthouse like they owned it.

It was sleek—modern, open plan. A living room and dining area flowed into one another, huge and airy. On the far side, a gourmet space opened onto a wooden deck with a long pool and a breathtaking view of Barcelona. Aitana drifted back and forth on a floatie while Jana and Salma splashed nearby.

You caught yourself staring. White walls, muted tones, furniture that probably cost more than you’d make in a year. And somewhere in here, probably a shrine for her Ballon d’Ors.

Mapí burst out from what you assumed was the kitchen door, pitchers of red liquid raised like trophies in her hands.

“Who wants sangria, tías?” she shouted, grinning wide.

“No alcohol during the season, Mapí!” Alexia’s voice barked back from inside.

“They’re virgins!” Mapí countered, then winked at Ingrid, who lounged in the living room. “Well… a little virgin. Half-half.”

Crazy, all of them. It made you miss your friends back in Brazil.

Lucy intercepted, grabbing the pitchers from Mapí’s hands. “Come on, take the kid to say hi to Ale,” you heard the Englishwoman say.

“Riozito! Over here!”

Suddenly Mapí’s tattooed arm was slung around your shoulders, dragging you toward the kitchen.

It was beautiful—big island with a mossy green top, white walls softened by colorful tiles. Not sterile. Lived-in, warm. You loved kitchens. Most of your childhood had been spent in one. The heart of a house.

It smelled good. Seasoning.

Caro was arranging snacks on one side of the island. The other half looked like a crime scene: grapefruit rinds, open wine bottles, sticky red stains. Mapí’s handiwork, clearly.

At the stove: Marta and Alexia, bent over a pan of paella the size of a small boat, arguing in Catalan.

It always got to you—how much of a girl Alexia was. Skirts, dresses whenever she could, manicured nails and proper makeup. Always her commanding the playlist whenever Karol G or Rosalía blared in the locker room.

(“Oh my god, who put on Tusa again?!” A common chorus.)

The contradiction amazed you, made your cheeks heat just thinking about it. You felt it again now—the sight of her: wavy blonde hair down, gold hoops glinting, tank top layered under a light pink shirt left open. A skirt, long legs underneath.

Your stomach twisted. You lifted a hand in a stiff little wave. “Hi.”

They finally turned, cutting off whatever argument they’d been having.

She held a spoon in one hand and hugged you with the other, pulling you close. Warm. Smelling of spices, sunscreen, oranges. Her.

“I brought dessert.” You held up the bag. The girls cooed in unison.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” Alexia scolded gently, though her eyes flicked to peek inside.

“My mom would murder me all the way from Brazil if I ever showed up at someone’s house empty-handed,” you explained. True enough—but you’d also wanted to share this.

You’d spent half the night rolling brigadeiros—tiny chocolate balls dusted with red and blue sprinkles. Blaugrana brigadeiros.

“You made dessert?” Mapí hollered. “No wonder you’re Alexia’s favorite.”

“Ai, putana, you should be more like Rio.” Alexia pointed her spoon like a weapon. “You only ever come over to steal the food.”

“I bring you the pleasure of my company!”

“The pleasure of your stomach, maybe.”

Back and forth, volleyed insults like tennis. Easy for them. You watched, half-smile pulling at your mouth.

“Oh my god, Rio, just go with Mapí to the pool before she drives us insane.” Marta groaned.

Alexia still had her arm around you, hadn’t let go. Her hand pressed lightly against your waist before she nudged you forward, and heat bloomed under your skin where she touched.

“Yes, go enjoy the pool while it’s still warm,” she said, then shot Mapí a look. “And take this idiota with you.”

Mapí didn’t wait, already dragging you off. Touchy, these Spaniards. Almost as bad as Brazilians. You’d probably get passed around all day like some new toy.

You turned at the last second.

“Oh—there’s a small container in there. More brigadeiros, for your mom.”

Alexia blinked. Looked back in the bag.

“My mom?” she asked.

“Yeah. You said she likes sweets, right?” you replied casually, before Mapí pulled you toward the deck.

The defender pinched your cheek.

“That’s so cute, Riozito.”

You batted her hand away.

You didn't caught the flicker on Alexia’s face—something softer, unguarded—before the noise of the house swallowed it up.

You love water. It’s in your blood.

You’ve lived your whole life close to the beach, never stayed away from the ocean. You love it, thrive on it; you’re a great swimmer—would probably be a professional if it weren’t for football.

It’s only fitting, then, that it’s in the water you start to loosen up around your teammates. That’s where you get close.

You dive into every game Jana and Salma invent—and you win most of them. Races, games of chicken, who can last longer underwater. Silly things that build connection. They dare you to flip Aitana’s little floatie—you don’t even think twice. Frido, Lucy, and Keira team up to dunk you in revenge, but none of them can hold you down.

“What are you? A fuckin’ fish?” Aitana shouts, sputtering water, and you only laugh.

Eventually everyone drifts to the edge of the pool, enjoying the last breaths of Barcelona’s scorching summer. You sip Mapí’s sangria (definitely not virgin). You feel warm and happy around these girls in a way you haven’t in a long time.

Games don’t stop when athletes are involved. Heated Uno matches turn into full-on screaming contests. You love it—their competitiveness feels like a language you understand.

Questions come, too. About Brazil. About home. About your club. They lean in, curious, and you feel bad for ever thinking they didn’t want to know you. Maybe they always did.

A few too many glasses of sangria in, and Jana starts asking stupid questions just to provoke you.

“Fuck, Marry, Kill,” she shouts, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Only people on the team.”

Laughter bursts all around the pool, voices chanting encouragement.

You shake your head—no way you’re answering that.

“Absolutely not. No way.”

“It’s a rite of passage! Don’t reject our traditions,” Mapí calls from Ingrid’s lap, until Ingrid shoves her.

“Let the girl be, idiota.” the Norwegian says softly, rolling her eyes.

You laugh but keep your mouth shut. Careful not to glance at Alexia, stretched out on a lounger, hair damp and skin golden in the late sun. She doesn’t look your way—thank god. If she did, you’d be red from more than sangria.

“Fine. I’ll marry Engen because she’s so nice. And kill all of you.” You say it cheekily. Engen awws in good fun; the others boo loudly.

“Not marrying my girlfriend, you little devil.” Mapí grins, laughing at your smug smile.

Jana isn’t done, though. She leans closer, voice sing-song.

“But you do like girls, right?” she asks.

You don’t even flinch. “Who doesn’t?”

The answer lands smooth, playful, like you’ve done this before. You sip slowly as the pool erupts—cheers, whistles, clapping hands.

One of us, one of us.

And you laugh along, warmth blooming in your chest. It feels easy here, easier than you thought it would. But every time you catch yourself scanning the crowd—just to see if Alexia’s watching—you remind yourself not to think too hard about it.

Music is loud—neighbor’s probably filing a complaint loud. Nobody seems to care, so you don’t either.

Reggaeton, pop, the usual party staples.

(“Not fucking Tusa again.”

“It’s a classic at this point.”) 

Eventually you sneak in some of your own music. Funk. Wild rhythm, beats that demand movement. The girls who have TikTok accounts recognize a few, and soon you’re teaching them steps, trying to get them to loosen up.

You can’t hold your laughter watching some of them try—hips stiff, arms awkward, but everyone’s laughing anyway. Energy buzzing, silly and carefree.

You’re a good enough dancer yourself. Confident. At one point you peel off your shirt to show a hip move properly, knowing full well you look good. A couple cheers go up, teasing whistles, but it only makes you lean harder into the rhythm.

Walsh edges over, squinting curiously. “Alright, tell me—what are these lyrics actually saying?”

You grin and translate. Every line nastier than the last.

Her eyes widen, cheeks pink. Then she snorts.

“We’re dancing to that?” she asks, half appalled, half amused.

You just sing along louder, exaggerating every word. She breaks into laughter, shaking her head, and the others join in, chanting the chorus with you even if they butcher the Portuguese.

Lunch is served almost at dinner time. Everyone lounges half on chairs, half on other surfaces, the air filled with chatter and laughter. The paella is delicious.

By the time you finish, all the jokes about Alexia’s cooking have already been made.

(She ordered it from that restaurant she loves, you found out.)

So you keep quiet. Pull out your dessert.

The team attacks it immediately, eager for sweets they rarely get during the season.

You try not to preen too proudly at the compliments flying around.

“Oh my god, this is so good. You made this?” Jana practically moans.

“I need, like, five more of these.”

“Can you give me the recipe?”

“Can you just bring this to training every day?”

You smile, wide and genuine, watching their reactions. Across the table, Alexia takes a careful bite, then nods approvingly. Notorious for sticking to her diet like a psychopath, she lets herself stray for this—and you feel a flicker of pride.

“This is great, Rio,” she says, voice soft but pleased. Her compliment probably shouldn’t be the highlight of your day, but it is.

You shrug, modest. “I really like cooking."

“Finally someone who likes cooking in this fucking squad.” Aitana snorts, chewing on her second brigadeiro.

“Hey! I like cooking.” Lucy protests, and Walsh pats her back loyally.

“Yeah, but you suck at it. Now we have Rio,” Mapí says from across the room, grinning. A pillow flies at her mid-sentence.

We have Rio.

You feel like you belong.

The music is low now, finally. Night has settled over the city.

The kitchen is a mess—but the good kind. The kind left behind after a day that was all energy and laughter.

Alexia doesn’t even mind. Too satisfied with how the day went. She kept her distance from Rio when she needed to, let the Brazilian find her place, make connections. The girl is probably booked solid for the next month.

Everyone else has filtered out: Aitana and Lucy ferrying the tipsy ones home, chuckling all the way to the door. Only Marta, Mapí, and Ingrid linger to help tidy.

Rio hugs her at the door. Soft, tight, smelling faintly of chlorine and that freshness that’s all hers. Alexia hugs back. No words. Doesn’t need them. She knows. Rio knows.

Maybe she smiles too much afterward. Can’t help it.

It’s Mapí who ruins it. Of course she ruins it. Her stupid big mouth.

“So… Rio looked very hot today, right?” The tattooed defender comments casually, stacking cups.

Alexia freezes.

“What?” 

“Rio, hot. You don’t think so” Mapí frowns at Alexia’s expression of indignation.

“She’s a kid.” Alexia says through clenched teeth.

Her mind is a riot. Kicked of a line of thought that she can’t stop it. 

Memories of the day flash unbidden: Rio glistening in the pool, tanned, hips dipping, brushing dark hair from her face. Boyish, charming. Impossible not to notice.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Why are you so dramatic?” Mapí waves a rag in her direction. “She’s nineteen, not fifteen.” 

“Isn’t she twenty next month?” Ingrid adds, unhelpfully.

“Not the point,” Alexia mutters. “Gross.”

“Objectively, she’s pretty,” Marta observes. “Kind of young, though.” 

“It’s a visual thing, thank you,” Mapí nods. 

“Stop. Just stop.” Alexia clings to the counter, hands tight. Her pulse is louder than the music had been all day.

Rio is pretty. It’s a fact. A fact she had perfectly ignored when it bounced around her mind because…She can’t think of her that way. Can’t allow herself.

“Why are you being such a buzzkill?” Mapí presses. “Is it because she has a crush on you?”

What. 

“There’s no crush,” Alexia snaps. She glares, thinking maybe she could throw Mapí out the window. Sounds like the perfect solution. 

“Oh, she brough sweets for your mom. That’s such a crush.”

“I think it’s cute. She’s nice.” Ingrid shrugs. Marta nods. 

“It’s not the end of the world Alexia, these kids always have a crush or another, oh remember when…” Marta begins, distracted by something else. Alexia lets it slide. Needs the air.

Later, alone, she goes back to it.

Not Rio being hot. Not even a crush. But the way she remembered something small, offhand. Something personal.

Your mom likes sweets, right?

The fact that Rio noticed. The fact that she cared. How different they were, how similar.

Her chest tightens. Heart skips.

Attraction she could handle—lots of people around her are attractive.

But this?

This was something else.

Something she couldn’t name. Not now, not ever.

Chapter Text

You’re studying in the player’s lounge. Jana sits across from you, working on her coursework as well.

You should be tired. You are tired. But you study anyway—always trying to squeeze it in between training, games, recovery. Can’t let it slip. You made a promise to your mom long ago that you’d get a proper education, and now you’re close to finishing your last year of the long-distance college you enrolled in when you moved to Spain.

Not a perfect student—far from it. But you keep your promises.

It’s better to study with company. You’ve gotten closer to Jana, to her and Salma and Pina. The younger girls adopted you easily into their ranks, and in the last month you’ve gone out together more times than you can count.

The lounge is blissfully quiet. Soft music in the background. Whoever’s stretched out on the couches is either napping or scrolling their phone. More than half the squad is in recovery.

You barely look up when the room fills a little, players shuffling in with frozen legs from the ice baths. You only notice when Alexia drops down beside you, knee strapped tight. She stretches her arm behind your chair, reaching for the fruit salad you’d been picking at. She smells faintly of the mint spray the medical team covers you all with after every session.

Common between you two now: intimacy. Always searching for each other. Most of the time unconsciously—you blink, and you’re leaning toward her.

“What are you doing?” Alexia asks, peeking at the papers spread on the table, your laptop open to the side.

“Coursework,” you answer. You push the spoon her way without thinking. “Remember what I told you about the dishwasher for my mom?”

She nods, chewing slowly. Pulls off her headband, runs her hand through her hair. Beautiful, even a little undone.

You poke her leg so she’ll raise it onto the empty chair, careful with her knee. She rolls her eyes but does it anyway. 

Jana watches you both with that little fond smile.

“Yeah, you said it wouldn’t fit in her kitchen, right?” Alexia says after swallowing—always proper.

Something stirs in you at the fact that she remembers. She always remembers the small things you say, the things you like. She pays attention, even with everything else on her shoulders. All the responsibilities. You don’t know how she handles it, trying to be good to everyone.

Pressure is a privilege, she’d said once. You’ve learned that’s what defines her — this sense of duty to all she has. 

“Yeah. So I was planning to do a remodel, you know? Just break everything down. But it’s a rental, so we can’t. So…” You flick your pen against the page. “I started looking at how much it would cost to buy a new apartment instead. In a good neighborhood, something new.”

Alexia nods along. “So, how’s your childhood home right now?”

You grin, flip to a fresh page. Start sketching. A big kitchen, bigger than the living room. Three bedrooms, the one you used to share with your brother. The drawing looks like a child’s—shaky lines, stick figures almost.

But Alexia leans in anyway. Watching. Listening. Asking.

You draw your grandfather’s bar downstairs. The little tables spilling out onto the street. Afternoons wiping them clean, earning coins from old men who stayed until dusk. You tell her how much you loved it.

Alexia’s smile softens, puts a finger right in the middle of it all "I'll have to visit then, before you move.”

You smile back, feeling that now-familiar tug when she looks at you like that—like she has no doubts you’ll succeed. Like you’ll be someone, someone important.

Your smile falters when you remember her sleek home high above Barcelona, a queen in her castle. And your childhood home, humble, at the bottom. A flicker of shame twists in your chest. You shove it away. You won’t be ashamed of where you came from.

“We’d love to have you,” you say.

Alexia nudges you gently. And the warmth between you settles in, steady as breath.

Alexia barely listens to Olga. She should—really, she should—but she’s so tired right now.

Her eyes sting, and she blinks to stay awake. It would be terrible, falling asleep while her girlfriend talks. They don’t even spend much time together as it is.

It’s a chore, dating Alexia—no glamour to it. Lots of absences, lots of travel, always has training, always have a game, has to follow a diet, has to follow a sleeping schedule. No drinking during the season, no slacking off. Media duty, sponsor duty, duty to everyone. Olga puts up with more than most would.

“So, I was wondering if we could go together to that event, the one we talked about?” Olga concludes, pushes a stray hair behind her ear. She’s like a doll sometimes, always put together, an influencer—whatever that is.

Alexia blinks again, grumbles. Doesn’t remember actually. Feels like there’s always an event to go, people to see.

“This next weekend? The one I told you about?” Olga presses, undeterred. Always pressing, always pushing against Alexia’s fog.

A yawn breaks free. The answer is right there on Alexia’s tongue: I can’t. It’s Rio’s birthday. Of course she’ll go. Promised she would. Most of the team is going. Never even thought of inviting Olga.

Opens her mouth, but stops herself. Spirals.

Because… because shouldn’t her girlfriend be more important than Rio? Shouldn’t she come first? When did that happen?

She’s missed birthdays before. Comes with the job. Professional athletes and social lives don’t mix—everyone knows that. She’s seen teammates lose relationships over it. Sacrifices for the game.

But Rio, spending time with Rio… doesn’t think about it. Just acts, just does it. Has yet to say no to the girl. Stays more than she should in the players’ lounge just existing beside her, gets bribed into taking her to have ice cream (she gets pistachio every time, no calories to it, while Rio always asks a ridiculous flavor just to piss her off).

Nobody questions it anymore, their closeness. Somehow Rio slipped in. Crawled under Alexia’s ribs, lodged herself there. Or maybe Alexia let her in. Made space. Because she…

Because she likes her.

No. She can’t think that. Won’t. Has been steering away from that thought since Mapí cracked it open. Strictly platonic. It is platonic.

It has to be.

And strictly platonic friends can skip each other’s birthdays, right? It doesn’t mean anything. So, she opens her mouth, and says the opposite of what she wants. Of what she feels.

“Sure, I would love to,” Alexia agrees. Proof to herself that she can ignore Rio. That the girl doesn’t own a piece of her.

Olga beams, more surprised than pleased. She’s learned not to expect much. Some relationship this is.

Alexia feels proud of her control, satisfied with her restraint. Until the sour taste creeps in.

But not much later. Soon.

Rio’s face falls when Alexia tells her in the locker room.

Alexia’s heart drops with it.

She keeps talking, adds too many details, trips over her own words. Mumbles, pretends she’s distracted by the lace of her boot, by anything else. Anything but the look on Rio’s face.

Rio only nods. Smiles.

But Alexia knows—it’s fake. She knows it because she’s worn the same smile herself. The wobbly, brittle one.

Rio says she’ll save her cake, of course. Promises a big piece.

Alexia grips the bench until her knuckles go white.

Shoves it down. Deep, deep down.

Your first birthday abroad, Camila had flown in with the whole family. Made up some excuse—you can’t even remember what now. What you do remember is how relieved you were. How you pretended to be fine with spending it alone, but weren’t.

It’s a fond memory.

Now, a year later, things are different. You have people to spend it with. Actual friends.

Camila still called the week before, just to make sure. Offered to fly you over. Was genuinely happy when you told her you already had plans. These days she knows more about you than your own mother. That’s the way of things.

You protect your mother from truths. Papers inverted.

You bake your own chocolate cake—rich, decadent, perfect. Invite the squad to the brazilian bar you stumbled upon in your first week in Barcelona. The owner, Cristiano, is brazilian too. He adores you, feeds you constantly, promised to make feijoada just because it’s your birthday.

When you arrive early, the band is already playing a warm samba. The bar fills slowly, the sun setting in orange hues, a mix of catalans, local brazilians, noise and warmth. The good kind.

You wait a beat, feel that familiar dread: what if no one comes? what if no one cares? Wonder if it ever goes away.

Cristiano slides you a caipirinha on the house. You take a sip. And then—relief. Because Barcelona’s squad spills in, in small groups, laughter at the door.

First Jana and the girls, all dressed up just for you. Then Mapí, Ingrid, Lucy and Walsh, Frido, Marta, Caro, even grumpy Aitana.Not everyone, you didn’t expect everyone. You only expected one. The one who won’t come. You convince yourself you’re fine with it.

There are hugs, little gifts. The squad had already pitched in for fancy designer sneakers—a running joke about your stubborn Havaianas. You feel loved. You feel wanted.

You show them around: where to get drinks, where the food is. Jana ties balloons to your chair. Lucy and Wash pull you aside to ask what goes into feijoada. Engen hugs you tight, says Irene sends love but had to stay home with Matteo.

You dance with Caro, then Jana, then a blushing Aitana—each of them charmingly stiff. You laugh. You laugh a lot that night.

And when your chest pulls tight, when your mind dares to wander where it shouldn’t, you laugh harder.

Because Alexia is not here. And you refuse to let her absence ruin your birthday.

Alexia tries to enjoy herself. She likes to dress up—won’t ever admit to it—but tonight even that feels hollow. She forces herself to focus on Olga, on the event, on the sea of polished strangers.

The gathering is all gloss: a grand influencer meeting, lights too bright, conversations too rehearsed. Artificial. Alexia pushes through anyway, smiles tightly, sips on virgin cocktails. The food is good. That’s something.

Olga is radiant. Happy. She likes to prance Alexia around like her prized possession, a trophy she rarely gets to display. Alexia lets her. Tries to believe it should feel good.

But it’s the group chat that won’t leave her alone. Notifications keep lighting up her phone. Rio’s party.

Photos. Videos. Jokes. A blur of memes and birthday wishes. Alexia’s fingers twitch every time the screen lights. She tells herself no. Holds out.

Until Olga leaves her on the varanda to fetch drinks. Alone, under the curious stare of another influencer—like she’s some exotic animal brought in for show—Alexia’s resistance cracks. She unlocks her phone.

The first video loads: Jana and Salma, laughing into the camera, then swinging it around. The lens finds Rio, dancing with Aitana. Twists the smaller woman in a clumsy spin. Laughter offscreen. Jana’s voice: Let’s see if she has the same dance moves she has on the field.

They’re close. Too close. Rio guiding her patiently, Aitana blushing, tripping over her feet. The team’s voices rise, catcalling, cheering. In the background, the samba beats warm and alive.

Alexia’s chest aches. Not jealousy, not exactly. More like defeat. An emptiness she can’t cover up. She wants to be there. She wants to be with Rio more than here. And that means the battle was lost long before tonight.

Later, in her bed, she takes Olga hard. Kisses sharp, fucks her through the mattress. As if she can prove—something. To Olga. To herself. That she isn’t already somewhere else.

Rio brings cake, just like she promised. She smiles, leans close, mentions she brought one for Alexia’s mom too — and Olga. Small containers. Mapí tries to sneak a piece; Alexia bats her hands away.

They taste the cake together. “It’s good,” Alexia says. “Great, even.”

Shoulder to shoulder, they watch the locker room fill with chatter and laughter about the party. Rio asks briefly about the event, but Alexia shrugs. Not important.

Instead, she lets Rio rest her head on her shoulder. She’ll bring the cakes to her mom. Olga’s slice she’ll quietly hand to Alba. Won’t overthink it — even if it feels like a small betrayal.

Chapter Text

Alexia wants to be the one to give Rio the news. She waits until after the meeting between captains and staff, then rushes to catch her before she leaves. Finds her coming out of the player's lounge.

She takes a quiet moment to watch her. Rio seems taller now, more confident in her steps. Defined arms peek from her sleeveless training shirt, hoodie slung across her chest. Hair shaggy as always, falling over her eyes, charming; Alexia thinks about how she complains she needs a cut but never finds the time. Jana offered once—maybe one day the Brazilian will let her.

Rio’s grin lights up the hallway when she sees Alexia, as it always does. “Hey,” she says, casual.

“Rio.” Alexia’s smile slips out before she can stop it. Soft. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

She leans against the wall, pulls a folded sheet of paper from her back pocket, opens it so Rio can see.

“A late birthday gift…” she whispers.

The listing for the next game: away match at Athletic Bilbao. Almost at the bottom: Rio’s name, alongside the number 13.

“No fucking way…” Rio murmurs, clutching the paper, swearing in portuguese. “Porra.”

She throws herself at Alexia, burying her head in her neck. Alexia freezes a beat—then lets herself hold her. Feels the small, perfect weight of her.

“You did it,” Alexia says, gripping her shoulder.

“We did it,” Rio breathes, shaking the paper like a trophy.

Alexia's name is there too. 

You want the media pictures before you tell anyone.

A whole day of posing, making faces. Shots for the lineup. Shots in case you score

You look good in blaugrana, jersey tight on your arms, tucked inside the shorts—all that time in the gym paying off.

Send the picture to your family first, for once.

Your mom calls immediately, cries. Even she knows what the Barça shirt means. Recognition, pride. She makes everyone on the family chat call as well, all your extended family, so proud. Your grandfather grumbles that he prefers you in Flamengo colors—it’s his way of saying he misses you.

You miss them too. Promise yourself that you will find a way of visiting this year. Somehow.

“Why Rio, though?” your mom asks, frown on the screen.

You shrug. “Seemed fitting. It’s who I am now. Here.”

You call Camila next, more careful with this one.

“Look at the picture I sent you,” you say on the phone. Wait for her.

There’s a soft intake of breath on the line—wet, loaded.

 “Number 13… that’s a good number.”

“A lucky number,” you say. She knows what you mean. “Will be my number. Forever.”

You owe so much to her, this woman who found you on the beach. This feels small—almost meaningless.

“You will be something else, Rio.” She chokes on the phone, passes it over to her boys who are yelling to talk to you. They congratulate you, say they miss you, and then declare Madrid is better.

Boys.

You give it all this coming week. More than you should, probably.

Run, tackle, more precision, more speed, more of everything.

You stay late after training. Practice free kicks until your legs give out. Until you’re perfect.

You’re nervous. Can’t help it. The only way you know how to spend the energy is on the field.

You feel Alexia’s eyes follow you everywhere, worried, that little wrinkle on her brow making an appearance. Pretty as ever.

Irene tries to stop you. Surprisingly, it’s Aitana who defends you.

Good is the enemy of great, she says.

You save that for later. Will get it tattooed so you never forget.

Games away are always a mess. One would think that this trained, hardcore group of professional athletes would be used to it by now. Would know how to behave.

Alexia finds that they resort back to being schoolchildren. Every single time.

She feels like a mom on a field trip—standing with the staff, checking that everyone’s present, bags accounted for. Then, sure enough, someone forgets a lucky hairband, or Frido packs too many snacks and they spill across the hotel lobby. It’s happened before.

Alexia is tired before she even boards.

Keeps a trained eye on Rio though—first game with the team, has trained too hard the whole week. Looks tired but arrives on time. Alexia feels the urge to be close to her, to make sure she is alright.

Restrains herself. Is training to… keep it inside. More. Needs this neediness for Rio to fade away.

Observes as the Brazilian sits beside Jana; the other girl will take care of her.

Alexia puts on some music and tries to fall asleep.

The hotel lobby is pure chaos. Bags thump to the floor, voices overlap, and the receptionist’s polite smile starts to crack.

Alexia stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching her championship-level teammates devolve into bickering teenagers.

Dinner isn’t much calmer. Bread rolls turn into ammunition across the table. A trivia game sparks accusations of cheating, and Mapí is caught trying to Google an answer under the table. The noise is warm and alive—one of those nights that will blur into the season’s memories.

The staff finally puts an end to it, Rafe yelling curfew and promising rounds of punshinment back in Barcelona if anyone disobeys.

Alexia slips off to her room—captains don’t share, and she’s glad to have the quiet to herself. She’s been feeling a new discomfort in her knee this last week, is worried but won’t tell anyone except the physios the next day. Wants to be up early.

Lets the mess sort itself out.

The hotel was too quiet. Too still.

Alexia lay awake, staring at the ceiling, pretending sleep might come if she stayed still long enough. It didn’t. She heard whispers in the hall, muffled laughter, steps trying to be careful but stumbling.

Oh, hell no.

She jumps off the bed, secretly glad to have an excuse to move. Opens the door in a rush, catching Jana and Salma tiptoeing through the hallway.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Alexia asks, arms crossed as she leans on the doorframe.

The younger girls freeze. Turn slowly, sheepish smiles already in place. The capitana notices the flip-flops and towels bundled in their arms.

“Please don’t tell me you’re trying to sneak into the pool,” Alexia sighs.

“Ok, we won’t tell.” Jana pipes up, shoving the stuff behind her back. Beside her, Salma nods.

“But you are, aren’t you?”

“Technically, we haven’t reached the pool yet, so…” Salma tries, finger raised like she’s presenting a legal argument.

“Just… turn back, and I’ll pretend I never saw this.” Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose, can feel a headache coming.

The duo drops their heads, dragging their feet through the beige carpet.

“Wait.” Alexia calls, and they freeze again. “Jana, aren’t you rooming with Rio?”

“Oh, well…”

“Shh, don’t snoop.” Jana elbows Salma, not so discreetly.

A beat. Silence.

“She’s already there, isn’t she?”

“I do not confirm or deny this.”

Alexia’s sigh is long enough to echo.

The door to the indoor pool is cracked, a faint glow spilling into the dim hallway. Warm air leaks out, carrying the smell of chlorine and something faintly metallic.

Alexia slips inside. The place feels half-asleep: indirect lights casting gold over white tiles, the water a dark sheet that sways lazily. Wooden decking creaks softly under her steps.

And there—Rio. Perched on the edge, sweatpants rolled to her knees, legs trailing in the water.

For a second, Alexia just stands there, breath caught. How do they always find each other?

Rio turns, startled, then smiles—wide and unguarded. It hits Alexia like a free kick to the ribs. She swallows whatever she meant to say.

She walks closer, careful, hands buried in her pockets. Stops just behind her. 

“Can’t sleep?” Her voice is quieter than she intended.

Rio shakes her head. “Too many thoughts.”

Alexia hums. "Me too.”

Alexia slides her slippers off, hikes her pants, and lowers herself beside her. The water laps against her calves—hot, almost too hot against the chill in the air. The silence hums: the faint buzz of a radiator, the muted echo of distant pipes, their own breathing.

Bodies not touching, but close enough that they could if they wanted.

Rio's hands are tight around the edge when she speaks.

"I'll have a good game tomorrow," the Brazilian says. Not a question. Turns to Alexia, grins—the charming one. "And if I don't... I'll just have to try again, right? Again and again, however long it takes.”

Alexia looks down, flustered, disarmed by the smile of a 20-year-old. What a mess.

Bold and brash Rio. So brave. So much braver than her.

"That's what I..." Alexia starts, then stops. Was going to use a different word, restrains herself, swallows the emotion. Nudges Rio's leg with her foot, underwater where it's safe. "That's what I like about you. Eres valiente.”

Almost a confession—to herself. To Rio.

"You are too. So much," Rio whispers back. Alexia chuckles, a wet sound.

"I could never have done what you did, move across the world, far from everything I know…"

The Brazilian shakes her head, cracked smile. "I wasn’t brave for myself, it wasn’t... I had to do it for my family. They made me brave. Just like you—you stayed in Barcelona for the same reasons I had to leave Brazil.”

"Brave too.”

Alexia closes her eyes, lets herself feel for a moment all that she wants to—how much she feels for this girl. Wonders how it all comes down to this: always them, meeting, vulnerable. Whispered confessions. What does it mean, that it's always them?

They stay there, suspended in space, looking at each other.

Rio extends her hand, hesitant at first, then lets her fingers touch softly on Alexia's surgery scar. The gentlest of touches.

"This is your ACL scar, right?" Rio whispers, lets her finger rest there. Alexia only nods, doesn’t trust her voice.

The girl traces the edges of the skin, a jagged thing. Ugly. Starts low, almost on the inside of her leg and crosses over—her finger follows the path, barely touching, intimate. Alexia holds her breath as she watches, shivers over her skin.

This feels dangerous. Heavy.

"Do you think..." Rio starts, not looking up. "Do you think that if you hadn't hurt yourself, we would be... we would have met?”

And Alexia can’t answer. Too afraid of what she might say.

That maybe they wouldn’t have met, or not be close like this, there wouldn’t be a reason to, wouldn’t feel as close to Rio because Rio wouldn’t have seen her broken. Alexia wouldn’t use the girl. Rio wouldn’t use her. Alexia would be whole. Strong. Herself. And she wouldn’t have Rio.

And what a perfect, unbearable world that would be.

Her throat tightens. She doesn’t have to answer. Rio keeps going.

"I wouldn’t want that anyway, if it means you would be hurt. I wouldn’t want it.”

"I won’t hurt you," She adds quietly. So many meanings packed into so few words.

Alexia’s hand shakes a little as she places it over Rio’s, presses it against her thigh, holding warmth against warmth.

"Even if it meant you wouldn’t play for Barça?" Alexia asks. Asks Rio to confirm what she knows—that Rio knows. They used each other. Can’t deny it. But doesn’t want to be alone in this—needs not to.

Rio smiles, shakes her head. "I would find a way. I always do.”

Alexia’s eyes sting. She tangles their fingers, thumb tracing lazy circles over Rio’s knuckles. They sit like that for a while, time suspended.

Alexia knows she has to end it—it’s the right thing to do. She can’t let this become something it can’t be.

"We should go," the Catalan starts, voice shaky.

Then Rio’s grin flickers—mischief breaking the spell. "Wait. Do you hear that?”

Alexia frowns, confused. There’s nothing. “What?"

“This."

Rio flips into the pool—a full, ridiculous body flip—sending water everywhere.

Alexia gasps, laughing, already soaked. And then strong hands grab her calves, pulling her down into the warmth.

Underwater, a world apart.

The water envelops them, warm and immediate. Heartbeats synchronized.

And Alexia lets her. Lets her close, too close. Rio’s forehead pressed lightly to hers, breath bubbling against her lips. The nearness is overwhelming. Not quite a kiss, but something just as dangerous. Something that steals the air from Alexia’s lungs more than the water ever could.

Rio’s eyes flicked to hers—steady, searching. She didn’t move, didn’t close the distance, but her fingertips ghosted over Alexia’s shoulder, barely a touch. The smallest, most dangerous acknowledgment.

For a suspended moment, they let it exist. Quiet, infinite, inevitable.

Then they break the surface together, gasping, laughing—like nothing had happened. Like everything had.

Your leg keeps bouncing up and down while you sit on the bench. Nervous. Anxious.

Whatever happened last night has kept you awake. You hope it kept Alexia awake too—just so you aren’t alone today.

Your capitana sits a little further down the bench, eyes glued to the game, murmuring plays under her breath. The roar of the crowd swells and dips like distant waves, but your attention drifts elsewhere—caught between the field and the memory of her.

Then—a nod from the assistant. Go warm up. Your heart almost leaps out of your chest. You sprint up and down the sideline, run the drills, hands slick with sweat.

You hadn’t noticed Alexia warming up too until you’re side by side, waiting for the substitution board to signal you.

She crouches at your side, adjusting her shinguards. There, tucked into her palm, is a little folded paper. She meets your eyes and smiles.

“We do this together,” she murmurs, just for you.

And somehow, just like that, you do.

Chapter Text

Brazil does things differently when it comes to Fifa breaks. Most national teams just call their players before the announcement and then send off the list. Brazil is more dramatic, there's a live press conference and reading of the listing, players biting their nails in front of the TV, waiting to hear their names.

You are at home the day of the call up, it's night in Barcelona and afternoon in Brazil.

You have no hope of being called up, not to the senior squad. Has four games under your belt now for Barça, two assists, one for Frido and the other a header by Lucy. Good numbers, rewards for a lot of work.

Alexia’s been off lately—knee still nagging, frustration hiding behind tight smiles. You’ve been learning how to read her moods: sit with a book in the physio room when she’s silent, give her space when she’s sharp. Four months beside her, and you’re just starting to know her rhythms.

So much in your head you forget the live stream entirely—until Camila’s FaceTime call slices the quiet.

“Why aren’t you jumping up and down right now?”

“What?”

“Why isn’t the TV on?”

“What TV?”

Camila groans. “Laptop, live feed, federation. Forty-minute mark. MOVE.”

You drag your feet on purpose—she taps hers loud enough to hear through the phone.

You turn it on—and drop your phone. Gasp. Scramble to pick it up again.

There it is. Your name, coming out of Pia Sundhage’s mouth—football legend and Brazil’s NT coach. Right there.

“I…got called up,” you whisper—to yourself, to the walls, to the world.

Then louder: “I GOT CALLED UP!”

Camila whoops. You’re spinning in your tiny studio, fists pumping, her pixelated face swirling with you.

“You did it, kid,” she says, voice cracking.

You sink onto the sofa, heart hammering. Senior squad. Green and yellow. Canarinha.

"What should I do now, what...they will call right?" You asked, legs shaky.

“Yes, they already called me actually. They’ll probably reach out tomorrow morning because of the time zone. I’ll send off the details and formalities—flight information, whatnot.”

You nod, still a little dazed.

“For now, enjoy the rush, kid. Congrats again. This is the dream.” Camila ends it, smiling motherly at you.

“This is the dream…” you repeat.

You sit still on your sofa. Replay the video again and again, just to make sure it’s real. You need to call someone, you need to tell…

Alexia.

Without thinking, you hit Alexia’s contact. Pacing, biting your thumb, you wait.

She answers on the third ring. Sleep-rumpled, hair mussed, pillow crease on her cheek, hazel eyes heavy with dreams, so beautiful it hurts.

You watch her let out a little yawn. It’s not even late, but Alexia keeps her schedule tight—ten hours of sleep, always. Lives her whole life to increase her performance, no line between private and professional. The price one pays to be on top. A robot, restrained at all times.

At everything.

"Qué passa, Rio? Is everything alright?” she mumbles, voice rough, still thick with sleep.

“Alexia, pay attention.” You clutch the phone.

“Hm.”

“I got called up.” The words squeak out. She flinches at your pitch, blinking awake.

“You…got called up?” The sleep falls off her face like a dropped mask. She pushes up on an elbow, eyes widening fast.

“Actually called up.” You turn the laptop, show her your name on the screen. She squints, then finally wakes fully, her face opening into the most beautiful smile, all dimples.

“RIO!” she bursts out, laughter in her voice. “You got called up! This is huge—this is…” She trails off, voice softening, eyes shining.

The broadcast repeats your name. Once. Twice. She whispers with it, almost reverent.

Then comes the little crease in her forehead—the one that shows up when she’s in deep thought. “Take care of yourself there.”

You nod. You’ve heard the awful stories from the Spanish Federation—from Alexia and the other girls—how they treated the players, how horrible it all was. You feel for Alexia, for everything she endured, and for all the girls.

“You don’t have to worry. It’s different there,” you reassure her. You’ve played for Brazil’s U20 and U17—not perfect conditions, but nothing hurtful. No harassment.

“It better be,” she says, but her tone is gentle now. Then, teasing, “How did your family react?”

You hesitate, cheeks warm. “Uh…didn’t tell them yet. I wanted to call you first.”

The weight of that lingers in the air. The first person on your mind. For a beat, she just stares at you. Then a slow, crooked smile spreads across her face, eyes crinkling.

“Well…guess I’m bringing the confetti tomorrow, vale?” she says.

She doesn’t. But by morning, everyone in the locker room already knows—and the applause hits you like a wave.

Your hands shake as you grab the mic—you’re a terrible singer.

The veterans form a circle in front of you, phones raised, grinning. The trote—the rookie hazing, obligatory for everyone. Your heart hammers, but a grin stretches across your face.

You’ve already met everyone, having flown out from Barcelona to Grenoble, France. Brazil will play two friendlies against the French team—a great test. Three days of training ahead.

The hotel is beautiful, a full-blown garden even in the cold end-of-October air. You’ve played in other countries before with the youth squads, the U-20. But everything with the senior team feels bigger, more formal.

When you greeted Pia, you spoke careful, halting English. She was warm and gracious, congratulating you on your first call-up. White-haired, two Olympic gold medals under her belt...you’re eager to learn from her.

You met some of the girls too, lounging in the lobby among a typical mess of luggage and backpacks. Some you already knew from the youth teams—Angelina, Lauren, Kerolin. Crazy talented players. Girls you admire. Girls you’ve missed.

You’ve missed Portuguese, too—the words sitting heavy on your tongue. Lauren, who also plays in Liga F, feels the same.

In the lobby, you get your room assignment: Giovana 'Gio' Queiroz. Tall, pretty, blonde, with pouty lips and big, expressive eyes. She flashes you a mischievous smile when they hand out the room keys.

You smirk back—not complaining at all.

Marta—the Queen—wasn’t there when you unpacked. But now she’s here, in the reserved room, waiting for you to sing.

You clear your throat and pick a childhood samba—“Temporal.” The first notes wobble, then the circle joins in, stomping and whooping. By the chorus, everyone is singing along. Musical folk, all of them.

Dinner is just as chaotic—loud voices, louder laughter. The air smells of familiar food you love. You’ve never felt closer to home than tonight—and never farther.

Finally, Marta drops into the seat across from you, casual, smiling as she digs into her plate, chatting lightly with everyone.

She's the stuff stars are made of—living legend. You get what everyone says about her: on the field and off, she’s better, brighter, more connected. You swear you can see the glow of her crown like a halo around her head if you squint hard enough. Queen of Football among mortals.

You don’t expect her to talk to you, even though Gio warned that Marta makes a point of knowing every newcomer. Still, you keep your head down, eating quietly—until she turns to you.

Smile on her face, easy-going, playful even. 

"Heard you’ve got a queen on your team, too,” she teases. “Actually, una Reina.”

The jab makes you straighten. You frown at your plate. "She hates that nickname, never asked for it. Never uses it either..." The words leave you before you can stop them—loyal to your captain, but more loyal to Alexia. Alexia, who recoils whenever she hears 'La Reina' shouted at her. Who dodges whatever stupid propaganda that envolves crowns or anything of the sort.

She does have a crown, you can't be the footballer that she is and don't have a crown...but she wears hers exausthed. A burden, the crown.

Marta hums, studying you like she’d expected a different answer. You stay firm—won’t talk against Alexia.

She nods, satisfied. “I imagined she’d hate it. Heavy is the crown, and all that…” The Queen shrugs, tapping her temple like she understands. Maybe she approves of your loyalty, because she keeps the conversation flowing—asks about Barcelona, offers tips, warnings.

A Queen is a Queen because people think her so, and you think too.

When dinner winds down, you feel seen—touched by something brighter. Marta is flesh and bone and raw talent, but still somehow more. And like every girl here, you wish she could reign forever.

As players rise to leave, you blurt, shyly, “Could I have your jersey? After?” Even as you ask, you know you won’t keep it just for yourself—you try not to think of whiskey-colored eyes in the back of your mind.

Marta laughs, flashing perfect teeth, and waves you off as she strolls out. Over her shoulder, she calls, “Give me an assist and we’ll see. Gotta earn it, garotinha.”

Two days of training later, you’re tucked inside your shared room with Gio. Night has settled heavy outside, and your muscles hum with the dull ache of drills and sprints.

Training here is tough—but not Barça-tough—so you’ve slipped into the rhythm easily. The vibe is looser, brighter: music spilling from speakers, voices raised in laughter. Brazilians—your people—too emotional, too alive. You love it.

You’re stretched out on one twin bed, head pillowed on Gio’s lap. She’s lazily combing her fingers through your hair, gathering strands to braid, then letting them fall apart again. She’s warm, a little mischievous—maybe even flirting. You don’t stop her—you lean into it. It’s been a while, and you’re not shy… just preoccupied these days by flashes of hazel eyes.

Your phone plays a live feed of Spain’s camp. Most of your Barça teammates are there, and you’re surprised at the ache of missing them. Then Alexia flickers at the edge of the screen, and something twists in your chest. Without thinking, you pause on her blurred image—your fingers tightening imperceptibly around the phone.

“How is she?” Gio asks quietly.

“Who?” you mumble.

“La Reina. Who else?” she teases.

How is she? Who is she? La Reina is easy: calm, composed, a perfect captain. But Alexia—Alexia is something else entirely. She’s shy, sometimes awkward, ducking cameras whenever she can. She communicates in gestures and light touches, in music and quiet spaces. She works harder than anyone, but she can be distant too—walls up when she’s hurting, unreachable unless she chooses otherwise.

Sometimes she feels unknowable, like she wears a mask even with you… and then, in fleeting moments, the mask slips and you catch something raw and unguarded, just for you. You wonder if anyone truly knows her anymore—maybe only her family, maybe the friends who loved her before the Ballon d’Ors and the glare of fame.

The thought scares you—sharp and sudden—that you could chase her forever and still never be close enough to see all her hidden sides.

“I think she’s incredible,” you say finally, voice lower than you meant. “A great leader, an even better teammate. She looked out for me from the start—still does. She notices everyone.”

Gio hums, fingers brushing the shell of your ear.

“But the injury…” You hesitate, frown. “It’s been rough on her. She pushes herself so hard. Too hard, sometimes. And I… I wish I could help her somehow. She deserves that.”

Your words feel too small for the weight in your chest, but they’re all you can manage. Gio studies you for a moment, then dips down and taps your nose with a playful kiss. You flush, heat prickling your cheeks.

“What was that for?” you ask, half a laugh, half a whisper.

"Because you are too sweet."

You play only 40 minutes across the two friendlies Brazil plays, but it is enough to deliver two assists (none to Marta), and score a goal that is later called off. 

Doesn’t matter one bit. It’s a hell of a welcome card, and you’ll probably stay on Coach Pia’s mind for a while after the International Break. Hopes to stay on everyone’s mind, really.

Later, as you hurry out of the hotel to catch the flight home, there’s a package waiting at the front desk: a softly folded Brazil jersey. Signed. Marta.

After everything, here’s something you don’t tell anyone.

You want the crown too.

It’s the first time you’ve ever wanted something purely for yourself—not for your family, not because it was the right thing to want or the right thing to do.

You want it because you want to be the best. You think that’s what Marta wanted for you too—what she wants for all the girls around her.

Good is the enemy of great.

You keep this to yourself, lock it inside your heart. Won’t tell anyone. Won’t curse it.

But the thought glows quietly, fragile but insistent: maybe, one day, the crown might fit your head.

Chapter Text

Alexia’s own call-up comes quietly, later that week. No spectacle, just Vilda’s voice on the phone—formal, polite.

A joke, she thinks bitterly. She hasn’t managed a full hour of football in four months—stringing together scraps of minutes, never a complete match.

“Leadership,” Vilda says. “Support for the group.”

She swallows her frustration, offers the expected “Of course.” She’ll show up, nod, clap from the bench. She always does what’s asked of her.

Reduced to a pretty doll to parade around, good marketing.

When she hangs up, the silence presses in. Her mind drifts—unbidden—to Rio’s name echoing across a press conference, to the way the kid’s face had lit up, to the locker room’s applause that morning. The image needles her: Rio strong and fearless, body unbroken, Brazil already claiming her in front of the world.

A flicker of envy coils low in her chest—quick, sharp, shameful. She hates herself for feeling it, for resenting the very thing she’d been rooting for. But beneath the jealousy lies a heavier fear: that Rio’s orbit might widen without her, that the girl who once looked only to Alexia will now have a whole nation looking back.

She presses her phone to her thigh until the case bites her skin. Forces herself upright. Duty first, she reminds herself. Always duty. 

The captain doesn’t get to fall apart, even quietly.

International camp has always been two things at once: hope and fear.

Hope for that championship that could change everything—World Cup or Euros, whatever comes first. Something that might finally shift how the Federation sees them, treats them. Punishment, harassment, poor conditions—all mostly improved now because of Barça’s success.

Fear of failing. Fear of breaking. Fear of disappointing her nation, her club. Fear of the subtle resentment in her teammates’ eyes, how Barça players get most of the attention. She never wanted it to feel like that.

Once, playing for her country had been everything. She remembers hugging Jenni and Virginia, young and eager, hearts swelling at the anthem. It’s still the dream. But now the dream is frayed at the edges, stretched thin.

She still gives her all, because she doesn’t know another way. Friends, teammates, family—all count on her. She bears it.

She greets everyone warmly, shakes hands, hugs. Shakes Vilda’s hand a little harder than necessary. Heads straight to physio while the others settle in, working her knee any chance she gets.

There’s a hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach, unnameable, but she ignores it for now.

Lunch the next day reminds her what it is.

She grabs her tray and sits with the veteranas: Mapí, Paredes, Cardona…and Jenni, of course, a little tense but still here. National camp now means sharing a table with the woman she used to love.

Their breakup had been brutal in its simplicity. Not because the love was gone, but because it wasn’t. Jenni was done with Barça—done fighting for a league that ground her down. She wanted out, wanted Alexia to leave too. We’ve already proved ourselves here, she’d said. Let’s go somewhere we can breathe.

But Alexia couldn’t leave. Barcelona was her city, her family, her father’s memory resting in its soil, her club—the one she’d sworn herself to. A person who stays, Alexia is.

Football—the thing that brought them together—had torn them apart. Alexia isn’t sure who’s supposed to be forgiven for that. Maybe bitterness is allowed. Maybe longing too.

She reaches for dessert and realizes she’s grabbed two fruit salads—out of habit. At Barça, Rio would always steal one. The hollow ache sharpens. Almost five days apart. The longest yet.

Misses her.

Pushes it down. Silly, she tells herself. Silly to need anyone like that.

The camp feels colder this time—not the weather, but the air. Maybe it’s just her. Maybe it’s the knee that throbs after every drill.

She pulls her tracksuit jacket higher, watching a rondo she can’t fully join. Laughter feels distant. Even Vilda’s voice grates. Leadership. Support for the group. Pretty words for: sit there and look like the captain so the cameras stay happy.

She hates how right she was.

After dinner she half-heartedly plays Uno with Mapí and Paredes. Across the room, Mariona and Salma squeal over a laptop. Alexia looks up.

“Oi, Ale, look. Rio just scored,” Salma calls. The Barça girls crowd around, watching the replay—even the goal that’s called back.

“Oh, bummer,” Aitana mutters. “Nice strike though.”

“She’s already got an assist,” Mariona adds.

“She once said any idiot could score but only a genius could set you up. Tonta,” Aitana says, grinning. She adores Rio. They all do. She glances at Alexia. “Sounded like you, by the way.”

“I’m not that rude.”

“Sure. The loud-mouthed version of you, then.”

"Who are we watching?" Jenni interrupts, coming over, black hair pushed back, hands shoved in her jogger pockets. Alexia tenses. Still painfully aware of her.

“Alexia’s pet is playing,” Mapí jokes. The Barça girls laugh. Jenni doesn’t. Her eyes stay on Alexia, quiet and assessing.

Alexia squirms, huffs, pretends her phone is fascinating. But it isn’t.

Later, alone in her room, Alexia opens her phone. The Wi-Fi stutters, buffers, but the federation’s highlight reel loads just enough to show Rio’s run down the flank, the perfectly timed cross. Even the goal that was called back looks brilliant on-screen. Rio’s grin—wide, reckless, unguarded—floods the room with warmth she shouldn’t be craving.

Alexia drops the phone onto the bed for a second, ashamed of the pangs of envy, the sharper ache of missing someone she barely admits she wants near. She doesn’t message. Doesn’t save the clip. Instead, she gets up, stretches her knee, and stares at the door as if she could run through it.

They had shared only those fifteen minutes on Rio’s first game, a small window, perfect in its intensity. Afterwards, Rio had come out grinning at her and said, “I want to play against you.”

Challenging, daring. The best compliment Alexia had heard in a long while.

I want to measure myself against you.

She presses her palms to her knees, feeling the tightness, the ache, the frustration of the injury—but underneath it all, something sharp and urgent stirs. If Rio can burn this brightly, she refuses to dim. She has to rise. She must.

Chapter Text

Alexia skips training and you notice.

You always notice stuff about her.

She’s been off these past weeks—quieter, slower to laugh. You’ve feared she’s pulling away, like she always does to protect herself from something she doesn’t want to name. Maybe something happened at camp. You’re not sure.

But now, in the dreadful, sweat-smelling locker room where everything seems to happen, you stand alongside the team as Alexia—your capitana—dishes out the news.

She's in grey Nike sweats, casual clothing. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

The word hits like a loose ball to the gut: arthroscopy. A new surgery, she says.

You'll later have to Google it. Even then, you’re not sure you’re spelling it right. Something about a scope in her knee, cleaning it up. A month out, she explains —Christmas break gone before it starts.

You hang back, watch the hugs and pep talks circle around her. Wonder if it all sounds like white noise to her the way it does to you.

You feel numb. With each person leaving, fear creeps in. What if you pushed her? What if all your wide-eyed excitement—your insisting she got out there—made her take a risk she wasn’t ready for? The dream of playing against her, of playing with her—shattered.

Soon, it’s just the two of you. Always the two of you, but you can’t move.

Her eyes are steady when she finally meets yours. “Remember when we talked about courage? This is me being brave,” she says. “I’m done pretending it’ll fix itself. I’d rather try to get back for real than limp through another season.”

You nod, but the words scrape something raw inside you.

She must see something on your face, because she adds quietly, “Either I get back to one hundred percent… or that’s it.”

Your throat locks. You want to hug her—press your face to her shoulder and promise she’s still everything even if football ends tomorrow. But you’re afraid of what might spill out if you touch her. So you just nod. She offers you a ride—“last one for a while”—and you take it, quiet the whole way.

The surgery is a success. The group chat explodes with emojis and exclamation points. Someone starts a collection for flowers and cards.

Mapí buys the worst card you’ve ever seen: a cartoon dildo with the line Hope you’re strapping back soon enough. Ingrid, horrified, tries to throw it out. You sneak it back into the bouquet when nobody’s looking.

You bake bolinho de chuva, sugar dust clinging to your fingers, because something warm and Brazilian might carry her a little comfort.

Time crawls.

You play, you score, you rack up assists. You get minutes. You get better.

The Champions League group stage arrives, and it feels enormous—each match electric, the stadiums echoing. Sometimes, Alexia makes it to the stands: ballcap low, hood up, trying to be invisible. You spot her anyway, a flash of her profile in the crowd. Afterward, you trade a few words, but they feel formal, careful—like a conversation being held through glass. The distance stings more than you expect.

Every other night you wait—for her to call, to text, to reach out.

Marta, Lucy, even Aitana post selfies from Alexia’s apartment. Mapí comes back from visits smelling like Alexia’s perfume. Nobody ever invites you. The absence gnaws, a slow, quiet ache.

Two weeks out, Mapí notices the shadows under your eyes. She slings an arm around your shoulders after training, grounding you with her weight.

“She’s been asking about you,” Mapí says. “Wants to know if you’re eating fruit, if you’re wearing a jacket in this cold.”

Your chest squeezes. “She hasn’t called.”

Mapí snorts. “Waiting for Alexia to say she needs you? You’ll wait forever, chiquita. Just show up. What do you think I do?”

The laugh she gives after is gentle, but it leaves you burning—because maybe you have been waiting for permission. Maybe you’re scared of how much she matters.

So you go.

One random afternoon you grab a slice of cafeteria cake, your PlayStation, a course assignment you’ll never finish, and head to Alexia’s.

The doorman eyes your sandals and your disheveled hair but buzzes you in anyway. Your stomach twists and turns all the way to the top floor. You won’t back out.

She opens the door on crutches, in grey sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, hair unbrushed, skin soft and pale. The sight of her hits you somewhere tender, like a bruise you keep pressing.

“What are you doing here? What’s all that? And why are you still wearing flip-flops, Rio—it’s seventeen degrees.”

“Did you know you’re in a video game?” You lift the bag with the console, trying for casual.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Did you like the get-well card Mapí and I got you?” you blurt, dodging.

You look anywhere but at her whisky-colored eyes—the ones that haunt you. The apartment looks perfect as ever: TV murmuring in the background, plates on the side table, too many pillows on the sofa. Cozy. Lived-in.

Her cheeks bloom dusty pink—Alexia Putellas blushes—and you’re half in love with it. She scratches the back of her head, mutters, “Yeah. Thanks for that. My mother found it. Very creative.” A half-smile tugs at her mouth. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Mapí said I could come,” you mumble. You don’t dare glance at her crutches. “She said I didn’t have to ask.”

“And you listened—to Mapí?” Exasperation, but no bite.

It still guts you. Suddenly you feel small and wrong in the big living room. Irrelevant. Who are you to her, barging into her life? Maybe she didn’t miss you. Maybe you’re the only one who can’t stop missing.

Your fists curl until your nails bite your palms.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… you’re my friend. And I missed you.”

A breath, then another. You stare at the floor because you can’t bear her eyes.

A soft sound—the quiet thud of a crutch on wood. She’s closer now. One crutch abandoned, her free arm extended. Her face is open, a small, wry smile bending her mouth.

“Just come here already.”

You do. Was there ever a time when you didn't go when she called?

Alexia is warm—so warm—and solid in your arms, like she’s built of something steadier than the rest of the world. You sink into her, fingers curling into the soft hoodie, and the smell of soap and winter clings to your skin. Her heartbeat is there against your chest, unhurried, certain.

You can count on your fingers the times you’ve hugged her like this. Maybe fewer. Each one feels etched into you, a little lifeline you didn’t know you’d been gathering.

She shifts slightly, careful of her knee, but doesn’t let go. Her chin rests against your temple, her breath ruffles your hair. The room goes quiet—TV low, city hum muffled by the windows—until it’s just the sound of the two of you breathing.

For a moment, you let yourself believe this could be enough.

“I missed you too, Rio,” she murmurs finally, voice muffled against your hair.

You stay like that, counting heartbeats, until her knee reminds her she’s not invincible. She coughs a laugh. “Help me sit before I fall over, vale?”

And for the first time in weeks, the world feels steady again.

You keep coming back after that. You remember your manners and announce you’re coming over. Never ask—don’t want to risk a no. Alexia always answers with an “OK” or a rolling-eyes emoji.

You show up anyway. After training, when your legs aren’t too heavy. You bring food, sweets, cakes—comfort disguised as sugar. She grumbles you’re trying to make her fat.

The next time you bring a “healthy” cake. Not half as tasty, but edible. You talk about training, football, the team. Never about her physio or her knee, figures people already talk to her enough about that. You still make sure it stays propped up, that she doesn’t limp too much. She scolds you, a moody patient with a crutch to jab your shin—but she doesn’t really stop you.

When exhaustion wins, you fire up the PlayStation. Alexia is hilariously bad: tongue poking out, checking the controller every few seconds. You laugh until your sides hurt. The console just lives at her place now.

She never directly calls you over. Instead: You forgot your boots here. Or: Bought the ingredients for that cake you promised.

Innocent, neutral words. You hear what she’s really saying—Where are you? I miss you. Come over.

Before long, you’re a fixture. Marta isn’t surprised to find you on the sofa after training. When Mapí forgets her jacket at Alexia’s, she tells you to pick it up—of course you’ll be there.

You try not to feel too smug about it.

The first time you meet Alexia’s sister, you’re…intimidated. Not a common feeling for you. But Alba is part of Alexia’s world beyond football—proof she exists in a life you’re only starting to glimpse.

You and Alexia are in the kitchen when it happens. You’re always careful not to stay late enough for dinner—mindful of her privacy. Alexia never asks you to, either. Says you should sleep early, and you’re not allowed to visit if you’ve got a match the next day.

She’s perched on the counter, mixing the dry ingredients you handed her—something so simple even she shouldn’t be able to ruin it—while you’re at the stove, stirring the melty chocolate (100% cocoa so it’s “healthier”). Pop music hums in the background. Neither of you hears the door until it bangs open.

“Alexia, I got out early and brought food from the Italian place because I refuse to eat whatever frozen atrocity your nutritionist sent over again and I—”

Alba stops mid-rant, taking in the scene.

Alba Putellas is both like Alexia and not: softer where Alexia is sharp, rounder-faced, shorter, with chestnut hair you imagine is what Alexia’s looks like unbleached. Closer to your age, maybe. Her eyes rake over you, and you squirm under the scrutiny.

“Hi?” you offer, spoon wavering in your hand.

Switching to Catalan, Alba says briskly, “Alexia, there’s a woman using your stove?”

Alexia barely glances up from the bowl. “Hm. This is Rio, my teammate.”

Alba keeps talking to her. “Now that you say it, I think I have seen her on Barça’s Instagram. Very cute. I thought she was older, though—is Barcelona opening a fucking daycare now?”

Alexia’s brow lifts. “She understands Catalan, you know.”

You nod, answering in the same language. “I’m baking a cake. It won’t be as good as it should be because Alexia insists on making it healthy—”

“I have a diet to follow.”

“—but it’ll still be pretty good.”

Alba’s grin blooms wide. “You’re the one who sent that cake, aren’t you? Mom still hasn’t shut up about it.”

You blink. You don’t remember sending cake to her specifically, and Alexia doesn’t explain. She just turns to you, hopeful, showing you the bowl. “Is this good enough?”

You nod. Later, the cake will come out lumpy—proof Alexia can ruin even the simplest recipe.

Good thing she’s cute.

“She’ll stay for dinner,” Alba announces, like it’s law.

Alba’s decree about dinner sticks. After that night, your visits stretch a little longer.

You start to learn the rhythms of Alexia’s place—what she keeps immaculate, what corners she lets slide. The coffee table is always spotless; the dining table collects unopened mail. Family photographs—beach trips, birthdays, Alba with braces—cover the living room wall. Her trophies are exiled to the big office she barely enters, more a museum than a room.

Never her bedroom, though. That feels…off-limits.

After enough pestering, she lets you see the Ballon d’Or once. She keeps it in a safe—password 1111, which makes you snort. She smirks, unbothered, like she knows it’s ridiculous. The trophy is heavier than you imagined, its gold surface catching the lamplight. You trace the engraved name: Alexia Putellas Segura. Then your finger keeps moving, sketching invisible letters.

“What are you doing?” she asks, head tipped in amusement.

“Writing my name. Predicting the future,” you tease.

She laughs—an unguarded, bright sound—and takes the golden ball back. For a heartbeat her eyes catch yours, unreadable, a flicker of something that makes your chest tighten before she masks it with a grin. “Win it first, Riozito.”

You tap it once, for luck. The moment lodges somewhere deep: private, precious.

You even meet her dog—Nala, a cotton ball with legs—when Alba drops her off one afternoon, claiming Alexia needs the company. The little thing yaps at you but melts against Alexia’s hoodie like a stuffed toy.

Over the weeks, Alexia limps more than she uses the crutches. Sometimes she does physio at Barça’s center, and the team crowds around her, voices warm, hands on her shoulder. You hang back. A silent agreement.

Almost a month of this. December edges close, winter break approaching fast. The thought of leaving makes your stomach knot.

You tell yourself it’s just friendship, just loyalty to your captain. But lately, every small detail—the way her laughter slips out when she’s caught off guard, the way her whisky-colored eyes shine just right when the light catches—feels dangerous. You can already sense the edge you’re teetering on, the inevitability pulling you in.

Jana has been pestering you for weeks to check out a trendy new café on Las Ramblas. According to her, everyone says the matcha is to die for, the décor is super cute, and the barista is even cuter.

You roll your eyes at all of that but end up there anyway—sitting across from Jana, who is now grumbling into her own matcha. Turns out the barista had a very obvious wedding ring.

Figures.

You’ve been on edge lately. You finally splurged on a ticket to visit your family for the holidays—almost a year and a half since you last saw them. Now you’re nervous. Afraid of what’s changed. Afraid of what hasn’t.

Afraid of leaving, too—this city you’ve grown used to, your friends. Alexia. Afraid that whatever you feel for her will only get worse with distance…or maybe it will get better—for her. Maybe she’ll forget you entirely and return as someone different.

Someone who no longer lets you sprawl on her couch and eat dinner with her sister.

The thought makes your stomach twist, so before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Jana.”

She looks up, mid-slurp, wary. “Uh-oh. Why do you sound like that?”

“If I tell you something, you promise you won’t judge?”

Her brow furrows theatrically. “Is this about murder? Because knockout rounds are next year and—”

“What? No! Why would it be about murder?”

“I’m just being careful,” she says with a shrug.

You tap your finger against the mug, nerves buzzing. “It’s not murder.”

“Okay, then.” She leans forward like she’s bracing for gossip. Then, casually, “So… who’s the crush?”

You push a napkin around, suddenly shy. She’s your friend—this should be fine, right? A crush, nothing serious. Safe.

You take a deep breath, like you’re stepping up for a penalty kick. Try not to think about how bad you are at penalties.

“Alexia. I… I’ve got a crush on Alexia.”

The words leave you feeling weirdly lighter.

Silence. Jana stares at you like you’ve just announced water is wet.

“Where’s the news in that? Isn’t it obvious you have a crush on the capitana?”

All the blood drains from your face. “Is it? Is it obvious?” You run a hand through your hair, mortified. Has everyone been laughing behind your back this whole time—the idiot making heart eyes at her much older, much more important, not-single captain?

She snorts. “Rio, come on. Not the end of the world. Everyone’s had a thing for the veteranas at some point.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“Even me,” she adds.

That makes you blink. “You had a crush on Alexia?”

“Sure. She’s Alexia Putellas. But she called me hermanita by week two, and that killed it.”

You think back—has Alexia ever called you something that small and safe? Nothing comes.

“It’s…” Your voice is small now. “It’s fucking killing me. That I like her.”

Jana’s expression softens, her teasing dropping away. She reaches across the table, palm warm against your cold hand.

“Look, I’m pretty sure she really likes you, Rio—like, more than most. But…” She hesitates, searching for the least painful words. “I just don’t think anything’s gonna happen there, tía.”

You lean back, staring at the café ceiling lights. You knew that already. It still lands heavy, hearing it out loud. Maybe that’s why it aches like heartbreak—because it started doomed.

“I don’t even know how to make it stop,” you whisper.

Jana’s grip tightens. She flashes you a brave smile. “Then we’ll figure it out. And, hey, the best way to get over someone…”—her grin turns wicked—“is to get under someone else.”

You groan, half-laughing despite yourself. “That’s terrible advice.”

“Terrible,” she agrees, smirking. “But admit it—you pictured it.”

You throw a crumpled napkin at her. The matcha is lukewarm, your heart still sore, but for a minute the world feels a little lighter—even if the ache doesn’t go anywhere.

Surgery—though it was the last thing Alexia wanted—was also a break. After the Ballon d’Or, her life had spun upside down and never settled: cameras, interviews, sponsorship dinners, smiling until her cheeks ached. She told herself it was for something bigger—the progress of women’s football—and she should honor it. But the weight of being the face of a movement was relentless. Even a torn ACL hadn’t bought her quiet.

The arthroscopic procedure finally did. Her manager had put his foot down. For the first time in years, she could breathe.

Disconnecting, though, wasn’t easy. Alexia couldn’t flip a switch in her mind—every stray thought circled back to performance, numbers, improvement. Even her physiotherapist said she was obsessive, and she had to admit the term fit.

Then came Rio. Alexia had imagined the girl would stay safely contained within Barça’s walls, just another teammate. But somehow Rio had slipped past her defenses—quietly, persistently—until she was part of Alexia’s days outside football, too. And when Rio was there, the constant noise in her head dimmed. Sometimes all it took was Rio’s easy chatter or the way she’d sprawl on the couch, hair messy, filling the apartment with an unguarded kind of life. Alexia didn’t know she’d missed. For a few hours, Alexia’s mind went still.

Alba, of course, noticed. Alexia had chosen her sister to help with recovery—she was the safe option, steady and practical. But Alba’s sidelong glances had sharpened. 

The last straw was this afternoon: Rio asleep on the sofa, notebook slipping to the carpet, and Alexia, without thinking, draping a blanket over her. Alba’s eyes said everything.

By dinner, the silence was thick. Alexia pushed pasta around her plate, already bracing for whatever was coming.

“Ale,” Alba said finally.

“Hm?”

“You know I’m your sister. I love you. And it’s my job to say what people won’t now that you’re rich and famous.”

Alexia’s fork hovered.

“You’re letting this girl love you,” Alba said softly. “You can’t act surprised when she ends up saying so.”

The words landed like a blow. Alexia opened her mouth, closed it, felt the heat crawl up her neck.

“Don’t talk like that,” she said, sharper than intended. “Rio’s my teammate. My friend.”

Alba didn’t blink. “You always do this. You let people close enough to think they matter, but you never open the door. You keep them outside, knocking, and then you wonder why they stop.”

Alexia’s throat tightened. She wanted to argue—to say it wasn’t like that, not this time—but the truth pressed hard against her ribs. Because Rio’s laughter, Rio’s warmth, the way her accent wrapped around Alexia’s name—it was already too much.

Alba’s voice gentled. “I don’t think you do it on purpose, tata. Just…don’t hurt her.”

Alexia looked down at her hands, suddenly unsure of herself in a way she hated. She wished for the simplicity of a match, a ball at her feet, something she could control.

Later that night, when Alba was in the guest room, Alexia sat in the dim kitchen light, scrolling through her calendar until the Mexico trip over Christmas glowed on the screen. Family. Olga. Distance. A grown-up choice.

Maybe an ocean would be enough to make her forget the way a Brazilian girl’s voice could quiet her whole world.

Chapter Text

Barça decided to do Secret Santa after training—two days before the last match of the year. Normally it was an off-site thing, full party, drinks, bad dancing. But the calendar this season was cruel, and Christmas had crept too close. Everyone was either flying home or too tired to plan anything big.

So: Secret Santa in the players’ lounge.

The team still tried to make it festive. You held the stepladder while Lucy hung lights with military precision, Ingrid brought enough sweets to feed a battalion, and Mapí swore she hadn’t done anything weird to the eggnog. The room buzzed with laughter and sugar and the faint smell of pine from the fake tree someone dragged in.

You didn’t mind that it wasn’t fancy. You liked simple—music playing from someone’s phone and people you love a little too much.

The theme was funny socks. You’d drawn Keira, and ordered custom ones plastered with photos of her and Lucy’s dog. She almost cried, which made the entire effort worth it.

Pina had pulled your name. She handed you red socks covered in tiny sneakers. “Since you refuse to wear closed shoes, maybe you’ll wear these with your slides.” You laughed until your stomach hurt. You totally would.

Through it all, you kept Alexia in your line of sight. Not obvious, just… there. You wanted to be close without looking like you needed to be. It was exhausting, the choreography of almosts.

Your feelings were a mess. You were almost relieved you wouldn’t see her before the break—she was going to Mexico, you were heading home to Brazil. You dreaded the distance, but you needed it too. Space to breathe. Space to convince yourself you hadn’t fallen as hard as you had.

It didn’t stop you from buying socks for her anyway—white, with Nala’s face printed all over—and leaving them with the concierge of her building the night before your flight.

When she texted you a picture hours later, just her feet in those socks on the airplane floor, no caption, you told yourself your heart sped up because of the altitude.

Rio de Janeiro is thankfully the same as it always was. There’s a distinct vibe, a feeling, that floats over your city that keeps it all fresh and effortless. You love it.

Sure, some stores have closed down, some people moved away, but the sun still burns hot in the sky, the ocean still shines like diamonds, the air is salty still. It’s home.

Your family floods the arrivals gate like a parade — balloons, signs, too much noise. You’d asked for something subdued; instead you get a full-blown welcome party. Your mom hugs you, kisses you, complains you’re too thin, too pale, and hands you a bikini because “o sol vai te curar.”

Your brother’s taller now, eight and gangly and shining with pride in his Barça shirt. He clings to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. Your grandfather only takes your shoulders, studies your face, and asks, “Ok?” You nod. That’s enough for him.

You are home. Tiredly, finally.

You get maybe four days of vacation before Christmas Eve, plus the 25th, and then you’re back to Spain again.

Only four days.

Your grandmother decides to die on the second day. Typical.

Not your mother’s mother; that wound scarred long ago. This is your father’s mother, your stranded father. She’d been sick for a while and it’s not exactly a surprise, but it throws you back, anyway.

Your grandmother was a difficult woman. Exigent, sharp. Deeply religious yet practical — would slip saint cards into your pockets like candy, but never force you to go to church. A waste of time, she’d mutter.

She dangled money like affection. You remember showing up at her place in your new uniform — black and red stripes, Flamengo’s colors — when you were maybe ten.

She looked you over with her hawk-like eyes and said, “You know, your father is a die-hard Fluminense fan.” No inflection in the tone, no reprimand. Fluminense was Flamengo’s biggest rival.

You’d already been playing for two years by then — and football had started filling the spaces you didn’t know how to name. The absences, the silences, the empty chair at birthdays. You didn’t play to dream. You played to drown out.

“Good for you,” she said to your defiant silence, shoving a few bills into your palm so you could pay for the bus to training.

Your mother, bless her, never made you hate her or said anything bad about her. Made you visit the old woman when you were young and naive and still looking everywhere for a reason for not being enough.

You liked how the old woman said you were the spit of him — until you learned how much that hurt everyone around you. She didn’t condone him for leaving, but she didn’t reprimand him either; you hated her for it, eventually, because he wasn’t around to feel it himself.

This is the place where you fear you and Alexia will never meet. A place where a father means anything other than resentment.

You know how she talks about hers, the reverence in her voice, the way it catches a little in the rare moments she mentions him. Her famous speech after her first Ballon d’Or win.

She does everything for the sake of a father. You do everything to spite yours.

Can’t be honest with her about it. Keep it hidden inside of you. Know she wouldn’t understand.

So — your grandmother, dead before Christmas. You saw her before leaving for Spain. She was already sick back then, lying in a bed at the nursing home, her words were wobbling at the time.

“You go over there and you let your father die, it’s fine, it's fine.” She mumbled it, not looking at you, maybe looking into the past. Maybe looking at herself in the past — a woman who was raised by a leaver and was only capable of raising one herself.

She gave a last paper with a prayer, and you never saw her again.

The same paper you later gave to Alexia.

You don’t go to her funeral. Won’t risk seeing your father there. Instead, you book an appointment at a tattoo parlor a friend of a friend recommended.

You choose your ribs because someone once told you it’s the place that hurts the most. When tears slip as the artist inks your grandmother’s final prayer into your skin, you hope he thinks it’s only because of the needle.

The group chat is alive with pictures of everyone’s families. Snips of intimacy scattered through the screen.

You’re curled up on your family’s sofa, ribs still tender from the tattoo, scrolling through them.

Lucy and Keira in matching pajamas, grinning like fools.

Aitana surrounded by relatives who all share her exact smile.

Ingrid’s photo framed by snow.

Jana, mid-laugh, stuffing her face with food.

Patri looking soft under a Christmas tree.

You like all of them. You smile at all of them.

Then Alexia’s photo drops.

She’s in the center — perfect, as always. Blonde hair falling in soft waves. A skirt, a top. Alba beside her, laughing at something off-camera. Eli at the far end, bashful and lovely. A few people you don’t recognize.

And on Alexia’s other side: Olga.

Slim and pretty like a doll. Brunette, hair cut in a perfect bob. Flowy clothes.

You’ve barely seen pictures of her — Alexia’s too private for that, careful even when she doesn’t need to be.

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

You stare until the image burns itself behind your eyelids — the casual way Alexia’s arm rests around Olga’s waist, the hand on her hip.

The picture puts you back in your place — which is nowhere at all.

You’re grateful you’ll leave the day after tomorrow. Málaga. Jana. The girls.

Too much alcohol, too many strangers, the promise of forgetting.

Maybe, for a few hours, it’ll even work.

Málaga, you think, is probably better in summer.

It just feels like a summer city — the beaches, the palm trees, the general refusal to take life too seriously.

Still, you’ve got good friends.

Jana, Pina, and Salma brave it with you in the winter anyway. Bars, clubs, rooftops — you name it, you were on it. A mutual, unspoken agreement to ignore the no drinking during the season rule.

You rent a townhouse that’s equal parts charming and questionably built, but it’s well-located and has an outdoor shower everyone keeps daring each other to use after nights out. The neighborhood is loud and messy, and you love it.

The city is full of pretty faces, and nobody cares too much about the cold when they’re swapping kisses with strangers. Salma’s mood improves drastically when her girlfriend arrives; you pretend not to notice how much she glows.

You, on the other hand, scroll through your phone too often.

Ignore Alexia’s pointed DMs, her half-teasing replies to every story you post with a drink in hand. You ignore a lot of things, because not feeling them is easier than admitting you do.

Two days before New Year’s, Gio texts you.

Your favorite Brazilian teammate, beautiful and chaotic as always. She’s coming down to Málaga with a group of friends, says there’s an incredible party happening — a mansion in the hills overlooking the city.

You know exactly the kind of night she’s describing. Equal parts terrible idea and absolutely irresistible.

So of course you say yes.

On New Year's Eve you’re drunk, dazed, glitter somewhere in your hair. Jana complained your outfit was too white and forced you into sneakers. Inside the mansion, the air is heavy with perfume and heat. Music thunders through the floors. You’re surrounded by too many people whose names you’ll never remember.

And you want to call Alexia. Tell her you love her.

Pina thinks it’s a brilliant idea — she is very good at supporting bad decisions. Salma’s disappeared with her girlfriend to watch fireworks down at the marina. Jana frowns, agrees for half a second, then steals your phone and distracts you with a row of shots lined up on the central table.

That’s when you see Gio.

You had met her ealier in the afternoon to pick up the tickets to this exact party, she looked beautiful then, teased about you being the only one with a good tan in the whole town.

She’s...another level of beautiful now — her golden hair is down in waves, her pouty lips painted with gloss, white linen set that looks like it was made just for her. She spots you instantly, opens her arms wide, and you melt into her hug. It’s easy, familiar, Brazilian warmth against the foreign chill of the Spanish coast.

“Meu Deus, look at you,” she laughs, eyeing your outfit. “You went full réveillon mode, huh?”

“Tradition,” you grin, satisfied that someone gets it. “Gotta start the year clean.”

“Clean?” She arches a brow, mischievous. “We’ll see about that.”

You talk in a mix of Spanish and Portuguese: about the season, the chaos, the exhaustion, the hopes for next year.

She confesses she's thinking about coming back to Spain, maybe transfer to Madrid. You try not too feel to excited about it.

"Well, you would look awfully distracting in red and white." You tease and she pushes lighly into you. Leaning too close and you lean closer too.

You laugh too loud, drink too much, feel your body hum with relief at being near someone who doesn’t need explanations for who you are.

As midnight creeps close, Gio pulls you to the varanda, which is dangerously full of people. You press her between the banister and your body, the view of Malaga expanding in front of you. The air feels charged, but she's the one who pushes on her toes, leans close enough for her breath to brush your ear.

“Hey,” she says. “You want to be my New Year’s kiss?”

You nod before you even think about it.

The countdown begins — a chorus of drunk voices and raised glasses — but your eyes stay on her. You’re both smiling, nervous, laughter bubbling in your throats. Your lips brush her cheek, her fingers curl behind your neck.

“Shh, wait…” she teases, eyes sparkling. You feel hot — hotter than you’ve felt in days.

By the time the crowd shouts two, you’re already kissing her.

Gio tastes like sugar and champagne and something entirely her own. It starts soft, lips brushing, but deepens fast — her tongue asking, your mouth giving, hands finding her waist. The fireworks crackle above as you pull back for air, dazed, your name briefly forgotten.

You let her hold you close, her lips grazing your jaw, her breath still unsteady. You try — hard — not to let your mind drift to a certain Catalan captain, wondering how she’d kiss, how she’d taste. It wouldn’t be fair.

You almost succeed.

Gio leans in again, smiling against your mouth, and you kiss her deeper this time — more teeth, more need. You want this to be enough.

The party spins on. You dance together, meet her friends, stumble into yours. Gio’s clingy in a way that surprises you, but it’s not unwelcome. You steal kisses like they’re oxygen.

At some point she leans in, voice low. “Wanna get out of here?”

You hesitate for half a heartbeat. The world hums around you, bright and slow.

Then you say yes.

The streets are a circus — laughter, music, people waving sparklers like stars.

Gio’s place turns out to be two streets away. She holds your hand as you stumble inside, drunk on champagne and each other.

The house is a disaster — cups, plates, bottles everywhere. There’s even a bubbling ofurô in the backyard, steam ghosting into the night.

She opens the fridge and offers you water — the only thing inside. You laugh at her guilty smile and take a sip before kissing her against the counter, hot and breathless.

You both laugh your way upstairs to a room that looks half-exploded — clothes everywhere, a suitcase open on the floor. You trip over it and fall onto the bed.

“Ouch. Trying to take me out for the season already?” you joke.

Gio chuckles, shoving the bag aside. “I was thinking of better ways to distract you.”

Her white linen shirt hangs open now, revealing a soft blouse underneath. Her lips are flushed from kissing, her big eyes wide and dark. She steps between your legs, the scent of her perfume — spice and vanilla — dizzying.

“Show me, then.”

You pull her down, let her straddle your lap. The weight of her fits perfectly against you.

You kiss — messy, hot. Tongue and teeth, hands wandering to her waist, her hair. She bites — of course she does. Then she’s kissing your jaw, your neck, leaving a trail of tongue and teeth. You gasp against her, hands sliding to her hips, urging her to move, to grind down just a little.

You beg your mind to stay here — in this room, with this person.

And she does just that, like a sin. You pull Gio closer, chest to chest, kissing the soft curve of her neck, the junction of her shoulder. You bite, gentle, and swallow her hiss; suck on her tongue and feel her fingers tug at your tangled hair — in desperate need of a cut.

Your hands grow bolder, pushing her shirt off her shoulders, feeling the heat of her skin under your palms — burning, soft, alive. You trace her lower back, drag your nails just enough to earn a quiet moan, heat pooling low inside you.

Her hands wander too, slipping beneath your shirt, brushing your ribs. You flinch — the tattoo still a little sore. Gio stops, eyes searching your face.

“You okay?” she asks, breathless, hands cupping your jaw. You smirk up at her, mind fuzzy, desire humming under your skin.

“Just new ink. Still a bit touchy,” you whisper, running your hands down her sides. Her eyes glint, curious, before she pulls your shirt over your head, fingertips trailing lightly over the fresh ink.

“That’s so hot,” she murmurs, gaze lowering down your body — your small breasts under the simple top, golden skin, the taut line of your abs. “You are so hot.”

You go back to kissing, hungry, unthinking. Your hand drifts higher, teasing under her breast until she moans, and you kiss the sound right off her mouth.

Then a crash downstairs makes you both freeze. Voices. Laughter. Music. A door slamming. You pause, straining to listen, but Gio just pulls you closer, mouth finding yours again.

Another crash — the sharp sound of glass breaking — and Pina’s unmistakable voice: “Oh, fuck.”

You drop your head against Gio’s chest, laughing in frustration. She laughs too, warm and breathless, pressing quick kisses to your face.

“I think we should probably see what that was,” she says, grinning, resting her forehead against yours.

You stay like that for a moment — breathing, smiling, trying not to think of anything else.

This girl — she’s absolutely lovely.

Turns out Pina had claimed she could juggle two bottles of Malibu rum, and Jana — along with the four dumbasses who made up Gio’s friend group — believed her.

The result was a mess of broken glass and a kitchen smelling like a pirate’s secret hideout. Everyone was too drunk to find the situation anything other than hilarious.

You and Gio just exchanged a look and did your best to clean up while the others turned up the music again and danced on top of the sofa.

You still managed to steal a few more kisses from your very pretty girl before dragging your friends out onto the streets and back home.

The sun was close to rising when you stumbled into the house, finding Salma wrapped around her girlfriend on the pullout sofa.

You woke her up anyway, made everyone put on bikinis, and — hand in hand with your now best friends — dunked each other under the outside shower, just to be able to say you actually used it.

Dumb and young and defiant.

The first day of the year was officially Hangover Day.

Your ragtag group had dragged their sorry asses to the first beach club you could find (and the cheapest) and were now valiantly fighting off pounding headaches on top of stretch chairs and under umbrellas.

The place was eerily calm — probably because everyone else was sane enough not to go to a beach club when it was 19°C outside.

At some point, Jana handed you your phone. You scrolled through the thousands of missed messages from last night — group chats, missed calls, DMs.

And there it was, lost in the mess: Alexia’s message.

Simple. Understated.

Feliz Año Nuevo to my favorite Brazilian.

A picture of the fireworks over the beach where she was.

You stared at it too long. Tried to compare the feeling of this — the ache in your chest — with whatever you felt last night.

The unbearable ache of her.

You couldn’t go there.

The screen went black, and your reflection stared back at you.

Your hair was almost past your shoulders now. You needed a haircut.

“Jana, I need a fucking haircut.”

“You sure as fuck do,” she grumbled, rolling to the other side of her chair.

New year, new haircut, new you.

Same old feelings.

Chapter Text

New year, same armor.

The training center smells like freshly cut grass and humidity — comfortingly familiar. Alexia breathes it in, holds it inside herself as she heads to the locker room to change.

The months before Christmas break had been good to her. Post-op, her progress had been steady and sure; every time Andrés — her physio and close friend — told her she was ahead of schedule to return, it tasted like victory.

She hadn’t skipped her exercises in Mexico either, keeping her routine sharp, just as she would at home. Her mind rested, though — from the pressure to perform, from the cameras. She busied herself with workouts, walks on the beach, card games with her family. And when Olga flew over to join them, Alexia used her as a distraction too. Mostly when a certain Brazilian posted a story and she felt the urge to reply; sometimes she did anyway, and kissed Olga harder afterward, as if that could fix something.

But overall, her knee feels solid — the scar from surgery now barely visible, a thin white line on the inside. She’s lighter, sharper, her muscles remembering what it feels like to obey her completely.

Control — finally, she has it again. And maybe, if she can keep control of her body, she can keep control of her heart too.

This will be her comeback year. She’ll win another Champions League, the Liga F, the Copa de la Reina — whatever comes her way. She’ll carve her spot in the World Cup with her teeth if she has to.

She enters the locker room with confidence, wearing the leadership mantle with ease. She hugs everyone, listens to vacation stories, lets Mapí and Marta pester her about her lack of tan, playfully advises Pina and Jana about drinking on holidays. Everything fits into place; she feels it in her bones — her resolve back, her mind a fortress.

But the feeling lasts only as long as it takes for Rio to barge into the room: loud, unapologetic.

Her hair is shorter now — cut like whoever did it was either blind or armed with dull scissors. Her skin is tanner than before, golden. And Alexia always gets the impression the girl grows taller every time she doesn’t see her for a while. A small cut on her eyebrow makes her look dangerous, more charming.

But her smile remains crooked. And by some miracle, she’s wearing long sleeves — even a hoodie. Feet still in sliders, with those ridiculous socks Pina gave her for Christmas.

Still Rio — stupidly beautiful.

Alexia breathes it in as she laces her boots, tugging on the knot like she’s tying herself back together. Tries to ignore the girl making her rounds across the room, greeting everyone, until—

“Alex.” Rio’s voice, close. She always says it like that, tries and fails to keep it Alê — the x escapes with her accent. Alexia feels all kinds of warm, and for all her control, she’s already smiling, standing up, wrapping her arms around the girl.

The scent of her — fresh, salty, almost like sea breeze.

“Saudades,” Rio murmurs in her ear, holding her close.

Alexia pulls back a little, her face already open, her focus slipping at the edges.

“What is that? Sou-dade?” the Catalan tries, her tongue stumbling over the foreign word.

“It’s like ‘I missed you,’” Rio chuckles, smirking up at her, fingers playing with the collar of Alexia’s tracksuit — an excuse to keep touching, one Alexia doesn’t mind. “But more.”

“Saudades it is, then,” she murmurs back, the locker room fading into white noise.

Her control hits the floor like spilled water.

Alexia is still doing separate workouts from the rest — slowly increasing her weights and runs until she’s cleared for full training with the ball. It just means she ends up leaving a little earlier than everyone else. Or sometimes, missing out on them entirely.

She can’t wait to go back — her whole body aches for it.

But today she stays a little longer. Marta is also training separately — her hip bothering her again — and now she wants to meet Caro afterward, so Alexia just tags along.

In the locker room, her breath stumbles.

Because there’s Rio — shirtless, still damp from the shower. Water sliding down her toned stomach.

It’s... a lot. But that’s not what catches Alexia’s attention.

It’s the ink on her ribs.

Rio waves, and Alexia steps closer, a little dazed.

“You got a tattoo?”

“Oh yeah, over Christmas. Cool, right?” Rio grins, towel drying her hair.

Alexia leans in, eyes tracing the dark lines on golden skin. The words are foreign, but not unknown.

“I know these,” she says quietly. “It’s the paper you gave me.”

Rio pauses. Crosses her arms like she’s shielding her heart. Then she tells the story — about her grandmother, her loss, her leaving.

Alexia feels her chest tighten with every word. She wants to pull her close, kiss the top of her head. She can’t imagine a family like that. It doesn’t seem fair.

“You should have told me,” Alexia murmurs. “I would’ve given it back — I still have it—”

“No.” Rio cuts her off gently, a small smile curving her lips. She points at the tattoo again. “I got it on my skin now. Forever.”

Alexia exhales, her hand moving before her brain can stop it.

Her knuckles trace the edge of the tattoo — skin warm beneath her touch. A small, innocent caress.

Rio’s breath catches anyway.

Feelings, Alexia decided long ago, were best kept locked in.

Passion on the field was one thing — but to be a top player, you needed a cool head. No distractions. Clear mind, clear vision, and the path to victory would open up. She believes that. She plays like that.

Labor omnia vincit — work conquers all. She even has it tattooed.

It drives her crazy that Rio is the exact opposite. No cool head, no patience. Her pacing is still a problem, even after months of training. It’s the first match since the break, and the girl is everywhere — dribbling too much, focusing too little.

The energy isn’t bad, per se. God knows she has plenty to spare. But it drives Alexia, the master of restraint, wild.

There’s no faking for Rio — she’ll pop back up after a foul, ignore the whistle, smirk at her opponent. Intentional, undeniable. Alexia still has so much to teach her.

But she’s not nervous on the stands; the team is in control, already up 3–0. Aitana, Lucy, Irene, and Caro have been subbed off to give the younger players minutes. Alexia is more anxious than anything — anxious to be back on the pitch by the end of January, to test her new knee, to pass a ball to Rio, or maybe receive one from her and score.

That’s where her mind is when the play unfolds.

A beautiful run from Pina down the sideline, a quick pass to Rio inside the box — the Brazilian dribbles, a half-moon feint, and fires the ball into the net. Effortless. Careless.

Too talented, Alexia thinks. So talented she allows herself to be sloppy.

She’s already planning what to correct in the next training session when Rio and Pina sprint toward the stands — right where Alexia is. Cameras catch everything as Rio throws an arm around Pina, then lets go — shapes a V with her fingers and crosses it with another.

An A.

Something inside Alexia tightens. Heat rises up her chest. Marta, standing beside her, nudges with a grin. “Look at that. She’s too cute.”

This stupid girl — who knows nothing about the internet, how people dissect every gesture, how they’ll speculate: Who’s A on the team? How close are they? What does it mean?

Alexia tells herself maybe it won’t blow up.

But later, down on the field, congratulating everyone on the win, she watches Rio and Pina’s post-match interview. The camera always finds Rio — she’s loud, unfiltered, and looks unfairly good in a fitted jersey.

“What’s the A for?” the reporter asks, a woman who’s always around for smaller games.

“It’s for our capitana,” Rio says proudly, hands on her hips, grinning. “She’ll be back soon, and we’re excited for that. But we’re taking care of things for now.”

Alexia wants to roll her eyes.

Wants to drag the girl away from the microphone.

Wants — maybe — to hold her and never let go.

A goal for her.

How simple.

How devastatingly special.

The next day, Olga forwards the video to Alexia.

Adorable, she writes.

Alexia knows what she really means: Who is this girl dedicating goals to you?

The captain refuses to rise to the bait. She won’t indulge jealousy — not hers, not anyone else’s.

She may be unsure of her feelings for Rio, unsure what it means — if it means anything — but she refuses to step away from the girl for anyone’s comfort. She’ll do what’s right for herself, for the team, for Rio.

The rest is confetti.

She replies simply: She is.

Then locks her phone and leaves it at that.

January is cold in Barcelona. The breeze from the sea turns sharp, the nights especially freezing.

Not her favorite season to train, but this year, she won’t complain.

She’s finally back with the ball. Back on the field.

Maybe she feels like crying — just a little — though she thought she’d dried all her tears after her ACL surgery. Apparently there are still a few left.

She sniffs, laughs, and dives back into the game she loves.

Her teammates and staff clap her on the back, cheer, hug her tight. If it were summer, there would probably be water flying everywhere. She doesn’t even complain when the social media team zooms in on her face.

Nobody’s happier than she is — well, maybe Rio, who sticks to her side like a puppy, smiling so wide it almost hurts to look. Like she can’t believe Alexia’s finally back.

At lunch, there’s a toast — water and apple juice, of course — to comebacks and legends.

At dinner with her family later, she allows herself one glass of wine.

She’s back where she belongs.

Alexia was — even through extensive effort — not a robot.

She liked to think of herself as fair, disciplined, just. But of course, she had favorites — people she clicked with more easily than others. It was only human.

And this… fondness for Rio — this tenderness — wouldn’t go away. It lived under her skin, thrumming, a quiet ache, a need to be close.

The girl must have felt it too; Alexia was sure of it. They drifted toward each other constantly — in training, during downtime, always orbiting the same space. It kept happening, and Alexia was… infatuated? Was that even the right word?

And it had consequences, because she liked Rio a little too much, and she couldn’t let anyone notice. Couldn’t let anyone comment. She wouldn’t be able to handle it.

So she did what she always did — refocused, compartmentalized. Her comeback was near; her place in the starting lineup waiting. She would be tougher than usual, sharper. And sometimes—

“Rio, you’re not doing the drill right.”

“I am doing it right. What are you on about?”

“It’s one touch. Solament uno.”

“It’s working, what does it matter?”

Alexia exhaled sharply, pinched the bridge of her nose. It felt like every interaction between them turned into this these days.

Lucy had the ball tucked under her arm — she was playing defender. Rio’s task was simple: run straight, twist, and pass to Alexia. But there was always that extra flourish, that flick of her heel — a tiny deviation that shouldn’t matter. Except it did. Because Alexia couldn’t let it slide.

“It matters because it’s the drill,” she said, stepping closer, her voice clipped. “We need to play as one. This is a team.”

It was a strangely warm winter day. Rio had already shed her long sleeves, wearing only the training bib and a sports bra. The sight distracted Alexia — just for a heartbeat — which made her even angrier at herself.

“It’s not compromising anything,” Rio countered, stubborn, “it’s just the way I play and—”

“It’s not the way Barcelona plays. Not right now.”

Alexia grabbed the ball from Lucy and sent it rolling back toward Rio, who didn’t back away. She raised her chin, defiant.

“Maybe it’s a good thing if we play differently sometimes.”

“Maybe it’d be a good thing for you to learn the tactics before giving opinions on other things,” Alexia snapped. Sharp. Biting. Like she hadn’t been in a while — not with Rio, at least.

Regret came instantly. The way Rio recoiled, the quiet sting in her eyes. Lucy pretended to fuss with her laces, pretending she hadn’t heard.

Alexia knew Rio still struggled with tactical play — positioning, formations. She studied, yes, but it wasn’t part of her early training in Brazil. Alexia had helped her, especially when she’d been sidelined with the knee injury. And now she’d just thrown that effort back in her face.

She took a tentative step forward, but Rio simply went back to her spot, muttering, “Yes, capi.”

They resumed the drill.

Rio did it exactly as asked this time — perfect, mechanical, lifeless.

The bitter taste in Alexia’s mouth lingered long after.

Lucy jogged up beside her during the water break. They stood a little apart from the benches.

The Englishwoman took a slow sip from her bottle, her expression unreadable.

Alexia mirrored her, one hand on her hip, gaze carefully fixed anywhere but Rio — who was across the pitch, juggling a ball as if nothing had happened.

“Cooling your head a bit, eh?” Lucy said lightly, throwing her a pointed glance.

“If you say so…” Alexia muttered, twisting her bottle cap back and forth. Her thoughts were racing.

She shouldn’t have been so harsh. She’d been right about the drill — but not about the tone. She’d been certain she was back in rhythm as captain, but somehow Rio made everything harder.

“You know,” Lucy interrupted, voice casual, “it wasn’t that bad, the way she was playing.”

Alexia’s eyes snapped up. “It wasn’t the drill we were supposed to be doing.”

“I know, but a little flair doesn’t hurt. Change things up sometimes, you know?”

Alexia frowned. “We play very well.”

“Yeah, we do,” Lucy agreed, “but it’s predictable. It’s not the worst thing in the world to let a bit of chaos in. Keeps everyone guessing.”

Alexia huffed a laugh — short, humorless. “Flair over technique might cost us a game.”

Lucy’s expression softened. “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll win one. What looks like flair to us is just instinct for her. She’s—”

“I know she is,” Alexia cut in quietly.

Her eyes found Rio again — juggling the ball, tossing a water bottle back and forth with Jana. Silly, effortless. Beautiful.

Like she didn’t even think about it.

It amazed Alexia — and frustrated her — that Rio embodied everything she loved about football. Joga bonito.

“I didn’t mean to be…” Alexia started, then faltered. Words tangled in her throat. Feelings were always harder than tactics. “It wasn’t…”

How could she explain that Rio both infuriated and calmed her? That she pulled at the edges of Alexia’s composure and somehow stitched her back together at the same time?

“You like her too much,” Lucy said finally, like she was commenting on the weather. “That’s why you push her so hard.”

The words landed with surgical precision.

Was it that obvious?

“I don’t—”

“It’s fine,” Lucy interrupted, smirking. “She’s very likeable. Just apologize. Be sincere. Tell her she has to listen first and argue later.”

Oh. Simple as that.

Maybe that’s why Lucy Bronze wore the armband for England.

Alexia nodded, words failing her for once. They both turned to watch Rio again — now laughing at something Aitana said, brushing her hair out of her face, carefree.

Alexia swallowed hard.

“Easy on the eyes too, right?” Lucy added with a wink Alexia couldn’t return. “You know Leah, back in England? Been asking about her — said that pretty Brazilian would look great in Arsenal red.”

“Leah should mind her own players,” Alexia shot back — more bite in her voice than she intended.

Lucy just chuckled, low and knowing, like she’d uncovered a secret Alexia wasn’t ready to name.

The sky is painted orange when Alexia gets back on the field, already in her joggers and jacket, trainers on. The sprinklers are half-heartedly working on the sides, and the air is already crisping for the night.

Rio is still out there though, playing — five or six balls lined up at her side, kicking them toward the goalpost. Not the actual goal, but the post. The sound of it ripples through the camp.

Alexia approaches carefully, hands in her pockets. She’s cold — she’s always cold — but the nervousness makes her flush.

“You know you’re supposed to score, right?” the capitana comments, finally close enough to the other girl.

Rio doesn’t turn, doesn’t even answer. She twists and kicks again, missing the goalpost by five centimeters.

Then she turns to Alexia, brushing her hair to the side. It’s shorter now, a little over her shoulders. It should look awful — instead, it makes her incredibly charming.

“This way it’s harder,” Rio explains, a small twitch at the corner of her lips. “If I can hit the post, I can probably hit the goal, right?”

She kicks again, misses, and bristles at the grass.

Alexia sighs — she knows the girl is still frustrated with her. Sometimes Rio is so obviously young it catches right at Alexia’s heart.

“You have to hit the outside of the ball, close to the pin…” Alexia says patiently, rolling one ball over to Rio. The girl stops it, looks at her, then down at the ball.

She takes her distance, does exactly what Alexia said. The ball soars and clinks against the top post on the left. Rio smiles, satisfied.

Alexia smiles too, can’t help herself.

“See how it’s good to listen for once?”

Rio huffs, rolls her eyes, and lets the silence settle for a beat. She juggles the ball from one foot to another before stopping again.

“It’s not so bad when you’re not angry,” she finally says, dark eyes flicking up with mischief.

Alexia splutters, pulling at her sleeve. “I wasn’t mad, it wasn’t—”

“You know how I always know when you are angry?” Rio cuts in, taking slow, deliberate steps forward — until Alexia can feel her warmth.

She’s still got a few centimeters over Rio, but somehow the girl always feels taller. Always fills the space.

“You wear it all here,” Rio says softly, brushing her fingers along Alexia’s jaw — light, teasing.

Alexia shivers. Holds her breath. Lets her get away with it. Lets her get away with a lot of things.

“I can always tell.”

Alexia inhales, then catches Rio’s hand, gently pulling it down — holds it there for a moment. Breaks the moment because she has to.

“And you know how I always know when you’re angry?” she asks, a hint of a smirk returning.

Rio tilts her head, curious.

“Because you pout. Like una nena.”

Rio gasps in mock offense. “Oh, I do not!”

Then, right on cue, she pouts.

And Alexia laughs. Actually laughs — the sound bubbling out before she can stop it. Her smile opens wider.

She thinks, God, I want to kiss her.

It’s the first time the thought crosses her mind so clearly — not as a feeling, but a sentence. Complete. Solid. And terrifying.

It startles her. Not her. Not here.

She almost recoils, heat crawling up her neck.

Does the opposite instead — steps back, lets her hand drop. Always does the opposite of what she wants, what she craves.

Sighs through it, pretending it means nothing.

“Look,” she says carefully. “I know some things are different between us, but… you can’t talk like that with me before listening. I want to listen to you — to everyone — but you have to listen first.”

Her voice softens. “And I’m sorry. About what I said.”

“I’m sorry too,” Rio admits, eyes on the ground. “I shouldn’t have talked back like that. It won’t happen again.” She hesitates. “But my style — the way I play — I can’t do anything about that. I won’t.”

Alexia sighs, hands on her hips. “I know, Rio. I wouldn’t ask you to.”

They stop. Just watching each other — opposites, somehow the same. Broken mirrors reflecting the same light.

There’s a loose strand of hair in Rio’s eyes, and Alexia’s hand twitches with the urge to tuck it back. She rolls the ball under her feet instead.

“So,” Alexia says finally. “Are we okay?”

Rio shrugs, lips curving. “Depends.”

“Depends?”

“If you’re going to play a little with me.”

Alexia blinks. “Play?”

“Just a little,” Rio smirks, juggling the ball once and catching it. “Come on.”

Alexia looks down at her trainers, raises an eyebrow. “I’m not exactly dressed—”

“Then take them off.”

“Rio…”

“Let’s play like we were kids. Barefoot.”

“So long ago I can barely remember,” Alexia mutters, shaking her head — but Rio is already sprinting off with the ball.

“Bet you can’t take it from me!”

Alexia laughs. Kicks off her trainers. Feels the grass under her feet — cold, soft. Perfect.

They play for what feels like hours. Just stupid things — trying to take the ball doing the silliest faults, pulling at each other’s hips, tangling legs. Trying to juggle the ball from one end of the field to the other but tripping each other up every time.

Fun. Absolute fun.

It’s not like Alexia doesn’t have fun playing. She does. But this — this kind of silliness — is rare. Precious.

Of course it’s Rio who gives her that.

Of course.

Alexia is sitting across from Alba and Mapí — the chaos twins — while they babble on and on about her birthday. They’d agreed to meet in a small, tucked-away café near Alexia’s place, and maybe if Ingrid had shown up, she’d be spared from at least half their collective stupidity.

As it is, she just tunes them out.

She’s distracted anyway, slightly tired.

The season is back in full force — media duties, interviews, sponsorships, endless appearances. Back to the tornado.

All that because she just wants to kick a ball around for a living.

But she won’t complain, not this time. It means she’s playing again.

Her comeback game came and went, and it went well. No wobbly knees, no second-guessing. She’s still tentative — who wouldn’t be — but not afraid anymore. Not after everything.

One assist in a home game. Applause from the stands. Cheers echoing her name.

She missed this. Missed it more than she let herself admit.

Football is her whole life, right there between the lines of the pitch.

So yes, she’s back to no sleep and obsessive behavior, but that’s how she feels happiest — complete.

Maybe, just maybe, the idiots in front of her have a point about doing something special for her birthday. After the year she’s had, maybe she deserves a celebration.

She didn’t even let herself rest over Christmas.

Maybe she can afford to now.

While Dumb and Dumber list off their plans, Alexia scrolls through her phone, half-listening. She finds a video recipe for arroz caldoso and sends it to Rio — she’s been keeping her distance, or trying to, using her packed schedule as the perfect excuse.

Still, they text. Still talk.

It feels harmless enough.

Safe.

In the background, Alba and Mapí keep going, feeding off each other’s energy like always. They’d dated briefly years ago — a horrible idea that, by some miracle, ended peacefully. Alexia had wanted to strangle Mapí at the time, but now she’s grateful it didn’t explode.

She’s less grateful for how much they enjoy teaming up to torment her.

“We got the perfect house in the islands! Practically free if Alexia tags them in a post.”

Alexia frowns but lets it slide. Not the worst thing she’s had to do for PR.

“And then we have the boat ride Saturday,” Alba adds, scrolling on her phone. “Same deal. Hashtag ‘capitana vibes’ or whatever.”

Annoying. But manageable.

“I’m putting down a rule of no boring couples allowed,” Alba says, jotting notes on a napkin. “Guest list is ours.”

Wait—what?

“Totally with you,” Mapí agrees immediately. “Only single cousins, and make sure Olga is busy that weekend.”

Alexia blinks.

“And Rio needs to be free, right? She’s like the party’s gift and—”

“Qué puta cosa están hablando?” Alexia blurts out, loud enough to make the barista flinch. Her phone hits the table with a sharp thud.

The pair across from her freeze like they’ve just remembered she’s actually present.

“Oh, hola, capi,” Mapí grins sheepishly. “We were just—uh—brainstorming.”

Alba sips her coffee innocently. “It’s just a fun idea. We figured you’d want someone to, you know, brighten the mood. Olga’s... well, you get all tense around her, like you need to be perfect.”

Alexia feels a headache coming on. She knows her sister isn’t Olga’s biggest fan, but cutting her out of her own birthday trip seems like a bit of a stretch. “You’re not inviting my girlfriend to my birthday, but you want to invite Rio? Are you both insane?”

“Chill, hermana, you can celebrate with Olga and the family on the actual day!” Alba argues, finger raised like the teacher she is when she’s giving a lecture. “And I’m pretty sure Olga has a Manuela’s Party that same weekend, so this can just be a friends’ trip. No harm.”

When she puts it like that, it sounds simple enough — but Alexia doesn’t trust the intentions behind it.

“And what’s this couple rule? We only know boring couples.” Alexia turns to Mapí, pointing. “You are a boring couple, idiota.”

“Oh my god, am not!” Mapí replies indignantly, hand to her chest like a Victorian woman defending her honor. “Me and Ingrid are perfectly fun, excuse you.”

Alexia just rolls her eyes, already tired.

“Also, we are not insane,” Mapí counters smoothly. “Just observant. The tension between you and our resident Brazilian could power half of Barcelona, Alexia. Might as well channel it.”

Alba snorts into her cup. “Think of it as therapy. Exposure therapy.”

Alexia’s jaw drops. “I’m not allergic to her, coño.”

“Could’ve fooled us,” Mapí mutters. “You act like she’s radioactive but can’t stop looking at her.”

“I—” Alexia starts, then cuts herself off. There’s really no winning here.

She had confessed to Mapí once, in a moment of weakness, that she was... attracted to the girl. Of course it would turn against her in a matter of weeks.

“Come on,” Alba presses, leaning forward, grin wide. “It’s one weekend. One harmless, sunny, no-strings-attached weekend. You deserve it. We’ll handle the rest.”

Alexia exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I... let me think, okay? This is not a yes.”

Which, in Alba and Mapí language, means yes.

She takes it to her therapist the next day, which sounds ridiculous even to her. She has far more serious problems to address than whatever is going on between her and her teammate.

But... it feels too important, too delicate to ignore.

“I can’t really intervene,” her therapist says carefully, hands folded over a notepad, “but it does sound… reckless.”

Alexia stares at the carpet. “They’re impossible. I said maybe just to shut them up.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

Alexia glares. “That’s different.”

A small, knowing hum. “You’re aware that maybe is often the most dangerous word?”

Alexia sighs, sinking into the couch. “Even if I say yes... it’s just a trip. A weekend. Nothing will happen. I’m not— I have control. Over everything.”

“Do you believe that?”

Silence stretches. The only sound is the ticking clock on the wall.

“...No,” Alexia finally says.

“Just remember,” the therapist says mildly, “if you drop the ball, you’re still the one who has to pick it up.”

Alexia groans, pressing her palms to her eyes. She wanted straight advice, not philosophy wrapped in football metaphors.

She can’t outplay her own brain like it’s a defender.

By the time she decides to call in the big guns, it’s Thursday, and Alba has been texting her nonstop about flights and guest lists.

When she meets Irene for coffee after training, the sky outside is already dark. Irene Paredes is an imposing figure, steady and blunt — exactly the kind of honesty Alexia needs. She’s been there through everything: the Federation fights, the mess with Jenni, the heartbreak that followed. Irene never sugarcoats, and that’s precisely why Alexia trusts her.

They talk for a bit about training and Irene’s son, Matteo, before circling the inevitable. By then, Alexia’s herbal tea has gone cold.

“Emergency talk, huh?” Irene smirks. “Can I just say I take huge offense at being labeled a ‘boring couple’? The only reason I didn’t strangle Mapí is because we really need defenders this season.”

“Well, get in line for that one,” Alexia snorts. “But don’t take it seriously — it’s not like you’d leave your wife and kid to drink on a boat with people you see every day.”

“No, I’m saving that free pass for when we win the Champions League,” Irene says solemnly. Alexia grins, picturing it.

“So.” Alexia runs a hand through her hair. “They’re planning my birthday trip — Alba and Mapí — and they want to invite Rio. And maybe... not Olga.”

Irene pauses. “And? What of it? Is it because you drool all over her?”

“I don’t drool,” Alexia mutters, shifting uncomfortably.

“Don’t worry, it’s not that obvious.” Irene softens a little, maybe out of pity. “And what’s their grand argument for this stupid idea? Besides enjoying watching the world burn?”

Alexia grimaces. “That I should have fun. That I should stop overthinking for once. Just one weekend.”

Irene makes a face like she’s just heard that Real Madrid won the Liga F. She sighs, and Alexia braces for impact.

“Did you really call me so I could tell you this is a terrible idea? You couldn’t use your pretty head for that?” Irene shakes hers. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s fine to look but not touch?”

Alexia blushes, stomach twisting.

“Look, if you want me to say out loud what you already know, fine.” Irene leans back. “You’re her captain. She’s your teammate. After Jenni, you swore you’d never do that again. And she’s—what—nine years younger? Okay, that part doesn’t matter much, we’re all the same tontas chasing a ball, but still. You two even compete for the same position.”

“I know,” Alexia mutters, sinking lower in her chair. She’s thought all of this before, but hearing it aloud stings.

“Oh, and you have a girlfriend,” Irene adds, almost as an afterthought — the final nail in the coffin.

“The optics are a disaster. And there’s an imbalance — of power, of status, of everything. You can’t just—” Irene gestures vaguely. “You can’t let whatever’s between you two become something it shouldn’t.”

Alexia stays silent.

Irene sighs, softer now. “Look, if you just want a fling with a pretty young thing, fine. But at least pick one that won’t implode your career, ¿sí? You are Alexia Putellas.”

Alexia’s throat tightens. Her chest feels smaller with each word — words she’s already told herself a hundred times, every time Rio smiles too brightly at her.

“It’s not that,” she admits quietly.

“Then it’s worse,” Irene says simply.

Later that night, Alexia walks along the empty marina, jacket zipped to her chin. The sea air stings — cold, briny, grounding. She watches the lights flicker across the water and tries to quiet her mind.

She knows what she has to do.

Irene’s words echo in her chest.

Then it’s worse.

She pulls out her phone and types quickly.

To: Alba

Don’t invite Rio for the trip.

The typing bubbles appear almost instantly.

Alba: Oops. Too late. 

Alexia exhales through her nose, staring at the message for a long moment.

Alba is her dear sister — but if she were standing in front of her right now, Alexia might actually commit sororicide.

The sea laps against the dock below, rhythmic and indifferent.

Alexia pockets her phone, but her hand trembles slightly — from the cold, she tells herself. From the cold, and nothing else.

She’s always believed control was her anchor — that if she trained harder, slept earlier, planned better, she could master every part of herself.

But lately, that anchor feels lighter.

And Rio — Rio keeps tugging at the rope.

Chapter Text

The driver makes the last turn, and you finally catch sight of the house where you’ll be staying for the next two nights.

It’s all white and modern, sharp edges and too many windows, perched on top of a little hill overlooking the beach. If you stretch your neck enough, you can see the narrow path down the rocks that leads straight to the white sand below.

It’s Spain’s idea of a Greek island — white sand, luxury houses, a charming town with a raging nightlife. You couldn’t even point to the Canary Islands on a map, but apparently, it’s the place to escape winter in February.

And just by the way the sun hits the too-bright, two-story house, you already know you’ve packed all the wrong clothes in your little duffel bag — your idea of fancy dressing being your favorite football jersey and the one pair of pants without holes.

You groan internally. You should’ve let Jana pack your stuff like she insisted.

The other Catalan girl whistles low beside you, peeking out the window as the driver parks in the short driveway.

“Wow. Talk about vacationing in style,” she says, grinning at you, sunglasses holding her hair back.

This trip had been half-spontaneous adventure, half-hostage situation.

Mapí had announced it to the whole locker room, a bored-looking Alexia beside her: “Birthday trip! Whoever’s free, come along. Middle of February.”

She’d also mumbled something about “whoever’s boring, please stay behind” — earning an elbow to the ribs from the captain herself. Alexia doesn’t like divides in the locker room, and she’s not about to start one now.

You learned her birthday is usually a three-part event — family on the actual day, sponsors during the week, and friends somewhere in between. This time, she chose a weekend getaway, taking advantage of the only blank space on the season’s calendar.

“Capitana’s paying for the house!” Mapí had declared magnanimously. Alexia just rolled her eyes.

Still, you would’ve been scraping coins to make it, and were seriously considering skipping — until Alba, of all people, texted you to say your presence was mandatory. You had no idea what the fuck she meant by that.

But against your better judgment, any opportunity to spend time with Alexia was a good one. You’ve never felt it before — this unbearable need to be close to someone, to just be near them.

You are not sure you have ever been in love but maybe it feels like this.

 You know it’s dangerous, stupid, doomed, but you can’t help yourself.

You figure she must like you enough to want you here, that your presence means something — enough for her sister to demand it.

So, cheapest flight available and a little bit of begging later, Jana came too. She could’ve arrived earlier, but she’s too good of a friend to let you travel alone.

And now, here you are — in front of this villa. The kind of house that smells like money and sunscreen. The kind of place you imagine Alexia renting with a single text and signature.

Your stomach twists a little. You shouldn’t feel nervous — you know these people, train with them every day — but this feels different. It’s not football. It’s them, out of uniform, shiny and relaxed.

Jana bumps your shoulder. “Relax, Ri. They love us.”

“Sure,” you mutter, staring at your reflection in the glass doors — jersey, shorts, sneakers. “Hope they love humble vibes.”

The front door’s open, laughter spilling out. You catch Alba’s voice first, loud as ever:

“¡Las chiquitas, por fin!”

Marta appears from the hallway, barefoot, a glass of sangría in hand. “About time! Come on, we’ve been waiting!”

She’s glowing, of course. Everyone here is glowing.

The tour starts before you can even ask — Marta dragging you and Jana from room to room, her voice a rapid-fire stream of details: kitchen, living room, terrace, pool, the view. You could fit your entire apartment inside the master bedroom. You’re rooming with Patri and Lucy.

Marta practically ordered you to put on bikinis before coming outside.

And when you finally step onto the terrace, still fiddling with the strings of your bikini bottoms, you stop cold.

Because out by the pool — of course — half the girls are sunbathing topless.

You blink once. Twice. The world tilts a little.

“Cultural shock, exhibit A,” Jana mutters, smirking. You try not to look too directly at anyone.

It’s not like you haven’t seen them naked before — you share a locker room every day — it’s just… different. The context. Tits out, glistening in the sun scrambles your brain for a minute, okay?

Mapí opens her eyes and waves you over. “¡Riozito, Janita! Finally!”

Of course she’s topless. Seeing María León’s boobs was not on your bucket list this year. You fight the raging blush and wave weakly back. Jana fucking cackles beside you.

You’re still processing — Lucy stretched out like a lizard, Alba and some woman you recognize from Alexia’s holiday photos laughing over drinks, Patri floating lazily in the pool, Ingrid and Caro talking with their legs in the water. You don’t see Alexia’s alleged girlfriend anywhere in sight, but you’re not about to ask a question you don’t really want the answer to.

And then your eyes find her.

Alexia, sitting at the edge of a lounger, bikini top still on (thank God — you’d drop dead otherwise), sunglasses shading her eyes. She turns at the sound of Mapí’s voice and smiles. Small, slow, devastating.

She’s… pretty isn’t enough. She’s golden, sculpted, impossible. Her toned stomach with those sharp little dips on each side, skin flushed and perfect, sunglasses perched on her perfect nose, lips curling into that dimpled smile — and those stupid big hoops she’s so fond of.

She’s no less beautiful in the chaos of day-to-day life — maybe even more imposing when she’s barking orders on the field like the commander she is — it’s sexy, dangerously so.

But here? In this place? It’s something else.

You’re grateful for your sunglasses hiding the way your eyes follow her every move.

“Welcome to paradise,” she says. “Took the scenic route?”

“Cheapest route,” Jana answers for you, dropping down on the closest chair.

You shrug, faking a confidence you don't actually feel "Saving the best for last right?”

Alexia snorts, amused, and you feel the little soaring of pride everytime you manage to make her laugh.

You take your time making the rounds, saying hi to everyone. By the time you reach Alba, she pulls you down to introduce you to Cris, her and Alexia’s cousin. Thankfully, they had the good sense to put their bikini tops back on.

“Rio! Come say hi! This is the teammate I told you about — the one who can cook!” Alba chatters to her cousin, a woman around her age, curvier but with that same warm smile and hazel eyes that seem to run in the Putellas-Segura family. “Promise you’ll bake a cake for us this weekend?”

You scratch the back of your head, nodding. “Yeah, just buy the stuff. We can have cake for breakfast on Sunday.”

“None of that healthy stuff my sister likes, though,” Alba grumbles, and you and Cris laugh.

The sun’s lower now, soft gold brushing over everything. The air smells like salt and grilled shrimp. Laughter bubbles up from the pool where Lucy’s trying to teach Cris how to dive (badly).

You sit at the edge of the water, feet dangling in.

You don’t know how much time passes before you feel someone approach — and by scent alone, you know who it is.

Alexia.

She hovers for a second before sitting down beside you.

“Hey,” you say, looking up.

She tilts her head, smiling. “Hey. Settled in?”

“Trying to. Didn’t realize this was a luxury retreat.”

She shrugs. “Blame Alba and Mapí. I just pay half the deposit and make the Instagram post.”

You laugh, but it fades. “Sometimes it’s weird, you know? Being here. You all make it look so easy — relaxed, perfect.”

Alexia looks at you for a long second. Then she nudges your knee gently.

“You belong here, Rio. I wanted you to come. Don’t overthink it.”

You want to believe her. You want to believe this life can be yours too — that she wants you close, in every way that matters.

You glance across the pool, where Marta has joined the topless ranks, and quickly look away. Alexia notices.

“You okay?” she asks, curious.

“Hm.” You splash at the water, suddenly shy. “Just… some Spanish customs still weird me out.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Ah, if the boobs are scaring your Brazilian sensibilities, I can tell them to put their bikinis back on, cariño.”

You choke — not sure if it’s the teasing tone or the term of endearment that makes your stomach flip.

“I’m not sensitive,” you protest, blushing. “It’s just a surprise, that’s all. Not complaining about the view.”

“You should try it,” she says, still teasing. “It’s not sexual — just a way to avoid tan lines.”

“Then why aren’t you doing it?” you fire back, emboldened by the sun or maybe her nearness.

She smirks, unfazed. “Who says I haven’t?”

You gulp — the thought alone sends heat straight through you.

You smirk back, feeling the current between you shift just a little.

You shrug, pretending at ease. “You couldn’t handle me if I went full Spanish mode.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Oh? Full Spanish mode?”

You grin. “Tits out and everything.”

Alexia laughs — full, rich, delighted. “Good to know your modesty’s optional.”

“You’d faint,” you shoot back.

Her smirk widens, gaze locking with yours — warm, curious, a little too knowing.

It’s playful, yes — but under it, there’s something taut, humming. The kind of silence that remembers every glance, every almost-touch. There’s a new tone there — flirty, subtle, unspoken.

Not a full wave, but something beginning to rise.

Later, the gang will shower and head into the lazy beach town for dinner. It will be fun — warm and easy — all wine and laughter.

You’ll learn new things about these people you like so much, things outside of football.

Alexia will sit near you, make you try new foods, ask about the jersey you’re wearing, talk about everything and nothing at all.

Your eyes will keep following her around the room.

You’re sure it’s love then, this feeling. It can’t be anything else.

The ocean looked endless — blue stretching into blue, sunlight splintering off the surface until it hurt to look too long. The yacht had dropped anchor a while ago, a small bank of sand visible on the horizon, so the passengers could swim, tan, and drink under the February sun.

Alexia leaned against the rail of the rented boat, sunglasses low on her nose, one hand wrapped loosely around a bottle of beer that had long since gone warm. She wasn’t really drinking it — more like holding on to something.

She’d splurged — on the boat, that is. A sleek two-story vessel with a full open bar to boot. “Worthy of La Reina,” Alba had joked. It felt a little like too much.

Alexia wasn’t properly rich yet, but she was getting there. And it wasn’t like she ever had time to actually spend her money. Most of it went toward helping her family, her friends, or her foundation. So she hadn’t argued much when her mother and Alba convinced her that she deserved to throw a little cash at herself for once — her twenty-ninth birthday, after all.

It was hard to deny it now, with the sun hitting the water just right and the salty breeze filling her lungs with ease.

Very different from the fight she’d had with Olga before leaving.

A complete mess, that’s what it was. She hadn’t been able to put her feelings into words, just said she needed “a break” — from the pressure, the club, the media. Somehow, Olga heard something else entirely: that Alexia needed a break from her.

“Why do you need your friends? Why can’t you just need me?” Olga had asked, more exhausted than angry.

Alexia had heard what wasn’t said: Why are you so distant? Why can’t you find the time — the space — for me?

Maybe she wasn’t built for relationships. Maybe her destiny really was to be married to football. It didn’t sound so bad most days.

The sound of footsteps broke her thoughts. She turned to see Marta coming up the stairs, flushed from the sun, freckles scattered across her nose, a bottle of Corona dangling from her hand.

“Could see the smoke from your thoughts from downstairs, Ale,” Marta joked, slouching against the railing beside her.

Alexia smiled.

Marta had been around for as long as she could remember. They’d been through a lot together — easier-going than Irene, far less chaotic than Mapí. Marta Torrejón was kind, steady. Alexia maybe envied her a little — the ease with which she found love with Caro, the way she loved football but didn’t let it consume her entire life.

“You’re supposed to be having fun, capi,” Marta said, nudging her shoulder and clinking their beers together.

Alexia sighed, forcing a smile. “I am having fun… just left a whole mess back in Barcelona. I’ll have to fix it somehow.”

Marta hummed, easy as always. “Yeah, but the mess is all the way over there. Try to enjoy here.”

Easier said than done.

Marta ignored her hesitation and nodded toward the water. “Look at those idiotas. How do they do it?”

Alexia’s eyes followed, inevitably. Down below, in the glittering blue, Lucy, Caro, Ingrid, and Rio floated near the boat — the Englishwoman and the Norwegians the only ones who could handle the ice-cold water, and Rio simply too addicted to swimming to stay out of it.

Earlier, it had taken her gang of overgrown athletes less than an hour to turn the yacht into chaos. Music blared through the speakers, someone had turned the cooler into an open bar, and Mapí had already convinced half the girls to dance on deck in their swimsuits.

Rio had gotten into a playful fight with Patri over who got to DJ — a dispute they’d settled with increasingly ridiculous jumps from the bow. Rio had won with a backflip that nearly gave Alexia a heart attack. The crew had applauded; Alexia had tried not to.

When Rio climbed the ladder back onto the deck, she’d been shivering, laughing, shaking droplets off her arms and hair like a dog. “So, so cold,” she’d said, voice trembling, and Alexia had tried very hard not to stare at the water gleaming over her tan, toned body.

Then she’d walked closer — dripping, teasing — and flicked her wet hair in Alexia’s direction.

“When you come to Brazil,” she’d said with a grin, “you’ll see how warm the water is.”

When, not if.

Alexia. Not anyone else.

Imagine that. Pure fantasy. Pure wishful thought.

Somehow, between yesterday and today, the energy between them had shifted. It was flirty, touchy, charged with something she didn’t dare name. Not the best idea — not even close — but it was happening, and she wasn’t doing anything to stop it.

“Come on, capi.” Marta tugged at her arm, grinning. “Let’s trade that hot beer for something cold. You’re going to relax — by force.”

And Alexia, for all her strength, just let her.

The current mission was to get as tanned and as drunk as possible before going back to the shore and on to the club for the end of the day. It was a noble endeavor, one Alexia wholeheartedly supported...just wasn't sure she wanted to be part of it.

Music thumped from the Bluetooth speaker — an odd mix of reggaeton, Catalan pop, and Rio’s insistence on tossing in a bit of Anitta every three songs. Someone kept yelling for refills; someone else was definitely spilling tequila on the deck. Lunch was forsaken, traded in for chips and a fruit plate the handyman served.

The boat rocked gently, enough to make standing a sport of balance.

“Okay, okay, challenge time!” Mapí announced, voice loud enough to carry over the music. She was already flushed pink from the sun and probably her fourth drink. “Next one who drops the ball drinks twice or has to jump over the boat!”

Lucy groaned, shading her eyes. “You realize the floor moves, right?”

“That’s the point!” Mapí said, grinning.

Patri tossed a football into the mix — someone must have brought it from their bag, because of course they did — and suddenly a group of professional athletes were half-drunk and trying to juggle on a swaying deck.

Marta and Caro gave up after two rounds, laughing too hard. Alba nearly launched the ball into the ocean. Rio, competitive as ever, somehow managed ten clean juggles barefoot before losing her footing and crashing into Jana, sending both of them into the water.

Cold, bright shrieks followed.

“¡Está helada!” Jana yelped from below, splashing Rio, who was laughing so hard she choked. The whole boat laughing along with them.

“Come on, capitana!” Mapí shouted from above, eyes glinting. “Show the kids how it’s done!”

Alexia waved her off, smiling, beer still in hand. “This is a lose-lose situation.”

“Oh, come on,” Marta teased, pulling out a bottle of tequila that she’d been hiding behind the cooler. "Bet you can do it more times than Riozito.”

"Bet she can't!" Rio yelled back, climbing up from the sea. A chorus of ooohs echoed around them.

And that was the start of the downfall — because Alexia Putellas, captain of Barcelona, La Reina, two-time Ballon d’Or winner, was — of course — fiercely competitive.

Especially when the other side was a very charming, very cocky Brazilian girl.

Turns out juggling a ball on a rocking boat was very fucking hard.

Fifteen minutes later, Alexia was two shots deep and losing gloriously, to the delight of her teammates.

By the time the captain of the yacht was promised a generous tip, everyone was more than tipsy — halfway to drunk and fully ridiculous.

“Body shots!” someone — probably Lucy — yelled, and the rest of the team took to the idea like sharks to blood.

Marta went first, salt sprinkled across Caro’s collarbone, a lime slice between her girlfriend’s teeth. They both burst out laughing halfway through, too shy to finish.

Then came Mapí and Ingrid, obviously. Ingrid tried to stay composed, but the moment Mapí leaned in to lick the salt, someone wolf-whistled and she broke into laughter, nearly spilling the lime.

They finished in a heated kiss that drew more catcalls and left more than one player hot under the collar.

Alba, never one to lose a challenge, turned to Patri. “Your turn, sunshine,” she said, already grabbing the tequila from Mapí.

Patri rolled her eyes but gave in, holding the lime between her lips while Alba leaned in far too dramatically.

Alexia tried and failed to look unimpressed as her little sister made her teammate turn bright pink. Laughter bubbled out of her.

It was all a blur of noise — half teasing, half chaos. The heat, the drinks, the way the boat swayed — it made everything looser, easier.

She felt it too: her body loose, her laughter freer, teasing coming easier.

Jana tugged at Rio’s arm, the other girl unusually still, lazy in her corner of the deck. Alexia had tried, and failed, not to look too much at her. The alcohol made her feel like a teenager again — stolen glances, secret smiles, a little giddy.

“Come on, let’s do it!” Jana pleaded, flushed from sun and alcohol, pulling Rio up.

Rio swayed, laughing. “Me and you? That’s just gross,” she teased, already reaching for the tequila and salt, smirk in place.

Alexia’s eyes followed every movement — the way Jana’s hand circled Rio’s wrist, the easy sway between them, the laughter.

Something twisted in Alexia’s stomach. Jealousy — stupid, baseless.

She knew Jana and Rio were just friends. Knew it.

Didn’t matter.

Rio poured salt on Jana’s neck, the lime on her other hand, then leaned in with that cocky grin and licked a clean line over her skin. Her pink tongue flicked right at the junction of shoulder and neck.

The younger girl took her shot, then bit into the lime while Jana shoved her away, laughing.

Cheers erupted. The girls were laughing. Alexia wasn’t.

Heat pooled too low for comfort. She licked her lips without realizing it. Her pulse thudded. Her skin buzzed. She looked away, then back again — couldn’t stop.

And then Mapí’s eyes found Alexia.

“Oh, no no no, birthday girl,” she said, grinning like the devil. “You don’t get to escape the ritual.”

Alexia shook her head, holding up her hands, taking a careful step backwards. “No way. I’m good. I’m observing.”

“Observing is boring!” Alba chimed in. “Come on, it’s her birthday — she needs a volunteer!”

Patri and Lucy made a show of volunteering, to Alexia’s furious blush. The others howled with laughter.

She was going to kill Mapí. And then Alba. And then everyone else.

Then Rio lifted her hand lazily. “I’ll do it. I mean… if she can handle it.”

Alexia’s stomach dropped. Her eyes met Rio’s — a challenge gleaming beneath the smirk.

The girl was playing a dangerous game.

Mapí whooped. “Perfect! The brasileña volunteers!”

Alexia froze. She should’ve said no. Laughed it off. Anything.

But her voice didn’t come. Maybe it was the tequila. Maybe the sun.

Maybe Rio.

And suddenly, Mapí was pushing Rio down onto the couch, Lucy filling a shot glass and setting it right between the girl’s breasts.

Laughter exploded. Whistles. Jokes.

Alexia felt like a stretched rubber band about to snap.

She should say something, anything — but her eyes kept sliding back to Rio: her body lazy, bikini bright against tan skin hugging her body just right, hands folded behind her head, pretending not to care.

That cocky, careless smirk. It was infuriating. It was magnetic.

Alexia wanted to wipe it off her face.

To make her feel this heat too.

She blamed her competitive streak. Blamed the sun. The alcohol humming in her veins.

Alexia stepped forward, grabbed the salt shaker from Mapí’s hand, then the lime.

Rio was too far, and then not far at all.

Alexia knelt carefully to the girl’s side, leaning over her, her hand bracing on the couch’s headrest.

Up close, her thoughts became hazy, murky — like being near the other girl’s skin and smell short-circuited any rational thought Alexia had left. Her eyes traced the slim hips, the visible tan lines, the stomach tanned and glistening under the sun, the faint lines of a four-pack beginning to form. Her breasts — small, perfect to her eyes.

And Rio’s eyes were on her, dark, unreadable.

The girl let out a shaky breath, and Alexia knew she wasn’t alone in this.

Her mouth went dry when she asked, “Where?”

Rio smirked, tilted her head. “You choose.”

Gasps and laughter rippled around them. Someone said, “Look at La Reina kneeling,” but the world had already narrowed to just the two of them.

Alexia took the small shaker and dropped the salt over Rio’s collarbone — the first place her eyes had landed, skin still glistening from the sea.

“Ready?” Rio murmured, voice soft but cutting through everything, then made a show of taking the lime from her hand and placing it between her lips — slow, deliberate. Alba whistled loudly from somewhere.

Alexia gulped, from want or fear she couldn’t say. She leaned in.

And there it is — the moment gravity wins.

The scent of sunscreen, and tequila filled her lungs. Her mouth brushed warm skin, her tongue peeked out — she tasted salt, the heat of sunburnt flesh, and something uniquely Rio.

Her tongue made a sure path from side to side, tasting, maybe letting her lips drag more than they should. By the time she stopped on the other side of the girl’s collarbone, her teeth dragged — just a tiny bite, enough for Rio’s breath to hitch.

Rio’s hands twisted at her sides, raised carefully — until Mapí’s shout broke the spell. “Uh-uh, no touching!”

Alexia smirked against the girl’s skin, dazed and drunker from her taste alone. She dragged her mouth lower, over the swell of Rio’s chest, until she reached the glass nestled between her breasts — right above her heartbeat.

She took it with her mouth before she could do something truly R-rated. Half the tequila burned her throat; half spilled over the girl’s skin.

Then the captain chased her prize — the lime on those perfect lips.

Their mouths met halfway — not quite a kiss, not quite not. Her lips grazed Rio’s — lime, tequila, and heat.

A second too long to be innocent, too long to mean anything other than desire. It feels like the end of something — or the beginning. She's not sure which scares her more.

The boat erupted — whistles, cheers, laughter.

“About time!” Lucy yelled.

“Wow, that was hot,” Patri muttered.

“Gross!” Alba snapped, elbowing her. “It’s my sister!”

The noise floods back all at once, the world spinning faster. Alexia pulled back, breathless, face flushed.

Rio looked at her, pupils wide, breath uneven. Tried to laugh it off, took a sip straight from the bottle.

But when their eyes met again — the air between them was changed.

Electric. Fragile.

Alexia had won — had gotten to the girl.

But lost a part of herself to Rio’s taste, too.

Marta leaned in, murmuring, “You might want to cool off before your head explodes, reina.”

Alexia just nodded dumbly.

By the time you all stumble back into the house, the sun is sinking slowly toward the horizon. The air feels heavier — thick with salt, sweat, and leftover adrenaline.

Cousin Cris, who’s been to the island a thousand times, orders enough pizza to feed an army. Or, more accurately, a gang of professional athletes.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of eating and showering — a chaotic relay race to get ready for the club as soon as possible.

Alba steals Alexia’s shower.

Mapí announces she’s sharing with Ingrid “to save water,” until Ingrid kicks her out for using her precious shampoo.

Lucy’s already drinking beer in the kitchen.

It’s a mess, and nobody’s sober enough to care.

You take the coldest shower possible, let the water run down your back in a steady stream.

No matter how many times you rinse, you still feel the ghost of Alexia’s lips on your skin, the heat of her breath against your mouth.

You’ve lost to her — completely. And you’re pretty sure she’s lost something, too.

You get out before Jana breaks down the door.

You eat. You drink water. You get told, repeatedly, that your outfit is a crime.

Patri points at your chest like you’ve personally offended her. “You can’t go to a club wearing jeans, cabrona.”

Your idea of dressing up is brushing your hair so it doesn’t stick out in all directions and using the Lacoste perfume you bought at the airport once.

Safe to say, it doesn’t meet any of these chicas’ standards.

You get passed around like a toy — Patri lends you slacks you have to tighten with a belt, Mapí digs a black button-up out of her bottomless bag of outfits, Alba forces you to sit still while Jana tries to apply mascara.

You squirm until you manage to escape.

It’s horrible and traumatic, but at least it keeps your mind off a certain captain with hazel eyes — who’s late, of course.

Cris complains about Alexia taking forever to get ready, calling her noiva like it’s a running joke, while Alba nods in agreement from the couch.

You don’t think you can handle whatever Alexia’s wearing tonight, so you do the only rational thing — bolt into the first Uber heading out, wedged between Marta, Caro, and Lucy.

At least they’re relaxed enough to not try and put lipstick on you by force.

You’ve learned, with your time abroad, that no club is like the ones back home. The music is never quite what you want to hear, everything is too sparkly, too choreographed, and the drinks are obnoxiously expensive.

The Spanish at least party right — you’ll give them that.

The club is already alive when you get there — lights strobing like heartbeats, low bass thrumming through the floor, the smell of bad decisions and perfume thick in the air. A summer night stretched into something electric and endless. A sunset party if you’ve ever seen one — gold melting into blue, the horizon still bleeding with the day.

Lucy, of course, is the first at the bar. “Shots for the brave! Beer for the weak!”

You raise a hand. “Weak, please.”

Nobody listens.

The music rolls through your ribs, warm and physical, and by the time you’re halfway through your drink, the rest of the group bursts in — laughter spilling ahead of them like champagne foam.

And right there, at the center of it all, is Alexia.

You’re not prepared.

She’s in black — not the soft training blacks of Barça, but something else entirely. A dress, of course it’s a dress, with an open back that shows off the perfect lines of muscle and tan, dipping just low enough to make your mouth dry. Her hair is loose, honey and sunlight, falling in lazy curls that brush her bare shoulders. Gold glints at her neck and wrists, catching the light every time she moves.

You blink. You forget to breathe.

She’s a painting. Something that doesn’t belong to real life — something you look at in silence, knowing you’re not supposed to touch.

You are so in love it’s not even funny anymore.

Next to her, Alba looks annoyingly smug, like she knows the effect her sister’s having on the room.

Jana finds you across the crowd and pokes you sharply between the ribs. “You fucking left me behind,” she yells over the music.

“Sorry,” you lie, rubbing your side. It sounds as believable as it feels.

And then — Alexia spots you.

It’s like she’d been looking. Her smile finds you first — small, familiar, devastating. She waves, tries to act casual, then heads straight to the bar. You can feel her before she’s even close — that quiet pull that’s starting to feel like gravity.

“Nice shirt,” she says when she reaches you, fingers brushing your sleeve. “Looks better on you than it ever did on Mapí.”

You laugh, maybe too quickly. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll demand it back.”

“I’ll protect you,” Alexia says — half tease, half promise.

She stays close. Close enough that you can smell her perfume — soft, warm, expensive, like sandalwood and something citrus. Close enough that her fingers occasionally graze your arm when she talks, her breath brushing your neck when she leans in to hear you over the music.

Every accidental touch sends a pulse through you. The line between casual and something else blurs, then disappears.

You don’t know how to be by her side without wanting her. You don’t know how to not want her.

It’s going to make training stupidly complicated when you get back.

She’s as adorably awkward as ever — for all her poise and power, Alexia is soft. Careful. You feel like you should say something about how beautiful she looks, but the words get stuck somewhere between your heart and your throat. You know how to flirt, how to play, how to make it a game.

You don’t know how to behave when everything matters.

Mapí saves you from your own head, appearing out of nowhere, two drinks in hand, already dancing. “C’mon, girls! Birthday shots!”

Alexia rolls her eyes but takes the glass. You do too.

The night starts to blur at the edges — laughter, music, lights shifting like waves. Everything loose, warm, bright.

You let the alcohol wash over you, let yourself be distracted by dancing and music you don't care about. The club feels smaller, hotter, like everything’s collapsing into the rhythm.

That’s when Jana slides in beside you, her arm around your shoulders, mouth close to your ear so you can actually hear her.

“You know,” she says, voice smug and conspiratorial, “I heard something earlier.”

You side-eye her. “That’s never a good start.”

She grins, eyes glinting. “Apparently, you’re the birthday gift.”

You choke. “What?”

“Lucy said it. Alba agreed. Said you’re supposed to be la sorpresa de la noche for our capitana.” She laughs into your shoulder, shaking her head. “Maybe you should make her a little jealous, see if she unwraps it.”

“Jana—”

“What?” she says, lifting her drink. “You said to me you had a crush on her and now you get a shot at it, make it count.”

You swallow.

Alexia's on the mezzanine with her sister, cousin, Ingrid and Mapí, hanging on the private booth the club generously got for La Reina. She's talking and sipping on a drink but her eyes wander every other time through the crowd and you don't dare think she's looking for you.

But maybe you should make youself seen.

"Ok, help me find an easy target." You say to Jana who grins like a girl on a mission.

She scans the crowd like she’s hunting prey, then points with her chin toward the dance floor.

“There—Dark hair, green top. Think she plays for one of the futsal teams here. Easy smile.”

You follow her gaze. The woman’s gorgeous, no denying it—tall, confident, dancing with friends who already look half in love with her. She glows in that effortless way people do when they know they’re being watched.

You’re not sure what you’re doing. Maybe you just want to see if Alexia’s really looking. Maybe you just want to stop thinking about her at all.

“Go,” Jana urges, shoving your shoulder. “Worst case, you make a new friend.”

You roll your eyes, drain the rest of your drink, and push through the crowd.

The girl turns when you reach her. Up close, she smells like coconut and gin. Her accent’s Andalusian; her grin’s easy. You dance because that’s what you’re good at—hips loose, smile playful, laugh too loud. It feels good, harmless.

Still, every time you glance up toward the mezzanine, you find her.

Alexia. Jaw tight — the undeniable sign she’s thinking too much, that something isn’t going her way. She’s leaning on the railing, drink in hand, pretending not to watch.

And you smirk, because you know she is.

From above, Alexia tells herself she’s only keeping an eye on her team. Making sure everyone’s safe, not too drunk, nothing reckless.

That’s her job, even off duty.

But her eyes won’t leave Rio.

The girl is in motion—dark curls damp from the heat, shirt sticking to her skin, laughter spilling bright and careless. The stranger’s hands are on her waist, guiding her into the rhythm. Alexia can almost feel it, like a static hum against her own ribs.

It shouldn’t matter.

She has no right.

She knows that.

The others keep pushing drinks into her, calling it a birthday privilege. The tequila hums through her veins, sharpening everything: light, sound, want.

Alba says something beside her — something about someone playing with fire — but she doesn’t hear.

The whole club blurs until it’s just light, heat, and Rio’s laugh floating up through the bass.

When Rio tilts her head back and smiles at her partner, Alexia sets down her drink and moves.

You don’t notice her until she’s suddenly there—close enough that her perfume cuts through the smoke, sandalwood and citrus. The woman you were dancing with grins, lifts her hands in surrender, and disappears into the crowd like she’s seen this movie before.

Alexia doesn’t say anything. Just takes your hand, smooth and sure, and pulls you a little deeper into the crowd where it’s darker, louder, safer.

It’s not a dance, not at first—just two people standing too close while the world vibrates around them. Then the bass drops again, and her hands find your hips. Light, steady. Guiding.

You match her easily, body fitting into the rhythm before your mind can catch up. The space between you shrinks until there isn’t any. Her forehead almost touches yours when she leans in to be heard.

“Having too much fun?” she asks, voice a rough whisper against your ear.

You laugh, breathless. “Trying to. You kinda broke my game.”

Her eyes flick through the crowd, then back at you — darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Well, it’s my birthday,” she says, a half-smile curving her mouth. “I’m entitled to the attention, no?”

Her thumb strokes a slow circle against your side—an unconscious motion, or maybe not. Her eyes flick down to your mouth before she looks away, jaw tight. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

The crowd moves like an ocean around you—bodies swaying, lights flashing gold and violet. You let it carry you both, her hand still at your waist, your pulse jumping every time her fingers shift.

For a heartbeat you think she might close the distance, that something electric and impossible might happen right there between flashes of light.

But she doesn’t.

Of course she doesn’t.

The moment shatters when Marta and Caro stumble into you both, shouting something about buying a bottle and Alexia “must try it.”

You let them pull you away, let the air between you cool, let the spark dissolve into noise.

La Reina is drunk. You can tell by the way she sways on her feet, her hair messy, her eyes soft and unfocused. She’s still the most beautiful person in the room — it’s unfair, really — but she’s gone.

It’s fine — everyone’s more or less wasted anyway as they stumble toward the taxi line.

You have no idea what time it is, but Alba decided she was tired of the music and her heels and simply commanded everyone back to the house. You have a feeling the party won’t stop there.

Maybe you should be drunker, but there’s something to be said about Brazilians’ high tolerance for alcohol. You could keep going all night long.

The ride back to the house is a blur of laughter and slurred songs. Jana’s singing off-key against the window; Caro’s still talking about a rematch. You sit wedged between them, the taste of sweat and lime still on your tongue.

The moon is still high when the last group barges into the house.

It’s full-blown after-party chaos: someone’s speaker blasting Karol G, Patri and Lucy daring each other to jump into the pool, Marta raiding the freezer, Mapí and Ingrid being gross at the dining table.

Your eyes find Alexia slouched on the couch, eyes hazy, almost closed. Her dress is askew, and she looks uncomfortable in her sandals. Something tightens in your chest — not desire this time, but love.

You hesitate. You don’t know if you’re allowed to just go to her, to cross any line she hasn’t invited you past.

Instead, you look for Alba, who’s dangling her feet in the pool, watching Lucy and Patri’s stupidity with interest.

“Al, I think your sister needs a hand,” you say, crouching closer so she can hear you.

Alba, ever the little sister, just waves you off.

“Take her to her room. It’s probably past her bedtime — she gets sleepy,” she says with a shrug, a little drunk herself. Alexia’s sleep schedule is a proper inside joke at this point.

“But—”

“It’s you, Rio. You practically lived in her apartment for a month and she didn’t mind. Just take her upstairs. It’s fine.”

You stand there for a moment, shifting your weight, then sigh. Steal a sip from Alba’s beer for courage.

When you make your way to Alexia, she’s nodding her head to the music, smiling lazily when she sees you. Warmth spreads through you instantly — inevitable.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes, eh?” you say softly, offering your hand.

No jokes. No teasing.

She nods, quiet and pliant — softer than you’ve ever seen her.

You help her stand carefully and guide her upstairs, leaving the noise behind.

Her room is tidy—of course it is. Luggage carefully placed to the side, bed half-made.

It screams Alexia even if everything else is silent.

The room is cool, silent, a refuge from the mess outside.

“You okay?” you ask, because you don’t know what to do with your hands or where to stand as Alexia sits down slowly on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the straps of her sandals.

“Yeah, just a bit dizzy.” She mumbles softly, more to herself than to you.

You swallow, crouch closer to her.

“Here, let me…” you start, pulling gently at the straps on her sandals, helping her slide them off smoothly. You force your eyes not to drift up her calves, her thighs—you don’t think you would survive that. Soon she is free.

“Thank you, cariño,” Alexia whispers over your head, a sigh more than a word.

“Uhn, imagine you twisting your ankle because of sandals—that would be ridiculous.” You mumble, masking your discomfort with a joke. It works, and her shoulders shake with laughter, easy, soft.

“Let’s get you to the shower; you’ll feel better afterward.” You try, gently coaxing her to stand.

Alexia frowns. “Hm, tinc son.” You’re pretty sure it’s Catalan—it slips out of her, a secret language for moments like this, private.

You smile at her, pull on her hands just a little, make her stand up. She’s barefoot, and you, in sneakers, are almost the same height.

“I know you’re sleepy, but trust me—you’ll thank me after a shower and washing off all that makeup…” you try again, guiding her toward the bathroom.

“Are you my babysitter now?” she teases, already tugging her hair tie loose.

You swallow, force your eyes anywhere but her hands. “Just making sure Barça's jewel is going to survive the night.”

That earns you a quiet laugh. She disappears behind the door.

You lean against the wall outside, heart racing like you just ran a sprint. The sound of running water fills the silence. You stare at your shoes, at your hands, at nothing, and tell yourself this is fine, roll the sleeves of your shirt just to have something to do with your hands. You’re helping. Just helping.

Except your pulse doesn’t believe it.

Ten minutes later, she calls out, voice rough and sleepy. “Can you hand me a towel?”

You crack the door just enough, arm extended with the towel.

Her hand brushes yours—brief, hot, too much.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, and the door closes again.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the rumpled sheets and the faint light spilling from the bathroom. When she comes out, her hair is damp, curling at the ends. She’s wearing a soft cotton shirt and shorts, her skin warm and pink from the shower.

She looks more herself—and somehow even more dangerous like that. The woman you see every day. The woman you… can’t go there.

“Better?” you ask.

“Much,” she says. “You really didn’t have to wait.”

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t drown.”

That makes her laugh, fond. She crosses the room, sits beside you. Too close. Always too close.

“Thank you,” she says, voice low. “For taking care of me.”

“I’d do it again,” you say, meaning every word.

A pause. The air feels charged again—the kind of silence that hums between two magnets before they touch. You both just sit there: muted noise from downstairs, the sea outside, and your breathing—the soft sound of you two.

Alexia is thinking. You can tell by the way she works her jaw, by the way her fingers tangle in the sheets and let go. She exhales and turns to you.

Her eyes are clear now, the soft hazel you love—the whisky color you remember from the first day on the field when you met her. Your new favorite color.

“Are you drunk?” she asks, voice raspy.

You shake your head. “Not much.”

She studies you. “Me neither. Not anymore.”

“Good,” you whisper, but your throat’s tight.

“You never got me a birthday gift,” Alexia says, certain, like she already knows the answer.

You look up. The room hums softly—the sea outside, laughter fading downstairs, the slow pulse of the air conditioner. You think you can hear your own heartbeat.

“What do you want?” you ask.

Alexia’s mouth curves, faint and tired. “Anything.”

The word is nothing, and it’s everything—a challenge, an invitation, an open door.

You hesitate for a single breath, then move closer. You don’t have a plan; you just follow the pull—the gravity that’s been dragging you toward this woman since the day you met.

The edge of the bed dips under your weight. Alexia doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you. Just watches—eyes soft, unreadable.

You lift a hand, brushing a strand of damp hair from Alexia’s cheek. Your fingers linger, tracing the line of her jaw, the small hollow just beneath—the place where she hides all her emotions. You’re obsessed with it.

It’s where you plant the first kiss, a test: a brush of lips, the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of shampoo and sun.

Alexia’s eyes flutter shut, her head tilting—a tiny sign she wants this too.

So you press another, lower, on her cheek. Soft—so soft under your lips you could have dreamed it. You feel Alexia’s breath catch, the smallest sound, almost a sigh.

“Rio,” she whispers, but it isn’t a protest. It’s a tremor.

The third kiss lands on her mouth.

It’s barely pressure—a heartbeat’s touch, a held breath—and it’s everything. Alexia stills completely, like the moment could shatter if she moves too fast.

You catch her upper lip first, perfect, shaped like a cupid’s bow. Then the bottom one, plump, gorgeous. Her lips are a little chapped from the sea salt, from the drinks, from everything, and still it’s the most perfect kiss of your life.

You pull back half an inch, breath shaking, eyes open.

Alexia’s lashes flutter; her gaze, hazy, finds your mouth.

Then she leans forward, closing the distance.

The next kiss is surer—the kind that feels like discovery, slow, searching, a language learned by instinct. Alexia tastes like mint and the last sip of the cocktail. You move like you both know the same script, lips brushing, teasing, chasing each other’s warmth.

Your hands had stayed well-behaved by your sides, but now they slide to Alexia’s shoulders, then the curve of her neck. Her pulse thrums beneath your fingertips.

Everything in her feels too alive—every breath, every point of contact.

Alexia tilts her head, deepens it slightly—not commanding, just there, meeting you halfway. You tease her lips apart, just a peek of tongue you can’t control, and she’s even more pliant, opens up immediately, lets out the softest sound of satisfaction.

You hum as you lick lazily into her mouth. Hands clutch at her hips, fingertips digging into the cotton of her shorts, and Alexia meets every slow rhythm with her own.

Her kiss is smooth and steady as she brushes her thumb along your cheekbone and catches your lower lip between her teeth, biting down ever so slightly.

You can’t help but groan into her, caught in the moment, the world narrowing to breath and warmth. You don’t know who pulls or who pushes, but soon you’re leaning down over her, your hair falling over your eyes, then being pushed back by careful, sure hands.

You’re enchanted by her, by this moment; you kiss back, hard, savoring every second, every touch, every noise Alexia tries to suppress. Even here, even in this room, letting go is a hill you have to climb with her.

You could never tire of her lips in this life, but your mouth drags anyway—to under her jaw, to her neck, smooth as silk. You suck, just a little, just a tease, but it’s enough to win another noise, gentle and small, a moan.

It snaps something in you—plain want, white-hot and melting, pooling low in your stomach until it aches. Your hands grow bolder, clutching at her shirt, her sides. And she goes there with you, her hands slipping beneath your shirt, resting on your lower back, nails grazing your skin.

Then, because you’re young and stupid and possibly still a little drunk, your hands dip lower, to the hem of her shorts, feeling the heat. Your finger tip-toe over the skin there, teasing, tentative, until it dips lower, cups her over her shorts. Right where she’s most warm.

You moan into her mouth fully, your forehead falling to touch hers, breaths mingling.

Her breath hitches too, hips twisting a little—desire undeniable. You know as soon as she moves that it can’t last; you feel her tense for a second—from her reaction or her desire, you can’t tell. Her hands tighten on your shoulders, nails digging; then she kisses the side of your face, timid, hand wandering lower.

She stops you—not abruptly, just a gentle hand curling around your wrist, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin, soothing. Slow down, it says. Breathe with me.

“Eu te quero tanto.” You let it out against her lips, eyes closed—a confession in your own language, where it’s safe, where your heart can break if it hears silence.

“Jo també,” she answers, voice rough, needy too. Her own language, her own safe space. You understand anyway.

It’s the softest collapse—like two waves meeting and losing their edges.

You don’t speak again, not with words.

She kisses your face again, softly, gently, guiding your wandering hand off her, pulling you down until you’re lying beside her, legs touching, fingers tracing. The heat from before exchanged for tenderness and longing. Alexia won’t cross any more lines tonight.

You slot your head beneath hers, kiss the skin that peeks from where her T-shirt is askew. Her fingers draw random patterns over your back.

“Stay,” Alexia whispers, almost asleep already.

You only nod.

Outside, the ocean keeps moving, steady and endless. Inside, the air is quiet—just the sound of two people finally still.

You stay awake a beat longer, memorizing the sound of her breathing.

You can’t sleep.

It’s ironic, you think. You’ve heard Alexia complain more than once that she can never sleep after a match—that she spends hours trying to close her eyes and rest.

Now, she looks peaceful beside you, out of this world. It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen her. It should calm everything inside you.

But sleep refuses to come.

You stare at the ceiling, at the slow dance of shadows cast by the blinds. Every exhale feels like a question you can’t answer. What if this was just the alcohol? The heat of the day? What if she wakes up and sees you as a mistake?

You think about her hand on your wrist—how even in that moment of giving in, she still tried to hold back. She always does.

It hits you then: the truth that she could love you and still not choose you. Not really.

This kind of rejection. You could not survive it, could not survive whatever came after not being chosen by her. 

The thought burns hot enough to make you move.

You slide out of bed as carefully as you can. The air is cold against your skin; the silence, too loud. You find your sneakers and your phone—each sound amplified, treacherous.

She shifts once in her sleep, murmuring something you can’t make out, and your heart cracks open just enough to make you want to stay.

But you don’t. You don’t know how. It's in your blood after all, isn't it?

You step into the hallway, the house still humming with the ghost of last night’s laughter. Outside, the sky is bruised blue, the first light touching the edge of the sea.

You breathe it in and tell yourself this is strength—leaving before you’re left.

It’s easier to run when no one’s watching.

Chapter Text

Alexia has a dream. It's a confusing dream.

It's a field, it is sunny. There's a football. There's noise but she can't make out anything that it is said. It's like the noise doesn't matter. Rio has the ball on the other side, under her foot. She is grinning, that devil's smirk of hers.

She doesn't recognize the uniform the girl is wearing and that rattles something inside. She runs, after the ball, after the girl. Can't quite catch her.

Wakes up before her fingers can clutch the girl's shirt.

The first thing she notices is the quiet.

The kind that doesn’t belong to morning yet—too deep, too still.

Her hand moves before she’s fully awake, instinct from last night drifting into the morning, reaching for warmth that isn’t there.

Only cool sheets. Only absence.

It takes her a few seconds to understand why her chest feels so hollow. Then she remembers: Rio’s breath against her neck, the taste of her lips, the way sleep had crept up on them mid-heartbeat.

Now there’s only the shape she left behind.

Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story.

Alexia sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes. Her head throbs with the soft ache of too little rest and too much feeling. The sun is just beginning to bleed through the blinds, striping the room in pale gold.

She presses both hands to her eyes, tries to push the headache back into herself. The faint scent of whatever cologne Rio was wearing lingers on her skin.

It would be easier, she thinks, if Rio had stayed—easier to keep pretending last night was nothing. They could have laughed, shrugged it off. Drunk mistakes, drunk confessions.

But this?

This empty space feels like the truth.

She finds her way to the bathroom on autopilot, she stares at the reflection on the mirror: tired eyes, lips pink from unnamed things. There, on her neck, unmistakable proof, a red little mark; laughs despite herself.

Refuses to think about how there's something sticky between her legs she can't name.

Lets the water run until the mirror fogs over. The steam blurs her reflection thankfully.

The shower is too hot. She wants it that way—to scald off the memory, the trembling. To wash the regret from her skin and the want from her throat.

It doesn’t work.

There’s a fantasy somewhere, a wish Alexia cannot indulge for long: of being a person who doesn’t care about duty, about responsibility, about the team she’s given her sweat, blood, and tears to.

A dream where Rio stayed and Alexia said, “Okay, let’s try this.”

And they try. It’s messy, complicated, and plenty of people are unhappy. But she gets to kiss Rio again, so it must be worth it, right?

Even in dreams, she’s too good at control, her heart obeys her head, and her head says 'this is the farthest thing from the truth.’

She leaves the dream, and by the time she dresses and steps out, the house is alive again—voices, laughter, the clatter of plates.

Alba appears at her door, hair a mess, smile bright and teasing. “Breakfast, reina. You’re missing the miracle.”

“What miracle?”

“Someone baked.”

That gets her attention.

She follows her sister down the hallway, the scent reaching her before the sight: sugar, vanilla, something faintly citrus. In the kitchen, the chaos of morning has already begun—Patri and Lucy arguing about coffee, Mapí looking half-dead over her mug.

And on the table—a cake.

Homemade. Uneven at the edges, a little burnt on one side, dusted with powdered sugar.

Alba beams. “Told you. Cake for breakfast. Happy birthday again, I guess.”

Alexia stares at it. She doesn’t need to ask who made it.

Rio.

Of course it’s her handwriting on the little sticky note beside the plate—Para el desayuno. Don’t eat it all, Alba.

Alexia’s stomach twists. She forces a smile, sits down, reaches for a slice.

Mapí groans from the counter. “By the way, your prodigy went out running. Can you believe it? The sun’s barely up. Fucking youngsters who don’t get hangovers.”

Alba snorts. “Maybe she’s running from her bad decisions.”

Alexia cuts into the cake before she can react, before the heat in her chest can give her away.

The cake is soft, imperfect, too sweet—but it isn’t the best thing she’s tasted all weekend.

She chews slowly, eyes unfocused, trying not to imagine Rio in the kitchen at dawn, hair tied back, moving through the cupboards. The image feels too close to something she wants and doesn’t deserve—something that belongs to another version of her, a woman who can afford simplicity.

Her phone buzzes on the counter. Messages, schedules, reminders. Real life calling her back.

“Don’t glare at your phone like that, you’ll break it,” Alba says around a mouthful of cake.

Alexia hums, almost smiling. “Tempting.”

The house keeps moving. Cris and Patri go lounge in the pool and pretend they don't have clothes to pack. Marta is playing cards with Ingrid, soft talk about flights and back to the routine.

A while later, the sound of the front door opening pulls every head in the kitchen toward it.

Alexia doesn’t need to turn around to know.

There’s the faint squeak of sneakers on tile, the breathless laughter of someone shaking off the cold morning air.

Rio.

“Morning,” she says, voice light, still carrying the rhythm of a run. There’s a flush on her cheeks, a strand of hair stuck to her neck. She looks alive, bright in a way Alexia feels like she’ll never be again.

Jana stumbles behind her, complaining about 'the sun being too much’.

“Morning,” Alba answers. “Coffee’s fresh. Cake too, apparently.”

Rio’s eyes flick quickly to Alexia, then away. “Hope you liked it,” she says, too casual.

Alexia swallows, the words sticking somewhere between her throat and chest. “I did. Thank you.”

Their eyes meet for a heartbeat too long. It’s nothing—just politeness, gratitude—but her pulse still stumbles.

The tension in the kitchen could be cut with a knife. Everyone's too hangover to notice though.

Jana lounges onto the kitchen's island, steals a slice of cake, babbles on about the crab they saw on the sand. Rio grabs a glass of water, downs half of it, then disappears toward the hallway.

Alexia forces not to watch her go.

The day unravels quietly after that—packing, cleaning, scattered laughter.

For everyone else, the trip is winding down. For Alexia, it already feels like something that happened in another life.

This place doesn’t belong to the real world. It’s too golden, too easy. A suspended universe made of sunburns and salt water and things she can’t keep. If she stays too long, she’ll start believing she could.

When the house finally settles into silence again, she finds herself in the living room, sitting on the couch, half lost in thought. Her mind keeps flicking between what happened and what didn’t, what she said and what she almost said.

Then — footsteps.

“Hey,” Rio says from behind her.

Alexia turns, pulse skipping. “Hey.”

Rio stands there, fidgeting with her hair tie, unsure where to put her hands. She's a little rumpled, hair brushed back, skin unfairly golden.

“Almost ready?” Alexia asks.

“Almost,” Rio says. Then, softer: “Can we just… pretend a little longer? Out here. We don’t have to talk about it. Just—let me stay close, for a bit.”

Hearts can sigh—Alexia’s does. Something inside Alexia definitely gives. The part of her that’s always braced, always measured, just... lets go.

She nods once, the only answer she can manage.

Rio crosses the room, slow but steady, and sits beside her. Their shoulders touch first — light, uncertain — before Rio shifts, turning toward her. She leans back until her head rests against Alexia’s chest, one hand finding her arm.

Suddenly she is right there, resting back on Alexia's chest.

Alexia exhales. It sounds almost like relief.

She wraps an arm around Rio’s waist, tentative, then firmer. Feels the warmth, the steady rhythm of her breathing. Feels how easily their bodies fit, like they’ve done this before.

They stay like that, breathing the same air. Maybe they nap, maybe they don’t. Time softens around them, stretches thin.

Outside, the sea glitters. Inside, everything holds still.

Alexia memorizes the weight of Rio against her, the curve of her waist under her hand. She lets her chin rest on top of the girl’s shoulder, her nose grazing the side of Rio's neck, hears the little noise she lets out. Breathes her in, holds it inside.

She lets herself imagine, for the span of a few heartbeats, that they could stay like this — suspended in this house outside of time, untouched by duty, by the real world waiting beyond the door.

She knows it’s a lie. And it has to end too.

They stay like that for a long time, not long enough.

Eventually the sounds of the house do start again — zippers, footsteps, voices calling through half-open doors.

When Rio finally stirs, Alexia feels it first: the shift of weight, the tiny breath before movement.

“I should pack,” Rio says quietly, already pulling away. Waits. Waits for Alexia to say something.

But no alcohol to push forward the words, Alexia can’t.

Alexia’s arm tightens for half a second before she lets go. “Right,” she says, because there’s nothing else to say.

Rio stands, tugs the hem of her shirt straight, offers a small, uneven smile.

“Thanks… for the trip.”

Alexia nods. “Thank you for the cake.”

That earns her a ghost of a laugh, soft and unfinished, before Rio slips out of the room. Alexia keeps staring at the place the girl stood, like she could make out the shape of her by want alone.

She sighs, forces herself to move, to keep it all inside. She feels like she's moving through fog, through the steam of the dream she had this morning; tells herself the pit at the bottom of her stomach, the pain in her chest is only a hangover. So when she finally gets up, she doesn’t look back.

When she comes down again, Rio and Jana are gone. No goodbye. Cris mumbles something about how they didn't want to be late to the airport.

Rio’s never early for anything.

The ache in her chest feels sharper than it should, her eyes burn a little, at the sides. Allergy to the sun, maybe. Not tears, absolutely not.

By late afternoon, the house has thinned to half-emptiness. Suitcases by the door, the smell of coffee going stale in the kitchen. Alexia has spent the last hour pretending to pack, moving slower than necessary, avoiding.

When she finally drifts into the living room, Alba, Mapí, and Ingrid are still there — the last holdouts. Sunlight pools over the couch, soft and golden, dust floating in the air like something trying to linger.

Mapí eyes her with too much curiosity. “So… are we gonna pretend you and Rio didn’t make out?”

“María,” Ingrid warns immediately, elbowing her.

“What? Everyone saw the tension! It’s like watching a slow-burn romance but in real life—painful, but cute.”

“Stop talking,” Ingrid sighs.

Alexia exhales, the fight leaving her before it even starts. “It happened,” she admits softly. “And I don’t know if knowing how it feels is better or worse.”

That shuts them up for a second.

Mapí recovers first. “So it’s official then? Finally kissed the poor girl? Damn, capi. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Alba arches a brow. “María.”

“What? I’m just saying. She’s twenty, she’s gorgeous, and she looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“She’s twenty,” Alexia echoes, a hint of frustration under her breath.

“Yeah, so?” Mapí shrugs. “She can’t even buy a drink in Vegas, but she can drive you insane — sounds fair.”

That earns a small, reluctant laugh from Alba. Even Ingrid’s mouth twitches.

But Alexia doesn’t smile. “It’s not just that,” she says quietly. “It’s… everything. The team. The press. Me.” She shakes her head. “It’s too complicated.”

Alba studies her for a long moment. “It’s not just attraction, is it?”

Alexia looks away. The silence is answer enough.

Mapí lets out a low whistle. “Oh, shit. You actually like her.”

“Yeah,” Alexia says finally. “Which is exactly why it can’t happen.”

Ingrid leans forward, tone gentler now. “Why did she leave, then? Did you two fight?”

Alexia shakes her head. “No. She just… left. Slipped out before I woke up.”

Mapí frowns. “Classic runner move.”

“She’s scared,” Alexia says. “Or smart. Maybe both.”

Ingrid’s voice softens, “Maybe she thought she was doing the right thing.”

Alexia nods, though it doesn’t make it hurt less. “Maybe. Or maybe she just realized it was a bad idea before I did.”

Alba tilts her head, voice low but steady. “Or she didn’t want you to be the one doing the leaving.”

That lands like a slow echo. Alexia blinks once, but doesn’t argue.

She only murmurs, “Maybe,” and for a moment, the room feels too still.

No one says anything else. Alba squeezes her hand, Mapí looks guilty for once, and Ingrid just sighs, like she saw this coming.

Hours later, at home, she unpacks her bag. Her little dog yaps at her feet and it’s a nice comfort to have.

At the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper, she finds it — a green and yellow jersey. Brazil’s colors—

Signed in bold black ink across the front: You are going to do great things — Marta.

Her vision blurs. She sits on the edge of her bed, pressing the fabric to her face, breathing in the faint scent of vanilla and sea air. Remembers when Rio told her about this shirt, the only thing she had asked from her idol.

The perfect birthday gift. Another one.

She pulls her own shirt off, pulls the new jersey on. It's the strangest feeling—herself in another color, another skin. Takes a picture on the mirror, doesn't allow herself to think too much and types a message before she can second-guess herself.

It feels like both a goodbye and a beginning, and she hates that she can’t tell which.

Gracias, cariño.

No emoji. No explanation. Just that.

Pauses. Zooms on her own face, a little flushed, eyes slightly red. Hates the vulnerability, hates that if Rio doesn't reply it may break her heart. That the girl has this kind of power now.

Deletes the photo. Clutches the bottom of the shirt, stretches the fabric, her eyes properly misty now.

Sits there, staring at the screen, mind full of a dream.

Chapter Text

You have to do media for the team every once in a while. You’re not as requested as the obvious big names — Aitana, Lucy, Alexia… god, Alexia is always the first to be called up. The cameras can’t get enough of her. She’ll give the same answers over and over again with the patience of a saint; you’re pretty sure you could answer for her by now.

And isn’t that just one more glaring difference between you two? How fucking important she is. How loved she is. How the club and the fans circle around her.

The thing is, when you get to do interviews, when they ask how your relationship is with the older players, you can say they push you to be a better player yourself — which has never been untrue. But now it holds a different weight.

Because you can’t get Alexia out of your fucking mind, and the only way to drown it out is to be so exhausted by training that you black out at night.

So — a better player you become.

The first week back from the islands, Alexia watches you from afar with those heavy hazel eyes of hers, and it drives you fucking mad. You don’t know what she expects — that you’ll just blurt out in the middle of a drill that you kissed her? That she’ll tackle you during scrimmage and you’ll confess everything?

You haven’t told anyone, even though your heart felt like it was being torn apart the moment you closed the door of that house of dreams.

Not even Jana.

Not even after it became painfully clear that Alexia had told Mapí and Ingrid — because you’re not an idiot, but they are. They thought they were being subtle when they kept pushing you and Ale to do drills together.

You wanted to scream half the time.

So you ran faster. Pushed harder.

Went to the gym every day, even when the staff told you to slow down.

Ignored their warnings. Ignored your friends’ worried looks.

You just couldn’t ignore the flashes — that room with an ocean view creeping into your mind without warning; how beautiful she looked every single day, and how it broke something inside you when she averted her eyes.

You still wake up some mornings expecting to see her face half-lit by sunrise.

Then training starts, and she’s there — close enough to touch, miles away.

Alexia talks to you like a captain. No more, no less.

Short commands: “Press higher.” “Move the ball quicker.” “Good run.”

It’s professional. Distant.

It kills you a little every time.

She’s Alexia Putellas, La Reina of Spain. You are… someone who can’t even get consistent minutes with the main team. The B team feels like a punishment you can’t outgrow — a reminder that you’re still a step behind.

It’s one more thing driving you insane, because this is a World Cup year. You need those minutes for the call-up. You’ve never had much patience to begin with, and now, with key matches coming up, your name keeps getting pushed further down the bench.

The stress builds, of course it does. Mid-season approaching for La Liga, Champions League around the corner, FIFA breaks, double sessions, the last semester of your degree. You should be foaming at the mouth by now.

It’s the simplest thing that breaks you, though.

An unassuming day — cloudy, gray. You’re in a mood, training sluggish, your passes precise but not enough. They should be better. You watch the way Aitana dribbles, the way Caro runs the wing. You want to be like them — unquestionable. Nobody ever wonders if they belong here, by Alexia’s side.

You want to be unquestionable too.

Your capitana is late — a rare event — and you’re caught off guard when she arrives. Pina says she was shooting for the club’s new casual line, but all you can do is nod.

Alexia is gorgeous, the makeup from the shoot still faintly on her face, highlighting her sharp cheekbones and glistening lips. Her hair is slightly wavy, even pulled back in a ponytail. You hear Patri and Marta teasing her from across the field.

You can’t help but stare. She lifts her head and finds your eyes. Her lips twist into that small, involuntary smile — the shy one she wears when she’s not ready to be seen.

You miss the way her whole face used to light up when she looked at you — like she had nothing to hide. Not from you.

The fear that she’ll never look at you like that again claws at your throat and bites at your heart.

You train harder that day — harder than any other. Afterward, you ignore Rafes’s quiet order for mandatory recovery and hit the gym. Bench press until your legs shake. Run on the treadmill until your vision blurs.

The burn in your body is easier to understand than the sound of Alexia’s voice when she asked you to stay.

When you finally stop, your body’s shaking, vision tunneling. You shower half-dazed and drag yourself home like a zombie. Eat whatever’s left in the fridge and collapse right after.

The next morning, you wake up late — you can’t afford to be late, not now. You scramble to Ciutat Esportiva, only realizing you forgot your shin guards as you’re tying your boots. Doesn’t fucking matter.

The sky is heavy and gray — announcing how shitty this drill will be. Rain turns the pitch into a shallow lake before warm-up ends, mud already coating your kit during warm-up. The coaches hesitate but decide to run drills anyway.

You’re dead tired. Everything aches. The cold bites at your lungs, your socks soak through. Alexia jogs past, ponytail stuck to her neck, voice steady as she calls instructions. You keep your eyes anywhere else.

Then, during scrimmage, when the ball comes your way, you go for it too late. Marta’s boot connects with your shin instead of the ball. The sound is awful — a blunt, wet smack.

There’s something to be said about being hit by a 170-centimeter woman who’s got at least seven kilos on you.

You hiss, stumble back, hand flying to your leg. The pain is instant, sharp, slicing through the fog of fatigue.

“Shit, Rio, I’m sorry—” Marta’s voice is frantic, already reaching for you.

Before you can answer, Alexia’s shouting. “Stop the drill! Rio, don’t move!”

That captain’s tone — the one that freezes everyone mid-step.

You grit your teeth. “I’m fine.”

Marta got you good, and you wince when you look down at your shin. Sock ripped open, blood oozing from a nasty gash — the rain washing it down, making a mess. “I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to make it sound true.

“You’re not,” Alexia says, storming closer, kneeling in front of you like muscle memory. She looks at your leg — mud-streaked, red blooming through the dirt. Hair slicked from the rain, uniform soaked through.

You can’t have her this close without wanting to run. You push to your feet, weight on your other leg.

“It’s nothing—”

“Sit down.”

The order comes quiet, tight. You obey because it’s easier than fighting her voice.

Pina crouches beside her and whispers, “Dude, you’re bleeding.”

Alexia’s jaw clenches, eyes sharp on your unguarded leg. Then, to you — softer: “You should’ve been wearing guards.”

You laugh, bitter. “Forgot.”

Her eyes snap up, something fierce flickering there. “Forgot? You think this is a joke?”

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, louder this time, trying to stand. The pain shoots up your calf, white-hot.

Alexia catches your arm before you can fall. The touch burns. “You’re done for today.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

The others pretend not to watch. Rain keeps falling, steady and cold.

You shove her hand away. From the sideline, Jonathan is already nodding in agreement. You scoff, angry and tired, kicking at the mud as you limp off the field — every step dragging pride behind it like an anchor.

The physio room is quiet except for the hum of the freezer and the occasional drip from your soaked socks chucked to the side. You sit on the table, an ice pack strapped to your shin, staring at the ceiling.

They cleaned the wound and told you to ice it. No risk of a serious injury, just rest tomorrow. You feel dirty, tired, and defeated.

When the door opens, you don’t have to look to know it’s her. Of course she’d find you when you’re at your lowest.

She closes it behind her, hesitates near the threshold before moving closer. She still smells like rain but has changed into clean clothes. The Barça hoodie makes her look soft, and you can’t stand to look at her.

“You should’ve gone home,” you say, eyes on your bare feet.

“Training ended early,” she says quietly. “It’s a mess out there.”

When you don’t respond, she continues, stepping closer. “I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

She exhales sharply. “Stop saying you’re fine.”

You turn your head, finally meet her eyes. “What do you want me to say? That it hurts? It does. That I was stupid? Sure. You want me to apologize too?”

You don’t know if you’re talking about your leg or about what happened between you.

“That’s not—”

“Then what, Alexia?” The name slips out before you can stop it. You see it hit her — the way her shoulders tense, the faint flicker in her eyes. How this is personal.

She drags a hand through her hair, voice rough. “You scare me when you play like you don’t care what happens to you. That could have been serious.”

You shrug. “I’m not going to let the team down, don’t worry.”

“This isn’t about the team,” she says, jaw tight. “It’s about you — taking care of yourself. Which you don’t, if I’m honest.”

You laugh, quiet and bitter. “I can take care of myself just fine. Quit doubting me.”

She shakes her head, frustrated. “I’m not doubting you. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then say what you meant.”

Her breath catches — and then she does. An almost shout.

“Don’t you think I see how you’re running yourself into the ground? How careless you’re being with your body? You’re acting like a child, and you can’t keep running from everything.”

Anger rises fast, white-hot. It always comes back to your age, like you haven’t been fending for yourself longer than she’s known you.

Something inside you twists. “You avoid me all week, and now you want to keep score of what I’m doing? You don’t get to do this now, it’s not fair.”

Her eyes flash — pain unmistakable, quiet hazel now stormed with hurt, her voice properly raised now. “You were the one who left, Rio. So what’s fair now?”

The words don’t echo — they settle, deep and slow, like a bruise forming.

And maybe this is the first time either of you has said it out loud — acknowledged what happened.

It lands as softly as a bomb.

You look away first. The hum of the ice machine fills the silence again, pretending to be neutral.
This was never about anything other than what happened — and what didn’t.

After a long moment, she says quietly, “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

You shake your head. “You don’t need to do this.”

She doesn’t look at you when she says, “I know I don’t. I want to. Go change — I’ll wait outside.”

You want to refuse, but she’s already moving toward the door.

You watch her shoulders as she leaves — lowered, defeated, like yours.

You grab your bag, limp after her.

Once, you thought that not being able to drive was a secret gift. You remember when you told Alexia you never got around to getting a license — always a match to play, always another season ahead.

She’d looked at you like she understood, not pitying you, but recognizing something familiar. Offered to give you a ride whenever. You’d felt giddy at the time — another excuse to spend time with her.

Now, you think it’s more of a curse.

Because the rain still hits hard against the windshield, enough to turn the city lights into soft smudges of color.

Because Alexia’s car smells like leather and that faint clean scent you always associate with her — calm, steady, impossible to ignore.

Neither of you speaks at first. The sound of the wipers fills the quiet, steady as breathing, and you want to be anywhere else but here. Traffic barely crawls. Red brake lights flicker across her face, painting her features in restless light.

She is tense, works her jaw, stares straight ahead. She drives like she plays — precise, careful, holding control like it’s the only thing she’s ever trusted.

Before, you’d tease her — grab her phone and blast music, poke at her cheek, beg for an ice-cream detour until she caved.

That was then. This is now.

Now hurts like a bruise you keep pressing, because you don’t know what the rules are anymore.

You shift against the seat, leg throbbing faintly under the bandage.

“Sorry,” she says finally, voice low. “For shouting earlier.”

You shrug, eyes on the window. “You weren’t wrong.”

“Still.” Her fingers drum against the steering wheel. “I don’t like talking to you like that.”

You hum, not trusting yourself to answer. 

The silence returns, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. Then, after a long beat, she says, “I broke up with Olga.”

You turn your head sharply.

She keeps her eyes forward, voice calm but taut. “After the trip. It wasn’t fair to her. Or to me. Or…”

She exhales, adds, “Or to you, maybe.”

You don’t know what to say or what it means, so you settle for honesty.

“You didn’t owe me that.”

Her mouth twitches, almost a smile, almost sad. “Maybe I did. I couldn’t come back and pretend nothing had changed.”

The silence returns, heavier now. Neither of you knowing how to move on from this. You stare at her profile, the way her jaw works as if she’s forcing herself not to say more.

It hits you somewhere deep — that she’s trying, even if she’s clumsy about it.

“I thought,” you start quietly, “that by leaving, I was doing you a favor.”

She glances at you, surprised. “A favor?”

You nod, eyes on your hands. “Yeah. Saved you the trouble of rejecting me. Or laughing it off. Or pretending you were too drunk to remember.”

Alexia flinches, like the words sting. “You think I would’ve done that?”

You shrug, voice rough. “Didn’t want to stick around to find out.”

The rain fills the silence for a while. You watch the drops slide down the window, one after another. It’s easier than looking at her.

Alexia lets out an involuntary sound — a half-snort, half-choke — and you can’t help but smile back at her.

“Somos una mierda with this communicating stuff, sí?” she says, exasperated.

You agree, lips twitching. And it’s not so heavy now, this moment with her.

Outside, the rain lightens, thin streaks sliding down the glass.

You swallow. “I miss you.”

She turns then, really looks at you, eyes wide with something you can’t name. “But I’m right here.”

You shake your head, a small, sad smile ghosting your lips. “You can be side by side with a person and still find ways to leave them.”

That breaks something between you — or maybe it just shows what was already cracked.

Alexia looks away first, jaw clenched, her grip tight on the wheel.

“I don’t want to leave you, Rio,” she says finally, so soft you almost don’t hear it.

You almost tell her that wanting and staying aren’t the same thing. But you don’t.

You exhale. “Then don’t.”

The words hang in the air like smoke, fragile and unfixable.

Neither of you says anything else.

When she finally pulls up in front of your building, the world feels smaller — the kind of quiet that follows storms.

She doesn’t tell you to rest, doesn’t give an order. Just sits there, hands still on the wheel, rain ticking lightly on the roof.

You open the door, one foot already on the wet pavement.

“Alexia,” you say, turning back, voice barely above a whisper.

She meets your eyes.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime,” she says. And she means it.

You step out into the rain.

Behind you, her car idles for a moment longer before slipping away, tail lights dissolving into the fog — leaving you with nothing but the echo of what neither of you could quite say.

Breaking up with Olga had felt like swallowing glass — sharp, inevitable, and slow. Every word she spoke cut going out and coming back in

Alexia had known it was the right thing to do.

Even before she said the words, the truth had been sitting heavy in her chest for weeks, waiting.

Olga deserved better than to love someone who kept looking somewhere else.

Alexia didn’t tell her what happened — not exactly.

Just said that it wasn’t fair anymore, that something inside her had shifted.

Olga had stared at her for a long moment, like she was trying to find the part that still made sense.

They’d been together for almost three years. Three years of comfort, of shared routines and laughter and quiet mornings.

Her first girl after Jenni.

She had loved her — of course she had. But love wasn’t the same as honesty.

And Alexia refused to be a cheat. She wouldn’t be the kind of person who lied, who hid things behind half-truths.

It had hurt like hell anyway.

Olga had walked away before Alexia could take it back, and she didn’t try to stop her.

A few days later, the fans noticed.

It always starts the same way: a few screenshots, a whisper on Twitter, an article quoting “sources close to the players.”

People counting likes, dissecting who unfollowed who first.

Alexia used to laugh at that — the absurdity of it all — until she became the subject again.

It’s the price she pays for being who she is.

For being Alexia Putellas.

Every choice dissected, every silence turned into noise.

And what she hates most — really hates — is how this makes her think twice about everything.
She doesn’t want Rio to ever live through that. Not because of her.

She decides to tell her before the media gets to it because she deserves to know — that whatever had happened wasn’t a game, or a joke, or something to be brushed off. It mattered enough to be confessed.

She understands more than she lets on about what Rio is doing. Football has always been her refuge, the one thing she can control.

She buries herself in training, body tuned to movement, focus honed to a blade.

She’s careful with it — more careful than Rio — but still, it’s escape.

She notices the shift before anyone says it out loud: Barça leaning heavier on their Spanish names. It makes sense — politics always do in football, if you squint hard enough.

The club wants the right names to shine before the World Cup.

Rio doesn’t understand that yet. She still plays with her heart like it’s a weapon, still believes that effort alone can bend decisions.

Alexia remembers being that young — remembers thinking merit and fairness were the same thing.

Now, she knows better.

And still, she can’t help but watch the girl.

Rio is limping slightly the next day, bandage peeking out from under her socks, but she’s smiling — loud and bright, surrounded by Marta and Pina near the benches. Marta apologizing again, Pina begging to see the cut, then claiming it’s disgusting.

Alexia means to grab her water bottle and keep walking. She really does.

But then she hears her.

“Chicks dig scars,” Rio says, grinning. “It adds character.”

Pina groans. “No, it adds infections. That’s gross.”

Marta laughs. “Maybe scars work for her. Gives her that ‘I fought a bear once’ energy.”

Alexia is close enough now that Pina calls out, “Capitana, back us up. Scars, hot or not?”

Caught off guard, Alexia freezes mid-step.

Three pairs of eyes turn to her — Pina’s mischievous, Marta’s amused, Rio’s… something else.
She clears her throat, trying to sound casual. “I think you’d look better with two working legs.”

Rio tilts her head, smirking. “Oh, so you do think I look good now, then?”

The words hang between them for a heartbeat too long.

Alexia feels the heat rise in her cheeks before she can stop it.

Marta lets out a low whistle. “Touché.”

Pina laughs so hard she nearly drops her water bottle.

Alexia shakes her head, smiling despite herself, retreating before she makes it worse.

But the damage — or maybe the comfort — is done. For a few fleeting seconds, it feels like it used to.

Before the storm. Before the silence.

A small echo of another time, where everything between them felt effortless.

The ache in her chest doesn’t go away, but it softens.

For the first time in weeks, Alexia allows herself to think that maybe — just maybe — not all endings have to stay that way.

Alexia cannot prove it.

Doesn’t have the means to. Has, truly, no substantial evidence — and she doesn’t want to sound arrogant or full of herself.

But sometimes, she thinks Rio does things just to fuck with her.

Because why else — honestly, why else — would the girl show up to training on a motorcycle?

A motorcycle.

She’d been sneaky about it, too.

Arrived late enough that the staff was already inside, whispering with Jana by the entrance, conversation dying every time Alexia got close.

Alexia tries not to be hurt by it. Really, she does.

After their... well, she’s not sure what to call it. Heart-to-heart feels too generous when both hearts were cracked open and bleeding.

But whatever it was, it had felt like progress.

They weren’t back to the closeness of before, not quite — but at least they didn’t ignore each other anymore.

They joked sometimes, talked tactics during breaks, shared easy silences on the bench during matches.

It was… normal.

And normal was fine.

Even if Alexia didn’t want normal with Rio.

Maybe this was what came after — not forgetting, not forgiving, just learning to breathe in the same air again.

And breathe she does — right up until she steps out into the parking lot and immediately forgets how.

Because there’s Rio.

Leaning against a gleaming red motorcycle, two helmets dangling from one hand.

Jeans, white T-shirt, black leather jacket she’s definitely never worn before — too good on her for its own good.

She looks like trouble.

Rio’s laughing with Jana and Pina, sunlight catching on her smile.

Alexia freezes mid-step as Rio pushes one of the helmets into Jana’s hands.

“What the hell…” she mutters, already half a breath from storming over.

A hand catches her arm.

“Wait,” Mapí whispers, eyes locked on the scene ahead. “You’re going to want to see this.”

Aitana and Ingrid stand beside her, equally entranced.

“What am I—”

“Shh.”

Out in the lot, Jana hops onto the bike behind Rio, the red metal gleaming like sin.

The engine roars to life — low, deep, wild. Jana shrieks and clings to Rio’s waist as they take off, circling the lot in two quick loops.

It’s ridiculous. It’s loud. It’s dangerous.

Alexia’s stomach twists with every turn.

When they stop, Rio plants both feet, pulls off her helmet, and flicks her hair loose with a grin that makes the whole damn world tilt.

Pina claps. Mapí whistles. Aitana sighs, “God, she’s so crushable,” to Ingrid’s quiet nod.

Alexia’s head snaps toward her. “Aitana, aren’t you straight?”

Aitana flushes. “Why is that your business? And anyway, you’re staring too.”

“Not the point,” Alexia mutters, jaw tight.

Mapí bursts out laughing. “She’s got you there, capi.”

Alexia glares. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“My girlfriend is also staring,” Mapí says proudly.

Ingrid groans. “We’re surrounded by idiots.”

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. Of course. Of course this is happening.

Mapí laughs. “Relax, capi, it’s just a motorcycle.”

“No,” Alexia says flatly. “It’s a bad idea with wheels.”

She strides across the lot, ignoring the laughter that follows.

“Where did you get that?” she asks once she’s close enough.

Rio leans casually against the bike, smirking. “A guy lent it to me. Said I could test it before buying.”

“You’re not buying it.”

“Didn’t say I was,” she says too quickly. “Just testing.”

Alexia crosses her arms. “You don’t even have a license.”

Rio shrugs. “Nobody checks.”

Alexia blinks, incredulous. “Rio. You are a professional athlete. One wrong turn, one wet road, and you’re out for months.”

Jana mutters to Pina, who had the good sense to step back. “She’s so getting lectured.”

Alexia doesn’t look back. “And your contract definitely forbids this. I can’t believe I have to say that out loud.”

Rio fidgets, muttering, “You sound like management.”

“Good,” Alexia snaps. “Maybe listen for once.”

There’s a pause. Rain clouds threaten in the distance; Rio scuffs her boot against the asphalt.

“Fine,” she says finally. “I’ll take it back later.”

“Now,” Alexia corrects. “You’re taking it back now.”

Rio groans dramatically. “You’re killing all the fun.”

Alexia folds her arms tighter. “I’m killing potential hospital bills.”

Rio sighs, then — because she can’t resist — tilts her head, smile curling.

“Okay, fine,” she says. “But only after one last ride.”

Alexia narrows her eyes. “Rio—”

“Come on,” Rio pleads, turning to the others. “Who’s in? One last spin before the boss confiscates my joy.”

Mapí’s hand shoots up immediately. “I’m in.”

Aitana follows, grinning. “Me too.”

Alexia can feel her jaw locking. “Absolutely not.”

Rio laughs, teasing. “Scared?”

Alexia exhales through her nose, sharp and slow. She can feel the heat rise up her neck — part anger, part something else entirely.

Rio tilts her head, grin still playing at her lips. “What about you, capitana? Want a turn?”

For a heartbeat, Alexia can only stare.

The others are watching her like it’s a penalty shootout — silent, waiting.

Alexia crosses her arms, forcing calm. “I prefer my vehicles with seatbelts.”

“Ah,” Rio says, pretending to think. “Scared.”

Alexia narrows her eyes. “I’m not scared. I’m responsible.”

Rio smirks. “That’s what scared people say.”

The others burst out laughing. Alexia bites down the twitch of a smile.

She should walk away. Should let it go.

Instead, she says, “Helmet. Now. You’re taking that thing back before someone breaks their neck.”

The laughter dies instantly.

The trip to the garage goes quickly after that — Alexia in her car, Rio leading the way. She still chews out the poor mechanic, who looks ready to abandon his business altogether by the time they leave.

Back in the car, Rio’s quiet, half-pouting, chin propped on her hand.

“You’re angry with me,” Alexia says.

“Maybe.”

“Because I embarrassed you?”

“Because you scolded him like he was on your team.”

Alexia smirks. “Then I’m consistent.”

Rio glares at her, lips twitching. “You really think I’m too reckless?”

Alexia hums. “I think you’re young, and you forget your body isn’t invincible.”

Rio scoffs. “You make it sound like I’m twelve.”

“You act like it sometimes.”

Rio sighs, finally laughing, letting her body fall back into the seat. “You’re so boring.”

“Someone has to be.”

They end up at the pier — Alexia’s suggestion — trying to mellow out Rio’s pout about the bike she left behind with her favorite ice cream. She pays, which is a small compromise to get the girl to stop grumbling.

They sit by one of the benches, sun dipping low. The sea breeze tangles Rio’s curls, the evening sky gold and violet. It reminds Alexia of their weekend together, and maybe that’s what prompts it.

Rio breaks the silence first. “So… you and Olga. What does that mean?”

Alexia hesitates, spoon halfway to her lips. “It means it wasn’t right anymore. To her, or to me.”

Rio nods slowly. “You still talk to her?”

“Not really,” Alexia says after a beat. “She deserves better than silence, but I don’t know what else to give right now.”

Rio looks at her — a small, curious frown. “And for us? What does it mean… for us?”

Alexia’s heart trips over the word us.

She keeps her gaze on the melting ice cream, voice low. “I don’t know what it means.”

Rio studies her, eyes soft but searching. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?”

Alexia exhales, quiet and heavy. “Both.”

Rio nods, lips pressing together. The wind catches her hair again, the sound of the sea filling the space between them.

“Would you ride with me someday? When I have a license, a proper bike, when…” Rio trails off. She’s not talking about motorcycles. Not really.

Alexia hesitates — a beat, a breath.

“Maybe,” she says softly. “Maybe, yes.”

Rio watches her, dark eyes gentle, wishful.

“Okay,” Rio says finally, almost a whisper. “Then I’ll wait till you do.”

Alexia didn’t know what she needed until Rio said it out loud. Time, steadiness.

Patience.

They finish the ice cream in silence, both pretending it isn’t shaking the ground beneath them.

Later, when Alexia drives her home, the city blurs past in streaks of amber and shadow.
Rio dozes off against the window, her reflection soft in the glass.

Alexia glances over at her once — just once — and feels it settle in her chest, that quiet, unbearable truth:

That she wants this girl. And that she can’t have her, not right now.

She drives slower than she needs to then, drawing out the road, the time, the sound of Rio’s soft breathing beside her.

When she finally stops in front of Rio’s building, she doesn’t wake her right away.
She just sits there, watching the rain-specked windshield blur the world again, and thinks — selfishly, fleetingly — that she wouldn’t mind being lost here a little longer.